Chapter Seventeen Simran #2
“Lots of things are possible that the archivists won’t admit to,” Cora said with a faint curl of derision to her lip.
“People bring their stories to us and breathe them out in whispers to the library. They don’t come out like books—they come out like this.
Making gardens, making animals to frolic in them.
We think it’s because they’re so new. They’re finding their shape.
” She hesitated. “Maybe I’ve talked enough,” she said flatly.
But there was a look in her eyes that said she wanted to continue. She loved the library and its tales.
“I thought tales could only be written,” said Vina, voice coaxing. “It’s fascinating.”
Cora pursed her lips.
“My stepmother, Laura, transcribes important tales,” said Vina.
“And I’ve heard of plenty of writers—academics, mostly—who comment on tales.
But to create new ones, when the balance of the Isle is so delicate…
” Vina shook her head. “I’ve always been told that new tales are dangerous. Isle-destroying. But these…”
“They couldn’t hurt anyone,” Vaughan said, with gentle conviction. When he looked into the room, his gaze was tender. “They’re good. You can see it. They want to make things, not tear them down. They were born here. They love the Isle.”
“There’s plenty of tales from across the sea that the archivists don’t like either,” said Cora dryly. “Those get destroyed too if we don’t save them.”
Simran thought, in a flash, of the girl with the body of a bird.
And then strangely, rising on the back of that memory was one of her mother.
Her mother, brushing her hair with a white-toothed comb, as the ship “on a sea of magic,” as her mother had called it then, rocked beneath them.
Simran remembered oil in her hair, and her mother lowering the comb so she could firmly massage the oil into Simran’s scalp with her work-calloused hands.
Her mother had been comforting her. She’d been telling Simran a tale.
It had been soothing—Simran remembered how it had made her feel.
It was a tale she’d heard many, many times before, old enough to be an incarnate tale for the land where she’d been raised.
In that Elsewhere place, the tale had possessed power.
Now it was gone. In its place was… nothing. A gap.
Our tales are not safe for us, her mother had told her, in a language Simran could no longer remember. That too had been scrubbed clean. On this foreign Isle of stories, we will be safe. Now, shh. No more questions.
Something about this place was changing her—needling at old memories long buried. She’d never recalled that memory in so much detail before.
One of the whispers sounded… familiar. The words. The cadence.
The language.
“These stories,” she said abruptly, making Vaughan and Cora and Vina turn toward her. “Some are in Elsewhere languages. Aren’t they?”
“Some are Elsewhere tongues,” Cora agreed.
“And some are from here, in lost languages of the Isle.” She was frowning, anger simmering under the surface.
Her gaze fixed on Simran, and suddenly the anger was turned on her.
“Some of you,” she said. “Most of you think the Isle is one thing—one single land, one place built of one set of stories. But that’s not what this land is.
Languages get erased. Stories get taken, shifted.
Lands change—stolen, leeched from, remade.
So yes, some languages are Elsewhere, but some are from this thing we now call the ‘Isle,’ carved into the narrow shape the Queen and archivists allow it.
” She stopped. The door at the end of the corridor was shut—its handle carved into the shape of a dragon’s maw. “Go in there,” said Cora.
“And good luck,” Vaughan said.
“Should we be worried?” Vina asked lightly. Her gaze turned to Simran.
Simran refused to meet her eyes, and the question that was in them. Whatever was beyond the door, she was ready to face it.
“Thank you,” she said shortly. Then she wrenched the door open, the handle’s teeth sharp against her fingers, and walked in.
The room was also stone. It was a hall, with only one librarian within, who was already walking toward them.
She was a Black woman, slight of stature, her arms crossed.
There were an alarming number of writing implements adorning her—a feathered quill in the chatelaine at her waist, next to a vial of stoppered ink; a pen tucked behind her ear.
The most alarming thing she carried was a shortsword at her waist, bare and wickedly sharp.
“Ophelia Dindrane,” she said, shaking Simran’s hand firmly, then Vina’s. Her gaze was direct, her expression flat and businesslike. Vina murmured some kind of syrupy greeting in return—Ophelia softened minutely in response, unsurprisingly—but Simran was distracted by the tingle of her hand.
Ophelia turned back to her, eyebrow raised. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s magic in you,” said Simran. “That’s all. It’s none I’ve felt before, though.”
“Of course.” Ophelia nodded. “I’m no cunning woman or witch, but the stories have left their mark on me.
It’s why the archivists are strange too, you know—the magic they hang around, day in and day out.
But never mind that. You need some ancient knowledge.
” A smile finally curved her mouth. She looked…
excited. “I haven’t had a penitent in a long time. And certainly not incarnates.”
Vina cocked her head. “How did you know we’re incarnates?”
“The stones talk,” said Ophelia. “This library is an old creature. It speaks, if you listen. But I’ll tell you this now, knight and witch: What you search for isn’t knowledge we have readily to hand.
Ah,” she went on, raising a hand when Simran moved to speak, already panicked.
“Listen! We may not have it, but we have a way to seek it. In the room beyond this hall lies an ancient item of knowledge. Some call it a cauldron; others a tray, or a plate, or a living creature. But most gaze upon it and see a chalice. To reach the chalice, you must be allowed to pass by the Beast.”
“This seems rather complicated,” said Vina.
Ophelia shrugged. “Tales are,” she said. “And this is an old tale, told many times, with many shapes.”
“What can you tell us about the Beast?” Simran asked, determined.
“The Beast deserves your respect,” said the librarian Ophelia.
“The green library grew here. It wanted to be a sanctuary. It wanted to be a gentle cradle for tales. But it grew around the Beast. Do you understand? The Beast is older than this library, this chasm, this forest.” She touched light fingers to the hilt of her shortsword.
“And I am the Beast’s ally,” she continued.
“Its friend. I’m here to keep it safe. So the last thing I’ll say is—leave your weapons with me, knight. And try to walk in with an open heart.”
Vina reached for her sword, handing it over.
“No,” said Simran, even as Vina placed the sword in Ophelia’s waiting hands. “I have my magic. What do you have, Vina? Don’t give her your bow too.”
Vina, obviously ignoring her, removed her bow.
“I’m ready, Simran,” Vina said. “I’m a knight, after all. What else am I for, than facing beasts?”
She was still wearing her fae-wrought armor, silver filigree, luminous against her honeyed brown skin.
She looked every inch the knight, even without a weapon at hand, and Simran could do nothing but nod tightly, and swallow whatever it was that was rising in her chest—this butterfly feeling, like hanging on a precipice, fragile wings behind her that could not hold her weight.
“Thank you,” she said, turning to Ophelia. “We’ll be back.”
“Good luck,” Ophelia said. If she muttered something about “wanting to avoid the cleanup,” Simran pretended not to notice.
The next room had a simple wooden door. Simran pushed it open and entered, Vina warm at her back.
The door closed with a soft thud.
There was mist again. The room was quiet, apart from a rhythmic noise—a hushed thump, like a heartbeat.
It took a moment for Simran to realize the sound was breathing.
The Beast was near, its breaths deep and guttural in the silence.
There was no animal smell in the air, no sweat or blood, only the rain-sweetness of petrichor.
The mist rising from the ground was thick, so thick that Simran could not see the breadth of the room or the ceiling above her.
But the Beast’s eyes gave off a dim light.
It was waiting for them directly ahead, its eyes yellow and blue, glowing.
Simran could only see parts of its body through the shifting mist: a reptilian skull, quilled with feathers; a strong, bestial body, furred and panting; cloven feet that slowly, before her eyes, rippled into claws.
As she drew closer, she realized its breathing was rasping, unceasing, like the tide on a rocky shore.
It was oozing magic, the force of it so strong it stole Simran’s breath and made her knees threaten to buckle.
Vina was breathing slowly, shallowly next to her.
She didn’t seem conscious of it, but her arm was slightly in front of Simran, her body angled to shield her.
In a way, Simran was glad Vina didn’t have a sword with her.
Neither of them would have a hope in hell of beating this creature with mortal weapons or mortal magic.
Its magic tugged at her, oddly familiar.
Ink, she thought. It feels like limni ink. But more powerful, somehow. Alive.
She felt like Isadora was behind her eyes, under her skin; so close that for a moment they were almost utterly the same person. Their knowledge mingled.
What does a tale seek, darling? Sometimes it hungers for a sword, but often the sword is a means to an end. I’ll tell you. It hungers for a pure heart.
Well, that Simran did not have. But her love for Hari was purer than the rest of her, and that would have to be enough.