‘What language is that, anyway?’ I asked. ‘It mentions the Incarna, but it’s not the Forgotten Language.’
‘That’s old Nalhallan,’ Kaz said. ‘I can’t read it, but we have a few scholars back in the capital who can. When the Incarna fell, its few survivors ended up in Nalhalla to live.’
I finished the translation. Then, immediately, the three Curators surrounded me.
‘You must give up all writings to the Library when you enter,’ one hissed. ‘A copy will be returned to you once we have completed it. If a copy cannot be made in one hour’s time, we will return the original instead.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ However, I let them pull the sheet away and vanish with it.
Bastille was frowning – she’d read the translation as I wrote it. ‘That inscription makes it seem like your Talent is dangerous.’
‘It is,’ I said. ‘Do you know how many times I’ve nearly been beaten up for breaking something at the wrong time?’
‘But—’ She cut off, however, obviously sensing that I didn’t want to talk about it further.
To be honest, I didn’t know what to think. It was strange enough to find ancient writings that dealt with Smedry Talents. To have them give a caution about mine specifically . . . well, it was a little disturbing.
That was the first time I really got any hint of the troubles that were coming. You Free Kingdomers call me a savior. Can I really be considered a savior if I caused the very problem I helped fix?
‘Wait a moment,’ Bastille said. ‘Didn’t we get drawn here by an Oculatory Lens? Whatever happened to that?’
‘That’s right,’ I said, standing. I could still sense it working, though I’d been distracted by everything else in the tomb.
I swapped my Translator’s Lenses for my Oculator’s Lenses, then had to turn down their power because of how blinding the room was. Once I’d done so, I could see the Lens that had drawn me here. It was set into the lid of the sarcophagus.
‘It’s there,’ I said, pointing. ‘On the top of the sarcophagus.’
‘I don’t trust that thing,’ Kaz said. ‘That circle around it is strange. We should leave, gather a research team, then come back and study this place in detail.’
I nodded absently. Then, I walked toward the sarcophagus.
‘Alcatraz!’ Bastille said. ‘Are you going to do something stupid and brash again?’
I turned. ‘Yeah.’
She blinked. ‘Oh. Well, then, you probably shouldn’t. Consider me opposed to it. Whatever it is.’
‘Objection noted,’ I said.
‘I—’ Bastille said. She stopped as I stepped into the circle of clean ground around the sarcophagus.
Everything immediately changed. Dust began to fall around me, sparkling like very fine powdered metal. Lamps burned with bright flames set to the top of the pillars around the sarcophagus. It was like I’d entered a small column of golden light. Somehow I’d moved from a long-dead tomb to someplace alive with motion.
There was still a sense of reverence to the area. I turned, noticing Bastille and Kaz standing outside the ring of light. They seemed frozen in place, mouths open as if to speak.
I turned back to the sarcophagus, the dust falling very faintly in the air, sprinkling over everything. I held up a hand. It was indeed metallic, and it glittered with a yellow sheen. Gold dust.
Why had I stepped blindly into the circle like that?
It’s hard to explain. Imagine you have the hiccups. In fact, you not only have the hiccups, you have The Hiccups. These are the hiccups to end all hiccups. You’ve hiccupped all of your life, without a moment of freedom. You’ve hiccupped so much that you’ve lost friends, made everyone annoyed at you, and grown pretty down on yourself.
And then, amazingly, you discover a group of people who have similar problems. Some of them burp all the time, others sniffle all the time, and still others have really bad gas. They all make annoying noises, but they come from a land where that’s really cool. They’re all impressed with your hiccupping.
You hang out with these people for a time, and start to grow proud of your hiccups. Then, you pass a billboard that mentions – for the first time – that your hiccups will probably end up destroying the world.
You might, then, feel a little like I did. Confused, betrayed, unsettled. Willing to step into a strange ring of power to confront, hopefully, the person who made the billboard.
Even if he did happen to be dead.
I pushed aside the top of the sarcophagus. It was heavier than I’d expected, and I had to heave. It clattered to the floor, scattering gold dust.
There was a man’s body inside, and he wasn’t even a bit decomposed. In fact, he looked so lifelike that I jumped backward.
The man in the sarcophagus didn’t move. I edged closer, eyeing him. He looked to be in his fifties, and was wearing an ancient set of clothing – a kind of skirtlike wrap around the lower legs, then a flowing cloaklike shirt on his back that left his bare chest exposed. He had a golden headband around his forehead.
I hesitantly poked his face. (Don’t pretend you wouldn’t have done the same.) The man didn’t move. So, carefully, cringing, I checked for a pulse. Nothing.
I stepped back. Now, perhaps you’ve seen a dead body before. I sincerely hope that you haven’t, but let’s be realistic. People die sometimes. They have to – if they didn’t, funeral homes and graveyards would go out of business.
Dead bodies don’t look like they were ever alive. Corpses tend to look like they’re made from wax – they don’t seem like people at all, but mannequins.
This body didn’t look that way. The cheeks were still flush, the face surreal in the way it seemed ready to take a breath at any moment.
I glanced back at Bastille and Kaz. They were still frozen, as if time weren’t moving for them. I looked back at the body, and suddenly began to catch a hint of what might be going on.
I put on my Translator’s Lenses, then walked over to the discarded lid of the sarcophagus. There, printed in ornate letters, was a name:
Allekatrase the Lens-wielder, first Bearer of the Dark Talent.
Intrinsically, my Translator’s Lenses let me know that the word Lens-wielder when spoken in ancient Nalhallan would sound different to my ears. The ancient Nalhallan word for ‘Lens’ was smaed and their word for ‘person who uses’ was dary.
Allekatrase the Lens-wielder. Allekatrase Smaed-dary.
Alcatraz Smedry the First.
Golden dust fell around me, sprinkling my hair. ‘You broke time, didn’t you?’ I asked. ‘Kaz mentioned that there were legends of you having done so. You created for yourself a tomb where time would not pass, where you could rest without decomposing.’
It was the ultimate method of embalming. I personally suspect that the Egyptian custom of making mummies of their kings came from the story of Alcatraz Smedry the First.
‘I have your Talent,’ I said, stepping up beside the sarcophagus, looking at the man inside. ‘What am I supposed to do with it? Can I control it? Or will it always control me?’
The body was silent. They’re like that. Completely lacking in social graces, those corpses.
‘Did it destroy you?’ I asked. ‘Is that what the warning is for?’
The body was so serene. Gold dust was beginning to gather on its face. Finally, I just sighed, kneeling down to look at the Lens in the lid of the sarcophagus. It was completely clear, with no color to indicate what it did. Yet, I knew it was powerful because it had drawn me here.
I reached out and tried to pry it free. It was stuck on the lid very soundly, but I wasn’t about to leave a Lens that powerful sitting in a forgotten tomb.
I touched the lid and released my Talent into it. Immediately, the Lens popped free, flipping up into the air. I was caught so off guard that I barely managed to grab it before it fell and shattered.
As soon as I touched the Lens, it stopped giving off power. The bubble of strange time-shift continued to be in force, however, so the Lens hadn’t been behind that.
I moved to stand up, but then noticed something. In the place where the Lens had been affixed, there was an inscription. It would have been hidden beneath the glass of the Lens, which had a small black paper backing to keep the text from being seen until the Lens was removed.
It was in ancient Nalhallan. With my Translator’s Lenses, I could read it with ease.
To my descendant, the tiny inscription read.
If you have released this Lens, then I know you have the Dark Talent. Part of me rejoices, for this means it is still being protected and borne by our family, as is our curse.
Yet, I am also worried, for it means you haven’t found a way to banish it. As long as the corrupting Talent remains, it is a danger.
This Lens is the most precious of my collection. I have given others to my son. His lesser Talent, though corrupted, is not to be feared. Only when the Talent can Break is it dangerous. In all others, it simply taints what they have done.
Use the Lens. Pass on this Knowledge, if it has been forgotten.
And care well for the burden, blessing and curse you have been given.
I sat back, trying to decide what I thought of the words. I wished that I had something I could write with, but then decided that it was better that I didn’t copy the text. The Curators would take what I wrote, and if they didn’t already know of the inscription, I didn’t want them to.
I stood up. With some effort, I managed to get the lid of the sarcophagus back on. Then, I lay my hand on the inscription and somehow Broke it. The text of the letters scrambled, becoming gibberish, even to my Translator’s Lenses.
I pulled my hand back, surprised. I’d never done anything like that before. I stood silently, then solemnly bowed my head to the sarcophagus, which had been carved to match the face of the man who rested inside.
‘I’ll do my best,’ I said. Then I stepped from the circle.
The light faded. The room became musty and old again, and Bastille and Kaz began moving.
‘—don’t think this is a good idea,’ Bastille said.
‘Objection noted again,’ I said, dusting the gold powder from my shoulders, where it had gathered like King Midas’s dandruff.
‘Alcatraz?’ Kaz asked. ‘What just happened?’
‘Time moves differently in there,’ I said, looking back at the sarcophagus. It seemed unchanged, the dust hanging in the air, the lamps extinguished. The Lens on the lid, however, was gone. I still had it in my hand.
‘I think stepping into that circle takes you back in time to the moment he died,’ I said. ‘Something like that. I’m not exactly sure.’
‘That’s . . . very odd,’ Kaz said. ‘Did you find out who he was?’
I nodded, looking down at the Lens. ‘Alcatraz the First.’
The other two were silent.
‘That’s impossible, Al,’ Kaz said. ‘I’ve seen the tomb of Alcatraz the First. It’s down in the Nalhallan royal catacombs. It’s one of the city’s greatest tourist attractions.’