Unwritten, page 4
Beatrix hesitated. What did she mean? But Emma was sobbing once more.
“I’ll try,” Beatrix told her. How hard could it be to find an author in the age of the intrusive, no-privacy internet?
“Promise?” the girl insisted in between sniffs.
“I promise.”
Emma let out a sigh. Huge tears streamed down her chin, spotting her blouse.
“Would you like some water?” Beatrix offered, because that’s Grandpa would have done.
Emma sniffed one last time, wiping the sadness off as if the tissue were a magic eraser. “My writer insists there’s nothing a cup of tea cannot make better. If you ring the bell, I’ll pour.”
4
EVENZAAR
“What kind of civilized household doesn’t have proper teacups?” Emma wrinkled her nose, eyeing the cat-shaped mug in her hand.
Beatrix was about to tell her to count herself happy any tea existed in the house, when the cup backflipped and crashed against the wall. All three panes of the bow window burst as a tree-sized funnel swept through the bedroom, thrusting Beatrix to a corner along with a rope of twisted clothes from the closet.
“What the hell!” Beatrix screamed as her head bumped the wall.
Once again, pictures and books fell. Drywall dust swirled, and her shoebox of memories toppled, pouring old family photographs, two opaque paperweights that had belonged to Mom, her great-grandmother’s mantilla, and a white feather from a bird Beatrix had tried to bury in the yard.
The turning accelerated and the room tilted, until, as if someone had pressed Stop on a remote, the rotating column of air died down. At once, all floating objects collapsed, and the quiet revealed a robed figure with a four-foot-long beard and a headdress that tempted gravity. It resembled a spiraling tower ending in a red tassel.
“Good evening, Evenzaar,” Emma said with such poise that even the Queen of England would have been impressed. She moved forward with care, treading over the new wreckage without crushing anything breakable.
Beatrix straightened up. In the back of her mind, forgotten alerts began flashing. The whispers went berserk with warnings.
Things were getting alarming. First the girl and now this odd figure. It was as if her bedroom had been opened up to one and all. That stopped her short, and she shot a look at the characters on her walls. Thank you for deactivating the wards, Emma had said. This was a problem. If Beatrix had undone some kind of protection, she’d need to restore it. Grandpa had never mentioned it, and the pictures had been there before he’d arrived. Which meant…
“Good evening,” the robed man said.
Beatrix focused on him. “Who are you? Why are you here?”
Stepping over the toppled curtain rod, he steepled his fingers. “I’m Evenzaar, the Librarian and ruler of the Zweeshen. I’ve been eager to make your acquaintance, Beatrix. As for the why, it’s obvious, isn’t it? I’ve come to help. Messy little room you have here, ladies.” He stood the lamp on the nightstand and lifted a paper clip. “Mind if I keep this? I imagine myself a bit of a collector. Own the biggest odd-object assortment in the whole Zweeshen.” Something slimy dragged after his words, showing in the way he took note of everything, cataloging each item as if for use later on.
“What’s the Zweeshen?” Beatrix surveyed him, from the black robe adorned with purple threads to the long beard and the elaborate hat. She hadn’t missed that he’d known her name—which was creepy. Having read enough fantasy books, she knew magical didn’t always mean good.
Oh, no! He’d just taken an object of hers too. She could beat herself for that. Wasn’t there some rule about it? He might now have power over her or something. “You still haven’t explained what you’re doing in my bedroom.”
Evenzaar gave her a dismissive wave. “Yes, yes. This is nice and all. Great to meet, blah, blah, blah. We all love the intro part. I’m afraid there’s little time for chitchat now. We’ll get to know each other once you’re safe.”
“But I haven’t found my author yet.” Emma’s mouth puckered into a pout.
“A sad business, that,” the Librarian said. “It cannot be helped.”
“That’s not fair!” Emma shouted. “I came here to find my artisan, and I will not leave before I do. I won’t. I won’t,” she ended in a tone that suggested she’d stomp her foot next.
“Oh, dear,” the Librarian said. “Such an unfortunate penchant for melodrama.”
Beatrix observed from one to the other while the whispers’ warnings resounded inside her head. “Hold it. Both of you! Tell me why you’re here. And about this place you come from. This, this Zweeesshen.” Either they clarified things, or she was going to have to take measures. Extreme ones. The monster inside her jumped, excited at the idea.
Evenzaar aimed his gaunt face at Beatrix, narrowing his eyes. “We need to go. That’s all that matters. You should have been guilded and bound years ago. Your Inaechar, your very lifeblood, is running out. I can see it from here. A shame we couldn’t find you until now. Danger grows the longer you spend away from your book.”
The headache that had been gnawing at the edges pushed down on Beatrix with full force. “What kind of danger? Which book?”
“Your story, naturally. Your biblioworld.” He paused, his chin quivering. “Why, didn’t Emma tell you? You’re a taelimn, Beatrix. It’s time to go home.” The Librarian clucked. “Dear, dear, I’ve always wanted to say that. So classic.”
Beatrix refused to be sidetracked. This was too important to let it go. “I’m already home. What’s a taelimn?”
“What’s a taelimn? Oh, my! Such ignorance stabs the soul!” The Librarian wiped his brow and, faking a summons of patience through a theatrical sigh, recited his answer in a rehearsed way that betrayed the many times he’d done it before. “Taelimns are a miracle. Taelimns are a mystery. We’re the ones who teach humankind how to live. How to see through eyes not their own and learn from fates so foreign they touch their souls. We’re the truth of what’s told, and sung, and remembered. Some call us storyfolk, or papersouls, the inked, or the carved. We’re born of the word and are the stuff of legend, of fairy tales and adventures, of stories laced with love and horror. We are none other than the Written. And you, Beatrix, you’re one of us.
“Didn’t you ever wonder why stories have such a hold on you? Why you miss the people in them after the last page? Did you ask yourself why some books feel so close? Why you mourn and cry and laugh as if what happened in them were real? More real than the rest of life itself? It’s because it is. We are.”
Beatrix watched him with a wrinkled brow. “Taelimns are characters?”
The Librarian drew in a breath. “A bit pedestrian, don’t you think? To boil down my beautiful explanation to that?”
“You can call us characters if you must,” Emma said with a shrug. “But many taelimns consider that name an insult. They believe it steals the ‘richness and nuance’ from our reality. And wordsfolk are proud. I wouldn’t go around upsetting them.”
“How can I be a character and—?” Beatrix began.
“Not now,” the Librarian said. “We can’t delay. You will be dead soon if we don’t take you away. In your state, the Zweeshen is the best place for you.”
“I still don’t understand why—”
Evenzaar didn’t let Beatrix finish before an ornate staff materialized in his grasp. He mumbled, tapping on the floor. By the area where her window used to be, a whirling wind appeared again. This time, it wasn’t a regular tornado, rather an eight-foot-tall cyclone of pages that rotated around an invisible axis, accordion-like, as if the covers of a book had been pressed together, the arched pages left to revolve untethered.
“Step closer to the pageturner,” the Librarian said. “Both of you.” When he marched to stand before the revolving pages, the breeze from their flapping messed with his beard and hat. He pulled an object from his robe. As the light hit the gem, it flashed red.
The pages ceased to swirl and settled on one. It was blank but for a circle of intertwined vines printed halfway up. The Librarian held out the gem to the vines, and the inky branches grew out of the paper to capture it. Like organic fingers, they gripped the jewel and receded back with it to the heart of the page. The gem blinked, and the ring of vines began to shift, expanding to shape an oval opening with a center of ochre fog.
“There we are,” the Librarian said. “Go on, Emma. You know you have no choice.”
With a sigh, Emma approached the pageturner. “See you soon, Beatrix,” the girl said, her shoulders slumped, before stepping through and into the fog.
“You’re next.” Evenzaar waved, urging Beatrix forward. “Come along.”
Beatrix pulled away from him. He had to be kidding. Did he really expect her to just follow him? Without knowing where, for what, and whether she would get to come back? Granted, the idea of a world of stories tempted her to her toes, the thought pumping excitement through her. The whispers—the regulars who always followed her—were joined by the many other book-voices in the room. They spoke all at the same time, in such a cacophony only their elation came through. A world of stories. It was tempting. But also unsettling. A thread of unease mingled with the curiosity and the desire to ignore caution and go for it. “I’d like to know—”
From the shadows, a voice shot out, each vowel a poisonous dart. “Where do you think you’re going, Evenzaar?”
The Librarian spun around, his hat rocking from the sudden movement. A figure stood in the opposite corner, enveloped in shadows.
“It has been a while, Threshborne,” Evenzaar said. “This is none of your business.”
“On the contrary. Her family called on me. I’ve made an oath.” Walking out of the dark, the newcomer pointed to Beatrix. “She’ll come with me.”
“You!” Beatrix recognized the jerk who’d flung her book at her that morning.
“I’m William Threshborne.” With his full attention on her, his stare unsettled her, as if he were able to pull her skin back and look at her innards.
The Furie stirred, and Beatrix’s irritation grew. Ember-red anger crawled along her arms. This was all monster. All frustration and raw power. The events of the day weighed on her, but instead of dragging her down, they ignited her. This guy’s presence was one weird occurrence too many. “I don’t care about your name. I want to know why all of you are here. Are there more people coming?”
“Young lady,” Evenzaar said, “time ticks away. Let’s go.”
Beatrix took a step in Evenzaar’s direction. “Before I consider going anywhere, I have to know—”
William grabbed her arm. “Don’t even think about it.” His tone overflowed with anger. “You can’t follow this fool without putting up a fight. Weren’t you taught to distrust strangers?”
“And what are you?”
With a wince that had him releasing her arm, William mumbled a curse. He squished his shoulders back. “I shouldn’t have undone that hex,” he muttered, then addressed the Librarian. “What are your plans for her?”
What hex? Beatrix wondered. Too many questions were accumulating, and the Librarian’s avoidance of all of them annoyed beyond measure. When had she lost control of her own bedroom? These two kept on talking as if she weren’t there.
“My plan is to save her,” Evenzaar said. Lowering his staff, the older man rocked forward. He seemed ancient, leaning on his cane to prop himself up. His skin had become crumpled and yellowed, and his lips sloped down. “We’re taking her where she belongs. To the Zweeshen. It’s distressing she’s been kept hidden all this time. Council policy requires we rescue her.”
William’s lips shaped a sneer. “How considerate of you. A bit below your station, wouldn’t you agree? I wonder if you’re taking this much care with every lost taelimn. Are you certain there isn’t another reason?”
Around the handle of his staff, the Librarian’s knuckles whitened. “I don’t need to explain myself. We’re leaving now.”
“You have no right to push her to cross.”
“I haven’t agreed to go anywhere,” Beatrix said with emphasis. She refused to let some strangers discuss her and decide on her behalf.
The Librarian shrugged. “The Zweeshen is your only hope, Beatrix. You won’t last here.” He turned to William. “I can facilitate her passage to the Eisid Naraid. Can you do that for her?”
The name jolted Beatrix. The place from Mom’s letter. “What do you know about the Eisid Naraid?”
“That he can’t take you there.” Evenzaar wore a satisfied sneer.
William growled. “You prefer to risk her when there is a safer choice. I won’t let you. She’ll come with me.”
“Stop that,” Beatrix burst out. “I’m right here. And I make my own choices. I haven’t agreed to go with either of you.”
The Librarian waved his arms in concession. “Very well. Choose. You cannot stay here. You may follow him, to some unknown destination where your Inaechar will stabilize but never recover. Or you may come with me, to the realm you’re a part of. The land of stories. And, once you’ve recovered enough, travel farther to your mother’s original world, the Eisid Naraid.”
Beatrix gasped. Mom’s world. So that was what the Eisid Naraid meant. She tested the name on her tongue. It tasted of secrets. Take Mary Brandt to the Eisid Naraid, and we will reunite, her mother had written in the letter. Was this it then? If this Zweeshen place gave her a chance to go to her mother… Reunite. We will reunite.
She’d only half believed it could happen. Kept a skeptical toe out of the pool rather than plunging in and hoping with a full heart. Disappointment worked that way. A bit like fire. Tended to make one too wary to risk believing. But it was tempting. Mom, of the chestnut hair and the multiple read-aloud voices, the one who’d untangled her curls and sang while cleaning, always off-key. Reunite with her?
“Do you know Mary Brandt?” Beatrix asked the Librarian. “Can you take me to her?”
The Librarian’s eyes glinted. “I’m not acquainted with that person. However, the Zweeshen keeps track of every taelimn who’s ever existed. If whom you search is one of us, there’s no better place to find her.”
“Don’t,” William said. “You can’t trust him. Things aren’t as straightforward as he makes them sound. Even getting you across into the Eisid Naraid won’t—”
“Let her choose!” The Librarian thumped his staff on the floor, and the room rumbled. “Your options have been spelled out. Make your decision.”
Beatrix didn’t take more than a couple of seconds. If there existed even a remote chance to see Mom again, if she could find this Mary, like her mother wanted, then the path was obvious. No choice at all. “I’ll go with you,” she told the Librarian. And the words floated and stretched.
William seemed about to protest but stopped himself. Maybe it was her face, the way her eyebrows rose and her pupils burned, or it could have been the Furie as it sprang up, curling around her arms and zinging the air, but he nodded. “If that’s what you want.” He addressed the Librarian. “She won’t go alone.”
A hint of glee snuck into Evenzaar’s expression that could be mischievous or evil. “I won’t guarantee your safe passage.”
“I never expected you would.” Striding closer, William bent down and retrieved a jacket off the back of Beatrix’s overturned desk chair. “Put this on.”
“Stop telling me what to do.” The belligerence of the Furie tainted her words. Her fingers tingled with power.
“I only suggested it because you’re shivering,” William said.
And she was. But not from cold. The whispers. The monster. Her own cautioning words. Everything resounded in her brain at maximum volume. Her resolve eroded. Goosebumps rose on her skin.
“Beatrix, if you need more time—” William began, when she gave in and put the jacket on.
But she wasn’t sure time would help. And she had made a choice. She picked up her backpack and stashed Grandpa’s chest inside. “Let’s go.”
William signaled toward a path now visible through the pageturner, a winding, bluish trail that beckoned. “After you.”
For a fraction of a second, the walls threatened to curve, a greenish haze leaking through the baseboards. The monster prowled, and her skin prickled. Magic, both unknown and familiar, hovered about them.
Beatrix stared the Librarian down. “Wait. How did you find me? You knew my name.”
The Librarian shook his head. “You’re being ignorant. Reckless. Do you suffer from migraines? Unexplained cramping? Does your skin crinkle sometimes, or turn porous and pale?”
She didn’t need to respond; he read her answer on her face. “You’re wasting away. We cannot linger.” Evenzaar pivoted and headed for the path. “If you want to die, remain here. But it would be such a pity. You’ve got Goddess-touched eyes like her.”
“You knew my mom?”
“Once I thought I did. No time for exposition now.” With a twirl of his robe, the Librarian stepped through the pageturner and disappeared.
Beatrix hesitated no more. She breathed in, took a few steps, and plunged into the abyss.
5
AESTRER
Beatrix fell, and falling was exhilarating. She gained speed as she dropped, so she had no time to fear. Her body should have broken the water below with a splash. Instead, Beatrix decelerated and stopped ten feet above, hovering over an ocean of deep turquoise.
A boulder rose up to meet her soles, water sloshing around its edges in waterfalls, but as soon as she connected with solid rock, the world turned dark. When she could see again, a foggy hallway opened before her. It smelled of leather and old books and a touch of wax.
Then a bellow rattled the scene. “This is the Test of Character. Those who wish to enter the Zweeshen must abide by its result. You have one chance. Only the worthy may pass. The rest will be fed to the Fogges.”
Beatrix flinched at the last words. Even if she didn’t know what the Fogges might be, serving as prey for anything sounded ominous. Evenzaar hadn’t mentioned anything like this. How dangerous was this test really?
