The Scrivener's Bones (Alcatraz, #2)

by Brandon Sanderson

cannot directly harm those who enter.” Hence the traps, I thought. Technically, when we tri...

“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.”

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.

“Could he be Tharandes?”

“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!”

“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.”

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.

“No,” the Curator said, smile broadening. “They were claimed by Shasta Smedry. Your mother.”

Cut those paragraphs out again, then go find a book by Jane Austen and paste

(Like many Librarians, she was named after a mountain.)

Did she have something to do with the twisted, half-human Scrivener’s Bone that was hunting me?

I felt very sorry for the person who was tricked into giving up their soul for a bad romance novel.

was … well, is … my sister-in-law.” “They never divorced?”

“We were all there at your naming, Al. That was the day when your father pronounced the Sands of Rashid upon you as your inheritance. We’re still not sure how he got them to you at the right time, in the right place.”

“Oracle’s Lenses,” I said. “He has a pair of those?” I nodded.

The prophets in Ventat are supposed to have the only pair in existence. I wonder where Attica found some.” I shrugged. “He menti...

she’d lose her Talent.” “What?” “Her Talent, Al,” Kaz said. “She’s a Smedry now.” “Only by marriage.” “Doesn’t matter,” Kaz said. “The spouse of a Smedry gains their husband’s or wife’s same Talent as soon as the marriage is official.”

But this meant they were something different. That seemed important.

Grandpa Smedry said he’d worried that my mother had only married my father for his Talent.

She’d wanted a Talent. “So, my mother’s Talent is…” “Losing things,” Kaz said. “Just like your father’s.” He smiled, eyes twinkling. “I don’t think she’s ever figured out how to use it properly.

Yet with me, the first thing you mentioned was my height?”

and yet it is something Kaz takes pride in

(I now know she had been trying to get me to stop using my Talent, for fear it would expose me to those who were searching for the Sands.)

I noticed that the odd sensation was getting stronger.

(If you happen to fall into that last category, you should know that my name isn’t really Alcatraz Smedry, nor is it Brandon Sanderson. My name is in fact Garth Nix, and you can find me in Australia. Oh, and I insulted your mother once. What’re you going to do about it, huh?)

“Curators,” I said. “Do these coins count as books?”

We like to torment our readers, and that translates to tormenting our characters.

“Good idea!” I said. “Curators, do those bars count as books?” The ghosts floated sullenly, one shooting an angry glare at Bastille. “No,”

It was hard to explain. As one might expect, the walls were covered with small pictures, drawn as if to be words. Yet instead of people with cattle or eagle heads, there were pictures of dragons and serpents. Instead of scarabs, there were odd geometric shapes like runes. Above the doorway where we had come in, there was …

This one also had a small circle in the center with its own symbols, along with a ring around the outside, split into two sections, each with more characters in them.

We looked at the Curators. One reluctantly spoke. “You can,” it said. “You lose your soul when you check out or move a book. A symbol on the wall can be read without being checked out.”

“It says Breaking,” I said quietly. My Talent. “Interesting,” Kaz said. “They give it its own circle on the diagram. What is that outer circle?” The ring was split into two pieces. “One says Identity,” I said. “The other says Possibility.”

Instead, I turned, hesitant, to read the words on the walls. My Translator’s Lenses instantly changed them to English for me. I immediately wished that I hadn’t read them.

If you want to be entertained, go to school and listen to the imaginary facts your teachers make up.

No, the Forgotten Language wasn’t their original method of writing. Everybody knows that. They transformed all of their books into it. Kind of like … applying an encrypting program to a computer document. Except it affected all forms of writing, whether on paper, in metal, or in stone.

Nobody can read what they left behind. Except me. With my Translator’s Lenses.

Dark Talent

book 5

The Bane of Incarna. That which twists, that which corrupts, and that which destroys. The Dark Talent. The Talent of Breaking.

Once I’d done so, I could see the Lens that had drawn me here. It was set into the lid of the sarcophagus.

He looked to be in his fifties, and was wearing an ancient set of clothing—a kind of skirtlike wrap around his upper legs, then a flowing cloaklike shirt on his

Allekatrase the Lens-wielder, first Bearer of the Dark Talent.

Allekatrase the Lens-wielder. Allekatrase Smaed-dary. Alcatraz Smedry the First.

“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.”

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. 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.

The most brilliant literary joke I’ve ever made. My apologies.

“She’s here, Alcatraz,” Bastille said. “I can feel her Fleshstone.”

The Translator’s Lenses were pried free from my fingers and sucked across the room.

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.

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.

“Haven’t you noticed?” she asked, looking at me. “My mother doesn’t have a prison name.” “So?” “So, I do.” I scratched my head. “You really don’t know anything, do you?” she asked.