The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) (108 page)

Gilwyn blew the dust off the row of books, smiling as he read the titles printed along the spines. Carefully balanced on his step stool, the branches of a birch tree tapping at his window, he ran his fingers lovingly along the top of the manuscripts, comforted by their permanence. The library had been destroyed and then rebuilt, but the words within its books were forever, and Gilwyn took care with them now that he was home again, treating them as though they were his own precious children. Tucked in his belt rested a feather duster, dirty from the morning’s work. He had spent hours alone in the rotunda, cleaning up the debris that had settled on the woodwork and books from all the recent construction. Once, the rotunda had been the library’s grandest reading room, and had been remarkably unscathed during the bombardment from Norvan catapults. Under Thorin’s direction, the wood paneling and plaster ceilings had all been carefully restored of cracks and blemishes, and nearly all of the books and manuscripts remained, just as they had been when Figgis was alive.

For Gilwyn, his work in the library was a joy, one he had never dared hope to have again during his long stay in Jador. He awoke early this morning, eager to return to the huge chore of getting the library back in order. If it was to ever reopen to the public – which was Thorin’s promise – it needed to not only be repaired, but also restocked and returned to its original order, and only Gilwyn knew how to do that. Figgis had taught him much in their years together, and Gilwyn remembered everything. Whenever a book was out of place, he knew exactly where it belonged. And so he worked diligently but carefully, using his stool to reach the higher ledges as best he could and wishing his friend Teku could help him. In the days when Gilwyn had been Figgis’ apprentice, the little monkey had helped the crippled boy with everything, even fetched books off the highest shelves. She had been given to Gilwyn by Figgis, but she was always meant to be more than a pet. She was more than a friend, even. Teku had made the challenge of working in the giant library a possibility for Gilwyn, and even seemed to sense his moods and needs. As
his eyes absently scanned the shelves, Gilwyn thought about Teku. He

missed the little beast, just as he missed everyone in Jador.

His mind began to wander.

Another week had passed since he had confronted Kahldris in the cellars. Despite the demon’s dire pledges, it had been a wonderful seven days. Kahldris had remained quiet and aloof, allowing Gilwyn to continue bad-mouthing him, and Thorin gradually continued his slow-climb back to normalcy, taking interest in the small things in life again. He and Gilwyn continued to go riding almost every morning, and each night before he went to sleep Gilwyn made sure to spend an hour or so with the baron, usually playing cards or sampling from Lionkeep’s wine stores. Ruana continued to caution Gilwyn about Kahldris, but even she was forced to admit that the Akari’s threats had baffled her. He had done nothing to harm anyone, and soon Ruana, too, began to believe Gilwyn’s claims that they were untouchable.

Heartened by the recent events, Gilwyn spent more and more time in the library, imagining himself at the helm of the great edifice. When he had arrived in Koth, Thorin had offered the job to him, saying that the library needed him. It did, Gilwyn knew, but he still had a life and a lover to return to in Jador. Nevertheless, he daydreamed about remaining in Koth and reopening the grand ‘Cathedral of Knowledge,’ returning both the city and its icon to its glory days. How proud would his mother be to see him now, he wondered? She expected great things from him. Before she died, she had told him to reach for the stars.

Gilwyn pulled the duster from his belt, stretching to feather the higher books. Had he disappointed his mother? He thought so. But then, everyone in Koth was disappointed, because the city had fallen into ruin over the years, breaking all the dreams of it populace. The young face of Gilwyn’s mother burned brightly in his memory, and he held it while he dusted, unaware of the melancholy smile curling his lips. She had died young but he remembered her perfectly, and the memory of her gentle touch was never far from his mind. Thinking of her now, his hand stilled. His eyes drifted blindly from the books, seeing nothing but the image of her smiling face.

‘Oh . . .’

He caught himself with a sigh, stepping down from his stool and laying his duster down on a shelf. He rarely felt alone in the huge library, but now the solitude of the place unnerved him. It was almost noon, he was sure, and he promised Thorin he would be back in Lionkeep for midday meal. He glanced around the rotunda, proud of the work he had done, and then glimpsed a tiny movement near one of the many long reading tables. He pivoted to see it better, catching sight of a bit of tawny fur. Still in his dream state, he grinned when he realized it was Teku.

And then froze.

Impossibly, unimaginably, Teku jumped from one table to another, stopping to chatter at him from across the room. The monkey who he’d left in Jador gave him her familiar grin of little teeth. Gilwyn barely breathed, trying to make sense of what was happening. His eyes scanned the chamber, but everything else was the same, without a hint of distortion.

‘Teku,’ he said softly. ‘You can’t be here.’

As she always did, Teku gave her little monkey bark, then climbed up onto one of the shelves, wrapping her tail around a pole of wood to support herself. She dangled down from the long appendage, urging Gilwyn forward.

‘It’s not you,’ said Gilwyn. ‘It can’t be.’

Teku frowned in annoyance. Always remarkably intelligent, her human-like expressions left no doubt to her thoughts. Pulling herself up again, she hopped to a bookshelf closer to the exit, then jumped up and down excitedly. In her language, that meant for Gilwyn to follow her, but Gilwyn shook his head.

‘Whatever you are, go away,’ he told her. He glanced around the rotunda. ‘Do you hear me, Kahldris? I know this is your doing. You’re in my mind.’

Teku seemed not to hear him. The monkey leapt to the floor, clapped its tiny hands together, then loped out of the rotunda, looking back at him to follow. Her chattering went with her out into the hall, where she screeched for Gilwyn to come. Sure that he was being duped, Gilwyn nevertheless went after her. Ruana touched his mind instantly.

Don’t, she urged.
That’s not Teku.

‘I know,’ Gilwyn assured her.

You’re doing just what Kahldris wants. Don’t follow her.

Too curious to ignore the monkey, Gilwyn stepped out of the rotunda and into the corridor. Fleet-footed Teku was already well down the dim hall, but chattered happily when she saw Gilwyn following. Again she started off, heading down the corridor toward the private living chambers. The darkness of the hall gave Gilwyn some pause. He had spent very little time in that part of the library since returning, and still didn’t care to see the places where he and Figgis had lived. Teku, disappearing around a bend in the hall, called insistently for him to proceed.

‘What does he want?’ Gilwyn wondered. There was no sense of Kahldris in the air, yet he knew the spirit toyed with him.

To frighten you.

‘With a monkey?’

To Gilwyn it made no sense at all, and the puzzle of it propelled him down the hall. With Ruana’s cautions ringing in his mind, he hurried
down the corridor after the monkey, catching glimpses of her as she continued rounding corners. Gilwyn’s clubbed foot ached in his special boot, trying gamely to keep up with her. Very quickly he was in the living area, a much less grand part of the library marked by plain stone walls and small, narrow chambers. This was where he had spent his adolescence, where he and Figgis had shared their lives, and the ghosts of the place were all around him suddenly, flooding him with memories. With only the light from the clouded windows to guide him, Gilwyn struggled to see where Teku had gone, peering into the many chambers to find her. Her chattering voice was coming from everywhere at once, and like a hall of mirrors the corridors all took on the same, confusing greyness. Gilwyn realized with dread that things were not exactly as they were before. The halls were impossibly narrow, and not because they’d been rebuilt. Just as he had when he’d come to Gilwyn in Roall, Kahldris was changing the landscape.

‘We should go,’ he told himself, but turning around did him no good at all, because the way he’d come was blocked. A wall that shouldn’t have been there had sprung up in seconds, and the only way out was forward. The panic of being trapped gripped Gilwyn. He forced himself to stay calm.

Wait
, said Ruana.
He means to trap you, Gilwyn. This is a game, but you don’t have to play.

‘Don’t I? There’s no way out now.’

Whatever he would find going after Teku, it had already been ordained. Gilwyn stiffened his resolve, refusing to let Kahldris best him. He took a resolute step forward. Teku’s calls stopped instantly. Silence engulfed the hall. Up ahead, a chamber beckoned, pouring out orange candlelight. Vaguely he remembered the room, calling it up from his past. Not a room from the library, this one was from Gilwyn’s first home. The place he had been born.

‘Lionkeep . . .’

Things had changed in Lionkeep over the years, but he was back there suddenly, nearly two decades in the past. Shadows grew in the chamber’s threshold, the frantic throes of a woman in labour. It was his birthday, and in that room he was being born.

Inching forward, the illusion became complete as he heard his mother’s cries, screaming as the midwives consoled her. The agony of his birth drove her cries through the hallway. Gilwyn pushed himself onward, unable to look away as he neared the chamber. At first he saw Gwena, the midwife who had delivered him, half hidden behind a woman’s bloodied thigh. Gwena stared intently into the woman’s womb. Another woman – a girl, really – stayed beside Gwena, looking frightened as the one on the bed continued to scream. She was Beith, Gilwyn’s mother. Gilwyn could
see her contorted face now, streamed with tears, the veins on her neck bulging with effort. Gwena urged her on, coaxing her to push the baby from her body, its head beginning to crown between her legs. Fluid rushed from the womb, staining the sheets. Beith screamed for it to end. Gilwyn reared back, the surroundings swimming and changing as the library more and more became Lionkeep. Then, inexplicably, his mother turned to look at him. When their eyes met, she scowled.

Gilwyn couldn’t move. Like his mother, he wanted to scream, but even breathing became difficult as he forced himself to watch his own bloody birth. With one last momentous push, the infant that was him came tumbling out of Beith’s body, wet and wailing, the cord connecting them pulsing pink with life. The midwives looked at the infant and all at once their happy faces shrouded in dread. The baby – baby Gilwyn – writhed in its own wet bounty, its hands hooked, its fingers fused to clubs. Gwena shrieked at the hideous thing and the girl at her side fainted away. His mother was sobbing, somehow knowing the monster she had birthed. Gilwyn shook his head wildly, falling back.

‘That’s not how it was!’ he shouted.

Beith’s wails followed him as he turned and ran down the shifting corridor. He was crazed by the vision and desperate to get away, and the hallway stretched out before him, changing in the darkness as he hobbled, part Lionkeep, part library. The screams of his mother fell away behind him as he manoeuvred through the coil halls, turning corners only to see another unfamiliar wall. Soon he was exhausted, and resting against the wall he caught his breath, trying to banish the horrible images. Ruana was talking to him, begging him to breathe. The long hall lead to darkness.

At the end of the corridor, an apparition waited. Gilwyn turned toward it with a moan. His mother Beith waited there, dressed in saffron, her face tranquil and beautiful. She smiled at him, raising her gentle hand to call to him. Gilwyn gripped the stone wall. She was as she had been when she was healthy, before the cancers had eaten her flesh. Like sea foam she floated toward him, the hem of her saffron dress trailing silently across the floor. Gilwyn pulled himself from the wall and drifted toward her, fascinated by the image Kahldris had conjured. He knew she wasn’t real, but in every way she was his mother, picked from his memory and gloriously remade. He remembered the dress she wore, her favourite, and the way she kept her hair, straight and long around her shoulders. The serene expression on her face spoke only of her love for him, the child she missed so sorely.