Rami’s mind betrayed him with the image of Hero in a crown, crooked with that ironic smile that saw all of Rami’s flaws. Hero lived to prod at regrets, which Rami supposed was what drew him to Claire and Rami over Brevity. Early on, Rami couldn’t understand why Claire tolerated him. His first impression of the character had been a boy playing at being a man. His second and third impressions hadn’t fared much better, but Claire had trusted him, so when Hero came to Rami with an audacious request for help, Rami had imagined shepherding the boy out of trouble.
Rami had been quite wrong. It’d been Hero who knew the questions to ask in the library at Elysium, and Hero who’d kept his cool as the Chinvat bridge judged their souls and found them wanting. It was a ridiculous judgment. If the judges of Chinvat had half a level of discernment, they would have tossed Rami off the bridge for all the wrongs his soul carried, instead of focusing on Hero.
The raven squawked again. She flicked her head and improbably tossed the crown across the room. It landed somewhere near the door with a crash that made Rami wince. He shook his head as he went to fetch it. They didn’t have time for this. They never had time, but Hero was lost somewhere in the afterlife and every realm seemed to have a murderous obsession with punishing—
“Souls.” Rami’s fingertips froze above the crown. The realization staggered him like a punch to the gut. He jerked straight and stared at the raven. The bird was watching him expectantly. “Lost souls.”
The raven clicked once, the most approving sound Rami had heard her make. Ramiel, the angel, had been granted certain gifts, gifts he retained even after being exiled from Heaven, retained even here in Hell. Rami was a shepherd of souls. His mind was still reeling when Claire emerged from the back of the archives, carrying a cloak and a particular gray dagger. She looked drawn and resigned as death, but she paused and tilted her head when she caught sight of Rami. “What now?”
“Arcanist . . .” Rami carefully measured each word, uncertain when the idea forming in his head would give out beneath him. It was too fragile to say out loud yet. “What would you say if I thought I could track where Hero’s gone?”
Claire’s fingers jumped along the dagger. Rami prepared for the questions, for the inquisition of Claire’s logical mind that would poke holes in what was surely a false hope, but none came. Instead, Claire considered the crown at his feet before raising her gaze with a hungry kind of certainty. “I’d say, when do we leave?”
27
HERO
There is no library of secrets. Secrets cannot be kept or curated. Secrets have no need for a library, but each library needs secrets. Books are a secret hidden in plain sight. Read me, they say. Look at me. Turn my pages. Touch my spine. Read my words, and content yourself.
Every book is a secret that only readers know.
Librarian Ibukun of Ise, 904 CE
HIS TONGUE TASTED LIKE wicked death itself.
Hero’s first awareness was that he was gagging. He coughed, and his lips felt slippery. His body recoiled with the force of his next cough, and he smacked his cheek into the gritty, solid surface beneath him. Everything was black. Everything was black and melting and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear for the screaming in his head. He couldn’t see. It took him several long moments to consider opening his eyes. It took him several long moments to remember he had eyes.
When he opened them, it wasn’t much of an improvement.
It was dark, dark enough that it took a minute until Hero’s eyes began to adjust and pick out the vagaries of his surroundings. Long panels of flat ground stretched out in front of where he lay prone. His arm protested as he reached out, but the surface felt smooth beneath his fingertips, with a dry grain. Wood, perhaps. It had to mean he was at least somewhere civilized. He rolled to his knees, feeling a slick, oily ache both inside and out.
Civilized, Hero amended, but abandoned. The light was practically nonexistent, but a diffuse glow came off the dust that sifted through the stale air. It painted the space in twilight that was one step above midnight. The light-tainted dust was everywhere, drifting around Hero in spectral blooms. It cast weirdly soft shadows on the dark crags and unidentified shapes that surrounded him. Hero might have thought he was trapped in some deep, stalagmite-strewn cave, if it weren’t for the paneled floor beneath him that reminded him of the Library.
The Library.
Hero’s hand went to his coat. He ferreted over the pockets with rising panic until he located a familiar rectangular lump in an inside pocket. He had his book, safe and sound. But a barb of memory trailed the relief. The pen nib hovering over a blank page, a clot of black on his lips and a rotting feeling behind his eyes, hundreds of voices almost but not quite drowning out Claire’s scream.
The ink. Remembering felt like falling. He could recall it now, the drowning sensation as his throat filled with ink, the eerie warmth as it swept over his skin like a whisper, the whispers, like an ocean surf, washing over him until the question rotted through him inside out.
Who are you? Who are you?
Bile scaled his throat, centering him enough to slow his breathing. The ink
