The blades continued to whir.
Nemeniah held up a hand. “Peace, Baya. Commander Faralan has authorized us to show them whatever they wish. Including the Vault of Correction.”
“Oh!” Baya’s blades snicked back into their hidden slots, her orbits slowing their frenetic pace. “In that case, Malchion and Nemeniah can show you the way.” A pause, then in more hopeful tones: “You’re sure I can’t interest you in a forgotten language? Or perhaps the funerary rites of the strix in their native Arcadia?”
Salim had no idea what a strix was. “Perhaps later.”
“I hope so. The library can be a dangerous place for mortals, and the Vault …” With a sigh, Baya floated to one side, and the curtain directly behind the desk followed her, drawn back by invisible hands.
“Knowledge is always dangerous,” Salim said. “We’ll be careful.” He looked to Nemeniah and Malchion. “After you.”
The party moved through the curtain, Nemeniah leading and Malchion following. The room beyond was filled with row upon row of desks like Baya’s. At each sat a single figure—some classic angels or archons similar to Nemeniah and Malchion, others with stranger forms. Of the latter, the most common were shaped like beautiful winged women from the waist up and giant snakes below, their serpentine tails coiled beneath the wooden desks. Every surface was piled high with scrolls, folios, and stacks of loose paper, the room’s occupants intently reading or copying their contents. A few glanced up at the new arrivals, but most ignored them.
“Archiving the knowledge of Heaven is no small task,” Nemeniah said as they passed through the ranks. Though the room’s far wall was only thirty or so desks away from where they had entered, to left and right the rows stretched on into seeming eternity, the tiny seated figures dwindling out of sight. Magic? Or simply another instance of Heaven’s malleable distance?
They passed gratefully through another arch and into a chamber that, while huge, was at least finite in its dimensions. This one was long and tall—the nave of a vast cathedral, with high stained-glass windows spilling tinted light across the empty space where pews would normally stand. Unlike a standard cathedral, however, this one didn’t have a single pulpit or altar, but rather dozens spaced equidistantly around the great room. On each, someone was singing—sometimes a single angel, sometimes an entire choir of them, attended by audiences of appreciative angels and mortal souls.
The result should have been a cacophony, yet from where Salim walked down the middle of the cathedral—a path clearly delineated by a deep purple runner—the voices were no more than a faint buzz.
Experimentally, he stepped sideways off the rug. Immediately, the medley of voices quieted, replaced by that of the nearest performer. He was a thin man—a mortal soul, glowing and transparent—with a bald head and long beard. The song he sang was in a language Salim didn’t recognize, filled with strange resonances and ululations, yet his deep bass was so smooth and euphoric that Salim felt his spirits lift in spite of himself.
A hand touched his shoulder—Nemeniah. Salim realized that he’d stopped, and that the rest of the group was looking at him.
“The Song Halls are a glory unto the highest,” she said. “A favorite of mine as well. Yet where we’re going, it’s vital that you stay on the paths. Not everywhere within the Library is this pleasant.”
“Right. Sorry.” Salim moved back onto the carpet, the man’s song fading behind him.
Near the middle of the cathedral, they hit a junction and turned, passing through several small square chambers, each blank stone with archways in all four walls. Salim counted their turns—right, then right, then right again—yet while his mental map said they should be emerging into the Song Halls once more, he found himself in a new chamber.
Instead of a church, this seemed to be a palace ballroom. While a few angels sat in chairs along the walls, addressing small audiences, the vast majority of the creatures simply mingled and chatted, small groups knotting and then disbanding.
“Almost,” Nemeniah said. “Oral traditions are just as important as books and scrolls, and the Library keeps them in the form they were intended.”
Then they were through the crowd and into a chamber with yet more rows of desks. Beneath their feet, the floor was covered in a carpet of deep green moss. The air hung thick with incense, and each desk bore its own burner and a pile of sticks. Rather than reading, the angels at each table were bent low over their open documents, eyes closed and hands clasped in an attitude of prayer, filling the air with muttered chants.
“Blessing new additions to the collection?” Salim ventured.
“Verifying,” Nemeniah said. “Most of the books the collections take in start out suspect, the work of mortals or other unreliable sources. The Veracity Choir uses magic to determine the truth of questionable passages. If their own abilities fall short, they consult the deities directly.”
“They ask the gods?” Even given Salim’s refusal to place any deity on a pedestal, the idea of petitioning such a powerful being over a book was ridiculous. “And the gods answer?”
“Of course.” Nemeniah looked surprised. “Why wouldn’t they? We’re doing their work.”
Salim’s stomach clenched with the old familiar anger. He wanted to explain to the angel that most people who tried to talk to the gods never got a response—that, in fact, children starved and believers died on the rack without ever hearing a word from their supposed saviors. The idea of a god settling quibbles between scholars while his mortal worshipers lived in squalor or disemboweled each other over splits in doctrine made him physically ill. Yet all he said was, “Your library is significantly different from those I’m used to.”
Nemeniah stopped before a door—one of the first they’d seen inside the building, made of dark metal etched to resemble wood. She smiled. “Oh, we’re only beginning.”
Then she opened the door.
They stood on a narrow balcony. Salim immediately registered the waist-high railing around the edge as the type that wasn’t high enough to actually save you if you tripped, only ensure that you tumbled ass-over-teakettle as you fell.
Beyond that railing lay a chamber so vast that the only visible wall was the one they’d just emerged from. Behind them, that flat plane of gray stone stretched out in every direction, disappearing into darkness save for those scattered points where identical balconies thrust forth, illuminated by faint, sourceless glows. Ahead was only a vast black nothing, with no way to tell how far it extended out, or up or down. And in that space …
Bookshelves. Thousands upon thousands of bookshelves, of every size and shape. They floated unsupported in the air, each disconnected from the others and seeming to bob slightly in an unseen current. Most were wooden, though Salim saw a few more impressive ones carved from stone. Each was lit with a small, glowing lantern that hung out over its face like the deep-sea fish that Aziri sailors sometimes pulled up in their nets. Farther out, the darkness swallowed the cases, leaving only the lanterns to indicate their presence.
A dark sea studded with stars, ready to pull Salim down into its embrace.
“Welcome to the Stacks,” Nemeniah said.
As they watched, lights moved out in the night—angels bearing lanterns or glowing with their own inner radiance, swooping and diving between the various shelves.
“It’s beautiful,” Salim said honestly.
“It’s absurd.”
The group turned to stare at Roshad. The little man crossed his arms. “So it floats—big deal. That doesn’t make it useful. How are you supposed to find anything out there?”
Nemeniah’s chuckle sounded forced. “A fair point. And this is just one of the collections—the Great Library’s holdings are uncountable, and growing every day. Yet there is still a system: subjects grouped together, vast catalogs and magical research assistants. There are angels who spend eternity among the shelves, learning their webs of information and guiding others to what they need.” She shot Salim a smug look. “But the best way to find what you need is through faith.”
Roshad scoffed, but Salim understood. “She means literally, Roshad.”
The angel nodded. “Just as the Verifiers use prayer to determine the truth of works, divine magic guides the Librarians and helps them locate the works they need.”
For a moment, Salim wondered if she was baiting him, intentionally showing off how angels squandered the gods’ attention while mortals went without. But no—as far as the angels were concerned, Salim was a priest of Pharasma, as pious in his own way as they were. It would never occur to them that someone might chafe under that yoke.
Besides, the angels didn’t need to bait him. Heaven took care of that on its own.
“So the information we need is in here somewhere?” he asked.
“Not quite,” Nemeniah said. She and Malchion held out their arms.
It took the Iridian Fold men a moment to get the point. Once they did, Roshad barked a laugh. The two men took long, pointed steps back toward the wall.
Salim knew how they felt, but he wasn’t about to show weakness in front of the angels. “Come on,” he said, and moved forward into Nemeniah’s embrace.
It was strange being close to a female body so much larger than his own. She had none of the smells of a human woman—no sweat or cloth or old food, nor even perfume. She turned him out so that they were looking the same direction, his back pressed to her stomach, and wrapped him firmly around the chest with arms as tight and secure as leather straps.
Next to them, Malchion took Bors and Roshad under one arm each, letting their chain run around his back beneath his wings and hoisting the two men like piglets brought to market. Roshad muttered as much, but Bors seemed amused.
Then Nemeniah stepped forward over the railing, and they were falling.
Not flying—falling. Neither of the angels bothered to open their wings. Instead, they fell headfirst down the shaft of the great well, bookcases streaking past them, with only the smallest twists of the angels’ limbs keeping them from slamming into one of the floating stacks. The wind of their passage tugged tears from Salim’s eyes, and he fought to keep them open, despite every instinct in his body crying out for him to close them so he wouldn’t have to see the ground in the seconds before they hit.
With simultaneous cracks like sailcloth catching wind, the angels’ wings opened. Salim’s innards jerked downward again as their freefall dive became a swoop, their descent shallowing out. As the animal terror of weightlessness subsided, Salim realized that Nemeniah and Malchion were singing, their voices chasing each other over and under the melody in a game of musical cat-and-mouse.
Angels. Salim shook his head and concentrated on not vomiting.
Time seemed to stretch in that dark field, yet soon enough the void beneath them began to move, seeming to ripple in a flat plane.
Water. They skimmed low over the lake, and Salim realized that the seeming eternity of lights was in fact an illusion, the still waters reflecting the artificial stars above. As they flew, the water began to lighten, its depths glowing with points of blue-green radiance.
There were bookshelves here, too, floating on the surface on narrow pontoons, bobbing slightly in the wake of the party’s passage.
“Isn’t that dangerous?” Salim asked. “Keeping the books so near the water?”
Nemeniah laughed. “Just wait.”
Ahead, a structure resolved—a floating platform made of wood. Here the angels alighted, setting the three mortals back on their feet. Salim forced himself to stand up straight, not moving while he regained his bearings. Roshad staggered about, still muttering curses and imprecation against “winged terrors.” Bors put a hand on his shoulder.
“This way.” Nemeniah gestured to a row of gondolas tied up along the dock’s edge. The boats were long and narrow, with curved prows at the bow and stern for hanging lanterns. One had its lanterns already lit.
“They look like they belong on the River Styx,” Salim noted.
Nemeniah’s brow furrowed. “Evil forever mocks the form of righteousness.”
And vice versa, Salim thought. He followed her onto the boat, its narrow hull rocking alarmingly.
“First wings, now boats,” Roshad groused. He placed one foot tentatively over the gunwale, only to have Bors pick him up and carry him the rest of the way, earning a squawk of reproach.
When everyone was aboard—the mortals seated, Malchion standing at the bow and Nemeniah at the stern—the boat began to move away from the dock, cutting smoothly across the rippled surface.
Roshad leaned over the side, his initial hesitation forgotten as he peered backward at the wake left by their silent passage. “Everything here is enchanted.”
“Angels aren’t above creature comforts,” Salim said. “Deprivation is reserved for those who haven’t proved themselves yet—isn’t that right, Nemeniah?”
The angel flashed a radiant but not altogether pleasant smile. “Breathe deep.”
“What—” Roshad began.
Water crashed over the bow, rushing backward in a wall as the gondola tipped up at the stern and thrust its nose down into the pool’s surface. Salim reflexively tried to leap sideways out of the sinking vessel, but found himself unable to rise from the gondola’s bench, pinned there by some unknown force. There was only the briefest moment to remember Nemeniah’s warning and suck in as much air as he could. Then the water was over him, surrounding him, flooding his nostrils and stinging his eyes.
The boat dove. Above, the surface glimmered with refracted light, a ceiling of sapphires. Still glued to the bench, Salim thrashed, feeling the breath already clawing at his throat. Behind him, Bors and Roshad displayed the same wide-eyed panic, cheeks bulging. Desperate to escape, Roshad pointed at the deck between him and Salim and shouted something, expending his precious air. A blast of flame leapt from his fingertips and crashed against the wood—and just as swiftly was extinguished, swallowed up in a blinding cloud of bubbles and a wave of heated water. When the bubbles cleared, Salim saw Bors with Roshad’s face in his hands, the veil torn aside. Ignoring the smaller man’s flailing blows, Bors pressed their lips together, breathing out, forcing Roshad to accept the bubbling gift of the warrior’s last breath.
Over the top of this scene, Salim caught sight of Nemeniah’s face. Unconcerned with their submersion, the angel watched this final, selfless display of love with a little half-smile.
Of course. Angels didn’t need to breathe—they were creatures of pure spirit. Yet they had to know that the mortals would die without air. Had this all been some elaborate setup? But if the angels had wanted to kill them, they could have done so at any point. Why lead them down into the depths of the Great Library just to …
Oh.
Faith.
Closing his eyes, Salim breathed out.
Water surged in to replace the lost air, snaking down his throat like a spear of ice, settling in his lungs. His body gave a single convulsive cough as his lungs accepted the weight of their new occupant—and then it was as if things had never been any other way. His chest moved in and out as easily as before, only now there were no bubbles.
He opened his eyes. Both Bors and Roshad were making gasping motions, every reflex screaming that they needed to replace that water with air immediately. Yet both were still alive.
“It’s okay.” Salim’s words were muted, the sound strangely rounded by the water. “It’s more magic.”
“You bastards!” Roshad stood and spun to face Nemeniah, the magic of the boat now allowing him to rise from his seat, but still keeping him from floating free. “You think this is funny?”
“Not at all,” Nemeniah said. “I think it’s beautiful. A baptism is an important occasion, and you acquitted yourselves well.”
“Baptism?” The sorcerer’s eyes bulged. He realized that his veil was hanging askew and yanked it back into place. “We didn’t ask to join your godsdamned religion.”
Nemeniah smiled. “I assure you, our faith is anything but. But that’s not what this was about. No one gets into the Vault of Correction without passing through the Font.”
“So this is some sort of security measure,” Salim said.
Nemeniah inclined her head. “More of a test of character. The enchantments on the gondola which allow you to breathe wouldn’t function for someone with evil in their heart, and the water itself has been blessed—a fundamentally evil being like a demon or devil would be instantly consumed, as would anything undead.”
Salim had seen what a single flask of holy water could do to a ghoul or demon, burning it like acid. A whole lake of it … “That’s quite a moat.”
“You ask to see things kept locked away from even most angels,” Nemeniah said. “This is a mere formality compared to the Vault’s more powerful guardians.”
Roshad was still standing, fists balled at his side. “And if your boat had judged us unworthy,” he said slowly, “you would have stood there and watched us drown.”
“Of course not.” Nemeniah touched the shining warhammer strapped across her back. “If the gondola had found you evil, I would have slain you myself. And then I would have reported myself and Malchion to Commander Faralan for failing to identify the threat sooner.”
Roshad raised a fist, one finger extended, but Salim stopped him with a touch. “They’re only doing their job, Roshad.”
For a second, Roshad didn’t move. Then, with deliberate care, he turned his back on the angel and sat once more, taking Bors’s hand.
The boat continued downward at a steep angle, the water coursing past them. Now that he wasn’t distracted by drowning, Salim was surprised to discover that the library stacks continued beneath the surface as well. The shelves here weren’t made of wood or stone, but rather grown from great pieces of coral, or the shells of unlikely mollusks. They floated with neutral buoyancy in the water, lit by schools of tiny fish that darted around them in flickering dances. Larger creatures moved among them as well—enormous fish and eels, one of whom seemed to have a pair of spectacles perched on its nose. Humanoid figures kicked and dove in the aquamarine stretches between the shelves, and something with tentacles retreated behind a shelf as their gondola cruised past.
“Doesn’t the water ruin the books?” Salim asked.
“Only books crafted on land,” Nemeniah replied. “There are as many aquatic cultures as terrestrial ones, and we store their knowledge as well, be it on whaleskin scrolls or in shells that whisper their secrets.”
Salim hadn’t really considered that angle, and now felt foolish for not having done so sooner. He was promptly distracted, however, by a huge shape that slid out from between two shelves, directly into the gondola’s path.
The woman seemed drawn in black and white, the pigmentation swirling across her body in liquid shapes, leaving most of her front white and her back black. Even her flowing hair was two-tone, yet this was the least of her distinguishing characteristics, for from the waist down she elongated and stretched into a flat, whalelike tail. She kicked once, and the powerful flukes sent her corkscrewing up and around the boat, giving her a look at the newcomers from all sides. As she swept past, her eyes met Salim’s, and he was struck by the incredible weight and wisdom there, a sense of presence that dwarfed even her massive body. Then she kicked once more and was gone.
“Fire and dust,” Roshad swore. “What was that?”
“A cetaceal agathion,” Nemeniah said mildly. “One of the guardians of the celestial seas.”
“That’s an angel?” Roshad shook himself. “When she looked at me, I felt like she could have read my mind and snapped it with a thought.”
“As well she could have,” Malchion said sternly. “As Nemeniah said, you have yet to see the least of Heaven’s defenses.”
“He makes a good point, though,” Salim noted. “Agathions aren’t angels, or even native to Heaven—they’re the guardians of Nirvana and the philosopher spirits. So what’s one doing here?”
Malchion turned an irritated look on Salim. “The power of knowledge is universal. The agathions may not recognize Heaven’s dominion, but their hearts are still pure, and they have much to offer as scholars. Despite what you may think about us, we’re not above sharing and working together.” His frown deepened. “With those worthy of it.”
“How positively heartwarming,” Salim said.
Roshad’s finger shot out, pointing past the bow of the boat. “What’s that?”
Ahead, an upright ring of gray stone hung perfectly still in the water. Inside it, the calm water disappeared, replaced by an ominous red glow that roiled in a vertical sheet. A swarm of tiny jellyfish, their translucent bodies catching the light and turning blood red against the prevailing turquoise of their surroundings, pulsed away from it as the boat approached.
“The entrance to the Vault of Correction,” Nemeniah said. “One of the secret hearts of the library.”
“It looks more like a doorway to Hell,” Roshad observed.
“A reminder that knowledge can corrupt as easily as it can elevate.”
Salim turned to Malchion. “So this is where they keep the dangerous bits. The sort of information your superiors don’t even trust most angels with.” Before them, the ring began to expand outward, its emberred maw reaching for the boat. “What does that lack of faith say about them?”
Malchion only smiled. “Perhaps someday you’ll understand. Welcome to the Burn Room.”
Then the light swept out and gathered them in.