The Lost Books Read online

He spent a few days poking around the main room of the library, looking through the catalog—a card for every book, filed in small, square drawers with brass knobs. The cards were an annoyingly jumbled mess. Putting them back in order would take months.

  Time he didn’t have, for a lot of reasons.

  One afternoon he left the big main room of the library and made his way through winding passages and arched doorways, past too many rooms to count that were stuffed with books and maps and unbound manuscripts, and scrolls, and heavy tomes a foot thick, and tiny books that would fit into the palm of his hand. As he passed the shelves, with the golden glow of a light-well spilling out before him, the books rustled and bumped. Some of them were secured to the shelves, and they rattled their chains as he passed, and others thumped against the bars that caged them.

  It was almost as if they were jostling for his attention.

  “I’ll get to you,” he promised them as he walked past. But he had to survey the rest of the library first. See what else he had to deal with here.

  The steward hadn’t been wrong. The library was a maze, one he could easily get lost in. And it was dark—he needed light to see what he was doing. He paused to take a book off a shelf in a passage not far from the main room, just to check if it had been read any time recently. It was positively coated with dust, and the spine cracked as he opened it. It almost nestled into his hands—a book by an author named G. V. Eek about a pack of dogs flying a ship into space, of all things—as if it was grateful to be read.

  Alex had set the light-well on a nearby shelf. As he read, the light flickered. Its golden glow dimmed.

  Alex picked it up and examined it. As an apprentice at Purslane Castle, one of his duties had been to collect all the light-wells in the library every week or two and take them outside to be refilled with sunlight.

  The only other jobs the librarian would let him do were sweeping the floor, cleaning the windows, and dusting the shelves. Farnsworth wouldn’t trust Alex with any actual books—at least, not at first.

  And now that he knew books were alive, he could see why.

  Alex figured Farnsworth hadn’t entirely trusted him because of the words printed on his wrist. When he’d arrived at the castle, he’d made the mistake of showing the jumbled letters to the librarian, who had stared at them, shocked. “You’ve been marked?” Farnsworth had asked. “How?”

  Alex told him about the Red Codex in his father’s library, though he was careful not to mention his father’s name. He described how the letters had flowed out of the book onto his skin and rearranged themselves to form words.

  Farnsworth had taken Alex’s left hand in his bony, papery hand and turned it over, peering at his wrist. “What words?”

  “Book,” Alex had told him. “Then stolen, the, never, and codex.”

  “Codex?” Farnsworth had looked up quickly, blinking rapidly. “The codex?” He shook his head. “No. Surely not. Surely not.”

  Alex had pulled his hand away from the old man and tugged his sleeve to cover his wrist. “What is a codex, exactly?” He’d wondered about that for a long time.

  “It’s a book, that’s all,” Farnsworth had said. “Codex is another word for a book. Any book.” Then the old man had muttered something under his breath that sounded like “But it was not the codex, surely.” Then he added, “Erm, well.” His voice wavered. “I, ah, suppose you’d better stay here where I can keep an eye on you.”

  Alex had known better than to ask him what he’d meant by the Codex. He’d been marked by it, that’s all he knew. After that, he tried to keep the bracelet of words more of a secret.

  Alex had stayed at the Purslane library, and had done boring cleaning chores at first. Gradually the librarian had entrusted him with other book-related jobs, and taught him way too much about bug poop . . . but he’d never told Alex any librarian secrets.

  Anyway, thanks to his time at Purslane, Alex knew an empty light-well when he saw one, and this one was about to go dark. The light flickered again, and he reshelved the book about space dogs, giving it a comforting pat before he left it, making his way through the winding passages and past the rustling books, back to where he’d started. Night had fallen outside, and the big main room was dark, and seemed even more echoingly huge than it had when he’d first arrived. He felt tiny, with his little spark of light, trudging through the tall shadows.

  And then he heard footsteps. The sound of them echoed in the big room, so he couldn’t tell where they were coming from. The fourth level, maybe.

  “Hello?” he called, and raised the fading light-well.

  The footsteps stopped.

  Alex peered up into the darkness. Was someone up there, looking back at him? “Who’s there?” he said sharply, crossing to the stairway. As he paused on the bottom step, he heard the sound of footsteps, running, and then a door slammed. He tensed, ready to race up the stairs and chase the intruder. Nobody should be in here.

  The library settled into silence again.

  Tonight it was too late and too dark. Tomorrow he’d go up and look for footprints in the dust. Wearily, Alex set down the light-well on the nearest table and stretched his arms over his head.

  He hadn’t held a sword since he left home. But a long time ago he’d promised his pa that he would never miss a day of training. Even at Purslane Castle, even on the road to the Winter Palace, he never had. It wasn’t just because his pa was completely honorable and had taught him to keep his promises; he also trained every day because if the books really were alive and waking up, he’d need to be ready for anything—even for something dangerous to happen. So, in the middle of the stone floor of the library, he sparred with an imaginary weapon against an imaginary opponent, then ran through a few agility drills, just to keep himself sharp. That done, he wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve and crossed the room to the library door where, on the steward’s orders, a servant left his meals on a tray out in the hallway.

  Unlocking the door, Alex collected the tray and—after locking the door again—he carried it into the librarian’s office. Setting down the flickering light-well, he examined the food.

  His pa would have something to say about plain bread and cheese. Given such a thing, Pa would roar and bluster, and a far better dinner would be brought to him. Then he would share most of it with the Family, and even if there wasn’t much it would seem like a feast because Pa was there, and dinner would be followed by stories and singing, probably, and spitting contests, and Jeffen would challenge Franciss to an arm-wrestle, and they’d all bet on the outcome, but not with money, with dessert, assuming there was any.

  Alex was too tired to complain about bread and cheese, or to think any more about people who he would miss with a constant ache, if he was the kind of person who missed other people. Which he was not. No, he wasn’t even the remotest, tiniest bit homesick. He didn’t miss Jeffen’s teasing, or Franciss’s nonsensical sayings, or the rest of the noisy, rowdy, not-at-all-bookish Family. He didn’t miss the way, no matter how busy his pa was, he found time every night to sit on the edge of the bed and listen while Alex told him about his day. From the time he was a tiny kid, Alex had often been too overwrought to sleep, too full of fire and frustration, and only Pa could settle him and make everything all right. Then Pa would kiss him on the forehead and say, “I’ll see you in the morning, son.”

  The light-well flickered out. In the dark, Alex ate the food, and a lonely apple he’d saved from breakfast, and then felt his way to the lumpy couch where he’d slept for the last few nights. With a prickle of unease, he realized that the previous librarian had probably died there. Maybe she’d died of old age, as the steward had said. Alex figured it was a lot more likely that the librarian had been reading a book that had attacked her, and killed her.

  A book that was still in the royal library. Somewhere.

  7

  “My dear, this simply will not do,” her uncle said.

  Kenneret stood before the desk in his office. Her stewar
d, Dorriss, waited quietly by the door.

  The room was done up all in warm golds and yellows with black trim, the colors of the Kingdom of Aethel. Her uncle sat behind his desk with his elbows on the black, lacquered wood, his chin resting on folded hands. Behind him was a shelf that had his collection of figurines arranged carefully on it, with not a speck of dust on them. She eyed them as he studied her. There was a snarling bronze cat, a graceful woman dancing in alabaster, an intricately carved ivory ball, and a funny little bearded man holding a frog made of gold. That one was new, she thought.

  “Are you paying attention?” her uncle prompted.

  She blinked. “Yes, of course, Uncle Patch,” she replied. He was a little like a figurine himself, she realized. He was polished and perfect in his yellow silk coat, always with a faint smile on his face. Not a hair out of place because he didn’t have any hair, not even any eyebrows or eyelashes.

  “As I was saying,” he said patiently, “it will not do to have half the courtiers in the palace freezing to death this winter.”

  Drat. She knew her uncle wouldn’t be happy about this. “The cost of heating the palace is very high,” she started to explain. “I don’t think—”

  “A necessary expense,” her uncle interrupted.

  She hated it when he interrupted her. “Twenty thousand golds,” she began again. “It’s a ridiculous amount of money. And even with the courtiers here, half the rooms in the palace are empty. Why heat them? It doesn’t make any sense!” By the time she finished speaking, she was so frustrated that her voice was shaking.

  Instead of answering her question, her uncle shook his head. “Now, what have I taught you, Kennie, about losing control?”

  “This is important to me,” she insisted.

  “And that is not a bad thing.” Uncle Patch stood and circled the desk, coming to stand beside her, where he took her hand in his. “My dear, you have been queen for only a few months. You are surrounded by people who dislike you simply because you have power and they do not. You must be in control at all times. In control of yourself, and in control of your emotions. You cannot smile because you are happy—you smile to indicate royal approval of carefully selected courtiers. You should never frown unless it is politically expedient to do so. Your voice must never shake as it did just now.”

  Kenneret felt a flush of embarrassment mixed with anger creeping up her face. And of course he noticed.

  With a gentle finger, he tapped her cheek. “Your emotions—anger, happiness, frustration, loneliness, even love—must never betray you. They are a tool to be used wisely.”

  She took a steadying breath. Was this how it was for him? He was always so mild, and kind, trying to help her.

  She had only been queen for a short time. After her mother, the queen of Aethel, had died, ten years ago, Uncle Patch had raised her and her brother, Charlie, while serving as regent—ruling the kingdom until Kenneret was old enough to take over. He had taught her everything she knew about being queen. Though lately . . .

  . . . his critiques had become a lot more pointed . . .

  . . . and Kenneret was beginning to have her own ideas about what it meant to be queen. Ideas she wasn’t quite ready to talk to him about. She knew he wouldn’t approve.

  “Now, about the heating costs,” Uncle Patch said, dropping her hand and going back to sit behind his desk. “I think the royal exchequer can come up with twenty thousand golds to keep us all from freezing in our beds this winter. Don’t you?”

  Kenneret didn’t answer. What answer could she give that would not reveal her emotions?

  From over by the door came the faintest rustle, a reminder that her steward was waiting, and watching.

  “Kennie,” Uncle Patch said, and the faintest trace of carefully calculated impatience crept into his voice. “Aethel was once a great kingdom, one of the wealthiest in the world. We have become a nation of farmers with our noses in the dirt. You need to have your mind on bigger issues, my dear, than the cost of a few warm fires in the palace hearths. You need to have vision. The fate of the kingdom is at stake.”

  The lesson about being a good queen was one that she had heard many times before. But this fate of the kingdom thing was new. She wondered what bigger issues he meant. Instead of commenting on that, she gave him a faint smile. Emotions in check.

  “Very good,” her uncle said, and gave her a nod of approval and of dismissal. “Thank you, my dear.”

  Kenneret left the office, her steward closing the door softly behind them.

  Her uncle had summoned her just as she’d been about to leave for one of her regular meetings with the sword master at the practice hall. As they hurried through the mirrored hallways of the palace, past bowing servants and curtseying courtiers, Kenneret glanced aside at the steward, who had her usual disapproving look on her face.

  “Well?” Kenneret asked as they crossed a reception hall that had a marble floor badly in need of a polish. “What’s the matter?”

  “Her Majesty is queen,” Dorriss said through tight lips. “Lord Patchedren should not summon the queen to his office. If he wishes to speak to the queen, he should attend her in her office.”

  Kenneret blinked. “Well, he is my uncle, after all, Dorriss.”

  “And he should address the queen as Your Majesty, not as my dear or by a pet name he gave her as a child.”

  Kenneret felt like laughing. But she didn’t, of course. Because her steward was giving her basically the same advice that her uncle had.

  She knew exactly what they meant—don’t be a niece who obeys the uncle who raised her. Don’t be a girl who worries that twenty thousand golds could feed a lot of people during a cold winter. Don’t be a girl who laughs at the ridiculousness of the royal we.

  Be queen.

  8

  Alex had to admit that the job was too much for him.

  He needed help. An assistant. Or a page, at least, one of the magical pieces of paper that obeyed a librarian’s every order and helped keep the books in line. Even better would be a whole team of librarians, but he knew that was pointless. On his travels Alex had discovered two things. One, librarians were loners. In every single library he’d visited after he’d left home there was just one librarian, along with a page or two and a few assistants.

  The second thing he’d learned was that librarians were old. Every librarian that Alex had met was like Merwyn Farnsworth. Ancient. And they weren’t interested in training up apprentices, either. They knew secret bookish things, but they weren’t telling.

  Librarians, then, were dying out.

  Alex wondered if all libraries were becoming like this one—full of books that had gone feral and moldy and restless. No sooner did Alex get one section organized and cataloged than another fell into disarray. And there were any number of rooms that he hadn’t even gone into yet. Everything was out of alphabetical order. It bothered him.

  Clearly it bothered the books, too. Or something did.

  All the books from the avian room of the royal library were flapping lazily around the high ceiling of the main room. On the first day he’d tried luring them with bread crumbs, and then he’d captured them, but as soon as he left their room they were off the shelves and flying around again. They were joined at night by the books about bats. If that wasn’t snaky enough, the romance novels kept hurling themselves off their shelves like unrequited lovers jumping from cliffs. Even weirder, the architecture books had shut themselves into a series of rooms. From inside came sounds of shelves being shifted, and once Alex heard the grumble of stones being dragged across the floor. Who knew what they were up to? Barricading themselves in—but against what?

  Quite often Alex had the creepy, prickly feeling that he was being watched. He hadn’t found any trace of whoever had been walking around in the dark the other night, and the main door to the library was always locked. Maybe he had imagined it?

  No, don’t be stupid, Alex told himself. Somebody was lurking around.

  But he c
ouldn’t worry about it now—there were more pressing things. The door of one room off the fourth-floor balcony had been blocked off with sandbags, piled high from floor to ceiling. There was probably something dangerous inside, Alex figured, but it was better to find out sooner rather than later what it was, exactly. The sandbags were heavy, almost more than he could lift. One by one, he shifted them aside, lugging them out to the balcony and stacking them there.

  Strength training, his pa would call it. A blasted nuisance, more like.

  Once the door was clear, Alex opened it and peered inside, raising the light-well to see better. It wasn’t even a room, he thought, more a closet. Sandbags lined the walls inside. In the middle of the closet, wrapped in chains that were secured to a stone block, was a square, fat book with its title embossed in bold, block letters.

  ON THE CHEMISTRY OF BLACKPOWDER EXPLOSIONS

  The book had a sturdy metal latch riveted to its cover, and a small padlock held it closed. As Alex bent to examine the keyhole, the book suddenly lunged toward him and Alex leaped back quickly.

  “Gah!” he gasped, just as the chains brought the book up short.

  Rattle, rattle, rattle—the book seethed like a pot of boiling water with a fire under it. Take the lid off the pot, and boom.

  Alex figured he must have a key for the padlock. Not that he was going to actually open the book—he wasn’t an idiot—but he wanted to be sure. He’d left the heavy ring of keys on the desk in his office. Closing the door to the blackpowder book’s closet, he went down the spiral staircase, fetched the keys, and was headed back across the wide stone floor when he thought he heard a noise.

  He froze in the middle of the huge circular room and cocked his head, listening.

  The books on the second level were shifting on their shelves. Not a big fuss, just a subtle rustling of pages.

  Curious, Alex climbed up to the second-floor balcony, then halfway around to the fourth passage leading off of it. There were no windows—this part of the library was dug out of the cliff—but he could see light coming from farther along the passageway.