27. Kew and Frin Go to the Library and Avoid Getting Crumbs on Anything

27. Kew and Frin Go to the Library and Avoid Getting Crumbs on Anything

The sun awoke them. All the angles and curves of the corridor were altered in the morning light. Rich velvety colors streamed from the stained glass and turned the onyx into a dark mirror. The boys ate some bread and took the grand staircase up. It spiraled three times, but the steps were clean and unbroken. After toiling through the skin of the tower for days, it was easy. The stairs terminated in double doors of carved ebony, hung just slightly open.

Frin wanted to go right in, but Kew paused to look at the carvings. Each door showed Black Tower, with the mansions at its foot and the sun over its pinnacle. But in the center of the tower, something had been viciously hacked away and replaced with a gold eye. It was this that had caught Kew's attention.

The Willows' symbol was the eye, and like every other dynasty, they had forcibly replaced their predecessors, the Hemlocks. But it was one thing to know that, and another to see evidence of it gouged into the tower itself. Was there no transfer of power that did not involve destroying the old? It seemed now that everything he knew about the palace's history was the merest thread in a tapestry bigger than his mind could encompass.

The Hemlock Era had been a time of stasis. Apple Era had been a time of peace. The Thistle Era had been a time of wonder. The Bellflower Era had been a time of prosperity. And so on back to the Roses. Each era had its overriding virtue. What did Willow have? Did they do anything? If Hawthorn was correct, the palace had been crumbling since the fall of the Thistles, but two succeeding dynasties had attempted, in their own ways, to mitigate it.

He was on the verge of thinking sacrilege of the Willow Ladies, and he stopped himself. With the light still etched on his head, he could not risk adding that to the heap of memories. And besides, Frin was pulling on his sleeve.

The Library was dim and quiet. Smaller in diameter than the kitchens, but three times as tall, it filled yet another level. High windows all around opened on empty sky. The domed ceiling was painted in shades of grey and black, showing the deeds of some winged Lady whose name and story were unknown to the boys. The floor was filled with high bookcases, and all around the walls were tiers and tiers of books. Everything was coated in a layer of dust. At the far end was a pillared and manteled opening like a fireplace. That, presumably, was the Great Way. Frin was heading toward it when he realized Kew was not following.

The Guardian-apprentice was distracted by books . The Archives of Grey Tower would fit in one-quarter of one tier of the Library. Kew had never seen so many books, nor dreamed that they could exist. Volume after volume of poetry, history, songs, fables, botany, medicine. All the knowledge Hawthorn or the women could impart would hardly fill a shelf. He could stay here for days. Months. The rest of his life. And spend it on one bookcase.

In his pack he held nearly the sum total of the Guardians' wisdom. Faced with this wealth, he could hardly bear the poverty he had been raised with. There hadn't even been a way of knowing it was poverty until now. All at once he remembered: he did not have The Downfall of the Thistles . If he could find a copy here, though it would not have Hawthorn's notes, he would take it. They would never know. Nobody ever came here, clearly. And it would help against the Beast. Even if it did not help—and without Hawthorn's annotations, it might not—he would take it. He was owed it. How could the people of the tower hoard this? Why did these books never come as far as Grey? Did the other towers have as many? Grey Tower needed that book. But more important, Kew did. It was justice.

"Can I help you?"

Startled, the boys looked around. A person in a pink scholar's robe stood in the center of the floor. On their head they wore a flat, square, white hat, veiled in front with long strips of calligraphed paper. Their hands were simple flesh, but whatever could be glimpsed of their face was dark, thorny, and complex.

Kew took out some paper and wrote. I'm looking for The Downfall of the Thistles.

"I am Rook, Librarian of Black Tower." They bowed. Their paper veil rustled like tree boughs; how had the boys not heard them coming?

Kew bowed in return. I am Kew, Guardian-apprentice of the West Passage. This is Frin, an apprentice of the beekeepers.

Rook evinced no surprise or interest. "The Library sees few visitors these days. I have heard of your journey through the tower, and I know you did not come here for that book. I know your master. She has a copy; go home and read it. The Great Way welcomes you. Please have the goodness to move on."

I need that book .

"What use is Downfall to a boy?"

The last Thistle Lady defeated the Beast. The book tells of it, and my master died without completing my apprenticeship. I need all the information I can get.

"Hawthorn is dead? My condolences." Rook spread their arms. "The Library holds every book I know of—and I know of every book. Here you may find treatises on the Beast, bestiaries, songs and stories of Guardians who faced the same danger as you. Why is Downfall so important to you?"

Kew swallowed. Because he needed it, of course!

No. That was not the whole reason.

Because my master had a copy, and it was taken from her deathbed. Would the conversation go much longer? He was running out of paper.

Arms still outstretched, Rook moved a step closer to him. "Thank you for doing me the honor of telling the truth."

In the place where the Librarian had stood, there was a pool of light. A wandering trail led away from it into the shelves. Kew swallowed again.

What do you want?

"A book," they answered.

A specific book? He was almost out of paper. This had to end soon.

"No." He heard the smile in their voice. "But you carry two or three, do you not? Immense rarities, manuscripts from the very Archives of Grey Tower. I should like to have one."

In exchange for?

Frin could not see the light—indeed, did not even know there was light to see—but as the Librarian came closer his skin prickled, and a vibration filtered through the air around them, felt rather than heard.

"Access to the Library," said Rook. "Information is not free. Your master and I were friends after a fashion, but she understood the value of my time. I also wish to know more of what has happened in Grey over the years."

Kew's forehead stung. I can just tell you .

"Not good enough." Rook moved between the boys, with their back to Frin. A sweet, musty odor accompanied them, like the opening of an old room where incense has been kept. Light flickered in their path. Rook seemed to notice Kew watching it. "The lantern light is an ancient miracle of the Hellebores. It has its source here, in the tower. Some of us who are associated with it cannot help but absorb it over time. Very helpful, as it opens the mind, but very dangerous for the same reason, unless you can balance it. You have not. It is a powerful thing, but rare to begin with, and rarer now. Outside of a lantern, few people can even see it. I think you have come here by way of the Luminous Name."

As they spoke, their hand floated toward Kew's head, pausing just before it touched him. "Everything your master could have taught you resides here in a purer form. Let me give it to you in exchange for one book and a handful of memories."

A hand slipped into Kew's. Frin had moved around Rook and was by his side once more.

All right, said Kew.

Rook laid their hand on his forehead. Even Frin could see the light that spilled out then. Kew felt nothing except cool pressure.

"And the book?" said the Librarian.

Kew opened his pack. Rook sorted through the volumes inside and took out Campanula .

"Our copy is not nearly so beautifully illuminated," they said, one finger tracing the scrolling vines in its margins. "Thank you. For one hour, you have free use of the Library."

That's it?

Rook's posture showed surprise. "What did you expect?"

Kew was honestly unsure. But he had an hour with the books, and he needed to make use of it. Rook showed him where books concerning the Beast might be found, and he and Frin carried them all to a reading desk. Frin snacked while Kew read.

There was not much he did not already know. The Beast only appeared at long intervals—entire eras, in some cases. Only certain people could stop it. What gave him pause was learning that Guardians sometimes failed. At the end of the Bellflower Era, the Beast managed to kill the Lady of Grey. Hawthorn had never mentioned that. She taught him very little history, saying that was the tutors' domain, and the tutors were all dead. During Bellflower, there had been an entire corps of Guardians, so the others were able to stop the destruction, but Grey never recovered.

He had always attributed the desolation of Grey Tower to the mothers' mismanagement. They did, after all, care for nothing beyond birth and death and their songs. Kew's face grew hot. A Guardian had failed in her most sacred duty. And Hawthorn herself had failed him in a sense. It was not enough to get your name and title. You must also be worthy of it. All the reading in the palace would not help. It hadn't helped that Hawthorn long ago. It would not help Kew now.

He tossed that book aside and picked up another at random, flipping through it without really seeing anything until a word caught his eye. He looked at the cover. The Downfall of the Thistles .

Turning back to the third chapter, Kew read four paragraphs very carefully. He rapped on the table to get Rook's attention.

What's mellified man?