Chapter Thirty-Five Simran #3
The White Tower needed no locks: It was defended by the river, by a moat, by warders and archivists and layers of defensive walls. No one had ever thought to prepare for a Tower-raised incarnate like Simran. The archivists had reared their own downfall.
But the White Tower was still dangerous to them.
There was only one staircase leading up the tower, and without Adder to dream up a new door and a new staircase, Simran could not sneak up to the incarnate tomes.
They would have to walk the only route available to them—and risk being pinned in between archivists and warders alike.
“Follow close,” Simran urged the others, voice low. “I’ll break the chains. You grab as many books as you can. And then we’ll need to leave.”
“I’m with you,” said Ophelia, determined. “And your ‘Adder’—do you know where it might be?”
Simran shook her head. “It used to come to me when it chose to. We can just hope it senses us and calls out.”
The staircase was dark, lit by sconces. Galath headed their party, with Simran and Vina behind him, followed by Hari and the others.
“Almost there,” whispered Simran. Vina was by her side, a steady presence.
She heard Vina’s breath catch, and saw Vina’s hand fly to the hilt of her blade, before she heard Galath’s sharp exhale.
He doubled over, and Simran saw the lash of ink drawing back from his torso, winding its way back around an archivist’s wrist.
“Meera,” she said.
Meera stood ahead of them. Alone, a dark figure in her archivist’s robes, partially hidden by shadows. There was a bottle of limni ink in her hand, the stopper free, the ink writhing.
“Witch,” said Meera. “I knew you’d return.”
“Did you?” Simran stepped forward, cursing the narrow staircase. She angled herself in front of Galath even as he said, low and warning, “Simran.”
“Of course,” said Meera. “This is your home.” She did not say it with love or tenderness.
She said it like an insult, her eyes burning with fury, her lip curled.
“All the archivists know you’re here, Witch.
We prepared for your return. I was wrong to underestimate your evil, destructive nature.
But you’ll find that the books are beyond your reach. ”
“If they all know I’m here, why are you the only one to greet me?
” Simran cocked her head. “Meera. You poor thing. They’ve left you here as a sacrifice.
Did they force you to do it, or did you volunteer?
You’re a senior archivist, you’ve given your life to the archives, and this is how much they value you—just enough to let you throw yourself to your death. ”
The whip of ink crackled with Meera’s anger.
“If I am judged, it’s because of you,” Meera said. “I raised you. I treated you far better than any other archivist would have. Why do you insist on destroying your reputation and my own? Why must you wear your evil and your Elsewhere blood like a crown? You could have been so much more.”
“You didn’t want to raise me,” said Simran. “You were forced to. Because they thought you were fit for it. You know why.” A sneer touched her mouth, her voice. “You’re Apollonius’s left hand, and people still look down on you. No matter how far you climb, they always will.”
That was too much for Meera. She lashed out with the ink again.
This time, Simran caught the ink in her grip.
Holding it tight, she threw herself forward, knocking Meera to the ground and sending the bottle of limni ink flying.
Simran crushed the writhing ink with a hand—then pinned Meera by the throat with the other.
Meera’s eyes widened. “How did you—”
“I’m afraid you’ve never really known what I’m capable of,” said Simran.
“I was wrong to think I could make you better,” Meera said, still struggling, breath short. “You’re a disappointment.”
“I don’t care what you think of me,” Simran said, and found to her relief that she was speaking honestly. She hadn’t known for sure until she’d said it.
“Stop playing with your food!” Sarah called. Simran drew on her magic, ready to bind Meera. Meera tried to wrench away, clawing at Simran with her hands.
“You can’t touch the books,” Meera cried out.
“I can and I will.”
Meera laughed, an ugly sound, more fury than humor.
“The books have one last defense,” she gloated. “And the Queen’s men will be up in the White Tower soon, trapping you like rats. This is the end for you, Witch. The Queen wants you, and she will have you.”
“Hari,” Simran said flatly. “Would you do the honors?”
“Gladly,” he said coldly. He leaned forward and blew wood ash into Meera’s mouth. Meera’s eyes rolled, and she fell unconscious.
“She’ll have nightmares,” said Hari. “I took the ash from a graveyard. That’s some comfort.” He straightened up.
Simran felt a hand on her arm. Vina. “Come,” Vina urged gently, and Simran rose, realizing how shaky her breath was—how much she’d feared Meera all these long years. That was done now. Meera was the past.
“Galath?” Simran called.
“The hurt isn’t severe,” he said. He was no longer doubled over, although his face was sheened with sweat. “We can continue.”
They needed to climb one more floor. That was all. “I’ll lead the way,” said Simran, and she began walking. Meera’s warning was rattling in her skull. She braced herself.
One last defense.
Simran could hear it now: the chuffing of breath. Claws against stone. Ophelia was shoving forward, eyes wide.
“Beast,” Ophelia breathed out. She ran ahead, onto the landing and beyond the curve of the winding staircase. With a jolt of panic, Simran ran after her.
“Ophelia, stop!”
Too late. There was a scream, and when she turned the corner, Ophelia was pressed to the wall nearest the door, clutching a bleeding arm, marked with claw gashes. Simran kneeled down beside her, and looked at the door. Chained in front of it was Adder.
Adder—the Beast—was pinned by chains of ink and chains of iron alike.
It was trembling with agony, its face in constant shifting motion: dozens of eyes and teeth, quilled spine and fetid fur, a lashing tail and huffing breath that smelled rancidly of blood.
The archivists had bound it here to protect the books and bar Simran from passing into the archive.
With the Beast in front of the door, she could no more touch the books than she could touch the sun.
“My friend,” Ophelia said, strained. “My dear friend. Do you not remember me?”
“Ophelia!” Cora yelled. The scream made Adder bristle fiercely. Simran saw chains of ink tighten around it as it moved. Adder looked like it was in agony.
“Adder,” said Simran. She tried to be calm. To be unafraid. She held her hands open, unthreatening. “Do you remember me?”
It was calm for a moment, its eyes pinpricks in its shifting face. Then the pain swept away its senses once more. Its teeth bared themselves.
It lunged for her, and it was Vina who dragged her back.
Vina drew her blade as the Adder-Beast strained against its chains, stretching them to their full limit, its maw of a thousand new-forged teeth spread wide.
Vina swiped, blade an arc, meeting the Beast’s face with a thud.
Ink-blood fell from its wound, touching Vina’s skin, and Vina hissed, agonized.
But she was still shielding Simran’s body.
A single drop touched Simran’s skin. Only one.
It propelled her out of her flesh.
She saw Adder.
She saw the Beast.
The Isle was new and there was the Beast. It was tales dreamt by creatures that knew no words.
Language came, and more tales gathered upon it—birds of grief, and ants of gossip; snakes of starvation, and moths of dreams of fields of sweet apples.
It aged and it grew. It carried with it the truth that lies at the heart of every story, the truth that changes when it lands in new hands, or new hearts.
The truth took the shape of a cup, a chalice, a cauldron, a harp. The Beast carried it within itself.
The Beast grew a home. A library. It had caretakers. Kindness, after years of the cold and the hunt, the crowned creatures on horseback who sought to fell it. Aberration. Falsehood. Sin, they called it.
The library burned.
She felt Adder, dying, or something like it, in flames. She felt the agony of death—tales shaped like mice scurrying as the fire ate them alive. Foxes laying down their heads to burn. She felt Adder, felt the Beast, vast and old and storied, fade with them—turning to nothing but ash and dust.
She felt it, how the Beast had revived. A blade of grass, mist-made, here.
A smoke-colored moth there. Each gathering together, joining, melding.
Becoming bigger. Growing into Adder. Slithering in search of tales, kinship, stories to join with.
Tales needed one another to grow things into something larger. A Beast. An ancient forest. An Isle.
And Adder had found her. Adder knew her. It had tasted her hair once—been offered it as a gift, freely. It had known her magic, her dreams, and known it must protect her. Adder had remained in the archives, her friend and companion, until the archivists had it chained alive.
Adder was the Beast, and the Beast was not a creature that had lived in the library. The Beast was the library: innumerable tales, living and breathing, joined together to survive.
“Simran,” Vina was saying. Simran returned to the staircase with an awful jolt. Adder was howling. “Speak to me. Or move with me. But we can’t stay here.”
“The chains,” Simran said against Vina’s skin. “I need to break them.” The archivists had chained Adder—hurt Adder.
“If you release it, I fear it’ll kill us,” Vina gritted out, shaking the burning ink from her blade hand.
“I can’t leave it here. And we can’t kill it. Promise me.”
“No worries on that front. I’m not sure I could even get close enough to skewer it. Not that I would—don’t look at me like that, Simran.” Vina beckoned at Ophelia with her chin. “Come here,” she ordered. “Slowly. We’re moving back.”