Glain was where he’d left her, though she looked militant and poised to do real violence. She relaxed when she saw him. “About time. Did you find anything except trouble?”
“Trouble can be useful,” Jess said. “Temple of Anubis. Let’s go.”
EPHEMERA
A letter from the Archivist in Exile, blocked from distribution on the Codex, archived for future review
To all within the reach of the Great Library of Alexandria: I summon you to our defense.
Never before has the Great Library faced such a treasonous rebellion from within its own ranks. I say to you now, as the rightful Archivist of this vast and ancient institution, that without your action and unquestioning loyalty, the Great Library will fall. The light that has burned for thousands of years will be extinguished because of the petty, selfish greed of a few disaffected rebels. The world will descend into chaos, barbarism, and petty fiefdoms that squabble over the torn flesh of an ancient wonder. It is within your power to prevent this.
I call on every Serapeum, every captain in the field, every citizen: defend us. Send aid to Alexandria. Crush the rebels and restore order before it is too late.
Once any nation-state lands its forces on Alexandria’s shores, or crosses its inviolable borders, the Great Library ceases to exist.
Be warned.
War is not coming.
War is here.
CHAPTER THREE
KHALILA
Scholar Murasaki stood next to the formal throne of the Archivist and touched her fingers lightly to the old, old wood. “I thought it would be more . . . ornate,” she said. “And also perhaps more comfortable.”
Khalila suppressed an urge to smile. This place wasn’t meant for it. The Receiving Hall of the Archivist of the Great Library, a vast marble space with lotus columns marching into the distance. There was only one automaton here: a two-story-tall Horus standing behind the chair. It was an impressive, beautiful thing of black and gold, with bright turquoise eyes. Horus held a Scribe’s tablet in one hand and a stylus in the other . . . but the stylus had a knife-edge and was the size of a sword.
The throne sat on a raised golden platform, which rested on the backs of golden sphinxes. There were seven steps leading up to it, a number sacred to the ancient Egyptians. Four burning braziers, one at each corner: another sacred number. The place smelled of bracing, aromatic herbs.
Through some trick of engineering, the air in this chamber felt cool despite the damp heat outside.
And Khalila knew she was observing to avoid her own sense of disquiet. She felt small here, which was by design; this was a place meant to make a mere human feel utterly meaningless . . . save for the one who sat in that lofty chair.
Though Scholar Murasaki—an elderly Japanese woman—seemed more than capable of dwarfing the chair, and the room. Which was what made her perfect.
“I don’t feel I am worthy of this honor,” Murasaki said. “I did not expect it when I was summoned here.”
“You won by acclamation through Conclave,” Khalila said. “Exactly as every other Archivist has been chosen throughout the millennia. There’s no reason for you to hesitate.”
“And no great need for haste,” Murasaki said. “The Great Library has not survived by doing things in a rush. Even with the wolves at our door, we should take our own counsel and our own time.” She had a bearing that reflected the gravity of the moment, and the office. Murasaki had accepted the Archivist’s formal robes—cloth of gold and worked in silver with the eye of Horus—but rejected the elaborate Pharaonic headdress that came with them. Instead, in her gray upswept hair, she wore a simple diadem with the Great Library’s symbol. She looked . . . magnificent, in Khalila’s admittedly biased opinion. A true Scholar risen to the highest seat of the oldest institution in the world.
I could never, Khalila thought. She dreamed about it, of course; in her secret, most ambitious moments she imagined herself in this same throne room, conducting the Great Library’s affairs, everyone bowing to her wisdom. It felt absurd now. Humility was the basis of her faith, and she trusted Allah to raise her up, if indeed she ever deserved it. But not now, in these desperate moments. She was grateful that Scholar Murasaki was here to bear this burden.
Even as she thought it, Murasaki heaved a long sigh and settled onto the Archivist’s throne. She put her hands in her lap and said, “I’m ready.”
Khalila turned toward the doors. She felt alone in this vast hall, but she wasn’t; besides Murasaki, there were close to a hundred others already here, but in this vast space that felt like such a fragile, lonely assembly. There were many High Garda soldiers stationed in the shadows. Khalila gestured, and two of them opened the huge doors at the rear of the space.
And the rest of the Great Library’s Conclave poured in. Thousands of black-robed Scholars. Ten times as many librarians and staff. Most had never been inside this hall, and, like Khalila, seemed struck with the gravity of the moment. Their steps slowed as they moved inside, and the crowd naturally flowed in to fill the space allowed. But the Scholars and staff present within Alexandria at this moment—those who were not stationed elsewhere, or who had fled with the Archivist—still seemed too small a number.
We are missing so many, she thought, and felt a deep stab of pain. So many. But her father and her brother were in the forefront of the crowd, and she clasped them both in her arms and wanted to weep in sheer gratitude for their survival. Her father was not well; he looked frail, and he shook with the force of his coughing. But he was alive.
Khalila framed his tired face in her hands and said, “Have you seen the Medica yet?”
“I will, my child. Soon. I promise.” His smile lit her world. “But I would not miss being here today, not even if I had to be carried.”
“Don’t listen to him. He walked under his own power,” her brother said, and picked her up in a hug that took her breath away. His smile was as broad as it had ever been, as if he hadn’t endured prison and near death. “Khalila. Who knew my little sister could be so brave?”
“You should,” she told him, and his smile moderated a little. “I was never afraid of you, after all.”
“I’m not particularly fearsome.”
That was a lie. Saleh was one of the most capable men she knew, and she knew a fair number of them these days. She decided not to argue the point, and instead cut her gaze toward her father. “Should he even be here?”
“Try to keep him away,” Saleh said. “I’ll be sure he sees a Medica. But give him this, sister. He needs to see the Great Library redeemed before he takes to his bed. So do we all.”
Now that the Scholars had entered and found their places, the next rank to enter the hall was formed of High Garda: sharply dressed companies of soldiers, solemn and proud. At their head strode Captain Niccolo Santi. He looked grave with the responsibility, and as his troops took their spots at the edges of the huge hall, he advanced down the long white space. The black-robed crowd parted for him, and he walked to the foot of the stairs and went to one knee, fist over his heart.