The Library of the Unwritten - A. J_ Hackwith Page 0,47
my partners slightly less hirsute.”
“Like your pretty lad, there?” Bjorn gestured to Hero, who had his back to them. He was allowing Brevity to fiddle with the straps on his armor. He had abandoned the jacket and waistcoat for fine-scale mail that hung lightly on his chest and gleamed the same burnished bronze as his hair.
Claire turned back. “I also prefer my partners slightly less fictional. He’s a character. A book.”
“Looks real enough for me. But then there’s no accounting for taste.” Bjorn was in no hurry to turn his appreciative gaze away. Claire didn’t have time for the antics of a lecherous old bard. She located the notebook in her bag and pulled it out. She had begun making notations when Bjorn cleared his throat.
“No books in the ring.”
“I beg your pardon? I’m a librarian. You asked for a story, and this is where I keep my stories. I’ll carry your silly staff, but I’m keeping my notes.”
“That’s not how stories work here, lass. You’re not in your library anymore—here, the word is your voice. And your voice is your tale.” Bjorn flashed a grin. “The spoken word was the first kind of library, after all.”
Oral storytelling. She should have expected as much. It was awkward, dated, and entirely unreliable. Messy in every way she couldn’t stand. Unreliable narrators, the lot of them. In her opinion, there was a reason humanity had invented the written word, and that reason was progress. Claire ground her teeth. “That is a loose interpretation.”
“Is it?” Bjorn mildly met her glare. “Once, people memorized books’ worth of spoken words, songs, and sagas that contained all their history, traditions, stories, survival. The Arrernte called it their Dreaming.”
Bjorn knew his stuff. Claire was forced to remember that, for all his wild appearance, he was a former librarian. And had a longer tenure than her. She ceded the point. “I’m not a storyteller.”
“Then you can go back to your library.” Bjorn shrugged.
The crowd was increasing. Someone had procured a war horn, and its bleat was seeding a headache. Claire tossed the book on top of her bag in a huff. “You’re crude.”
“And you rely too much on those bits of paper. This is how it all started, you know.” Bjorn handed Claire a mug of a dark frothy liquid. When she bent her head, she caught a vague whiff of fire and chocolate. “Drink up.”
Up close, the smell nettled her nose with iron and honey. “What is this?”
“Mead of poetry,” Bjorn said a touch too lightly.
Claire searched her memory of half-remembered myths. Nothing in Valhalla’s stories was as simple as mead, and this place seemed exaggerated past even the original myths. “This isn’t . . . Kvasir’s blood?” The Norse had a tale about the mead of poetry. Blood extracted from a keen, all-knowing, and thoroughly murdered god. She gave it a repulsed look before taking a tentative sip. She could feel the magic begin to seep into her tongue. It tasted like bitter chocolate. “If I recall the lore right, a simple vial of this is adequate.”
“But then ye don’t have an excuse to drink.” Bjorn downed his portion in one gulp and wiped his beard. “No books, just a saga, a staff, and a swig. I’ll make a Norseman of you by the end of this, Librarian.”
“Just try not to fall on your head when I beat you.” Claire finished her mug and handed it back to him. “I still need answers.”
Bjorn’s laughter was as warm as their drink as he led the way into the arena.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
BJORN ABANDONED CLAIRE AND Hero in the middle of the ring and disappeared to fetch Hero’s opponent. The tables and stands were already filling up with curious faces. Word of their spectacle had spread, and Valhalla’s residents were always ready for a fight. The arena bubbled with spilled mead and a lazy kind of bloodlust.
Claire ran her gaze over the crowd, locating Hell’s contingent at the table nearest the ring, easy enough to pick out by Brevity’s seafoam green hair. Brevity stood on the bench in order to throw Claire an exuberant thumbs-up sign. At least one of them was confident about their chances.
Claire’s toe found a divot in the packed dirt. She glanced at Hero. “You’re quite prepared, then?”
“I’ll do my heroic best not to embarrass you, warden.” Hero’s voice was dry. He shifted on the balls of his feet and didn’t move his gaze from where Bjorn had disappeared. “I’d see more