"Objection noted," I said.
“I –“ Bastille said. She stopped as I stepped into the circle of clean ground around the sarcophagus.
Everything immediately changed. Dust began to fall around me, sparkling like very fine powdered metal. Lamps burned with bright flames set to the top of the pillars around the sarcophagus. It was like I'd entered a small column of golden light. Somehow I'd moved from a long-dead tomb to someplace alive with motion.
There was still a sense of reverence to the area. I turned, noticing Bastille and Kaz standing outside the ring of light. They seemed frozen in place, mouths open as if to speak.
I turned back to the sarcophagus, the dust falling very faintly in the air, sprinkling over everything. I held up a hand. It was indeed metallic, and it glittered with a yellow sheen. Gold dust.
Why had I stepped blindly into the circle like that?
It's hard to explain. Imagine you have the hiccups. In fact, you not only have the hiccups, you have The Hiccups. These are the hiccups to end all hiccups. You've hiccupped all of your life, without a moment of freedom. You've hiccupped so much that you've lost friends, made everyone annoyed at you, and grown pretty down on yourself.
And then, amazingly, you discover a group of people who have similar problems. Some of them burp all the time, others sniffle all the time, and still others have really bad gas. They all make annoying noises, but they come from a land where that's really cool. They're all impressed with your hiccupping.
You hang out with these people for a time, and start to grow proud of your hiccups. Then, you pass a billboard that mentions – for the first time – that your hiccups will probably end up destroying the world.
You might, then, feel a little like I did. Confused, betrayed, unsettled. Willing to step into a strange ring of power to confront, hopefully, the person who made the billboard.
Even if he did happen to be dead.
I pushed aside the top of the sarcophagus. It was heavier than I'd expected, and I had to heave. It clattered to the floor, scattering gold dust.
There was a man's body inside, and he wasn't even a bit decomposed. In fact, he looked so lifelike that I jumped backward.
The man in the sarcophagus didn't move. I edged closer, eyeing him. He looked to be in his fifties, and was wearing an ancient set of clothing – a kind of skirtlike wrap around the lower legs, then a flowing cloaklike shirt on his back that left his bare chest exposed. He had a golden headband around his forehead.
I hesitantly poked his face. (Don't pretend you wouldn't have done the same.)
The man didn't move. So, carefully, cringing, I checked for a pulse. Nothing.
I stepped back. Now, perhaps you've seen a dead body before. I sincerely hope that you haven't, but let's be realistic. People die sometimes. They have to – if they didn't, funeral homes and graveyards would go out of business.
Dead bodies don't look like they were ever alive. Corpses tend to look like they're made from wax – they don't seem like people at all, but mannequins.
This body didn't look that way. The cheeks were still flush, the face surreal in the way it seemed ready to take a breath at any moment.
I glanced back at Bastille and Kaz. They were still frozen, as if time weren't moving for them. I looked back at the body, and suddenly began to catch a hint of what might be going on.
I put on my Translator's Lenses, then walked over to the discarded lid of the sarcophagus. There, printed in ornate letters, was a name:
Allekatrase the Lens-wielder, first Bearer of the Dark Talent.
Intrinsically, my Translator's Lenses let me know that the word Lens-wielder when spoken in ancient Nalhallan would sound different to my ears. The ancient Nalhallan word for “Lens" was smaed and their word for "person who uses" was dary.
Allekatrase the Lens-wielder. Allekatrase Smaed-dary.
Alcatraz Smedry the First.
Golden dust fell around me, sprinkling my hair. "You broke time, didn't you?" I asked. "Kaz mentioned that there were legends of you having done so. You created for yourself a tomb where time would not pass, where you could rest without decomposing."
It was the ultimate method of embalming. I personally suspect that the Egyptian custom of making mummies of their kings came from the story of Alcatraz Smedry the First.
"I have your Talent," I said, stepping up beside the sarcophagus, looking at the man inside. “What am I supposed to do with it? Can I control it? Or will it always control me?"
The body was silent. They're like that. Completely lacking in social graces, those corpses.
"Did it destroy you?" I asked. "Is that what the warning is for?"
The body was so serene. Gold dust was beginning to gather on its face. Finally, I just sighed, kneeling down to look at the Lens in the lid of the sarcophagus. It was completely clear, with no color to indicate what it did. Yet, I knew it was powerful because it had drawn me here.
I reached out and tried to pry it free. It was stuck on the lid very soundly, but I wasn't about to leave a Lens that powerful sitting in a forgotten tomb.
I touched the lid and released my Talent into it. Immediately, the Lens popped free, flipping up into the air. I was caught so off guard that I barely managed to grab it before it fell and shattered.
As soon as I touched the Lens, it stopped giving off power. The bubble of strange time-shift continued to be in force, however, so the Lens hadn't been behind that.
I moved to stand up, but then noticed something. In the place where the Lens had been affixed, there was an inscription. It would have been hidden beneath the glass of the Lens, which had a small black paper backing to keep the text from being seen until the Lens was removed.
It was in ancient Nalhallan. With my Translator's Lenses, I could read it with ease.
To my descendant, the tiny inscription read.
If you have released this Lens, then I know you have the Dark Talent. Part of me rejoices, for this means it is still being protected and borne by our family, as is the curse.
Yet, I am also worried, for it means you haven’t found a way to banish it. As long as the corrupting Talent remains, it is a danger.
This Lens is the most precious of my collection. I have given others to my son. His lesser Talent, though corrupted, is not to be feared. Only when the Talent can Break is it dangerous. In all others, it simply taints what they have done.
Use the Lens. Pass on this Knowledge, if it has been forgotten.
And care well for the burden, blessing and curse you have been given.
I sat back, trying to decide what I thought of the words. I wished that I had something I could write with, but then decided that it was better that I didn't copy the text. The Curators would take what I wrote, and if they didn't already know of the inscription, I didn't want them to.
I stood up. With some effort, I managed to get the lid of the sarcophagus back on. Then, I lay my hand on the inscription and somehow Broke it. The text of the letters scrambled, becoming gibberish, even to my Translator's Lenses.
I pulled my hand back, surprised. I'd never done anything like that before. I stood silently, then solemnly bowed my head to the sarcophagus, which had been carved to match the face of the man who rested inside.
“I'll do my best," I said. Then I stepped from the circle.
The light faded. The room became musty and old again, and Bastille and Kaz began moving.
"—don’t think this is a good idea," Bastille said.
"Objection noted again," I said, dusting the gold powder from my shoulders, where it had gathered like King Midas's dandruff.
"Alcatraz?" Kaz asked. "What just happened?"
"Time moves differently in there," I said, looking back at the sarcophagus. It seemed unchanged, the dust hanging in the air, the lamps extinguished. The Lens on the lid, however, was gone. I still had it in my hand.
"I think stepping into that circle takes you back in time to the moment he died," I said. “Something like that. I'm n
ot exactly sure."
"That's . . . very odd," Kaz said. "Did you find out who he was?"
I nodded, looking down at the Lens. "Alcatraz the First."
The other two were silent.
"That's impossible, Al," Kaz said. "I've seen the tomb of Alcatraz the First. It's down in the Nalhallan royal catacombs. It's one of the city's greatest tourist attractions."
"It's a fake," Bastille said.
We both looked at her sharply.
"The royal family made it a thousand years back or so," she said, glancing away. “As a symbol of Nalhalla's founding. It bothered the royals that they didn't know where Alcatraz the First was buried, so they came up with a fake historical site to commemorate him."
Kaz whistled softly. "I guess you'd know, Bastille. That's some cover-up. But, why is he here, in the Library of Alexandria, of all places?"
"This room is older than the parts around it,” I said. "I'd say that the Curators moved their Library here on purpose. Weren't you the one who told me that it changed locations in favor of a place with more room?"
"True," Kaz said. "What's that Lens?”
I held it up. "I'm not sure; I found it on the sarcophagus. Bastille, do you recognize it?”
She shook her head. "It's not tinted. It could do anything."
"Maybe I should just activate it.”
Bastille shrugged, and Kaz seemed to have no objections. So, hesitantly, I tried it. Nothing happened. I looked through the Lens, but couldn't see anything different about the room.
"Nothing?" Bastille asked.
I shook my head, frowning. He called this his most powerful of Lenses. So, what does it do?
"It makes sense, I guess," Kaz said. "It was active before – it's what drew you here. Maybe all it does is send out a signal to other Oculators."
"Maybe” I said, unconvinced. I slipped it into the single-Lens pocket in my jacket that had once held my Firebringer's Lens.
"We should probably just show it to my father,” Kaz said. "He'll be able to . . ."
He kept talking, but I stopped paying attention. Bastille was acting oddly. She'd suddenly perked up, growing tense. She glanced out the broken wall.
"Bastille?" I asked, cutting Kaz off.
"Shattering Glass!" she said, then took off in a dash out of the room.
Kaz and I stood, dumbfounded.
"What do we do?" Kaz asked.
"Follow her!" I said, slipping out of the room – careful not to tip over the bookcase outside. Kaz followed, grabbing Bastille's pack and pulling out a pair of Warrior's Lenses. As I took off at a dash down the hallway after Bastille, he managed to keep up by virtue of the enhancements the Lenses granted.
I quickly began to realize why characters in books tend to lose their gold before the end of the story. That stuff was heavy. Reluctantly, I tossed most of the gold to the side, keeping only a couple of bars in my pocket.
Even without the gold, however, neither of us was fast enough to follow a Crystin.
"Bastille!" I yelled, watching her disappear into the distance.
There was no response. Soon, Kaz and I reached an intersection and paused, puffing. We'd moved into yet another part of the Library. Here, instead of rows of scrolls or bookcases, we were in a section that looked like a dungeon. There were lots of intermixing hallways and small rooms, lamps flickering softly on the walls.
To make things more confusing, some of the doorways – even some of the hallways – had bars set across them, blocking the way forward. My suspicion is that this part of the Library was intended to be a maze – another means of frustrating people.
Bastille suddenly rushed back toward us, running out of a side corridor.
"Bastille?" I asked.
She cursed and passed us, going down another of the side hallways. I glanced at Kaz, who just shrugged. So, we took off after her again.
As we ran, I noticed something. A feeling. I froze, causing Kaz to pull up short beside me.
"What?" he asked.
"He's near" I said.
"Who?"
"The hunter. The one chasing us."
"National Union of Teachers!" Kaz swore. "You're sure?"
I nodded. Ahead, I could hear Bastille yelling. We moved, passing a set of bars on our right. Through them, I could see another hallway. It would be very easy to get lost in this section of the Library.
But, then, we were already lost. So, it didn't really seem to matter. Bastille came running back, and this time I managed to grab her arm as she ran by. She jerked to a halt, brow sweating, looking wild-eyed.
"Bastille!" I said. "What is going on?"
“My mother," Bastille said. "She's near, and she's in pain. I can't get to her because every one of these shattering passages is a dead end!"
Draulin? I thought. Here? I opened my mouth to ask how Bastille could possibly know that, and then I felt something. That dark, oppressive force. The twisted, unnatural feeling given off by a Lens that had been forged with Oculator blood. It was near. Very near.
I looked down a side hallway. Lamps flickered along its sides, and at the very end, I saw a massive iron grate covering the way forward.
Beyond the grate stood a shadowed figure, one arm unnaturally long, the face misshapen.
And it held Draulin's Crystin sword in its hands.
CHAPTER 15
It's my fault.
I'll admit the truth; I did it. You've undoubtedly noticed it by now, if you've been reading closely. I apologize. Of all the dirty tricks I've used, this is undoubtedly the nastiest of them all. I realize it might have ruined the book for you up until now but I couldn't help myself.
You see, doing something like this consistently, over fourteen chapters, was quite challenging. And I'm always up for a challenge. When you noticed it, you probably realized how clever I was, even as you blushed. I know this is supposed to be a book for kids, and I thought it was well enough hidden that it wouldn't come out. I guess I was too obvious.
I'd have taken it out, but it's just so clever. Most people won't be able to find it, even though it's there in every chapter, on every page. The most brilliant literary joke I've ever made.
My apologies.
I stood, facing down the silhouetted creature, still holding on to Bastille's arm. I slowly came to understand something.
I had been wrong to run from the creature – that had caused my group to get split up. Now the hunter could take us one at a time, grabbing us from the catacombs as we ran about in confusion.
We couldn't continue to run. It was time to confront it. I gulped, beginning to sweat. This is one of the reasons why I'm no hero – because even though I walked down that corridor toward the creature, I pulled Bastille along with me. I figured two targets were better than one.
As we moved forward, Kaz trailing behind, Bastille lost a bit of her frenzied look. She pulled her dagger from its sheath, the crystalline blade sparkling in the flickering lamplight.
At the end of the corridor was a small room, split in half by the large iron grate. The Scrivener's Bone was on the other side of the bars. He smiled as I approached – one side of his face curling up, lips leering. The other side of his face mimicked the motion, though it was made of bits of metal that twisted and clicked, like a clock mechanism that had been compressed tenfold until all of the gears and pins were smushed together.
"Smedry," the thing said, voice ragged, as if the sounds themselves had been flayed.
"Who are you?" I asked.
The creature met my eyes. The entire left half of its body had been replaced by the bits of metal, held together by a force I didn't understand. One of its eyes was human. The other was a pit of dark glass. Alivener's Glass.
"I am Kilimanjaro,” the creature said." I have been sent to retrieve something from you."
I was still wearing the Lenses of Rashid. I raised my fingers to them, and Kiliman nodded.
"Where did you get that sword?" I asked, trying to hide my nervousness.
"I h
ave the woman,” the creature said. "I took it from her."
"She's here, Alcatraz,” Bastille said. "I can feel her Fleshstone."
Fleshstone? I thought. What in the name of the first sands is that?
“You mean this?" Kiliman asked, voice deep and crackling. He held up something before him. It looked like a crystal shard, about the size of two fingers put together. It was bloody.
Bastille gasped. "No!" she said, rushing toward the bars; I grabbed her arm and barely managed to hang on.
"Bastille!" I said. “He's goading you!”
"How could you?" she screamed at the creature. “You’ll kill her!"
Kiliman lowered the crystal, placing it in a pouch at his belt. He still held the sword in front of him. “Death is immaterial, Crystin. I must retrieve what I seek. You have it, and I have the woman. We will trade.”
Bastille fell to her knees, and at first I thought she was weeping. Then I could see that she was simply shaking, white faced. I didn't know it at the time, but pulling the Fleshstone from the body of a Crystin is an unspeakably vulgar and gruesome act. To Bastille, it was like Kiliman had shown her Draulin's heart, still beating in his hand.
"You think I'd bargain with you?” I asked.
"Yes," Kiliman said simply. He didn't have the flair of evil that Blackburn had shown – no flaunted arrogance, no sharp clothing, or laughing voice. Yet, the quiet danger this creature expressed was somehow even more haunting.
I shivered.
"Careful, Al," Kaz said quietly. "Those creatures are dangerous. Very dangerous."
Kiliman smiled, then dropped the sword and flipped a hand forward. I cried out as I saw a Lens in his hand. It flashed, shooting out a beam of frosty light.
Bastille came up, her dagger held clawlike in her hand. She took the beam straight on the crystalline blade, then stumbled backward. She held it, but just barely.
I growled, throwing off the Translator's Lenses and pulling out my Windstormer's Lenses. He wanted to fight? Well, I'd show him.
I snapped the Lenses on, then focused on the Scrivener's Bone, sending forth a wave of powerful wind. My ears popped, and Kaz cried out from the sudden increase in pressure. The blast of wind hit Kiliman, throwing him backward, spraying bits of metal from his body.