Page 55 of Tomb of Ancients
“A mark upon this one’s hand. The mark of a Binder,” it whispered.
“Yes. I—I met one of the Eight before, the one that binds souls.”
“Then this one has met Six. I am Seven.” It gradually eased away from me, and one of its arms dropped down on its sinew to fish the white book out of the bag. Then it looked back at me. “And what of the book inside this one? What is to be done?”
Wringing my hands, I looked up at Mother, who nodded gently. “You carry it, Louisa, it is yours to do with as you please. I would not be myself if I imposed my will.”
“But it’s part of you, too,” I said. “It’s the only reason they gave me Father’s soul, to keep the book of the Dark Fae from being lost.” Seven had grabbed the white book and begun flipping through it, one disembodied hand holding the spine while another floated down to flick the pages. I cleared my throat. “Malatriss said I should choose my requests carefully. So I am. I only want the white book to be destroyed, and then we should like very much to leave.”
Seven laughed at that, again reminding me of a drunk. It swayed as it laughed, bumping into several of its arms. “To leave. Yes, good. To leave. Then this one will have what sheasks, but only after I receive my due.”
Two boons. I had no doubt the cost would be steep, and I braced to hear it, thinking of the pile of crumbling bones in the corner.
“Balance or chaos, balance or chaos?” The Binder’s pale hand holding the dice began to shake them, and I gulped, but I had no idea which outcome to hope for. All of its other arms went still as the hand threw the dice, the two little squares landing directly in front of me, held aloft by some unseen force. They both landed to display tiny scale symbols. Balance.
“The white book is unwritten.” The hand paging through the book glided away, another, holding a black quill, took its place and began tracing over the words. As each illegible letter was written over, it vanished from the parchment. “Story becomes memory. Memory becomes rumor. Rumor becomes legend. Legend fades.”
It hurt, unexpectedly, to watch the book being undone. With each disappearing word, I thought of an Upworlder going with it. Their lives, their very essence, erased from the world. And I thought of Dalton, whom I had come to admire, and the sad longing in his voice when he’d insisted I destroy the book. “There will be no one left to blame when I’m gone.” Perhaps that wasn’t true. Perhaps there would be someone quite obvious to blame. Me.
Or Mr. Morningside, as it was at his request that I hadcome. My heart filled with regret and my eyes with tears. The choice could not be unmade, but I wondered if I might have been strong enough to live with Father’s influence, to run far, far away, up a mountain, to the depths of a desert, and find some way to quiet his voice. Now I would be left trusting the Devil in the world to remove the Devil inside, and all of his mistakes and his lies told me I had erred when I chose sides.
I peered into the darkness. Somewhere, an empty case waited, and soon it would hold the shepherd. Would another soon hold Father? Father, who was uncharacteristically passive while the white book was wiped clean. Perhaps, finally, I had done something to win his approval.
Seven closed its round black eyes, quiet and thoughtful, mouth slack as the Binder swayed back and forth. I glanced at Malatriss after minutes of this strange silence. Had the Binder... Had it gone to sleep?
“What happens now?” I asked, clearing my throat.
“The unbinding will take time, and the Binder must choose your sacrifices.”
Sacrifices. We had traveled the windy road from boon to favor tosacrifice. Not that I was unduly surprised—a wrong answer to a riddle lost a finger. This was not a place of light conversation and idle threats.
“Sacrifices?” Mother asked. She apparently shared my unease.
Malatriss moved across the single pool of light remaining in the tomb, reaching out to touch my cheek. I recoiled and she chuckled.
“What do you think the Binder uses to make the books? Air and wishes? Nochtli the Thorned provided the leather for your book, though it may now reside in living flesh.” Malatriss took great pleasure in my horrified look, that much was obvious. Her chuckle drew out into a laugh, and she regarded her pet snake with a tilt of her head, chucking the thing under its head. “She found the gate at the mouth of three rivers and brought her pretty bird inside. Willing, wise, she tasted death in disease, but a shaman cured her before she went to the true night. Nochtli brought her pretty bird inside the tomb, and when the Binder commanded she kill it, she refused.”
“Barbaric,” I whispered. “Why the bird? What could it possibly have done?”
The Binder continued its work and its contemplation.
Malatriss glanced up from the snake, sneering. “It was a truly awful bird. I could tell it didn’t like Nira.”
I stoppered the ugly things I wanted to say about that—if the doorkeeper could look into a heart and divine its willingness, perhaps she could also sense my dislike for her pet.
The Binder worked faster now, pages flying, the words disappearing so quickly the quill seemed only a blur. We waited for Seven to make its decision, and each passing moment filledme with greater anxiety. My palms were slick with sweat. I could hardly bear to stand still, knowing some impossible pronouncement was soon to be made. I scrubbed my face with both hands and sighed, wanting the whole ordeal to be over at last, wanting to at least know what I must do to escape the Tomb of Ancients.
“All of this over a silly book,” I said.
Malatriss jerked her head up at that, scowling. “The Binders make the world, the Binders make the books, the books make the gods.”
“Would that not make the Binders the gods?” I murmured. Mother brushed my hand. She was right, I was pressing this creature too hard and being foolish in my frustration and impatience.
“No, it makes them Binders, and it makes you all but insignificant.”
Seven woke up. Its fathomless black eyes gazed down at us, glassy and momentarily unseeing. Then it seemed to find us,seeus, and I took Mother’s hand once more. She leaned her head toward mine, her soft pink hair touching my shoulder.
“Do not forget,” she told me. “Courage.”
