Alcatraz Versus the Knights of Crystallia

Bastille didn’t reply.

‘I maneuvered you into obtaining knighthood,’ Archedis said. ‘You never really deserved it. That was all a ploy to kill the old Smedry.’

Kill the old Smedry . . . Of course. Bastille and I had assumed that someone had been setting her up to fail so that she or her mother would be disgraced. We’d completely missed that Bastille had been acting as Grandpa Smedry’s bodyguard.

It hadn’t been a plot against her at all. It had been a plot against my grandfather. (And, if you’re wondering, no – I couldn’t actually hear what they were saying down there. But someone repeated it to me later, so give me a break.) I continued to fight against the crowd, trying to get down to her. It was all happening so quickly – though pages have passed in this narrative, it had only been moments since Archedis had stood up.

I was forced to watch as Bastille raised her mother’s sword. She seemed so tired, her shoulders slumping, her stance uncertain.

‘I’m the best there’s ever been,’ Archedis said. ‘You think you can fight me?’

Bastille looked up, and I saw something showing through her fatigue, her pain, and her sorrow. Strength.

She attacked. Crystal met crystal with a sound that was somehow more melodic than that of steel against steel. Archedis pushed Bastille back with his superior strength, laughing.

She came at him again.

Their swords met, pinging again and again. As before, Archedis rebuffed Bastille.

And she attacked again.

And again.

And again.

Each time, her sword swung a little faster. Each time, the ringing of blades was a little louder. Each time, her posture was a little more firm. She fought, refusing to be beaten down.

Archedis stopped laughing. His face grew solemn, then angry. Bastille threw herself at him repeatedly, her sword becoming a flurry of motion, the crystalline blade flashing with iridescence as it shattered light from the windows, throwing out sparkling colors.

And then Bastille actually started to push Archedis back.

Few people outside of Crystallia have seen two Crystin fight in earnest. The fleeing crowd slowed, its members turning back. Librarian thugs stopped beating on Himalaya and Folsom. Even I hesitated. We all grew still, as if in reverence, and the once chaotic room became as quiet as a concert hall.

We were an audience, watching a duet. A duet in which the violinists tried to ram their violins down each other’s throats.

The massive knight and the spindly girl circled, their swords beating against each other as if in a prescribed rhythm. The weapons seemed things of beauty, the way they reflected the light. Two people trying to kill each other with rainbows.

Bastille should have lost. She was smaller, weaker, and exhausted. Yet each time Archedis threw her down, she scrambled back to her feet and attacked with even more fury and determination. To the side, her father, the king, watched in awe. To my surprise, I even saw her mother stir. The woman looked dazed and sick, but she seemed to have regained enough consciousness to open her eyes.

Archedis made a mistake. He tripped slightly against a fallen Librarian thug. It was the first error I’d seen him make, but that didn’t matter. Bastille was on him in a heartbeat, pounding her sword against his, forcing him backward from his precarious position.

Looking dumbfounded, Archedis tripped backward and fell onto his armored butt. Bastille’s sword froze at his neck, a hair’s width from slicing his head free.

‘I . . . yield,’ Archedis said, sounding utterly shocked.

I finally managed to shove my way through the crowd, which had been stunned by the beautiful fight. I skidded to a stop beside my grandfather. He was breathing, though unconscious. He appeared to be humming to himself in his sleep.

‘Alcatraz,’ Bastille said.

I looked over at her. She still had her sword at Archedis’s neck.

‘I have something for you to do,’ she said, nodding to Archedis.

I smiled, then walked over to the fallen knight.

‘Look, hey,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m a double agent, really. I was just trying to infiltrate them. I . . . uh, is it true that you have a Truthfinder’s Lens?’

I nodded.

‘Oh,’ he said, knowing that I’d been able to see that he was lying.

‘Do it,’ Bastille said, nodding toward the ground.

‘Gladly,’ I said, reaching down to touch Archedis’s blade. With a magnificent crackling sound, it shattered beneath the power of my Talent.

Swcbn finally put down her knitting. ‘You,’ she said, ‘are very bad children. No cookies for you.’

And with that, she vanished – replaced with an exact statue of herself sitting in that very position.

ROYAL EPILOGUE (NOT A CHAPTER)

There comes a time in every book when a single, important question must be asked: ‘Where’s my lunch?’

That time isn’t right now. However, it is time to ask another question, almost as important: ‘So, what’s the point?’

It’s an excellent question. We should ask it about everything we read. The problem is, I have no idea how to answer it.

The point of this book is really up to you. My point in writing it was to look at my life, to expose it, to illuminate it. As Socrates once said, ‘the unexamined life is not worth living.’

He died for teaching that to people. I feel I should have died years ago. Instead, I proved myself to be a coward. You’ll see what I mean, eventually.

This book means whatever you make of it. For some, it will be about the dangers of fame. For others, it will be about turning your flaws into talents. For many, it will simply be entertainment, which is really quite all right. Yet for others, it will be about learning to question everything, even that which you believe.

For, you see, the most important truths can always withstand a little examination.

One week after the defeat of Archedis and the Librarians, I sat in the Chamber of Kings. Grandpa Smedry sat to my left, dressed in his finest tuxedo. Bastille sat to my right, wearing the plate armor of a full Knight of Crystallia. (Yes, of course she got her knighthood back. As if the knights could refuse after watching her defeat Archedis while they lay on the ground drooling.)

I still wasn’t clear on what Archedis had done. From what I gather, the Mindstone was cut from the Spire of the World itself. Like the Spire, the Mindstone has the power to radiate energy and knowledge to everyone connected to it. Archedis had been able to resist the Sundering as he’d cut himself off from the Mindstone earlier.

Either way, with both Bastille and Archedis being cut off – and with both wearing Warrior’s Lenses – their speed and strength had been equalized. And Bastille had beaten him. She’d won because of her skill and her tenacity, which I’d say are the more important indicators of knighthood. She’d worn her silvery armor virtually nonstop since it had been given back to her. A crystal sword hung from her back, newly bonded to Bastille.

‘Can’t we get on with this?’ she snapped. ‘Shattering Glass, Smedry. Your father is such a drama hog.’

I smiled. That was another sign she was feeling better – she was back to her usual charming self.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ she said, eyeing me. ‘Stop staring at me.’

‘I’m not staring at you,’ I said. ‘I’m having an internal monologue to catch the readers up on what has happened since the last chapter. It’s called a denouement.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Then we can’t actually be having this conversation; it’s something you just inserted into the text while writing the book years later. It’s a literary device – the conversation didn’t exist.’

‘Oh, right,’ I said.

‘You’re such a freak.’

Freak or not, I was happy. Yes, my mother escaped with the book. Yes, Swcbn escaped as well. But we caught Archedis, saved Mokia, and got back my father’s pair of Translator’s Lenses.

I’d shown them to him. He’d been surprised, had taken them back, then had returned to whatever important ‘work’ it was he’d been doing this whole time. We were supposed to find out about it today; he was going to present his findings before the monarchs. Apparently, he always revealed his discoveries this way.

So – of course – the place was a circus. No, literally. There was a circus outside the front of the palace to entertain the kids while their parents came in to listen to my father’s grand speech. The place was almost as packed as it had been during the treaty ratification.

Hopefully, this time there would be fewer Librarian hijinks. (those wacky Librarians and their hijinks.)

There was a large number of reporter types waiting in the reaches of the room, anticipating my father’s announcement. As I’d come to learn, anything involving the Smedry family was news to the Free Kingdomers. This news, however, was even more important.

The last time my father had held a session like this, he’d announced that he had discovered a way to collect the Sands of Rashid. The time before that, he’d explained that he’d broken the secret of Transporter’s Glass. People were expecting a lot from this speech.

I couldn’t help but feel that it was all just a little . . . bad for my father’s ego. I mean, a circus? who gets a circus thrown for them?

I glanced at Bastille. ‘You dealt with this kind of stuff most of your childhood, didn’t you?’

‘This kind of stuff?’ she asked.

‘Fame. Notoriety. People paying attention to everything you do.’

She nodded.

‘So how did you deal with it?’ I asked. ‘And not let it ruin you?’

‘How do you know it didn’t ruin me?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t princesses supposed to be nice and sweet and stuff like that? Wear pink dresses and tiaras?’

‘Well . . .’

‘Pink dresses,’ Bastille said, her eyes narrowing. ‘Someone gave me a pink dress once. I burned it.’

Ah, I thought. That’s right; I forgot. Bastille got around fame’s touch by being a freaking psychopath.

‘You’ll learn, lad,’ Grandpa Smedry said from behind me. ‘It might take some time, but you’ll figure it out.’

‘My father never did,’ I said.

Grandpa Smedry hesitated. ‘Oh, well, I don’t know about that. I think he did, for a while. Back around the time he got married. I just think he forgot.’

Around the time he got married. The words made me think of Folsom and Himalaya. We’d saved them seats, but they were late. As I looked around, I caught a glance of them working their way through the crowd. Grandpa Smedry waved enthusiastically, though they’d obviously already seen us.

But then, that’s Grandpa.

‘Sorry,’ Folsom said as he and his new wife seated themselves. ‘Getting some last-minute packing done.’

‘You still determined to go through with this?’ Grandpa Smedry asked.

Himalaya nodded. ‘We’re moving to the Hushlands. I think . . . Well, there isn’t much I can do for my fellow Librarians here.’

‘We’ll start an underground resistance for good Librarians,’ Folsom said.