The Lost Book of the White

He had a hunch. It was a very vague hunch, but he’d acted on less. Rarely when the stakes were this high, though.

He briefly worried Ragnor would attack him, but the other warlock didn’t move. “If by that you mean you can kill me, I think you’ll find you can’t, here in Diyu.” Ragnor’s voice was melancholy. “I am under too much of Sammael’s protection, and this place too full of his power.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” said Magnus, although he had to admit that if someone said that to him while pointing two swords at him, he probably wouldn’t believe them.

“Even if you could release me from the thorn,” Ragnor said, “you cannot save me. I have done too much, under Sammael’s command, to atone for now. Neither the Spiral Labyrinth nor Idris would ever allow me my freedom, even if the Archangel Michael came down and slew Sammael a second time, in front of my eyes.” He looked curious. “I hope that wasn’t your plan.”

“No,” said Magnus. He turned the swords so that he was holding them with the flats of both blades toward the sky. “Do you know these swords?”

“I don’t,” Ragnor grumbled, “but I bet you’re going to tell me about them.”

“This one,” said Magnus, holding up the black sword, “says that there is no salvation for evildoers. This one”—he held up the white—“says that those who atone will be at peace.”

“So they contradict one another,” said Ragnor. “Is that meant to be somehow meaningful?”

But Magnus wasn’t listening closely. He felt his magic flow in and through the swords, and he thought, Heibai Wuchang. Master Fan, Master Xie. Your home has been taken, and the magic of the Svefnthorn flows through this place, where it was never meant to be. Your king Yanluo is gone, and he will not return. But if you drive the Svefnthorn from this warlock before you, I will release you back into Diyu, to serve it however you desire. Only do this one thing for me.

After a moment, Ragnor said dryly, “Is something supposed to be happening? Your eyes are closed.”

Magnus felt the swords jerk in his hands.

His eyes flew open. A glow had formed around the swords, not the crimson radiance of the thorn’s magic but something totally different, white smoke and black smoke intermingling in the air between them.

The swords wished to be together. Magnus felt them pull toward each other, like magnets. He watched in fascination as they transformed, from inert, inanimate objects to moving, visibly living things. As though they had never been inanimate at all, but only sleeping.

Magnus hoped they didn’t mind too much that they had been stuck through a number of disgusting demon bodies in the past couple of days.

He released the hilts of both swords, and they drifted in the air toward one another, each seeking its mate.

In the middle they joined, blade alongside blade, and then they began to bend and twist around one another. Ragnor was simply staring at the swords, a look of utter astonishment on his face. He made eye contact with Magnus, and Magnus shrugged to indicate he didn’t know what was happening either.

Light poured from the swords, and as their spinning and writhing ceased, Magnus could see that where there had been two there was now only one sword. He was sad to note that it was not actually twice the size of the other swords, but it was impressive regardless. The entire hilt was bright black horn, with the cross guard carved into twisting shapes that quite closely resembled Ragnor’s horns—his old horns, not the new spiked monstrosities that the thorn had made. The blade was of bone, smooth and long and, Magnus could tell, very sharp.

He had just enough time to admire the sword’s beauty before it plunged forward and ran Ragnor through.

Ragnor was thrown backward, his robe falling open. Magnus could see the third thorn mark now, a line cutting through the “Greek cross” of the first two wounds. The sword had plunged into the center of the convergence of scars, light shimmering out from the place the metal entered Ragnor’s flesh.

Magnus dropped down to his knees immediately, next to Ragnor. His old friend didn’t seem able to see him—his eyes were staring straight ahead, filmed with a white blindness. Ragnor’s back arched, and the sword began to slide deeper into his chest, sinking slowly down. An acrid cloud of red mist drifted upward from the wound. It became denser and fuller, and then it was pouring from Ragnor’s eyes, too, and his nostrils, and his open mouth.

Magnus leaned back. He didn’t know if breathing the magic fog was actually a problem, but he thought it was better not to risk it.

The sword penetrated through Ragnor’s chest up to the hilt, and then just kept going, the hilt, too, passing through his chest as if through water. The red mist came out of his chest in spasmodic coughs, and then the sword was gone, and the red mist dissipated, and Ragnor was still.

For a moment, there was only the sound of Magnus’s breathing, terribly loud in his own ears.

But Ragnor wasn’t dead. His chest, Magnus saw, was rising and falling. Not a lot. Not powerfully. But enough.

After what felt like a very long moment, Ragnor blinked his eyes open. He looked around until his gaze found Magnus, over to his right.

“You,” said Ragnor, “are a terrible fool.”

Magnus cocked his head, unsure what this statement said about Ragnor’s current evil-or-not-evil status. He did note that Ragnor’s horns were back to their normal size. His eyes and his teeth, also, seemed more familiar.

“You had the power of gods in your hands,” Ragnor said. “They spoke to me. You could have wielded them in any number of ways against Sammael. And you wasted them on, of all things, un-thorning me.”

Magnus laughed, unable to stop himself. He leaned over and grabbed Ragnor into a tight bear hug.

“I assume,” said Magnus after a moment, “that you’re tolerating being hugged for this long because you are suffused with your love for me as your dearest friend and also your savior, and not because you are too weak to get away.”

“Think what you like,” said Ragnor.

Magnus pulled away and examined Ragnor’s chest from several angles. The thorn scars were, as far as he could tell, completely gone. Unfortunately, so were the swords.

Ragnor drew himself up onto his elbows. “The Black and White Impermanence,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Where in all the realms of this universe did you get them?”

“You’ll forgive me,” said Magnus, “if I don’t say. I’m only around seventy-five percent sure you’re no longer under Sammael’s thrall.”

Ragnor shook his head somberly. “It was the wrong call, Magnus. Saving me. You’d have been better off using the power of the Heibai Wuchang to stop Sammael, or even to delay him or change his plans. I’d be better off left behind here. I told you, I’ve done too many things that cannot be atoned for.”

Magnus held up his two palms and mimed balancing a scale. “No salvation for evildoers. Those who atone, be at peace. I’m sorry, Ragnor, but the death gods have decided, and they say, be at peace.”

“Do you believe everything death gods tell you?” said Ragnor sternly.

Magnus helped him to his feet. “Are they gone, do you think? Did I… did I use them up?”

Ragnor said, “You can’t keep a god down, Magnus. They are Black and White Impermanence. You know, impermanent. After a time they’ll re-form in Diyu, I’m sure.” He looked around at the temple, as though he’d just noticed how dilapidated and grimy it was.

“Ragnor,” Magnus said, “was stealing the Book of the White absolutely necessary? Did Sammael demand it?”

Ragnor looked over at the Book on the table and started, as though he had forgotten it was there. Then he turned back to Magnus and barked a laugh. “No. It was Shinyun’s idea.”

Magnus’s eyebrows went up. “He doesn’t want it?”

“Well, no, he does,” Ragnor allowed. “He wants us to use it to weaken Earth’s wards, the ones put in place after he tried to invade the first time. So he can get back in.” He gave a wry look. “But Shinyun was very committed to the idea of retrieving it.”

“Because she wanted to come visit me?” Magnus said.

“Not everything is about you, Magnus,” Ragnor said sternly. “Although yes, Shinyun has… complicated feelings where you’re concerned. But I think she wanted the Book for her own purposes. She may be Sammael’s favorite pet, but I know her, and she definitely is playing her own game, separate from Sammael’s.”

“That’s exactly what I said!” Magnus exclaimed, gratified. “I said those exact words, ‘playing her own game.’ So, what game? A hedge against the possibility of his failure?”

“Setting the stage for her own success,” Ragnor said. He stood up. “My stars,” he said, “I can’t believe I accepted this kind of accommodation just because I was willing to serve Sammael. What a dump.”

“I can’t promise it’s any more comfortable,” said Magnus, “but let me take you back to Saint Ignatius. Well, Reverse Saint Ignatius. All the Shadowhunters are taking sanctuary there.”

Ragnor hesitated. “I suppose I must,” he said. “Atonement has to begin somewhere. And Sammael isn’t going to just let me go back home.” He looked a bit lost. “My home…,” he said. “I can’t return there anyway.”

“Let’s go,” Magnus said. “We can discuss your future when we get there.”

Ragnor retrieved the Book of the White. He pressed it into Magnus’s hands, and Magnus took it. He didn’t feel like he was finally receiving one of his possessions back; he felt like this was just the latest laying of this burden on his shoulders. Nevertheless, he carefully shrank the Book down to a manageable size and tucked it away in his pocket.

As soon as they left down the path away from the temple, Magnus could tell that Ragnor was in a weakened state. He walked slowly and placed his feet carefully, as though he wasn’t sure they would reliably obey him.