"We've got that string," Australia added, poking through Bastille's pack as we ran. “And . . . it looks like a couple of muffins. Oh, and one pair of boots."
Great, I thought. "Well, I'm down to three pairs of Lenses. We've got my Oculator's Lenses – which won't be much good, since Grandpa Smedry still hasn't bothered to teach me how to use them defensively. We've got the Discerner's Lenses, which will get us to the center. And we've got Australia's Tracker's Lenses."
"Plus that Lens you found in the tomb," Bastille noted. "Which, unfortunately, we can't seem to use."
Bastille nodded. "Though, we've also got two Smedries – and two Talents."
"That's right," I said. “Australia, do you have to fall asleep for yours to work?"
"Of course I do, silly," she said. "I can't wake up looking ugly if I don't fall asleep!"
I sighed.
"I'm really good at falling asleep," she said.
"Well, that's something at least," I grumbled. Then, I cursed myself. "I mean, bravely onward we must go, troops!"
Bastille shot me a grimace.
"Little too much?"
"Just a smidge," she said drily, "I –“
She cut off as I held up a hand. We skidded to a halt in the musty hallway. To the sides, ancient lamps flickered, and a trio of Curators floated around us, ever present, watching for an opportunity to offer us books.
"What?" Bastille asked.
"I can feel the creature,” I said. “At least, his Lenses."
"Then he can feel us?"
I shook my head. "Scrivener's Bones aren't Oculators. Those blood-forged Lenses might make him tough, but we hold the edge in information. We… “
I trailed off as I noticed something.
“Alcatraz?" Bastille asked, but I wasn't paying attention.
There, on the wall directly above the archway leading onward, was a set of scribbles. Like those made by a child too young to even draw pictures. To my eyes, they seemed to glow with a pure white color.
That aura came from the Discerner's Lenses. The scribbles were fairly fresh – no older than a couple of days. Compared with the ancient stones and scrolls in the hallway, the scribbles seemed a pure white.
"Alcatraz," Bastille hissed. "What's going on?”
"That's the Forgotten Language," I said, pointing to the scribbles.
"What?"
To her eyes, the scribbles would be almost invisible – only the Discerner's Lenses had let me see them so starkly.
"Look closer," I said.
Eventually, she nodded. "Okay, so I think I see some lines up there. What of it?"
"They're new," I said. "Written within the last few days. So, if that really is the Forgotten Language, then only someone wearing Translator's Lenses could have written it."
Finally, she seemed to understand. “And that means . . ."
"My father was here." I looked back up at the marks. “And I can't read the message he left for me because I gave my Lenses away."
Our group fell silent.
My father has Lenses that let him glimpse the future. Could he have left me a message to help me fight Kiliman?
I felt frustrated. There was no way to read the inscription. If my father had seen into the future, wouldn't he have realized I wouldn't have my Lenses?
No - Grandpa Smedry had said that Oracle's Lenses were very unreliable and gave inconsistent information. My father very well could have seen that I'd be fighting Kiliman, but not known that I'd be without my Translator's Lenses.
Just to be certain, I tried the Lens I'd found in the tomb of Alcatraz the First. But, it wasn't a Translator's Lens, so it didn't let me read the inscription. Sighing, I put it away.
Information. I didn't have it. Finally, I began to grasp what Grandpa Smedry kept saying. The person who won the battle wasn't necessarily the one with the biggest army or the best weapons – it was the one who understood the most about the situation.
“Alcatraz," Bastille said. "Please. My mother . . ."
I glanced at her. Bastille is strong. Her toughness isn't just an act, like it is with some people. Yet, I've seen her really, truly worried on a number of occasions. It's always when someone she loves is in danger.
I wasn't sure if Draulin deserved that loyalty, but I wasn't going to question a girl's love for her mother.
"Right," I said. "Sorry. We'll come back for this later."
Bastille nodded. "You want me to go scout?"
"Yeah. Be careful. I can feel Kiliman just ahead."
She needed no further warning. I turned toward Australia. "How quickly can you fail asleep?”
"Oh, in about five minutes.”
"Get to it, then," I said.
"Who should I think about?” she asked. “That’ll be the person I look like when I wake up,” she grimaced at that concept.
"It depends," I said. "How flexible is your Talent? What kinds of things can you become, if you try?”
"I once dreamed about a hot day and I woke up as a Popsicle."
Well, I thought, that's one thing she’s got on me. Either way, it meant that the Talent was pretty darn flexible – more so than Kaz had given it credit.
Bastille was back a few seconds later. “He’s there,” she whispered. "Talking into a Courier’s Lens, but not making much progress because of the Library's interference. I think he's seeking direction about what to do with you.”
"Your mother?"
"Tied up on the side of the room,” Bastille said. “They’re in a large, circular chamber with scroll cases running along the outside. Alcatraz. . . he's got Kaz too, tied up with my mother. Kaz can't use his Talent if he can't move.”
"Your mother?" I asked. "How's she look?"
Bastille's expression grew dark. "It was hard to tell from the distance, but I could see that she hasn't been healed yet. Kiliman must still have her Fleshstone." She pulled her dagger from its sheath.
I grimaced, then glanced at Australia.
"So, who am I supposed to look like again?" she asked, yawning. To her credit, she already looked drowsy.
"Put away that dagger, Bastille," I said. "We're not going to need it."
"It's the only weapon we have!" she protested.
“Actually, it's not. We've got something far, far better. . . ."
Are you sure I can't stop the book here? I mean, this next part isn't really all that important. Really.
All right, fine.
Bastille and I dashed into the room. It was just like she had described – wide and circular, with a domed roof and racks of scrolls around the outside. I didn't need the Discerner's Lenses to tell that these scrolls were old. It was a wonder they hadn't fallen apart.
A smattering of ghostly Curators moved through the chamber, several of them whispering tempting words to Kaz and Draulin. The captives lay on the ground – Kaz looking furious, Draulin looking sickly and dazed – directly opposite from the doorway Bastille and I came in through.
Kiliman stood near the captives, Crystin sword on an ancient reading table beside him. He looked up when we entered, seeming completely shocked. Even if he’d anticipated trouble, he obviously hadn't been expecting me to charge into the room head-on.
To be honest, I was a little surprised myself.
Kaz began to struggle even harder, and a Curator floated toward him, looming menacingly. Kiliman smiled, flesh lips rising on one side of his twisted face, metal ones rising on the other side. Gears, bolts, and screws shifted around his single, beady glass eye. The Scrivener’s Bone immediately grabbed Draulin's crystal sword in one hand, then he pulled out a Lens with the other.
"Thank you, Smedry," he said, "for saving me the trouble of having to go and fetch you.”
We charged. To this day, that is probably one of the very most ridiculous sights
in which I’ve ever participated. Two kids, barely into our teens, carrying no visible weapons, charging directly at a seven-foot-tall half-human Librarian with a massive crystalline sword.
We reached him at the same time – Bastille had paced herself to keep from outrunning me – and I felt my heart begin to flutter with anxiety.
What was I doing?
Kiliman swung. At me, of course. I threw myself into a roll, feeling the sword whoosh over my head. At that moment – while Kiliman was distracted – Bastille whipped a boot out of her pack and threw it directly at Kiliman's head.
It hit, sole first. The Grappler's Glass immediately locked onto the glass of Kiliman's left eye. The front tip of the boot extended over the bridge of his nose, jutting out past the side of his face, almost completely obscuring the view out his flesh eye as well.
The Librarian stood for a moment, seeming completely dumbfounded. That was probably the proper reaction for one who had just gotten hit in the face by a large, magical boot. Then he cursed, reaching up awkwardly, trying to pull the boot off of his face.
I scrambled to my feet. Bastille whipped out the second boot, then threw it – her aim dead on – at the pouch on Kiliman's belt. The boot stuck to the glass inside, and Bastille yanked hard on the trip wire in her hands – which was, of course, tied to the boot.
The pouch ripped free, and Bastille pulled the whole lot – wire, boot, and pouch – back into her hands, like some strange fisherman without enough money to afford a pole. She grinned at me, then pulled open the pouch, triumphantly revealing the crystal inside, stuck to the boot.
She tossed it all to me. I caught the boot, then turned off its glass. The pouch fell into my hand. Inside it, I found the Fleshstone – which I tossed to Bastille – and something else. A Lens.