The Lost Books

  “Come on!” Kenneret yelled back to Franciss and Miss Bug, who had only made it halfway up from the second floor.

  There was a third boom, and the balcony shuddered under their feet. Alex watched, horrified, as the shock wave of the blast hit the circular stairway leading up to the next floor, and it started unwinding from around its central pole, pieces of carved balcony curling away, the steps rattling apart. Alex threw himself to the balcony floor, scooted to its edge, and shouted down at Franciss and Miss Bug, “Get off the stairs!”

  In response, Franciss gave a quick glance upward, saw the stairway unwinding toward her—she grabbed Miss Bug and leaped for the second-floor balcony, five feet down. “Jeffen!” she shouted, and, below them, he dropped his sword, turned, and grabbed the edge of the balcony as the stairs peeled away, taking the lion with them.

  “We’re all right!” came Jeffen’s choked voice from below.

  Alex got to his feet, looking up. Flaming flakes of pages rained down, and billows of soot choked the air.

  “We have to keep going.” Kenneret was at his side. Her hair was falling out of its braids, and she had a smudge of soot over her cheek, but she looked determined, and every inch a queen.

  “Can’t,” Charlie said, pointing. “No stairs.”

  “There’s another way up.” Alex coughed as a billow of smoke wafted past them. Oh please, let the books not burn up. “Come on!”

  The library was rumbling with fright and the echoes of the explosions, and the frustrated roars of the lion. They made their way around the third-tier balcony until they reached an arched doorway that led into a pitch-black hallway.

  Alex opened his mouth to call for a light-well when two of his pages, their paper a little singed around the edges, darted through the smoke, bringing what he needed. He felt a sudden affection for the pages, so brave, even while their library was under attack. “Thanks,” he said, and taking the light-wells, he led Kenneret and Charlie into the passage.

  Hurrying, they went down a set of stairs, along a low-ceilinged stone hallway with no bookshelves in it, to a door that, Alex knew, led to another room that would take them to a vertical tunnel that would lead them to the fifth floor.

  Alex put his hand on the door’s latch, ready to fling it open, then froze. “Wait,” he whispered.

  From inside the room came the sound of a deep, echoing moan. A puff of greenish dust leaked from the crack under the door.

  Oh, blast it.

  Holding his breath, Alex carefully lifted his hand from the latch, wiped it on his coat, and backed away.

  “What is it?” Charlie whispered.

  As an answer, Alex grabbed his arm, and Kenneret’s hand, and dragged them halfway down the hall, where he stopped and gasped for breath. “Poisons,” he told them. “A room full of books about poisons.”

  “Is there another way?” Kenneret asked.

  Alex nodded. “Come on.”

  They backtracked until they came to another passage made narrow because the shelves that lined it were filled with books as big as boulders, and about as heavy. “Dictionaries,” Alex whispered as they stood in the doorway, looking down the dim passage. He pointed at a door at the other end. “That’s where we’re going. Be very quiet. We can try to sneak through.” He held up the light-well and pointed. “You two go first.”

  On silent feet, Kenneret led the way into the passage, followed by Charlie.

  Alex stepped into the passage. He had barely any warning before the dictionaries attacked.

  25

  Alex heard a low thump. As he was turning to see what it was, he caught a glimpse of the Lost Books symbol edged with flames flying toward him, and one of the dictionaries slammed into him, knocking him off his feet. It was like getting hit by a boulder. The light-well had fallen from his hand; everything was dark. He was facedown on the stone floor, and he couldn’t even catch his breath, when another heavy book landed on his back, and another. In the thick blackness, he felt the stone floor, cold and hard under his cheek, and the weight on him, so heavy that he couldn’t get any air into his lungs—the dictionaries were trying to suffocate him.

  “Oh no you don’t!” he heard Charlie shout, and the weight lessened, and then he felt Charlie’s hands close around his wrists, and he was dragged along the length of the hall. There was another thud, and a weight landed on him again, and the last wisp of air leaked out of his lungs.

  “Heave it off!” Kenneret panted.

  They shoved the books away, and with the last of his strength Alex scrambled to his knees, gasping for breath. Kenneret pushed him to his feet and through the door at the end of the hallway—she was holding the light-well—and then they were through, and Charlie was slamming the door behind them.

  The three of them stood there, panting, staring at each other. A few pages gathered at Alex’s shoulder, trembling with fear.

  “Thanks.” Alex felt bruised from head to foot, as if he’d been picked up by the hand of a giant and squeezed.

  “You’re very welcome,” Kenneret replied, handing him the light-well, and to his surprise, she gave him half a smile.

  “Now what?” Charlie asked. His eyes gleamed in the dim light.

  Alex tried to think of what his pa would do at a moment like this, or what advice he would give, and all of a sudden he missed his father desperately. But the Swift wasn’t here, and neither was the Family. “We have to keep going,” Alex said raggedly. His ribs creaked as he raised the light-well and pointed up. “That way.”

  They were in a vertical tunnel with an iron ladder bolted into its smooth stone wall, leading up into murky darkness.

  “I’ll go first this time,” Charlie declared, and started climbing.

  Alex handed the light-well to his pages and followed, the rungs of the ladder gritty with rust under his fingers, and then came Kenneret. The tunnel was damp and cold, and the clanking sound of their feet on the metal ladder echoed in creepy ways. They climbed without speaking for a few minutes, until Charlie stopped. Alex looked at his friend’s boots, just over his head, and then up at his face. Kenneret’s face was a blurred oval in the darkness below him.

  “I think this is it,” Charlie whispered.

  Alex nodded. His bones aching, he went up a few more rungs of the ladder to a low doorway only a foot high. Charlie had already wriggled through it. Alex ducked his head and followed, then creaked to his feet. A moment later, Kenneret stood beside him.

  They were at a crossroads, a square room with a closed door in each wall. Stepping closer to each other, they put their heads together.

  “Which door is it?” Kenneret whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Alex answered. “I’ve looked in here before, but all four doors were locked, and I didn’t have the keys. But somebody who’s read the Keys Treatise could open them.”

  “So he could be behind any one of them,” Charlie said.

  “Let’s be sure they’re actually locked first,” Kenneret said, and stepped toward one of the doors.

  “I’ll check this one,” Charlie said, and went to one of the others.

  They both put their hands on the doorknobs at the same time, and found that the doors were locked. With her hand resting on the knob, Kenneret turned and shook her head, and Charlie bent to try peering through the keyhole.

  At the same instant, both doors opened with a whoosh, Kenneret and Charlie were each sucked into the rooms beyond, and the doors slammed shut behind them with a resounding crash.

  In one bound, Alex was at Kenneret’s door with his ear pressed against the wood, trying to make out sounds from within. “Kennie!” he shouted. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes!” came the faint sound of her voice. “He’s not in here!”

  From Charlie’s door came the sound of pounding—he was already trying to get out.

  Then, from behind him, Alex heard the rattle of a key in a lock, and the creaking sound of a door swinging open on unoiled hinges.

  He whirled around to face
it, knowing what he was going to see.

  Lord Patch stood in the arched doorway, slipping a small, square book back into his coat pocket. The Keys Treatise, Alex felt sure. In his other hand, Patch held a length of yellowed paper with ragged edges, half unrolled. The Scroll of Kings. As always, Patch was meticulously dressed in yellow silk and pearls. He was not wearing a sword. His bald head gleamed in the light that emanated from the room behind him. That room was lined with intricately carved bookshelves, polished to a high shine. Every book displayed on the shelves was a treasure—bound in richest leather, titles stamped in gold, written on the finest paper.

  Every single one of them was marked with the symbol of the Lost Books.

  The symbols were outlined in flames, and they pulsed with power, burning through the covers of the books they marked. Alex could feel the animosity coming off them in waves, all directed at one person—him.

  “I’m a librarian,” he tried to tell the books.

  But Patch was already shaking his head. “You have no idea what you are, do you?” And then he said something completely unexpected. “Show me your left wrist.”

  “What about it?” Alex said, not moving to obey. He could still hear Charlie banging on his door; Kenneret was silent behind hers—he knew she was listening.

  “You are marked,” Patch said smoothly. “And you do not know what that means. Every book in this room wants to take its vengeance on you.”

  “Because you sent them after me,” Alex retorted.

  Patch was shaking his head, so annoyingly calm. “No. I had nothing to do with that part of it. Well, yes, I woke the Lost Books with my searching, but I did not direct their attacks. All of the Lost Books hate and fear you because of what you are.” He patted his coat pocket and held up the half-read scroll. “They sent the marked books after you, and only you. Why is that?”

  “I don’t know,” Alex bit out. His right hand rested on the pommel of his sword. He was ready to fight, if he had to.

  “Well, I know,” Patch said, his voice almost conversational. “You should have listened to me, boy. I tried to warn you. I’m afraid you only have yourself to blame for this.” Without taking his eyes off of Alex, he leaned back into the room and took a book from a shelf.

  Alex tensed, ready to draw his sword.

  With a quick glance, Patch checked the title of the book he’d taken. “Ah, yes. I think this one will do nicely.”

  And without another word, he tossed the book at Alex.

  Slowly it tumbled, end over end, its pages flapping. The symbol on its cover burst into flames. As he felt the book try to force him to start reading, Alex closed his eyes and moved to step out of its way. And then he heard the sleek, steel sound of swords being drawn.

  At the same moment, he opened his eyes and snatched his own weapon from its sheath.

  Five feet away, four swords hung in the air. One huge, heavy broadsword. One rapier with a needlelike tip. One cutlass with a curve of sharpened blade. And one light, narrow sword like the one he held.

  Light glinted from their wickedly sharp edges.

  The book hung in the air behind them. The symbol on its cover pulsed. Its pages turned. It would direct this fight.

  Alex blocked the sound of Charlie hurling himself at his door, and Kenneret shouting at her uncle to let her out. He ignored Patch leaning almost casually in the doorway, watching. The ache of his bruised ribs faded away. He didn’t think of his pa, or consider what advice he would give.

  There was no time for thinking, only reacting.

  His vision narrowed, focused, until it was just him and the swords.

  The broadsword was the first to move, a sweeping blow aimed at Alex’s neck, meant to lop his head off, but Alex had already ducked. Then he blocked the rapier’s first thrust, and jumped and rolled out of the way as the cutlass tried to cut off his legs at the knees. As he scrambled to his feet, he saw the broadsword cartwheeling around behind him; he blocked a flurry of attacks from the rapier, and felt the sharp edge of the light sword cut a burning line along his ribs.

  Panting, he backed away, turning to put the broadsword in front of him again, keeping his blade up, feeling blood seeping into his shirt, under his coat.

  The sword that had cut him flicked a drop of blood from its edge, almost as if it was taunting him.

  Then the cutlass took up a stance that he recognized. He was moving to block its attack even before it started—at the same time, the broadsword barreled in, and he sidestepped it easily. He parried a flickering attack from the rapier. And as he blocked another obvious swipe from the cutlass, he checked the cover of the book that was directing the fight.

  Seeing its title, Alex gasped out a laugh. Of course. The book was The Sword Practicum, and it was the most basic book on sword fighting. Not only had Alex read it, he had it practically memorized. It meant that he knew what the swords were going to do before they did it.

  But there were four of them, and only one of him, and he could feel the blood oozing from the cut over his ribs. He had to end this fight fast, or it would end him.

  The rapier attacked next, darting in, trying to nick his arm with its sharp tip. He blocked it with a chopping motion that sent the blade to the floor. Before it could flash up into the air again, he put his foot on it, holding it down. One down, three to go.

  “Oh, very nicely done,” said Patch from his doorway.

  A moment of distraction. Alex focused again and realized that he’d lost track of the cutlass. He swung around, keeping the rapier trapped under his foot, in time to see the cutlass sweeping another low blow at his knees. He hurled himself out of the way, but too late—the tip of the blade ripped a gash in the side of his leg. The pain of it made him gasp, and he staggered to his feet, then whirled and brought his sword up again.

  Broadsword next—right?

  No, light sword. He batted its attack aside, and then he made a mistake. Turning to confront the broadsword, he realized that he’d lost track of the rapier.

  A second later it attacked from behind, and he felt the slick, icy feeling of the rapier’s tip sliding between his ribs, seeking his heart.

  With a yell, he wrenched himself away, then tried to bring his sword up. His own blood was spattered on the floor around him. The pain of the rapier’s strike slammed into him. His breath came in ragged gasps.

  And then Lord Patch stepped out of his doorway, strode across the room, seized the Sword Practicum book, and snapped it shut. “That should do it,” he said.

  All four blades fell to the floor with a clatter.

  Three of them were stained with Alex’s blood.

  26

  Kenneret watched the fight through the keyhole. She couldn’t see much more than light glinting on sword blades. She heard the clash of steel on steel, and then more fighting, and she heard Alex yell, then gasp in pain.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered.

  She gripped the doorknob until her knuckles turned white. And suddenly, the knob turned and the door opened, spilling her out into the room.

  Quickly she got to her feet, seeing four swords lying on the floor; blood was spattered around them. Charlie’s door had opened too. He sprawled on the floor, then rose to a crouch, eyeing the swords, ready to grab one of them and fight.

  Alex stood leaning on his own sword, panting, dripping with blood from at least two wounds, his head lowered and a swatch of blond hair hanging down in front of his eyes.

  Her uncle stood in the doorway opposite them, framed by books, bathed in candlelight. He held up a scroll of paper. He looked calm, smooth, regal. “You know what this is, my dear.”

  She nodded. “The Scroll of Kings.”

  He smiled his toothless smile. “And now I shall use it. Kneel!” He raised the scroll and pointed at her. “Bow to me!”

  Two steps away, Alex wavered and fell to his knees.

  Her uncle gave a triumphant sneer.

  “That was blood loss,” Alex snapped, “not the Scroll.” He put a bloody ha
nd on the floor to steady himself. “Kennie,” he panted, his face as white as paper. “Don’t burn it unless you absolutely have to.”

  Her uncle was gazing at her, a faint frown line gathering on his forehead. “Bow down!” he ordered again, and pointed the Scroll at her.

  It had no effect. She straightened, gathering her queenliness around her.

  Patch reached back, pulled a marked book off the shelf of the room behind him, and hurled it at her. It landed with a thud on the floor at her feet. Just a book. No threat to someone who wasn’t a librarian.

  Calmly she stepped around it. Nearby, Charlie slowly rose to a stand. “What do you think the Scroll is for, Uncle Patch?” she said softly.

  “It gives me power,” he answered. “The power to rule.”

  “What does that even mean?” Charlie asked.

  “It means being king,” he said grandly. “As I was meant to be. I will command. I will be obeyed. I will destroy the Greylings to the north, freeing up the Swift and his soldiers to expand the borders of the kingdom. We will increase our trade revenue. Sixty years ago we were one of the greatest kingdoms in the world, and we have declined into a backwards land populated by dirt-grubbing farmers. I have the strength and vision that you lack, Kenneret, and the power to rule will enable me to make my vision a reality.”

  “I don’t think that’s what it says in the Scroll,” she said, pointing at it. “Does it?”

  She heard Alex give a weary laugh. “He hasn’t had time to read it all yet.”

  “It was written by a good king,” Kenneret went on. “One who knew that ruling does not mean forcing obedience.” She took a measured step closer to him. “I’ll tell you what a queen does, Uncle Patch; I’ll tell you how a good king rules,” she said steadily. “Ruling does not mean dominating. It means making difficult decisions. It means working hard, all the time, late into every night. It means listening to the farmers’ guild, and the trade guild, and explaining to them why paying taxes is a good thing. It means . . .” She faltered. “It means . . .”

  “The royal we,” she heard Alex say faintly.