Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones

“What does it say?” Bastille asked. “Won’t that tell us what it is?”

Why didn’t I think of that? I thought, embarrassed again. Bastille certainly was quick on her feet. Or maybe I was slow. Let’s not discuss that possibility any further. Forget I mentioned it.

“Can I read that text without losing my soul?” I asked.

We looked at the Curators. One reluctantly spoke. “You can,” it said. “You lose your soul when you check out or move a book. A symbol on the wall can be read without being checked out.”

It made sense. If it were that easy to get souls, the Curators could just have posted signs, then taken the souls of any who read them.

With that, I pulled off my Discerner’s Lenses and put on my Translator’s Lenses. They immediately interpreted the strange symbols.

“The inner squares say the things you taught, Kaz,” I said. “Time, Space, Matter, Knowledge.”

Kaz whistled. “Walnuts! That means whoever built this place knew an awful lot about Smedry Talents and arcane theory. What about that symbol in the middle of the circle? What does it say?”

“It says Breaking,” I said quietly.

My Talent.

“Interesting,” Kaz said. “They give it its own circle on the diagram. What is that outer circle?”

The ring was split into two pieces. “One says Identity,” I said. “The other says Possibility.”

Kaz looked thoughtful. “Classical philosophy,” he said. “Metaphysics. It appears that our dead friend there was a philosopher of some kind. Makes sense, considering that we’re near Alexandria.”

I wasn’t paying much attention to that. Instead, I turned, hesitant, to read the words on the walls. My Translator’s Lenses instantly changed them to English for me.

I immediately wished that I hadn’t read them.

Chapter 14

Time for a history lesson.

Stop complaining. This isn’t an adventure story; it’s a factual autobiography. The purpose isn’t to entertain you, but to teach you. If you want to be entertained, go to school and listen to the imaginary facts your teachers make up.

The Incarna. I talked about them in my last book, I believe. They’re the ones who developed the Forgotten Language. In the Free Kingdoms, everyone is a little annoyed at them. After all, the Incarna supposedly had this fantastic understanding of both technology and magic. But instead of sharing their wisdom with the rest of the world, they developed the Forgotten Language and then—somehow—managed to change all of their texts and writings so that they were written in this language.

No, the Forgotten Language wasn’t their original method of writing. Everybody knows that. They transformed all of their books into it. Kind of like … applying an encrypting program to a computer document. Except it affected all forms of writing, whether on paper, in metal, or in stone.

Nobody knows how they managed this. They were a race of mega-evolved, highly intelligent superbeings. I doubt it was all that tough for them. They could probably turn lead into gold, grant immortality, and make a mean dish of cold fusion too. Doesn’t really matter. Nobody can read what they left behind.

Except me. With my Translator’s Lenses.

Perhaps now you can see why the Librarians would hire a twisted, half-human assassin to hunt me down and retrieve them, eh?

“Alcatraz?” Bastille said, apparently noticing how white my face had become. “What’s wrong?”

I stared at the wall with its strange words, trying to sort through what I was reading. She shook my arm.

“Alcatraz?” she asked again, then glanced at the wall. “What does it say?”

I read the words again.

Beware all ye who visit this place of rest. Know that the Dark Talent has been released upon the world. We have failed to keep it contained.

Our desires have brought us low. We sought to touch the powers of eternity, then draw them down upon ourselves. But we brought with them something we did not intend.

Be careful of it. Guard it well, and beware its use. Do not rely upon it. We have seen the possibilities of the future and the ultimate end. It could destroy so much, if given the chance.

The Bane of Incarna. That which twists, that which corrupts, and that which destroys. The Dark Talent.

The Talent of Breaking.

“This place is important,” I whispered. “This place is really, really important.”

“Why?” Bastille said. “Shattering Glass, Smedry. When are you going to tell me what that says?”