We passed the lip of the hole and continued on. I threw up my hands in front of my face as we approached the ceiling. With the Lenses no longer jetting, gravity slowed us. We crested the blast a few inches from the ceiling, then began to plummet downward again.
"Now, kick!" Bastille said, twisting and putting both of her feet against my chest.
"Wha –“ I began, but Bastille kicked, throwing me to the side and pushing herself the other direction.
We hit the ground on either side of the pit. I rolled, then came to a rest, staring upward. The room spun around me.
We were free. I sat up, holding my head. Across the pit, Bastille was smiling as she jumped to her feet. “I can’t believe that actually worked!"
"You kicked me!" I said with a groan.
"Well, I owed it to you," she said. "Remember, you kicked me back in the Dragonaut. I didn't want you to feel like I didn't return the feeling."
I grimaced. This, by the way, is a pretty good metaphor for my entire relationship with Bastille. I’m thinking of writing a book on the concept. Kicking Your Friends for Fun and Profit.
Suddenly, something occurred to me. “My Lenses!” They lay in shattered pieces on the ground beside the pit. I'd dropped them as I hit. I stood up and rushed over, but it was no use. There wasn't enough of them left to use.
"Gather up the pieces," Bastille said. "They can be reforged."
I sighed. "Yeah, I suppose. This means we’re going to have to face Kiliman without them."
Bastille fell silent.
I don't have any offensive Lenses, and Bastille’s only got a close-to-broken dagger. How are we going to fight that creature?
I brushed the pieces of glass into a pouch, then put it into one of my Lens Pockets.
"We're free,” Bastille said, "but we still don't really know what to do. In fact, we don't even know how to get to Kiliman.”
"We'll find a way,” I said, standing up.
She looked at me, then – surprisingly – nodded. “All right, then, what do we do?"
"We –“
Suddenly, Australia rushed back into the room. She was puffing from exertion. “All right, I found your rope!"
She held up an empty hand.
"Uh, thanks," I said. "Is the rope imaginary, then?"
"No, silly," she said, laughing. She picked something up between two fingers. "Look!"
"Trip wire," Bastille said.
"Is that what it is?" Australia said. "I just found it on the ground over there."
"And how exactly were you going to use that to get us out of the pit?" I asked. "I doubt it's long enough, and even if it is, it would never have held our weight."
Australia cocked her head. "That's why you wanted rope?"
"Sure," I said. "So that we could climb out of the pit."
"But, you're already out of the pit."
“We are now," I said with exasperation. “But we weren’t at the time. I wanted you to find rope so that we could climb it."
"Oh!" Australia said. “Well, you should have said so, then!"
I stood, stupefied. "You know what, never mind,” I said, taking the length of trip wire. I was about to stuff it in my pocket, then paused, looking at it.
"What?" Bastille asked.
I smiled.
"You have an idea?"
I nodded.
"What is it?"
"Tell you in a minute," I said. "First, we have to figure out how to get to the center of the Library.”
We all looked at one another.
"I've been wandering through the hallways all day,” Australia said. "With those ghost things offering me books at every turn. I keep explaining that I hate reading, but they don't listen. If I hadn't run across your footprints, Alcatraz, I'd still be lost!"
"Footprints!" I said. “Australia, can you see Kaz's footprints?"
“Of course." She tapped the yellow Lenses, my Tracker's Lenses, which she was still wearing.
"Follow them!"
She nodded, then led us from the room. Only a few feet down the hallway, however, she stopped.
"What?" I asked.
"They end here."
His Talent, I realized. It's jumping him about the Library, Ieading him to the center. We'll never be able to track him.
"That's it, then," Bastille said, beginning to sound depressed again. "We'll never get there in time."
"No," I said. "If I'm in charge, then we're not going to give up."
She looked taken aback. Then, she nodded. “All right. What do we do?"
I stood for a moment, thinking. There had to be a way. Information, lad, Grandpa Smedry's voice seemed to return to me. More powerful than any sword or gun . . .
I looked up sharply. "Australia, can you follow my footprints back the way I originally came, before I entered that room with the pit?"
"Sure," she said.
"Do it, then."
She led us through cagelike chambers and corridors. In a few minutes, we left the dungeon section of the Library and entered the section with the bookshelves. The gold bars I'd discarded on the ground proved that we were back where we'd started. I, of course, piled the bars into Bastille's pack.
No, not because of some great plan to use them. I just figured that if I survived all this, I'd want some gold. (I don't know if you realize this, but you can totally buy stuff with it.)
"Great," Bastille said. "We're back here. I don't mean to question you, O Great Leader, but we were lost when we were here too. We still don't know which way to go."
I reached into a pocket, then pulled out the Discerner’s Lenses. I put them on, then looked at the bookshelves. I smiled.
"What?" Bastille asked.
"They hold every book ever written, right?"
"That's what the Curators claim."
“So, they would have gathered them chronologically. When a new book comes out, the Curators get a copy, then put it on their shelves."
"So?"
"That means," I said, "that the newer books are going to be at the outer edges of the Library. The older the books get, the closer we'll get to the center. That's the place where they would have put their first books."
Bastille opened her mouth slightly, then her eyes widened as she understood. “Alcatraz, that's brilliant!"
"Must have been that bump to the head," I said, then pointed down the hallway. "That way. The books get older as they move down the row that direction."
Bastille and Australia nodded, and we were off.
CHAPTER 18
We're almost at the end of the second book. Hopefully, you've enjoyed the ride. I'm certain you know more about the world now than you did when you began.
In fact, you've probably learned all you need to. You know about the Librarian conspiracy, and you know that I'm a liar. Everything I wanted to do has been accomplished. I suppose I can just end the book right here.
Thanks for reading.
The end.
Oh, so that's not good enough for you, eh? Demanding today, are we?
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 th
is 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 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.