Waldermar nodded. “Of course, of course. It is the anniversary of the Descension, after all. The three hundred and seventy-third, to be precise.” He paused and touched a finger to his lips. “Or is it three hundred and thirty-seven? Oh, well, it’s one or the other. I think.” Then he looked at me and brightened, as if he’d forgotten all about us and had just remembered.
“Now, how may I be of service to you and your lovely companion, Matthew?”
Waldemar’s befuddled scholar pose didn’t fool me. I’d known him too long. He was a vampire as old as Lord Galm, perhaps older. And when I looked closely into his gray eyes, I sometimes got a sense of the ancient, vast intelligence at work between them. I had no doubt he’d be able to tell us what we needed to know.
“We’d like to learn about a mystic artifact called the Dawnstone.”
Waldemar’s finger returned to his lips, only this time to tap them thoughtfully. “Dawnstone, Dawnstone…” His eyes got a far away look in them, and not for the first time after asking him a question, I had the impression that I had set a complicated process into motion, as if I’d asked a computer to divine the meaning of life and then balance my checkbook.
Waldemar began meandering about the room, muttering softly to himself, the words unintelligible, except for the occasional repetition of “ Dawnstone.”
Devona looked at me as if to ask what we should do now. I shrugged and started after Waldemar.
“Dawnstone, Dawnstone, Dawnstone…” He pulled books off the shelves, seemingly at random, flipped them open, and barely glanced at their pages before putting them back. Once, I swore he checked a book, replaced it, and then immediately removed and looked at it once more before moving on.
Curious, I pulled the book in question off the shelf myself and opened it. I wasn’t particularly surprised to find that the page I had chosen-like all the pages, in fact-was blank.
I reshelved the volume and wondered if all the books, scrolls, and parchments in this room-maybe in the entire Library-were also blank.
As I watched Waldemar continue randomly searching his collection, I had the impression that he wasn’t consulting books so much as sifting through the immense reaches of his unfathomably ancient mind, and that perhaps the Great Library itself was nothing more than a physical manifestation of his memories. And if that was true, what about the giant silverfish? Were they really pests or were they simply Waldemar’s way of forgetting?
Another thought occurred to me then. If Devona and I truly were standing somehow within Waldemar’s memories made real, what might happen if his absentmindedness wasn’t an act after all, and he really did forget we were here? Would we vanish, just two more minor memories, no longer needed? I didn’t want to think about it. I had all the existential dilemma I could handle just being a possibly soon-to-be-rotted-away-to-dust zombie, thank you very much.
“I have a number of interesting references regarding dawn,” Waldemar said as he continued looking. “Some lovely bits of poetry, and quite a few more references dealing with stone, stone cutting, stone working…Especially fascinating is a song cycle from an ancient aboriginal people dealing with a man who wanted to mate with a boulder shaped like a woman. His chief difficulty lay in his inanimate paramour’s lack of the requisite, ah, anatomy. He solved the problem by constructing a crude hammer and chisel and-”
“We just want to hear about the Dawnstone, Waldemar,” I cut in. “Not to be rude, but we’re in something of a hurry.”
He looked a bit hurt, but thankfully didn’t resume his story. Instead he took a volume which appeared to be bound in green scale from the shelf, flipped it open, and ran a finger along the righthand page. “Ah, yes, here it is! No wonder it took me so long to find it. The object in question is only mentioned in several obscure pre-Atlantean myths, and only once as the Dawnstone. Other names include the Eye of the Sun and-”
I must have been frowning because Waldemar looked at me, cleared his throat, and said, “So on and so forth. While the details of the myths vary somewhat, the basic story is the same. A loathsome demon carries off a beautiful young woman to a shadowy underworld with the intention of making her his bride. The maiden’s paramour, a strong and clever hero, ascends into the heavens and steals one of the Sun’s eyes. He takes it down into the underworld, and-after overcoming sundry obstacles-confronts the demon and unleashes the eye’s light. The creature of darkness cannot withstand the Sun’s all-powerful illumination and perishes. The hero escorts his love back to the surface world, and then returns the eye to its rightful owner, the Sun.”
Waldemar snapped the book shut. “Quite an amusing little fable. It rather puts one in mind of Orpheus and Eurydice, doesn’t it?”
“Is that all?” Devona asked, sounding like a kid who’s opened all her Christmas presents and discovered that Santa not only brought her underwear this year, it’s full of holes.
“I’m afraid so, my dear,” Waldemar said. “But I have quite a selection of other myths dealing with similar themes. For instance, there’s a story among the Native American Indians regarding-”
“Thanks, anyway, Waldemar,” I said hurriedly before he could get too far into this latest digression. “But we really must be going.”
“So soon? Ah well, if you must, you must, I suppose. You’ll have to promise to stop back and see me again, though, Matthew.”
“I will,” I said, knowing it was a promise I might not be able to keep. “Same price as usual today?”
“Of course.” And then Waldemar reached into my chest-or seemed to; I was never clear on that-and pulled forth a scrap of paper, leaving my flesh and the shirt that covered it unmarked.
I felt a wrench deep in my soul, and then a sense of loss which quickly began to fade.
“Father Dis!” Devona swore in surprise. “What…?”
“Waldemar’s standard price for information,” I explained. “A page out of your life.”
Waldemar held the page up to his face, adjusted his glasses, and quickly perused its contents. “Most interesting, most interesting indeed.” He sniffed the paper like a bloodhound trying to catch a scent, and then in a single, swift motion crumpled the page and stuffed it into his mouth. He chewed greedily, noisily, a thin line of saliva rolling down his chin. Then he swallowed and grinned.
“Most delicious, Matthew. Thank you.”
Devona had gone as pale as a full vampire. I took her by the arm, said goodbye to Waldemar, and led her out of the room with the domed ceiling, the master of the Great Library licking his fingers behind us as we left.
I knew it didn’t matter which route we took as we departed. However we went, we’d eventually discover the way out or it would discover us. And sure enough, before long we found ourselves back at the entrance, and then outside on the Avenue of Dread Wonders once more. The sidewalk was still deserted, and everything was still quiet. For some reason, the stillness made me uncomfortable, and I wondered if I’d gotten too used to living in the chaos of the Sprawl.
I started walking, but Devona took hold of my arm to stop me. I turned to look at her, glad to see that the vicious paper-cuts she’d received thanks to the silverfish were almost fully healed. Before long, not even scars would remain to mar her flesh. I wished I could’ve said the same.
“What happened in there?” Devona asked. “Waldemar didn’t actually-”
“Devour a snatch of my life? He sure did. Most vampires live on blood. He subsists on memories.”
“You mean you gave up one of your memories just for some information…to help me?”
I didn’t want to tell her that it hardly mattered, seeing as how I’d be zombie guacamole in a couple days. So I just nodded.
“Which…which memory did you lose?”
“I don’t know. I never do. Once they’re gone, they’re gone completely. It could have been something as boring as failing an algebra test in high school.”
“Or something as important as the first time you fell in love.”
“I suppose. But it doesn’t matter now.”
She thought for a moment. “How many times have you done this, Matthew? Given Waldemar one of your memories?”
Too damned many, I almost said, but then I realized it would cheapen what I had done in her eyes-cheapen me, too, for what kind of a man, living or dead, thinks so little of his own memories that he’s willing to spend them like money?
“Only a couple,” I lied.
“You shouldn’t have,” Devona said. “It’s my case you’re working on; I should’ve been the one to pay.”
