Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones

I was stuck, looking for a solution where there wasn’t one. Sometimes there isn’t a way out, and thinking won’t help, no matter how clever you are. In a way, that’s kind of like what I wrote at the beginning of this chapter. You remember the secret “thing” I claimed to have done in this book? The shameful, clever trick? Did you go looking for it? Well, whatever you found, that wasn’t what I was intending—because there is no trick. No hidden message. No clever twist I put into the first fourteen chapters.

I don’t know how hard you searched, but it couldn’t have been harder than I searched for a way to both save Draulin and keep my Lenses. I was quickly running out of time, and I knew it. I had to make a decision. Right then. Right there.

I chose to take the Lenses from Bastille and throw them up to Kaz. He caught them, just barely.

“Can your Talent take you to the center of the library?” I asked.

He nodded. “I think so. Now that I have a location to search for.”

“Go,” I said. “Trade the Lenses for Draulin’s life. We’ll worry about getting them back later.”

Kaz nodded. “All right. You wait here—I’ll find a rope or something and come back for you once Bastille’s mother is safe.”

He disappeared for a moment, then returned, head sticking back out over the opening. “Before I go, do you want this?” He held out Bastille’s pack.

The Grappler’s Glass boots were inside. I felt a stab of hope, but quickly dismissed it. The sides of the shaft were stone.

Besides, even if I did get free, I’d still have to trade the Lenses for Draulin. I’d just have to do it in person. Still, there was food in the pack. No telling how long we’d be in the pit. “Sure,” I called up to him, “drop it.”

He did so, and I stepped to the side, letting it hit the soft ground. By now Bastille was on her feet, though she leaned woozily against the side of the pit.

This was why I shouldn’t ever have been made a leader. This is why nobody should ever look to me. Even then, I made the wrong decisions. A leader has to be hard, capable of making the right choice.

You think I did make the right one? Well then, you’d be as poor a leader as I was. You see, saving Draulin was the wrong choice. By trading the Translator’s Lenses, I may have saved one life, but at a terrible cost.

The Librarians would gain access to the knowledge of the Incarna people. Sure, Draulin would live—but how many would die as the war turned against the Free Kingdoms? With ancient technology at their disposal, the Librarians would become a force that could no longer be held back.

I’d saved one life, but doomed so many more. That’s not the sort of weakness a leader can afford. I suspect Kaz knew the truth of that. He hesitated, then asked, “You sure you want to do this, kid?”

“Yes,” I said. At the time, I didn’t think about things such as protecting the future of the Free Kingdoms or the like. I only knew one thing: I couldn’t be the one responsible for Draulin’s death.

“All right,” Kaz said. “I’ll be back for you. Don’t worry.”

“Good luck, Kaz.”

And he was gone.

Chapter 16

Writers—particularly storytellers like myself—write about people. That is ironic, since we actually know nothing about them.

Think about it. Why does someone become a writer? Is it because they like people? Of course not. Why else would we seek out a job where we get to spend all day, every day, cooped up in our basement with no company besides paper, a pencil, and our imaginary friends?

Writers hate people. If you’ve ever met a writer, you know that they’re generally awkward, slovenly individuals who live beneath stairwells, hiss at those who pass, and forget to bathe for weeklong periods. And those are the socially competent ones.

I looked up at the sides of our pit.

Bastille sat on the floor, obviously trying to pretend she was a patient person. It worked about as well as a watermelon trying to pretend it was a golf ball. (Though not as messy and half as much fun.)

“Come on, Bastille,” I said, glancing at her. “I know you’re as frustrated as I am. What are you thinking? Could I break these walls somehow? Make a slope we can climb up?”

“And risk the dirt and stone behind the wall caving in on us?” she asked flatly.

She had a point. “What if we tried to climb up without using the Talent?”

“These walls are slick and polished, Smedry,” she snapped. “Not even a Crystin can climb that.”

“But if we shimmied up, feet on one wall, back against the other one…”

“The hole is way too wide for that.”

I fell silent.

“What?” she asked. “No other brilliant ideas? What about jumping up? You should try that a few times.” She turned away from me, looking at the side of our pit, then sighed.

I frowned. “Bastille, this isn’t like you.”

“Oh?” she asked. “How do you know what’s ‘like me’ and what isn’t? You’ve known me for what, a couple of months? During which time we’ve spent all of three or four days together?”

“Yes, but … well, I mean…”