“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, leading 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 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 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.”