She curled up a little bit further. Her Warrior's Lenses were off, clutched in her hand. I could see a haunted cast to her eyes. A sense of loss, of sorrow, of having had something deep and tender ripped from her, never to be returned.
I felt powerless. Had she been hurt? She shivered and moved, then looked up at me, eyes focusing. She seemed to realize for the first time that I was there.
She immediately pushed away from me and sat up. Then she sighed and wrapped her arms around her knees, bowing her head between them. "Why is it that you always see me like this?" she asked quietly. “I’m strong, I really am."
"I know you are,” I said, feeling awkward and embarrassed.
We remained like that for a time, Bastille unresponsive, me feeling like a complete idiot, even though I wasn’t sure what I'd done wrong. (Note to all the young men reading this: Get used to that.)
"So . . ." I said. "Er . . . you're still having trouble with that severing thing?”
She looked up, eyes red like they'd been scratched with sandpaper. "It's like . . ." she said in a quiet voice. “It’s like I used to have memories. Fond ones, of places I loved, of people I knew. Only now they're gone. I can feel the place where they were, and it's a hole, ripped open inside of me.”
"The Mindstone is that important?” I asked. It was a dumb thing to say, but I felt I should say something.
"It connects all of the Knights of Crystallia,” she whispered. "It strengthens us, gives us comfort. By it, we all share a measure of who we are."
"I should have shattered the swords of those idiots who did this to you," I growled.
Bastille shivered, holding her arms close. "I'll get reconnected eventually, so I should probably tell you not to be so angry. They're good people and don't deserve your scorn. But honestly, I'm having trouble feeling sympathy for them right now." She smiled wanly.
I tried to smile back, but it was hard. "Someone wanted this to happen to you, Bastille. They set you up."
"Maybe," Bastille said, sighing. It appeared that her episode was over, though it had left her weakened even further.
"Maybe?" I repeated.
"I don't know, Smedry," she said. "Maybe nobody set me up. Maybe I really did just get promoted too quickly, and really did just fail on my own. Maybe . . . maybe there is no grand conspiracy against me."
"I guess you could be right," I said.
You, of course, don't believe that. I mean, when is there not some grand conspiracy? This entire series is about a secret cult of evil Librarians who rule the world, for Sands' sake.
"Alcatraz?" a voice called. Sing wandered around the corner a moment later. "Himalaya found another book in the Forgotten Language. Figured you would want to look at it."
I glanced at Bastille; she waved me away. "What, you think I need to be babied?" she snapped. "Go. I'll be there in a moment."
I hesitated, but followed Sing around a few walls of books to the center of the room. The prince sat, looking bored, on what appeared to be a throne made of books. (I'm still not sure who he got to make it for him.) Folsom was directing the moving of stacks; Himalaya was still sorting, with no sign of slowing down.
Sing handed me the book. Like all of the others in the Forgotten Language, the text on it looked like crazy scribbles. Before he had died, Alcatraz the First – my ultimate ancestor – had used the Talent to break the language of his people so that nobody could read it.
Nobody, except for someone with a pair of Translator's Lenses. I put mine on and flipped to the first page, hoping it wasn't another cookbook.
Observations on the Talents of the Smedry people, the title page read, and an explanation of what led up to their fate. As written by Fenilious K. Wandersnag, scribe to His Majesty, Alcatraz Smedry.
I blinked, then read the words again.
"Guys?" I said, turning. "Guys!"
The group of soldiers hesitated, and Himalaya glanced toward me. I held the book up.
"I think we just found what we've been looking for."
CHAPTER 17
Things are about to go very wrong.
Oh, didn't you know that already? I should think that it would be obvious. We're almost to the end of the book, and we just had a very encouraging victory. Everything looks good. So, of course, it's all going to go wrong. You should pay better attention to plot archetypes.
I'd like to promise you that everything will turn out all right, but I think there's something you should understand.
This is the middle book of the series. And, as everyone knows, the heroes always lose in the middle book. It makes the series more tense.
Sorry. But hey, at least my books have awesome endings, right?
I dismissed the soldiers, ordering them to return to their posts. Sing and Folsom joined me, looking at the book, even though they couldn't read it. I suspected that my mother must have an Oculator with her to read the book – to her alone, the Lenses would be useless.
"You're sure this is what we're after?" Sing asked, turning the book over in his fingers.
"It's a history of the fall of Incarna," I said, "told by Alcatraz the First's personal scribe."
Sing whistled. "Wow. What are the chances?"
"Pretty good, I'd say," Bastille said, rounding the corner and joining us. She still looked quite the worse for wear, but at least she was standing. I gave her what I hoped was an encouraging smile.
"Nice leer," she said to me. “Anyway, this is the Royal Archives –“
"Not a –" Folsom began to say.
" – don't interrupt,” Bastille snapped. She appeared to be in rare form – but then, having a piece of your soul cut out tends to do that to people.
"This is the Royal Archives,” Bastille continued. “A lot of these books have passed down through the royal Nalhallan line for centuries – and the collection has been added to by the Smedrys, the Knights of Crystallia, and the other noble lines who have joined with us."
"Yes indeed," Prince Rikers said, taking the book from Sing, looking it over. "People don't just throw away books in the Forgotten Language. A lot of these have been archived here for years and years. They're copies of copies."
"You can copy these scribbles?" I asked with surprise.
"Scribes can be quite meticulous," Sing said. "They're almost as bad as Librarians."
"Excuse me?" Himalaya huffed, walking up to us. She'd finished giving orders to the last couple of soldiers, who were arranging the books she
'd just organized. The room looked kind of strange, with the back half of it still dominated by gargantuan piles of books, the front half filled with neatly organized stacks.
"Oh," Sing said. "Um, I didn't mean you, Himalaya. I meant Librarians who aren't recovering."
"I'm not either," she said, folding her arms, adopting a very deliberate stance as she stood in her Hushlander skirt and blouse. "I meant what I said earlier. I intend to prove that you can be a Librarian without being evil. There has to be a way."
"If you say so . . ." Sing said.
I still kind of agreed with Sing. Librarians were . . . well, Librarians. They'd oppressed me since my childhood. They were trying to conquer Mokia.
"I think you did wonderfully,” Folsom said to Himalaya. "Ten out of ten on a scale of pure, majestic effectiveness."
Prince Rikers sniffed at that. "Excuse me," he said, then handed me the Forgotten Language book and walked away – "What was that about?" Himalaya asked.
"I think Folsom just reminded the prince that he was a book critic," Bastille said.
Folsom sighed. "I don't want to make people mad. I just . . . well, how can people get better if you don't tell them what you honestly think?"
"I don't think everyone wants to hear what you honestly think, Folsom," Himalaya said, laying a hand on his arm.
"Maybe I could go talk to him," Folsom said. "You know, explain myself."
I didn't think the prince would listen, but I didn't say anything as Folsom walked after Rikers. Himalaya was watching after the determined critic with fondness.
"You're in love with him, aren't you?" I asked her.