The Archive of the Forgotten (Hell's Library #2) - A. J. Hackwith Page 0,48
it was a riot of color. Fluid, flat scenes flowed across the wall of the hall they were in. Countless iterations of men fighting men, men fighting monsters. He even caught a glimpse of lionlike beasts that reminded him of the feline Fury that shadowed Hero.
For all Pallas had claimed friendship, Rami hadn’t visited Elysium since, well, the time of Elysium. Other paradise realms never sat right with him. He always grew uncomfortable, as if there was an itch between his shoulder blades he couldn’t reach. He’d expected a tour; Iambe had just seemed the type to press the inherent superiority of her realm’s art. But as they progressed through the decorated halls, she became as quiet as her brother. The temple air gradually shifted to something heavy and somber, like a tide coming in. Rami caught Hero’s nervous glance. He, too, felt it, from the way his shoulders had tensed. But with the prowling shadow of Alecto at their backs, there was no recourse but to go forward.
“Not once,” Rami responded, quiet and tight. He knew of Elysium only as another paradise realm, despite his brief past visits. Heaven’s policy had been to avoid overtures of friendship with other realms. Uriel had run even the Gates under strict isolationism.
Hero replied with a grim nod that said he was similarly in the dark. Brevity had always been free with information on the other wings of the Library, and Rami had even sat in on some of the explanations she’d given Hero, since they were both new to aspects of the Library. But she had never mentioned this wing. Elysium was too close to another Greek domain—the muses. And it appeared even Hero had never had the heart to poke at that particular tender spot. That small amount of restraint softened the brittle edges of Hero, in Rami’s mind.
They followed Iambe and Pallas down a spiral of stairs into what appeared to be a grotto underneath the building. Bright paint and marble quickly melted into raw rock face and a faint drip of water. They cut across a hallway that jutted precariously over a cavern of shadows before coming to an archway that spanned over their heads.
There were no great doors, not like Hell’s Library. The threshold was marked by a gauzy shift of cloth. There was a spectral quality to it, moving with the unseen breezes that puffed and pulled from deeper inside. Iambe stopped just short of the arch with a disapproving air. She smirked at Hero and Ramiel before raising her hand and snapping her fingers twice.
From far away, deep past the veil, the staccato snap repeated itself.
“Really, sister. There’s no need to be rude,” Pallas muttered.
“Rude,” came a faint voice past the arch.
That brought a smile back to Pallas’s face. He brightened and pushed past Iambe. “It’s all right, Mother! Please let us in. We’ve brought visitors of the Library—from Hell’s Library.”
“Hell’s Library?” The words were repeated tone for tone, but somehow the voice managed to turn it into a question. Iambe rolled her eyes and looked as if she was prepared to say something, but a sharp gust of wind abruptly parted the veil of fabric. Pallas caught the edge and beckoned them inside.
Ramiel stepped past the arch and blinked. The space beyond had seemed another dark, gloomy cavern from the other side, but as they stepped through, a gentle light flooded his eyes. They were in what appeared to be a giant amphitheater made of stone. The walls were natural juts of slate, Corinthian, and swept up at a bowl-like angle. Green undergrowth, accented with tiny white flowers, only reached a meter up the walls before giving way to stark stone. Above them, a spider work of fine rocky tendrils, so thin it almost looked like bone, weaved a delicate trellis roof that held back the sky but allowed slants of light in. They created near-blinding spotlights of sunlight that hit long, strangely rustic towers of shelves and cast skeletal fingers of twilight.
“This is a library?” Ramiel breathed.
“Well.” Hero looked disconcerted, trying to cross his arms over his chest even as he stared wide-eyed at the delicate path of flowers wound between each stack and the next. “Obviously not a proper one.” The proud book of his first acquaintance would never have defended the Library. Rami turned his head to hide his amusement.
Pallas and Iambe, immune to the wonder, continued straight on inside and came to a stop