The Scrivener's Bones (Alcatraz, #2)

by Brandon Sanderson

My full name is Bastille Vianitelle the Ninth.”

“Don’t like the hours,” she said.

We’ll talk about this more in the next book.

“The first we turn into swords and daggers. The second become Fleshstones, which are what really make us into Crystin.”

I shrugged. “I just shoved a little extra power into the glass.” Bastille didn’t reply. She stared at the boot, then looked at me. “This is silimatic,” she said. “Technology, not magic. You shouldn’t be able to push it like that. Technology has limits.”

I nodded. That’s Bastille for you. Tell her that she’s wonderful, and she’d sit there and sulk. But hint that she might have a hidden enemy somewhere, and she’d jump to her feet, full of energy.

The older the books get, the closer we’ll get to the center. That’s the place where they would have put their first books.”

Thanks for reading. The end.

My father has Lenses that let him glimpse the future. Could he have left me a message to help me fight Kiliman?

Bastille and I dashed into the room.

or Australia and I perhaps

It hit, sole first. The Grappler’s Glass immediately locked onto the glass of Kiliman’s left eye.

The boot stuck to the glass inside, and Bastille yanked hard on the tripwire in her hands—which was tied to the boot.

I pulled it out eagerly. It wasn’t, however, my Translator’s Lenses. It was the Tracker’s Lens that Kiliman had been using to follow us.

We’d sent her in first, looking like one of the ghosts, to untie the captives.

Other days you need to dress like a green hamster and dance around in circles while people throw pomegranates at you.

Laugh when good things happen. Laugh when bad things happen. Laugh when life is so plain boring that you can’t find anything amusing about it beyond the fact that it’s so utterly unamusing.

Laugh when books come to a close, even if the endings aren’t happy.

hmmmmm like book 5?

The place where I’d tied the other end of the tripwire to one of the scrolls.

“You signed no contract,” another said, skull face smiling. “Yet you took a book.” “Your soul is ours.” “NO!”

I shivered. The fires consumed Kiliman, and I had to shield my eyes against the bright light.

I blinked, clearing the afterimage from my eyes, and saw a new Curator—one with only half a skull—hovering where Kiliman had stood. A group of discarded nuts, bolts, gears, and springs were scattered on the ground.

“The Librarian of the Scrivener’s Bones captured me,” she said. “I was caught in a trap and tied up, and he was able to take me without any trouble. I have shamed my order.”

I glanced down, realizing that I still had Kiliman’s Tracker’s Lens in my fingers. “It’s very Dark Oculary,” Kaz said, rubbing his chin. “Bloodforged Lenses are bad business.”

More important, however, I saw three sets of footprints that were very distinct. All led toward a small, inconspicuous door on the far side of the room. One set of footprints was Grandpa Smedry’s. Another set of yellowish black ones belonged to my mother. The final set, a blazing red-white, was undoubtedly that of my father.

Hangukmal malhagi mashipshio.

You’re reading this one not because you believe its text, but because you expected another fun story.

faces made of numbers,

Pattern?

“I … really should have been done grieving by now. I mean, your father has been gone for thirteen years! I still kept hope, all that time. I thought for sure we’d find him here. I arrived too late, it seems.”

I am not an idiot. I blinked. Grandpa Smedry and Kaz were speaking softly about my father and his foolishness.

It’s so simple, the paper read. The Curators are, like most things in this world, bound by laws. They are strange laws, but they are strong laws. The trick is to not own your own soul when you sign the contract. So, I bequeath my soul to my son, Alcatraz Smedry. I sign it away to him. He is its true owner.

“I’d ask for the book that explained how to get my soul back after I’d given it to the Curators!”

“Aha!” he said. “I knew you’d figure it out, son!” The man turned, pointing at the hovering Curators. “Thank you kindly for the time you let me spend rummaging through your books, you old spooks! I beat you. I told you I would!”

gotten to the part where I’m tied to that altar, about to be sacrificed!

I’m not proud of what I’ve become, but I intend to make certain that everyone knows the truth. It’s time for the lies to end; time for people to realize that their ship of Theseus is just a copy.

was not my place to say so. “Bastille!” I screamed, holding her bloody body in my arms. “Why?” She didn’t respond. She stared into the air, eyes glazed over, her spirit already gone. I shivered, pulling her close, but the body was growing cold.

why does this paragraph show up after the author's afterword?

“You can’t die, you can’t!” I said. “Please.” It was no use. Bastille was dead. Really dead. Deader than a battery left all night with the high beams on. So dead, she was twice as dead as anyone I’d ever seen dead. She was that dead. “This is all my fault,” I said. “I shouldn’t have brought you in to fight Kiliman!” I felt at her pulse, just in case. There was nothing. Because, you know, she was dead. “Oh, cruel world,” I said, sobbing. I put a mirror up to her face to see if she was breathing. Of course, there was no mist on the mirror. Seeing as how Bastille was totally and completely dead. “You were so young,” I said. “Too young to be taken from us. Why did it have to happen to you, of all people, when you are so young? Too young to die, I mean.” I pricked her finger to make sure she wasn’t faking, but she didn’t even flinch. I pinched her, then slapped her face. Nothing worked. How many times do I have to explain that she was dead? I looked down at her body, her face turning blue from death, and I wept some more.

She was so dead that I didn’t even realize that this section is in the book for two reasons. First, so that I could have Bastille die somewhere, just like I promised. (See, I wasn’t lying about this! Ha!) The second reason is, of course, so that if anyone skips forward to the end to read the last page—one of the most putrid and unholy things any reader can do—they will be shocked and annoyed to read that Bastille is dead. The rest of you can ignore these pages. (Did I mention that Bastille is dead?) The end.