Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones

She’s right, I realized, flushing. Then, something occurred to me. I reached into one of my pockets, pulling out a pair of Lenses. “Here, try these,” I said. They were yellow tinted.

She took them hesitantly, then tried them on. She blinked. “Hey!” she said. “I can see footprints.”

“Tracker’s Lenses,” I said. “Grandpa Smedry lent them to me. With these, you can retrace your steps back to the entrance if you get lost—or even find me by following my footprints.”

Australia smiled broadly. “I’ve never tried a pair of these before. I can’t believe they work so well!”

I didn’t mention that Grandpa Smedry had said they were among the most simple of Lenses to use. “That’s great,” I said. “Maybe you’ve always tried the wrong types of Lenses. Best to begin with the ones that work. You can borrow those.”

“Thanks!” She gave me an unexpected hug, then hopped to her feet to go fetch the other pack. Smiling, I watched her go.

“You’re good at that,” a voice said.

I turned to find Bastille standing a short distance away. She’d cut down several long branches and was in the process of dragging them over to her mother.

“What?” I asked.

“You’re good,” she said. “With people, I mean.”

I shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

“No,” Bastille said. “You really made her feel better. Something had been bothering her since you arrived, but now she seems back to her old self. You kind of have a leader’s flair about you, Smedry.”

It makes sense, if you think about it. I had spent my entire childhood learning how to shove people away from me. I’d learned just the right buttons to push, the right things to break to make them hate me. Now, those same skills were coming in handy helping people feel good, rather than making them hate me.

I should have realized the trouble I was getting myself into. There’s nothing worse than having people look up to you—because the more they expect, the worse you feel when you fail them. Take my advice. You don’t want to be the one in charge. Becoming a leader is, in a way, like falling off a cliff. It feels like a lot of fun at first.

Then it stops being fun. Really, really fast.

Bastille hauled the branches over to her mother, who was making a lean-to. Then Bastille sat down beside me and took out one of our water bottles to get a drink. The water level in it didn’t seem to go down at all as she gulped.

Neat, I thought.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I said.

She wiped her brow. “What?”

“That jet that was chasing us,” I said. “It fired a Frostbringer’s Lens. I thought only Oculators could activate things like that.”

She shrugged.

“Bastille,” I said, eyeing her.

“You saw my mother,” she grumbled. “I’m not supposed to talk about things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not an Oculator.”

“I’m not a pigeon either,” I said. “But I can talk about feathers if I want.”

She eyed me. “That’s a really bad metaphor, Smedry.”

“I’m good at those kind.”

Feathers. Much less comfortable than scales. Glad I’m a fish instead of a bird. (You haven’t forgotten about that, have you?)

“Look,” I said. “What you know could be important. I … I think the thing that flew the jet is still alive.”

“It fell from the sky!” she said.

“So did we.”

“It didn’t have a dragon to glide on.”

“No. But it did have a face half-made from metal screws and springs.”

She froze, bottle halfway to her lips.

“Ha!” I said. “You do know something.”

“Metal face,” she said. “Was it wearing a mask?”

I shook my head. “The face was made out of bits of metal. I saw the creature before, on the airfield. When I ran away, I felt … pulled backward. It was hard to move.”

“Voidstormer’s Lenses,” she said absently. “The opposite of those Windstormer’s Lenses you have.”

I patted the Windstormer’s Lenses in my pocket. I’d almost forgotten about those. With my last Firebringer’s Lens now broken, the Windstormer’s Lenses were my only real offensive Lenses. Besides them, I only had my Oculator’s Lenses, my Courier’s Lenses, and—of course—my Translator’s Lenses.

“So, what has a metal face, flies jets, and can use Lenses?” I asked. “Sounds like a riddle.”

“An easy one,” Bastille said, kneeling down, speaking quietly. “Look, don’t tell my mother you got this from me, but I think we’re in serious trouble.”

“When are we not?”

“More so now,” she said. “You remember that Oculator you fought in the library?”

“Blackburn? Sure.”

“Well,” she said, “he belonged to a sect of Librarians known as the Dark Oculators. There are other sects, though—four, I think—and they don’t get along very well. Each sect wants to be in charge of the whole organization.”

“And this guy chasing me…?”

“One of the Scrivener’s Bones,” she said. “It’s the smallest sect. Other Librarians tend to avoid the Scrivener’s Bones except when they need them, because they have … odd habits.”

“Like?”

“Like ripping off parts of their bodies, then replacing them with Alivened materials.”

I stared at her for a moment. We fish do that sometimes. We can’t blink, after all. “They do what?”