Bastille nodded. “That’s an attention aura—the glasses were trying to get you to notice the text.”
“The glasses wanted me to notice something?” I asked.
“Well,” Bastille said. “More like your subconscious wanted you to notice something. The glasses aren’t alive, they just help you focus. I’d guess that because you’ve seen the Forgotten Language before, your subconscious recognized it on those spines. So, the glasses gave you an attention aura to make you notice.”
“Interesting,” Sing said.
I nodded slowly—then, curiously, Bastille’s entire shape fuzzed slightly. Another attention aura? If so, what was it I was supposed to notice about her?
How do you know so much about Oculator auras, Bastille? I thought, realizing what was bothering me. There was more to this girl than she liked to let people see.
Some things just weren’t making sense to me. Why was Bastille chosen to protect Grandpa Smedry? Certainly, she seemed like a force to be reckoned with—but she was still only a kid. And for her to know so much about Oculating, when Sing—a professor, and a Smedry to boot—didn’t seem to know much …
Well, it was odd.
You may think those above paragraphs are some kind of foreshadowing. You’re right. Of course, those thoughts weren’t foreshadowing when they occurred to me. I couldn’t know that they’d be important.
I tend to have a lot of ridiculous thoughts. I’m having some right now. Most of these certainly aren’t important. And so, I usually only mention the ones that matter. For instance, I could have told you that many of the lanterns in the library looked like types of fruits and vegetables. But that has no real relevance to the plot, so I left it out. Likewise, I could have included the scene where I noticed the roots of Bastille’s hair and wondered why she dyed it silver, rather than letting it grow its natural red. But since that part isn’t relevant to the—
Oh. Wait. Actually, that is relevant. Never mind.
“Ready to go, then?” Bastille asked.
“I’m taking these,” Sing said. He unzipped his duffel bag, tossed aside a spare Uzi, then stuffed in the translators’ notes. “Quentin would kill me if I left them behind.”
“Here,” I said, tossing a Forgotten Language book into the bag. “Might as well take one of these for him too.”
“Good idea,” Sing said, zipping up his duffel.
“There’s just one thing I don’t get,” I said.
“One thing?” Bastille asked with a snort.
“Why do the Librarians work so hard to keep everything quiet?” I asked. “Why go to all that trouble? What’s the point?”
“Do you have to have a point if you’re an evil sect of Librarians?” Bastille asked with annoyance.
I fell silent.
“They do have a point, Bastille,” Sing said. “Everyone has a reason to do what they do. The Librarians, they were founded by a man named Biblioden. Most people just call him The Scrivener. He taught that the world is too strange a place—that it needs to be ordered, organized, and controlled. One of Biblioden’s teachings is the Fire Metaphor. He pointed out that if you let fire burn free, it destroys everything around it. If you contain it, however, it can be very useful. Well, the Librarians think that other things—Oculatory powers, technology, Smedry Talents—need to be contained too. Controlled.”
“Controlled by those who supposedly know better,” Bastille said. “Librarians.”
“So,” I said, “all of this cover-up…”
“It’s to create the world The Scrivener envisioned,” Sing said. “To create a place where information is carefully controlled by a few select people, and where power is in the hands of his followers. A world where nothing strange or abnormal exists. Where magic is derided, and everything can be blissfully ordinary.”
And that’s what we fight, I thought, coming to understand for the first time. That’s what this is all about.
Sing threw his duffel over his shoulder, adjusting his glasses as Bastille went back to the door, cracking it open to make certain nobody was in the hallway. As she did, I noticed the discarded Uzi, lying ignored on the floor. Trying to look nonchalant, I wandered over to it, absently reaching down and picking it up.
This is, I would like to note, precisely the same thing any thirteen-year-old boy would do in that situation. A boy who wouldn’t do such a thing probably hasn’t been reading enough books about killer Librarians.
Unfortunately for me, I wasn’t like most thirteen-year-old boys. I was special. And in this case, my specialness manifested itself by making the gun break the moment I touched it. The weapon made a noise almost like a sigh, then busted into a hundred different pieces. Bullets rolled away like marbles, leaving me sullenly holding a piece of the gun’s grip.
“Oh,” Sing said. “I meant to leave that there, Alcatraz.”
“Yes, well,” I said, dropping the scrap of metal. “I thought I should … uh, take care of the gun, just in case. We wouldn’t want anyone to find such a primitive weapon and hurt themselves by accident.”
“Ah, good idea,” Sing said. Bastille held open the door, then we all moved into the hallway.
“Next door,” Bastille said.
I nodded, switching glasses. As soon as the Tracker’s Lenses were on, I noticed something: bright black footprints burning on the ground.
They were still fresh—I could see the trail disappearing as I watched. And there was a certain … power to the footprints. I instantly knew to whom they belonged.
The footprints passed through the hallway, beside a yellowish-black set, disappearing into the distance. They burned, foreboding and dark, like gasoline dripped to the floor and lit with black fire.
As Bastille crept toward the next door in the hallway, I made a decision. “Forget the room,” I said, growing tense. “Follow me!”
Chapter
10
Are you annoyed with me yet?
Good. I’ve worked very hard—perhaps I will explain why later—to frustrate you. One of the ways I do this is by leaving cliffhangers at the ends of chapters. These sorts of things force you, the reader, to keep on plunging through my story.
This time, at least, I plan to make good on the cliffhanger. The one at the end of the previous chapter is entirely different from the hook I used at the beginning of the book. You remember that one, don’t you? Just in case you’ve forgotten, I believe it said:
“So there I was, tied to an altar made from outdated encyclopedias, about to get sacrificed to the dark powers by a cult of evil Librarians.”
This sort of behavior—using hooks to start books—is inexcusable. In fact, when you read a sentence like that one at the beginning of a book, you should know not to continue reading. I have it on good authority that when an author gives a hook like this, he isn’t ever likely to explain why the poor hero is tied to an altar—and if the explanation does come, it won’t arrive until the end of the story. You’ll have to sit through long, laborious essays, wandering narratives, and endless ponderings before you reach the small bit of the story that you wanted to read in the first place.
Hooks and cliffhangers belong only at the ends of chapters. That way, the reader moves on directly to the next page—where, thankfully, they can read more of the story without having to suffer some sort of mindless interruption.
Honestly, authors can be so self-indulgent.
“Alcatraz?” Bastille asked as I took off down the hallway following the footprints.
I waved for her to follow. The black footprints were fading quickly. True, if the black ones disappeared, we could just follow the yellow ones, since they appeared more stable. But if I didn’t keep up with the black ones, I wouldn’t know if the two sets diverged.
Bastille and Sing hurried along behind me. As we moved, however, the thought of what I was doing finally hit me: I was chasing down the Dark Oculator. I didn’t really know what a Dark Oculator was, but I was pretty certain that I didn’t want to meet one. This was, after
all, probably the person who had sent a gunman to kill me.
Yet I was also pretty certain that this Dark Oculator was the leader of the library. The most important person around. That made him the person most likely to know where the Sands of Rashid were. And I intended to get those sands back. They were my link to my parents, perhaps the only clue I would ever get to help me know what had happened to them. So I kept moving.
Now, some of you reading this may assume that I was being brave. In truth, my insides were growing sick at the thought of what I was doing. My only excuse can be that I didn’t really understand how much danger I was in. Knowledge of the Free Kingdoms and Oculators was still new to me, and the threat didn’t quite seem real.
If I’d understood the risk—the death and pain that pursuing this course would lead to—I would have turned back right then. And it would have been the right decision, despite what my biographers say. You’ll see.
“What are we doing?” Bastille hissed, walking quickly beside me.
“Footprints,” I whispered. “Someone passed this way a short time ago.”
“So?” she asked.
“They’re black.”
Bastille stopped short, falling behind. She hurriedly caught up though. “How black?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Blackish black.”