Sword and Pen

With the future of the Great Library in doubt, the unforgettable characters from Ink and Bone must decide if it's worth saving in this thrilling adventure in the New York Times bestselling series. The corrupt leadership of the Great Library has fallen. But with the Archivist plotting his return to power, and the Library under siege from outside empires and kingdoms, its future is uncertain. Jess Brightwell and his friends must come together as never before, to forge a new future for the Great Library...or see everything it stood for crumble.

Praise for The Great Library series

"A magical new series that will leave readers begging for more."--#1 New York Times bestselling author Deborah Harkness

"Dark, riveting, heart-in-the-throat storytelling, with characters who caught me up and hold me even now."--New York Times bestselling author Tamora Pierce

"Ocean's Eleven meets The Hunger Games, with Logan's Run and The DaVinci Code thrown in for good measure."--Kings River Life Magazine

"Made me weep, clench my fists in anger, and gape in amazement...an engaging ride from beginning to end."--Caffeinated Book Reviewer

Auteur
Rachel Caine is the New York Times, USA Today, and international bestselling author of more than fifty novels, including the Great Library series, Prince of Shadows, the Weather Warden series, the Outcast Season series, the Revivalist series, and the Morganville Vampires series.

Échantillon de lecture

CHAPTER ONE

 

Jess

 

Brendan was dead, and Jess's world was broken. He'd never known a moment without his twin existing somewhere, a distant warmth on the horizon, but now . . . now he shivered, alone, with his dead brother held close against his chest.

 

So much silence in the world now.

 

He's still warm, Jess thought, and he was; Brendan's skin still felt alive, inhabited, but there was nothing inside him. No heartbeat. No presence.

 

He was dimly aware that things were happening around him, that the bloody sands of the arena were full of people running, fighting, screaming, shouting. He didn't care. Not now.

 

Let the world burn.

 

A shadow fell over him, and Jess looked up. It was Anubis, a giant automaton god gleaming with gold. The jackal's black head blotted out the sun. It felt like the end of the world.

 

And then Anubis thrust his spear forward, and it plunged into Jess's chest. It held him there, pinned, and suddenly Brendan's body was gone, and Jess was alone and skewered on the spear . . . but it didn't hurt. He felt weightless.

 

Anubis leaned closer and said, Wake up.

 

When he opened his eyes, he was lying in darkness on a soft mattress, covered by a blanket that smelled of spice and roses. Out the window to his left, the moon floated in a boat of clouds. Jess's heart felt heavy and strange in his chest.

 

He could still feel the sticky blood on his hands, even though he knew they were clean. He'd washed Brendan's blood away. No, he hadn't. Thomas had brought a bowl of water and rinsed the gore away; he hadn't done anything for himself. Hadn't been able to. His friends had helped him here, into a strange house and a strange bed. He knew he should be grateful for that, but right now all he felt was empty, and deeply wrong. This was a world he didn't know, one in which he was the only surviving Brightwell son. Half a twin.

 

He'd have taken large bets that Brendan would have been the one to survive everything and come through stronger. And his brother would have bet even more on it. The world seemed so quiet without him.

 

Then you'll just have to be louder, you moping idiot. He could almost hear his brother saying that with his usual cocky smirk. God knows you always acted like you wished you'd been an only child.

 

"No, I didn't," he said out loud, though he instantly knew it for a lie and was ashamed of it, then even more ashamed when a voice came out of the darkness near the far corner.

 

"Awake, Brightwell? About time." There was a rustle of cloth, and a dim greenish glow started to kindle, then brighten. The glow lamp sat next to Scholar Christopher Wolfe, who looked like death, and also like he'd bite the head off the first person to say he looked tired. In short, his usual sunny disposition. "Dreams?"

 

"No," Jess lied. He tried to slow down his still-pounding heart. "What are you doing here?"

 

"We drew lots as to who would be your nursemaid this evening and I lost." Wolfe rose to his feet. He'd changed into black Scholar's robes, a liquidly flowing silk that made him seem part of the shadows except for the gray in his shoulder-length hair and his pale skin. He paused at Jess's bedside and looked at him with cool assessment. "You lost someone precious to you. I understand. But we don't have time to indulge your grief. There's work to be done, and fewer of us now to do it."

 

Jess felt no impulse to care. "I'm surprised you think I'm useful."

 

"Self-pity doesn't become you, boy. I'll be leaving now. The world doesn't stop because the one you loved is no longer in it."

 

Jess almost snapped, What do you know about it? but he stopped himself. Wolfe had lost many people. He'd seen his own mother die. He understood. So Jess swallowed his irrational anger and said, "Where are you going?" Not we. He hadn't yet decided whether staying in this bed would be his best idea.

 

"The office of the Archivist," Wolfe said. "You've been there. I could use help in locating his secure records."

 

The office. Jess blinked and saw the place, a magnificent space with automaton gods standing silent guard in alcoves. The view of the Alexandrian harbor dominating the windows. A peaceful place. He wondered if they'd managed to scrub the dead assistant's blood out of the floor yet. The Archivist had ordered her killed just to punish him. And Brendan.

 

Brendan. The last time he'd been in that office, Brendan had been with him.

 

Jess swallowed against a wave of disorientation and nausea and sat upright. Someone-Thomas, again-had helped him out of his bloody clothes and into clean ones. An informal High Garda uniform, the kind soldiers wore at leisure in the barracks. Soft as pajamas. It would do. He swung his legs out of bed and paused there, breathing deeply. He felt . . . unwell. Not a specific pain he could land on, just a general malaise, an ache that threaded through every muscle and every nerve. Shock, he supposed. Or just the accumulated stress of the past few days.

 

It might even be grief. Did grief hurt this way? Like sickness?

 

"Up." Wolfe's voice was unexpectedly kind. Warm. "I know how difficult that is. But there is no other way but onward."

 

Jess nodded and stood up. He found his boots-neatly placed at the foot of the bed-and slid them on. His High Garda weapons belt was nearby, with his sidearm still in place. Heavy and lethal, and he felt a bit of comfort as it settled on his hip. We're at war. It felt like he'd always been at war-his family had always warred with the Great Library, and then he'd fought for a place inside it. Then he'd fought to preserve the dream of the Great Library. And for the first time he wondered what peace would really feel like.

 

His hair was a spiky mess; he ran his fingers through it and ignored it when it refused to comply. "All right," he said. "I'm ready."

 

Wolfe could have said anything to that; Jess expected something dismissive and caustic. But Wolfe just put his hand on Jess's shoulder, nodded, and led the way.

 

The house, Jess thought, must have belonged to a Scholar-there was a cluster of black-robed Scholars around a wide table in the main room, anxiously chattering in…