“No one’s allowed in the Dust Wing, of course,” Probity said, completely ignoring the contradiction in her presence. She hesitated, then covered the hesitation by yanking on the leashes impatiently. “The books do this to themselves.”
“No way.” A frond of shredded paper drifted close enough to brush Brevity’s hand. She startled away. “It’s mutilation. No one would do this to themselves.”
“Not even a character who woke up to find themselves entombed in the dark for the infinite reaches of time? Even books can go mad with enough isolation; you know that.” Probity gave her a sad, pointed look.
The idea refused to sink in, then settled on Brevity like a layer of cold iron. Books can go mad, like anything sentient, Claire had told her once. It was why every wing of the Library required a librarian. Not just to keep the books from escaping, but to curate, and attend.
No one could tolerate oblivion alone.
“Why?” Brevity whispered brokenly. The book at her feet had split in two, pages lost long ago.
“Because humans are agents of decay,” Probity said. Her voice had been soft, gentle, but hardened to steel. “I’ve been trying to tell you since I arrived, sis. Humans are the reason the Dust Wing exists. We gave them the power of creation—something only gods have—and they spit on it. They don’t deserve it. It’s time we take it back.” And Probity let her hold on the leash go slack.
Gaiety and Verve stumbled and appeared to pause, noses in the air—well, one nose, since Gaiety’s face was blank—before lunging. They tore into the nearest fronds of damaged paper with a gluttony of violence. The sound of shredding and chewing covered Brevity’s cry, and Probity held up a hand when she started forward.
“Careful, now, best not get between them and their meal.”
“They’re not meals; they’re stories. We’re supposed to protect them.”
“Humans sealed their fate long ago. They’re not stories; they are just corpses.” Probity’s eyes glittered in the twilight as she intently watched the pale muses rip shreds of paper and bring them to their faces. Verve swallowed greedy mouthfuls whole, but Gaiety made a grating noise of frustration as his hands encountered his ink-erased face. Probity stepped forward, a scalpel suddenly in hand, and sliced across Gaiety’s blank chin. A gap appeared in a bloom of black ink, and scissored razor teeth beyond. Probity stepped back, satisfied. “It’s a worthy sacrifice if it shifts the power in the right direction.”
“Your direction,” Brevity clarified. She shook her head, feeling helpless as Verve followed the frond of paper and began to try to gorge herself on the book whole. “Prob, this is against everything we are.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Probity said, anger inching an edge into her voice. She broke her intent study of the ink-sopped muses to frown at Brevity. “Didn’t they say the same thing when you took a stand and kept a line of inspiration for yourself?”
“That wasn’t a stand! That was—” Brevity clasped her bare forearm. A vile feeling roiled up in her throat, but it was all pointed inward. “It was an act of desperation. A mistake.”
“It wasn’t. Don’t you dare say that!” Probity yanked the leashes as she turned, entreating, toward Brevity. “I can’t believe she made you believe that! This is all because of that old librarian; she’s human, Brevity! She’s not your friend!”
“I can understand the doubt. All appearances seem to indicate otherwise,” a gravely amused voice came from behind her. A waft of paper parted, and a silhouette struggled through the darkness, taking care not to step on fractured books. “Yet here I am, for some reason.”
“Claire!” A tangle of contradictions flooded Brevity. Relief, worry, then abject horror that Claire was here, at the center of Probity’s ire.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Probity’s tone was streaked with ice.
“None of us should,” Claire said pointedly. “But I’m trying to atone for my mistakes.”
“Atone? Your sins are many, human. Valiant of you to try.” Gaiety and Verve lurched on their leads again, having shredded and consumed every book within reach. Probity tilted her head, considering for a moment. “How about I lend you a hand?”
The leashes fell from her grasp, and the cold that rushed Brevity’s veins seemed to slow time. Gaiety torpedoed in the direction he’d been pointed—straight at Claire. Verve, however, still had eyes and a hunting instinct. The feral muse darted away and quickly disappeared through the forest of dead books. Gaiety crashed into Claire, claws out. Claire barely managed to grapple at his wrists. Protect the books; protect the human. Brevity had a moment, just a moment, to decide what to do.
30
HERO
I’ll explain this once, and only once, because just writing this down gives me the willies, frankly. The Unwritten Wing is where stories exist before humans know them, but there’s a wing for after as well. A wing for after, when stories die. When the last copy of a book is burned or the last fond memory of a folktale fades from an old man’s mind. When pages are used for scrap and fodder. When gold embellishments are ripped off as bounty of war. When the light on all possible pages of a story goes dark, that’s when a book’s life ends.
But like humans, that’s not the end. The afterlife for a lost book is quiet, and final. An eternal sleep in the Dust Wing, never to be read again. No books wake up there; nothing stirs. It is perhaps the most final kind of death in all the afterlife realms.
The death of a forgotten book.
Librarian Gregor Henry, 1974 CE
HERO HAD NEVER BEEN a reader. Not in his own story, not outside it. Naturally, he could read, but he saw it merely as a convenient conveyance of information, a transportation device for the skills necessary to operate in the world. This opinion had only been reinforced upon waking
