‘Getting frustrated?’ a Curator asked, hovering around me in a circle. ‘How long will you struggle? You need not be able to speak. Simply blink three times if you want to trade your soul for the way out.’
I kept my eyes wide open. They began to dry out, which was appropriately ironic, considering the state of my shirt.
The Curator looked disappointed, but continued to hover. Why bother with all of the cajoling? I wondered. We’re in their power. Why not kill us? Why not just take our souls from us by force?
That thought made me pause. If they hadn’t done that already, then it probably meant that they couldn’t. Which seemed to imply that they were bound by some kind of laws or a code or something.
My jaw was getting tired. It seemed an odd thing to think of. I was being held tightly in all places, and I was worried about my jaw? Was that because it wasn’t being held as tightly as the rest? But, I’d already determined that. The goop in my mouth wasn’t as hard.
So, uncertain what else to do, I bit down. Hard. Surprisingly, my teeth cut through the stuff, and the chunk of goop came off in my mouth. Suddenly, the entire blanket of it – the stuff covering me, Bastille, Kaz, and the floor – shuddered.
What? I thought. The stuff I’d bitten off immediately became liquid again, and I nearly choked as I was forced to swallow it. The piece in front of my face withdrew slightly after the bite, and I could still see it wiggling. Almost as if . . . the entire blob were alive.
I shivered. Yet, I didn’t have many options. Wiggling my head a bit – it was looser now that the stuff had retreated from my face – I snapped forward and took another bite out of the stuff. It shook and pulled farther away. I leaned over, and – spitting out the chunk of tarry-bananaish stuff – I took another bite.
The blanket of goop pulled back from me completely, like a shy dog that had been kicked. The metaphor seemed apt, and so I kicked it.
The blob shook, then retreated off of Bastille and Kaz, fleeing away down the corridor. I spit a few times, grimacing at the taste. Then I eyed the Curators. ‘Perhaps you should train your traps a little better.’
They did not look pleased. Kaz, on the other hand, was smiling widely. ‘Kid, I’m almost tempted to make you an official short person!’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘Course, we’d have to cut your legs off at the knees,’ Kaz said. ‘But that would be a small price to pay!’ He winked at me. I’m pretty sure that was a joke.
I shook my head, stepping out of the rubbled pocket I’d made in the floor with my Talent. My shoes barely hung to my feet, and I kicked them off, forced to walk barefoot.
Still, I’d gotten us free. I turned, smiling, to Bastille. ‘Well, I believe that makes two traps I’ve saved you from.’
‘Oh?’ she said. ‘And are we going to start a count of the ones you got me into, as well? Who was it who stepped on that trip wire again?’
I flushed.
‘Any one of us could have tripped it, Bastille,’ Kaz said, walking up to us. ‘As fun as that was, I’m starting to think it might be a good idea if we didn’t hit any more of those. We need to go more carefully.’
‘You think?’ Bastille asked flatly. ‘The trick is, I can’t scout ahead. Not if you’re leading us with your Talent.’
‘We’ll just have to be more cautious, then,’ Kaz said. I looked down at the trip wire, thinking about the danger. We couldn’t afford to stumble into every one of those we came across. Who knew if we’d even be able to think of a way out of the next one?
‘Kaz, Bastille, wait a second.’ I reached into a pocket, pulling out my Lenses. I left the Windstormer’s Lenses alone and put on the Discerner’s Lenses – the ones that Grandpa Smedry had left for me up above.
Immediately, everything around me began to give off a faint glow, indicating how old it was. I looked down. Sure enough, the trip wire glowed far lighter than the stones or the scrolls around it. It was newer than the original construction of the building. I looked up, smiling. ‘I think I’ve found a way around the problem.’
‘Are those Discerner’s Lenses?’ Bastille asked.
I nodded.
‘Where in the sands did you get a pair of those?’
‘Grandpa Smedry left them for me,’ I said. ‘Outside, along with a note.’ I frowned, glancing at the Curators. ‘Speaking of which, didn’t you say you’d return the writings you took from me?’
The creatures glanced at one another. Then, one of them approached, betraying a sullen look. The apparition bent down and set some things on the ground: copies of my tags, the wrapper that had been taken from me, and Grandpa Smedry’s note. There were also copies of the money I’d given them – they were perfect replicas, except that they were colorless.
Great, I thought. But I probably didn’t need that anymore anyway. I stooped down to gather the things, which all glowed brightly, since they all had been created brand new. Bastille took the note, looked it over with a frown, then handed it to Kaz.
‘So, your father really is down here somewhere,’ she said.
‘Looks like it.’
‘And . . . the Curators claim he already gave up his soul.’
I fell silent. They gave back my papers when I asked, I thought, and they keep trying to get us to agree to give away our souls, but don’t take them by force. They’re bound by rules.
I should have realized this earlier. You see, everything is bound by rules. Society has laws, as does nature, as do people. Many of society’s rules have to do with expectations – which I’ll talk about later – and therefore can be bent. A lot of nature’s laws, however are hard-set.
There are many more of these than you might expect. In fact, there are even natural laws relating to this book, my favorite of which is known as the Law of Pure Awesomeness. This law, of course, simply states that any book I write is awesome. I’m sorry, but it’s a fact.
Who am I to argue with science?
‘You,’ I said, looking toward a Curator. ‘Your kind have laws, don’t they?’
The Curator paused. ‘Yes,’ it finally said. ‘Do you want to read them? I can give you a book that explains them in detail.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘No, I don’t want to read about them. I want to hear about them. From you.’
The Curator frowned.
‘You have to tell me, don’t you?’ I said, smiling.
‘It is my privilege to do so,’ the creature said. Then, it began to smile. ‘Of course, I am going to have to tell them to you in their original language.’
‘We are impressed that you speak ancient Greek,’ another said. ‘You are one who came to us prepared. There are few that do that, these days.’
‘But,’ another whispered, ‘we doubt that you know how to speak Elder Faxdarian.’
Speak ancient Greek . . ., I thought, confused. Then it occurred to me. They don’t know about my Translator’s Lenses! They think that because I understood them back at the beginning, I must have known the language.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ I said casually, swapping my Discerner’s Lenses back for my Translator’s Lenses. ‘Try me.’
‘Ha,’ one of them said in a very odd, strange language – it consisted mostly of spitting sounds. Like always, the Translator’s Lenses let me hear the words in English. ‘The fool thinks he knows our language.’
‘Give him the rules, then,’ another hissed.
‘First rule,’ said the one in front of me. ‘If anyone enters our domain bearing writing, we may separate them from their group and demand the writing be given to us. If they resist, we may take the writing, but we must return copies. We may hold these back for one hour but, unless the items are requested, can keep them from then on.
‘Second rule, we may take the souls of those who enter, but we can do so only if the souls are offered freely and lawfully. Souls may be coerced, but not forced.
‘Third rule, we may accept or reject a person’s request for a soul contract. Once the contract is signed, we must provide the specific book requested, then refrain from taking their soul for the time specified in the contract. This time may not be longer than ten hours. If a person takes a book off its shelf without a contract, we may take their soul after ten seconds.’
I shivered. Ten seconds or ten hours, it didn’t seem to matter much. You still lost your soul. Of course, in my experience, there’s really only one book in all of the world that is worth your soul to read – and you’re holding it right now.
I accept credit cards.
‘Fourth rule,’ the Curator continued. ‘We cannot directly harm those who enter.’
Hence the traps, I thought. Technically, when we trip those, we harm ourselves. I continued to stare blankly ahead, acting as if I didn’t understand a word they were saying.
‘Fifth rule, when a person gives up their soul and becomes a Curator, we must deliver up their possessions to their kin, should a member of the family come to the Library and request such possessions.
‘Sixth rule, and most important of them all. We are the protectors of knowledge and truth. We cannot lie, if asked a direct question.’
The Curator fell silent.
‘That it?’ I asked.
If you’ve never seen a group of undead Curators with flaming eyes jump into the air with surprise . . . okay, I’m going to assume that you’ve never seen a group of undead Curators with flaming eyes jump into the air with surprise. Suffice it to say that the experience was quite amusing, in a creepy sort of way.
‘He speaks our language!’ one hissed.
‘Impossible,’ another said. ‘Nobody outside the Library knows it.’
‘Could he be Tharandes?’
‘He would have died millennia ago!’
Bastille and Kaz were watching me. I winked at them.
‘Translator’s Lenses,’ one of the Curators suddenly hissed. ‘See!’
‘Impossible,’ another said. ‘Nobody could have gathered the Sands of Rashid.’
‘But he has . . .,’ said a third. ‘Yes, they must be Lenses of Rashid!’
The three ghosts looked even more amazed than they had before.
‘What’s happening?’ Bastille whispered.
‘I’ll tell you in a minute.’
Based on the Curators’ own rules, there was one way to discover if my father really had come to the Library of Alexandria and given up his soul. ‘I am the son of Attica Smedry,’ I said to the group of creatures. ‘I’ve come here for his personal effects. Your own laws say you must provide them to me.’
There was a moment of silence.
‘We cannot,’ one of the Curators finally said.
I sighed in relief. If my father had come to the Library, then he hadn’t given up his soul. The Curators didn’t have his personal items.
‘We cannot,’ the Curator continued, skull teeth beginning to twist upward in an evil smile. ‘Because we have already given them away!’