She hit the wall with a terrible thud. I spun in alarm.
Bastille slid to the ground. She looked dazed. Her forehead was bleeding from a cut, and one of her hands was still blue from the blast of frost. She favored her right side and grimaced as she tried—then failed—to stand. She seemed to be in really bad shape.
Kiliman stood up, then recovered the Crystin blade. He shook his head, as if to clear it, and with his flesh hand he pulled out another Lens. The Voidstormer’s Lens: the one that sucked things toward him.
He pointed the Lens toward Bastille. She groaned as she began to slide across the floor in his direction, unable to even stand. Kiliman raised the sword.
I dived for the Translator’s Lenses, which had skidded across the floor to rest beside one of the scroll-covered walls. I knelt next to the Lenses, hurriedly grabbing them.
“Ha!” Kiliman said. “You’d fetch those Lenses even as I kill your friend. I thought that Smedrys were supposed to be bold and honorable. We can see what happens to your grand ideals once real danger is near!”
I knelt there for a moment, my back to Kiliman, Translator’s Lenses in my fingers. I knew I couldn’t let him have them. Not even to save my life or Bastille’s …
I glanced over my shoulder. Bastille came to a rest in front of Kiliman. She had her eyes closed, and barely seemed to be breathing. He raised her mother’s sword to kill her.
This is the part I’ve been warning you about. The part I know you’re not going to like. I’m sorry.
I dashed away, making for the exit of the room.
Kiliman laughed even more loudly. “I knew it!”
At that moment, in my haste, I tripped. I stumbled on the uneven ground and fell facedown, the Translator’s Lenses sliding from my fingers and hitting the stone floor. They tumbled away. “No!” I yelled.
“Aha!” Kiliman said, then spun his Voidstormer’s Lens toward the fallen Translator’s Lenses. They whipped off the floor and flew toward him. I watched the Lenses go, meeting Kiliman’s eyes—one human, one glass—as he exulted in his victory.
Then I smiled. I think it was about that moment when he noticed the tripwire tied around the frame of the Translator’s Lenses that flew through the air toward him.
A thin wire, nearly invisible. It stretched from the spectacles to a place across the room. The place where I’d been kneeling by the wall a moment before.
The place where I’d tied the other end of the tripwire to one of the scrolls.
Kiliman caught the Lenses. The tripwire pulled taut. The scroll popped off its shelf, falling to the ground.
The Librarian monster’s eyes opened wide, and his mouth gaped in shock. The Translator’s Lenses fell to the ground in front of him.
Immediately, the Curators surrounded Kiliman. “You have taken a book!” one cried.
“No!” Kiliman said, stepping back. “It was an accident!”
“You signed no contract,” another said, skull face smiling. “Yet you took a book.”
“Your soul is ours.”
“NO!”
I shuddered at the pain in that voice. Kiliman reached toward me, furious, but it was too late. A fire grew from nothing at his feet. It burned around him, and he screamed again.
“You will fall, Smedry! The Librarians will have your blood! It will be spilt on an altar to make the very Lenses we’ll use to destroy your kingdoms, break that which you love, and enslave those who follow you. You may have beaten me, but you will fall!”
I shivered. The fires consumed Kiliman, and I had to shield my eyes against the bright light.
And then it was gone. I blinked, clearing the afterimage from my eyes, and saw a new Curator—one with only half a skull—hovering where Kiliman had stood. A group of discarded nuts, bolts, gears, and springs were scattered on the ground.
The half-skull Curator hovered over to the side of the room, carefully replacing the scroll that had been pulled free. I ignored it; there were more important things to worry about.
“Bastille!” I said, rushing over to her. There was blood on her lips, and she seemed so bruised and battered. I knelt beside her.
She groaned softly. I gulped.
“Nice trick,” she whispered. “With the tripwire.”
“Thanks.”
She coughed, then spat up some blood.
By the first sands, I thought with a sudden stab of fear. No. This can’t be happening!
“Bastille, I…” I suddenly found tears in my eyes. “I wasn’t fast enough or smart enough. I’m sorry.”
“What are you blathering about?”
I blinked. “Well, you look kind of bad, and…”
“Shut up and help me to my feet,” she said, stumbling to her knees.
I stared at her.
“What?” she said. “It’s not like I’m dying or anything. I just broke a few ribs and bit my tongue. Shattering Glass, Smedry, do you have to be so melodramatic all the time?”
With that, she stretched, grimaced, and stumbled over to pick up the fallen Crystin sword.
I got to my feet, feeling relieved and a little foolish. I went and carefully untied the Translator’s Lenses from the tripwire, then slid them into their pocket, where they belonged. To the side, I could see Kaz peek into the room, apparently having returned from depositing Draulin and Australia somewhere safe. He smiled broadly when he saw me and Bastille, then rushed into the room.
“Alcatraz, kid, I can’t believe you’re still alive!”
“I know,” I said. “I thought for sure one of us was going to die. You know, if I ever write my memoirs, this section is going to seem really boring because nobody was narratively dynamic enough to get themselves killed.”
Bastille snorted, joining us, holding one of her arms close to her side. “That’s real inspiring, Smedry.”
“You’re the one who stopped following the plan,” I said.
“What? Kiliman was faster than you. How exactly were you planning to keep him from chasing you down as you ran?”
“I’m … not sure,” I admitted.
Kaz just laughed. “What happened to Kiliman anyway?”
I pointed toward the Curator with half a skull. “He’s doing a little bit of soul-searching,” I said. “You could say that watching over these books is his soul responsibility now. He’ll probably enjoy the soul-itary lifestyle.”
“Can I hit him?” Bastille asked flatly.
I smiled, then noticed something on the ground. I picked it up—a single yellow Lens.
“What’s that?”
“Tracker’s Lens,” I said. “Kiliman’s. It was in the pouch with Draulin’s Fleshstone.”
“My mother,” Bastille said. “How is she?”
“I’m fine,” Draulin’s voice said. We spun to find her standing beside a sheepish Australia in the doorway.
“Fine” was a stretch—Draulin still looked pale, like someone who had been sick for far too long. Yet her step was steady as she walked into the room and joined us.
“Lord Smedry,” she said, going down on one knee. “I’ve failed you.”
“Nonsense,” I said.
“The Librarian of the Scrivener’s Bones captured me,” she said. “I was caught in a trap and tied up, and he was able to take me without any trouble. I have shamed my order.”
I rolled my eyes. “The rest of us got caught in Curator traps too. We were simply lucky enough to wiggle out of them before Kiliman found us.”
Draulin still bowed her head. On the back of her neck, I caught sight of a sparkling crystal—her Fleshstone, replaced.