Hero replied with a grim nod that said he was similarly in the dark. Brevity had always been free with information on the other wings of the Library, and Rami had even sat in on some of the explanations she’d given Hero, since they were both new to aspects of the Library. But she had never mentioned this wing. Elysium was too close to another Greek domain—the muses. And it appeared even Hero had never had the heart to poke at that particular tender spot. That small amount of restraint softened the brittle edges of Hero, in Rami’s mind.
They followed Iambe and Pallas down a spiral of stairs into what appeared to be a grotto underneath the building. Bright paint and marble quickly melted into raw rock face and a faint drip of water. They cut across a hallway that jutted precariously over a cavern of shadows before coming to an archway that spanned over their heads.
There were no great doors, not like Hell’s Library. The threshold was marked by a gauzy shift of cloth. There was a spectral quality to it, moving with the unseen breezes that puffed and pulled from deeper inside. Iambe stopped just short of the arch with a disapproving air. She smirked at Hero and Ramiel before raising her hand and snapping her fingers twice.
From far away, deep past the veil, the staccato snap repeated itself.
“Really, sister. There’s no need to be rude,” Pallas muttered.
“Rude,” came a faint voice past the arch.
That brought a smile back to Pallas’s face. He brightened and pushed past Iambe. “It’s all right, Mother! Please let us in. We’ve brought visitors of the Library—from Hell’s Library.”
“Hell’s Library?” The words were repeated tone for tone, but somehow the voice managed to turn it into a question. Iambe rolled her eyes and looked as if she was prepared to say something, but a sharp gust of wind abruptly parted the veil of fabric. Pallas caught the edge and beckoned them inside.
Ramiel stepped past the arch and blinked. The space beyond had seemed another dark, gloomy cavern from the other side, but as they stepped through, a gentle light flooded his eyes. They were in what appeared to be a giant amphitheater made of stone. The walls were natural juts of slate, Corinthian, and swept up at a bowl-like angle. Green undergrowth, accented with tiny white flowers, only reached a meter up the walls before giving way to stark stone. Above them, a spider work of fine rocky tendrils, so thin it almost looked like bone, weaved a delicate trellis roof that held back the sky but allowed slants of light in. They created near-blinding spotlights of sunlight that hit long, strangely rustic towers of shelves and cast skeletal fingers of twilight.
“This is a library?” Ramiel breathed.
“Well.” Hero looked disconcerted, trying to cross his arms over his chest even as he stared wide-eyed at the delicate path of flowers wound between each stack and the next. “Obviously not a proper one.” The proud book of his first acquaintance would never have defended the Library. Rami turned his head to hide his amusement.
Pallas and Iambe, immune to the wonder, continued straight on inside and came to a stop in front of what Rami realized was a small depression in the stone filled with still water and bathed in a particularly bright sun spot. Rami and Hero trailed close enough to see the basin’s surface was mirrorlike. Although Pallas and Iambe stood at the water’s edge, only Pallas’s figure appeared in the pond.
“Favorites as usual,” Iambe muttered.
“As usual.” Now inside the Library, the source of the voice that repeated off the high walls was hard to place. It bounced around the canyon-like space, breaking into a whispered chorus until “usual” crumbled into a sigh of “all, all, all.” It faded into a serene quiet that raised every hair on the back of Rami’s neck. His hand itched for his sword, but he was more disciplined than that.
Pallas gave Iambe a sympathetic nudge, then stepped forward, as if addressing the pond. He dropped to his knees and appeared to take a moment to get comfortable on the small patch of mossy earth. “These are my friends Ramiel and Hero, of the Unwritten Wing. Will you greet them in person, Mother? I don’t mind.”
“Mind,” the whispers repeated, like a warning.
Ramiel couldn’t help but look at the pond expectantly. There was no movement beneath the surface, no change at all. Then, in the breadth of a blink, Pallas stood—no, that couldn’t be right. Pallas remained, relaxed and kneeling at the edge of the water, but the reflection of Pallas was standing. The water shivered and mist rose, as if solidifying—or evaporating? It was impossible to tell. And then the standing image of Pallas emerged. It didn’t rise from the pond, water streaming. The surface didn’t change again at all. It emerged, as if stepping out of a panel. Or a mirror.
“What—” Hero made a sound of protest—whether protesting the creature, the entrance, or the entire situation was unclear—and took an involuntary step closer behind Rami’s shoulder. It was distracting enough that Rami nearly missed the next transformation.
The new Pallas-figure touched its toes to the mossy bank and appeared to pivot on an unseen axis, fully standing on the basin edge now, as if gravity hadn’t applied at all. It paused, head downturned to consider the identical form still kneeling by the pond. Fingers reached out, brushing through Pallas’s golden curls before it straightened and faced them.
“Gentlemen, I present my mother, the cursed nymph Echo.” Iambe’s voice was droll and sharply pointed as a tack. “Librarian of the Wing of the Unsaid. And a lover of overdramatic entrances.”
The mirror-figure flicked a level gaze at Iambe but remained silent, evidently not finding adequate words to repeat in her statement. Eventually her scrutiny turned back their way, and understanding hit Rami the moment he met her
