Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones

All right, fine. I’ll finish it for you. But not because I’m a nice guy. I’ll do it because I can’t wait to see the look on your face when Bastille dies. (You didn’t forget about that part, did you? I’ll bet you think I’m lying. However, I promise you that I’m not. She really dies. You’ll see.)

Bastille, Australia, and I raced through the library hallways. We’d passed through the rooms with books and were up to the ones with scrolls. These too were arranged by age. We were close. I could feel it.

That worried me. Bastille’s mother was dying, and Kaz was likely in serious danger. We had little hope in fighting Kiliman. We were outmatched and outmaneuvered, and we were charging right into the enemy’s hands.

However, I figured that it wasn’t a good idea to explain to the others how bad things seemed. I was determined to keep a “stiff upper lip,” even if I didn’t really understand what that meant. (Though it does sound vaguely uncomfortable.)

“All right,” I said. “We have to beat this guy. What are our resources?” That sounded like the kind of thing a leader would say.

“One cracked dagger,” Bastille said. “Probably won’t survive another hit from those Frostbringer’s Lenses.”

“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 Smedrys—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 dryly. “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 bloodforged 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.