Swords & Dark Magic: The New Sword and Sorcery

As Laszlo’s senses adjusted to the place, more and more details leapt out at him. It really was a jungle, a tangled forest of shelves and drawers and columns and railed balconies, as though the Living Library had somehow reached out across time and space, and raided other buildings for components that suited its whims. Dark galleries branched off like caves, baroque structures grew out of the mists and shadows, a sort of cancer-architecture that had no business standing upright. Yet it did, under gray clouds that occasionally pulsed with faint eldritch light. The cool air was ripe with the thousand odors of old books and preservatives, and other things—hot metal, musty earth, wet fur, old blood. Ever so faint, ever so unnerving.

The two Librarians pulled a pair of small lanterns from a locker beside the gate, and tossed them into the air after muttering brief incantations. The lanterns glowed a soft red, and hovered unobtrusively just above the party.

“Ground rules,” said Astriza. “Nothing in here is friendly. If any sort of something should try any sort of anything, defend yourself and your classmates. However, you must avoid damaging the books.”

“I can only wonder,” said Lev, “does the library not realize that we are returning books to their proper places? Should that not buy us some measure of safety?”

“We believe it understands what we’re doing, on some level,” said Molnar. “And we’re quite certain that, regardless of what it understands, it simply can’t help itself. Now, let’s start with your book, Aspirant D’Courin. Hand me the notes.”

Molnar and Astriza read the notes, muttering together, while the aspirants kept an uneasy lookout. After a few moments, Molnar raised his hand and sketched an ideogram of red light in the air. Strange sparks moved within the glowing lines, and the two Librarians studied these intently.

“Take heed, aspirants,” muttered Molnar, absorbed in his work. “This journey has been loosely planned, but only inside the library itself can the index enchantments give more precise and reliable…ah. Case in point. This book has moved itself.”

“Twenty-eight Manticore East,” said Astriza. “Border of the Chimaera stacks, near the Tree of Knives.”

“The tree’s gone,” said Molnar. “Vanished yesterday, could be anywhere.”

“Oh piss,” said Astriza. “I really hate hunting that thing.”

“Map,” said Molnar. Astriza dropped to one knee, presenting her back to Molnar. The Master Librarian knelt and unbuckled the heavy volume that she wore as a sort of backpack, and by the red light of the floating lanterns he skimmed the pages, nodding to himself. After a few moments, he resecured the book and rose to his feet.

“Yvette’s book,” he said, “isn’t actually a proper grimoire, it’s more of a philosophical treatise. Adrilankha’s Discourse on Necessary Thaumaturgical Irresponsibilities. However, it keeps some peculiar company, so we’ve got a long walk ahead of us. Be on your guard.”

They moved into the stacks in a column, with Astriza leading and Molnar guarding the rear. The red lanterns drifted along just above them. As they took their first steps into the actual shadows of the shelves, Laszlo bit back the urge to draw his sword and keep it waiting for whatever might be out there.

“What do you think of the place?” Casimir, walking just in front of Laszlo, was staring around as though in a pleasant dream, and he spoke softly.

“I’m going to kiss the floor wherever we get out. Yourself?”

“It’s marvelous. It’s everything I ever hoped it would be.”

“Interested in becoming a Librarian?” said Yvette.

“Oh no,” said Casimir. “Not that. But all this power…half-awake, just as Master Molnar said, flowing in currents without any conscious force behind it. It’s astonishing. Can’t you feel it?”

“I can,” said Yvette. “It scares the hell out of me.”

Laszlo could feel the power they spoke of, but only faintly, as a sort of icy tickle on the back of his neck. He knew he was a great deal less sensitive than Yvette or Casimir, and he wondered if experiencing the place through an intuition as heightened as theirs would help him check his fears, or make him soil his trousers.

Through the dark aisles they walked, eyes wide and searching, between the high walls of book spines. Tendrils of mist curled around Laszlo’s feet, and from time to time he heard sounds in the distance—faint echoes of movement, of rustling pages, of soft, sighing winds. Astriza turned right, then right again, choosing new directions at aisle junctions according to the unknowable spells she and Molnar had cast earlier. Half an hour passed uneasily, and it seemed to Laszlo that they should have doubled back on their own trail several times, but they were undeniably pressing steadily onward into deeper, stranger territory.

“Laszlo,” muttered Casimir.

“What?”

“Just tell me what you want, quit poking me.”

“I haven’t touched you.”