Distant Star (25 page)
A cheap romance novel caught his
eye, and Faraday pocketed the paperback. “However, you didn’t die, did you?
Well, not until it didn’t matter anymore. But even that didn’t keep you down
for long. No, you saved the day. And now I’m the king that recovered Atlantis
for the people, and the king that destroyed Morpheus Renegade. All roads,
Declan… fortune and glory.”
“Did you come to gloat?”
“Partly.” Faraday helped himself
to another splash of scotch. “And partly to make sure you understand that this
changes nothing. Your exile stands. Return to Forget and a cell on Starhold
will be the least of your concerns.”
So, I’d returned to the start of
all this, in a way. I let a carefree grin spread across my face. “I’m going to
burn your kingdom to the ground and piss on the ashes.”
King Faraday finished his drink
and shrugged. “Perhaps you will. Take care, little brother.”
My fists unclenched as Faraday
saw himself out. The desire to fight, to unleash the Will within… was damn near
overwhelming. A ripple of tension shuddered through my arm and an impossible
door swung wide open in my mind, away in the ether and the Void beyond.
I looked down. The words on the
page were glowing.
*~*~*~*
The End of
Book One
Loved
Distant Star?
Declan
Hale will return in 2013!
Broken Quill
The
Reminiscent Exile: Book Two
Bonus Story!
The Forgetful Library
A Tale of the
Knights Infernal
I
There are three types of books in
the Forgetful Library.
Well, no, that’s not right.
There is every type of book in
the Forgetful Library.
But that’s not right either.
Although not entirely wrong.
I’m not explaining this very
well. Broken quill! You think I’d have a way with words. I’m the chief
librarian of the largest collection of books in all creation and I can neither
explain nor define the tomes under my protection. Let me see…
There is a library. Yes, good.
Start small, Aloysius, as my father used to say. Keep it simple, stupid.
Rome wasn’t built in a day, Al.
Well, it
may have been, for all I know—I wasn’t there—but the old bastard’s
words fit just the same.
The library. Or, the Library.
I’ve always thought of it as Library with a capital ‘L’. The endless stacks and
infinite catalogues carry an air of sentience, after all. An enormous,
slumbering awareness as vast as the stars or the space between stars. An
intelligence found in the scent of wood shavings, of spilled vanilla and the
aroma of freshly cut grass.
Of
good, old leather and dusty pages.
That starts to paint a pretty
picture, does it not? This is a special library. A unique library. Forged to
house the books of the abstract. The books of the never-were, the
could-have-been, the lonely-and-lost. That’s a fanciful yet fine way of putting
it, actually.
The books in the Library are
infinite and they are of three distinct kinds. A solid enough definition.
Kind the First: The Forgetful
Library contains every book
never
written.
Kind the Second: The Forgetful
Library contains every book that ever existed and was
lost.
Kind the Third: The Forgetful Library
contains every book found
within
books.
The first two kinds are rather
straightforward and speak for themselves. Kind the Third is a bit more wistful,
a bit more… intangible. Think of books inside other books. The unpublished
cases of Sherlock Holmes mentioned by John Watson on occasion in the actual
stories.
The Red Book of Westmarch
,
purportedly the source material used by Professor Tolkien for his fantastical
tales. Or Lovecraft’s mad poet, Abdul Alhazred, and his blasphemous tome of
eldritch lore—
The Necronomicon
.
All such stories can be found on the polished jarrah shelves of the Forgetful
Library. The last is kept in a dungeon of its own, buried deep beneath the
earth. It has a habit of attracting… unpleasantness.
Which I suppose is the reason I’m
writing all of this down. Recent unpleasantness. The reason I’m writing a story
that will never find its way into my Library, for I intend the whole wide
world, and every realm of Forget, to know the truth of this matter—to
know the truth of my grandson, Declan, and his mistreatment at the hands of the
‘lauded’ and ‘incorruptible’ Knights Infernal.
I have never been one for the
fight. Aloysius Hale, a tall, bespectacled gentleman with a penchant for
bowties and old pocket watches could never be mistaken for a man of action, for
a hero.
But I have lived with heroes.
I have walked in their shadow (or
lack thereof, as the case of young Declan may be) and watched them fight their
wars against men and less than men. Creatures of the Void—monstrosities
that would eat the essence of my Library and feast well on the
possibility
of all the Thrice-Kindly
works.
The Forgetful Library has existed
since the first written word and is much a part of the Story Thread as the
books of actual reality, of the books available at your local corner bookshop
or, more so these days,
online
in
electronic format. I don’t resist the change to e-books, as they’re known on
True Earth (and many other Earths, come to think of it), and the Library has
adapted to all the e-books not written, that have never seen a printed page.
There is an annex to the left of Persistent Memory which houses all the
encyclopaedias of things that never existed fit to burst with e-books. Still,
there is something to be said for the weight and heft of a book. Something…
simple, stupid. But where was I? Ah, heroes—men and women of the Will.
Like Declan.
He does not deserve the scorn
being placed upon his head. King Faraday sits on a stolen throne spinning lies
about my grandson and his deeds. Declan fought the Renegades and the Voidlings
through two campaigns and carried the mantle of the Knights Infernal with an
integrity unmatched. I’m certain—
certain
—he
had good reason for doing what he did, for unleashing the Degradation and
sealing away the Lost City. For sacrificing Tal Levy, his love, and selling his
shadow to Lord Oblivion. I would ask him those reasons, if I could, but his
forced exile prohibits such contact. Yet I suppose that is not the tale I set
out to write here today.
There are so many myths and legends
wrapped around the boy that I imagine the truth is blurred more by the absurd
tales than King Faraday’s campaign of misinformation (and I write those words
knowing full well I forfeit my position in the Library, if not my head). To
support Declan now is to court treason. Well, so be it. Here, at least, you
will find one small truth. One true story.
Here is a tale of the Forgetful
Library and the night Declan Hale bested the devil.
*~*~*~*
II
Aloysius stood alone in the vast,
cathedral-like central dome of the Library with his hands clasped behind his
back. Beams of dull orange light cut the marble floors into long squares. He
waited patiently, his neatly pressed suit and knotted bowtie belying the panic
he felt.
He was alone in the Library, save
for the hidden unpleasantness. The entire staff and custodial service had been
dismissed for the evening, given what had happened to young Barnaul in the
catalogues of Elusive Thought. Aloysius was confident the unpleasantness had
been contained to that area of the Library, specifically within the subsections
of Bountiful Doubt, but who knew with these things? Declan would, which was why
he had been summoned.
Before sunset, the winged
messenger had promised. He supposed he had Fenton Creed to thank for that particular
piece of magicked mechanical fascination. That wasn’t a fair thought, really. A
messenger bird that could seek out his grandson across entire worlds, wherever
he was on Earth or in Forget, in less than an hour deserved some admiration. It
just grated that the overpowered sycophant had a hand in its construction.
Aloysius did not care for how Jon Faraday had wrapped Fenton and a dozen other
strong-Willed men like him around his little finger. It stank of unbalance.
The Dragon Throne has sat unclaimed for too long.
Ever since King Morrow’s command
ship flew into the Void. An unbalance, yes, and now… insurrection was on the
horizon. The signs were clear.
As the last of the sun’s rays
scattered indigo light across the crystal walls, the enormous entrance hall
doors swung open on silent hinges to admit Declan.
He strode into the Library’s
lobby grim faced and tall. His dark hair hung lank against his forehead. There
was a nasty cut across his cheek and he looked as if sleep was a distant memory
of happier times. Declan was not alone. He grasped the hand of a young woman,
wearing a white summer blouse stained with what could only be blood. Despite
that, she smiled as they drew level with Aloysius.
“Hey, old man,” Declan said. “You
couldn’t have called at a worse time.”
“Oh hush,” the woman said. Her
voice was soft and light, tinged with an exotic accent that made Aloysius think
of desert sands and old, wearied ruins. “He was pleased to hear from you, Mr.
Hale.”
“I don’t believe I’ve had the
pleasure…”
“This is Tal.” Declan squeezed
her hand and allowed his shoulders to slump, to relax, for just a moment. “Tal
Levy.”
“Aloysius Hale.” They shook
hands. Tal’s knuckles were torn and bloody. “Where have you two been?”
“The
Reach
. We… we forced the Knights and the Renegades into a final
confrontation. It may have even caused your problems here, Grandfather.”
“Oh?”
Declan released a long, slow
breath. “Yes. For better or worse, the Tome Wars end tonight. But first we deal
with the Voidling. Your message said it had already killed? A scribe?”
“It left very little of the man,
I’m sorry to say.”
“Sounds like a scout. One of the
higher order. It was clever. Most of them are just grunts, mindless and cruel,
but not this one. If not for the Library’s inherent security, it would likely
have gone unnoticed.”
“You know its type then, lad?”
Declan shrugged. There was a fire
in his eyes that warred with his beaten, bloodied fatigue. “Perhaps. Given the
damage caused to the
Reach
, this
would be the most opportune location for it to try and come through. Reality is
bleeding, after all. Lead the way and we’ll see.”
“Are you sure you’re up for this,
Declan?” Tal asked. “You can barely stand.”
Aloysius dabbed at the blood on
his grandson’s cheek with a chequered handkerchief. “I share this young lady’s
concerns.”
Declan smiled and limped off into
the Library proper. Each of his steps left a bloody track on the pristine
marble floors.
*~*~*~*
III
“I’m going in alone, songbird.”
“Like fun you are.” Tal grasped
Declan’s forearm.
“The more minds it can touch the
stronger it becomes. I can beat it one on one. Got my brain all sauced up. You
know that. But not if it has a hook in your head.”
A small blush rose high in Tal’s
olive cheeks. “Why?”
He laughed. “You going to make me
say it again, huh?”
Tal dug her nails into his skin.
“Ow, alright.” He sighed. “I love
you. I am in love with you. I want to kiss you and touch you and dance with
you. Tal Levy, you’re my girl and right now, to this creature, that’s a
weakness I can’t afford. It will use you against me and we’ll both die.”
Satisfied, Tal released Declan’s
arm and smiled. “Okay.”
Declan blinked, cast a quick look
at his grandfather, and shrugged. “Oh its that easy, is it? You get what you
want and I get to face a horrific nightmare that eats people and devours their
souls.”
Aloysius removed a long, silver
key from a chain around his neck and handed it to Declan. “This should get you
in, lad. We’ll be able to see you on the screens from the vestibule here.”
Along the far wall was a bank of
monitors. In the centre screen was a catalogue of books that had been…
warped
. A dark, swirling vortex of inky
blackness rippled through the books. It was a hole in reality, a step into the
Void.
“No farewell kiss?”
Tal licked her lips. “You’ll get one
when you come back in one piece, Hale.”