Alcatraz Versus the Knights of Crystallia

‘Lybrarians,’ Himalaya said. ‘I’ve already begun working on a pamphlet!’

She pulled out a sheet of paper. Ten steps to being less evil, it read. A helpful guide for those who want to take the ‘Lie’ out of ‘Liebrarian.’

‘That’s . . . just great,’ I said. I wasn’t certain how else to respond. Fortunately for me, my father chose that moment to make his entrance – which was particularly good, since this scene was starting to feel a little long anyway.

The monarchs sat behind a long table facing a raised podium. We all grew quiet as my father approached, wearing dark robes to mark him as a scientist. The crowd hushed.

‘As you may have heard,’ he said, his voice carrying through the room, ‘I have recently returned from the Library of Alexandria. I spent some time as a Curator, escaping their clutches with my soul intact by the means of some clever planning.’

‘Yeah,’ Bastille muttered, ‘Clever planning, and some undeserved help.’ Sing, who sat in front of us, gave her a disapproving look.

‘The purpose of all this,’ my father continued, ‘was to gain access to the fabled texts collected and controlled by the Curators of Alexandria. Having managed to create a pair of Translator’s Lenses from the sands of Rashid—’

This caused a ripple of discussion in the crowd.

‘—I was able to read texts in the Forgotten Language,’ my father continued. ‘I was taken by the Curators and transformed into one of them, but still retained enough free will to sneak the Lenses from my possessions and use them to read. This allowed me to spend weeks studying the most valuable contents of the Library.’

He stopped, leaning forward on the podium, smiling winningly. He certainly did have a charm about him, when he wanted to impress people.

In that moment, looking at that smile, I could swear that I’d seen him somewhere, long before my visit to the Library of Alexandria.

‘What I did,’ my father continued, ‘was dangerous; some may even call it brash. I couldn’t know that I’d have enough freedom as a Curator to study the texts, nor could I count on the fact that I’d be able to use my lenses to read the Forgotten Language.’

He paused for dramatic effect. ‘But I did it anyway. For that is the Smedry way.’

‘He stole that line from me, by the way,’ Grandpa Smedry whispered to us.

My father continued. ‘I’ve spent the last two weeks writing down the things I memorized while I was a Curator. Secrets lost in time, mysteries known only to the Incarna. I’ve analyzed them, and am the only man to read and understand their works for over two millennia.’

He looked over the crowd. ‘Through this,’ he said, ‘I have discovered the method by which the Smedry Talents were created and given to my family.’

What? I thought, shocked.

‘Impossible,’ Bastille said, and the crowd around us began to speak animatedly.

I glanced at my grandfather. Though the old man is usually wackier than a penguin-wrangling expedition to Florida, occasionally I catch a hint of wisdom in his face. He has a depth that he doesn’t often show.

He turned toward me, meeting my eyes, and I could tell that he was worried. Very worried.

‘I anticipate great things from this,’ my father said, hushing the crowd. ‘With a little more research, I believe I can discover how to give Talents to ordinary people. I imagine a world, not so distant in the future, where everyone has a Smedry Talent.’

And then he was done. He retreated from the podium, stepping down to speak with the monarchs. The room, of course, grew loud with discussions. I found myself standing, pushing my way down to the floor of the room. I approached the monarchs, and the knights standing guard there let me pass.

‘. . . need access to the Royal Archives,’ my father was saying to the monarchs.

‘Not a library,’ I found myself whispering.

My father didn’t notice me. ‘There are some books there I believe would be of use to my investigations, now that I’ve recovered my Translator’s Lenses. One volume, in particular, was conspicuously missing from the Library of Alexandria – the Curators claimed their copy had been burned in a very strange accident. Fortunately, I believe there may be another one here.’

‘It’s gone,’ I said, my voice soft in the room’s buzzing voices.

Attica turned to me, as did several of the monarchs. ‘What is that, son?’ my father asked.

‘Didn’t you pay attention at all to what happened last week?’ I demanded. ‘Mother has the book. The one you want. She stole it from the archives.’

My father hesitated, then nodded to the monarchs. ‘Excuse us.’ He pulled me aside. ‘Now, what is this?’

‘She stole it,’ I said. ‘The book you want, the one written by the scribe of Alcatraz the First. She took it from the archives. That’s what the entire mess last week was about!’

‘I thought that was an assassination attempt on the monarchs,’ he said.

‘That was only part of it. I sent you a message in the middle of it, asking you to come help us protect the archives, but you completely ignored it!’

He waved an indifferent hand. ‘I was occupied with greater things. You must be mistaken – I’ll look through the archives and—’

‘I looked already,’ I said. ‘I’ve looked at the title of every single book in there that was written in the Forgotten Language. They’re all cookbooks or ledgers or things. Except that one my mother took.’

‘And you let her steal it?’ my father demanded indignantly.

Let her. I took a deep breath. (And, next time you think your parents are frustrating, might I invite you to read this passage through one more time?)

‘I believe,’ a new voice said, ‘that young Alcatraz did everything he could to stop the aforementioned theft.’

My father turned to see King Dartmoor, wearing his crown and blue-gold robes, standing behind him. The king nodded to me. ‘Prince Rikers has spoken at length of the event, Attica. I believe there will be a novel forthcoming.’

Wonderful, I thought.

‘Well,’ my father said, ‘I guess . . . well, this changes everything . . .’

‘What is this about giving everyone Talents, Attica?’ the king asked. ‘Is that really wise? From what I hear, Smedry Talents can be very unpredictable.’

‘We can control them,’ my father said, waving another indifferent hand. ‘You know how the people dream of having our powers. Well, I will be the one to make those dreams become a reality.’

So that was what it was about. My father, sealing his legacy. Being the hero who made everyone capable of having a Talent.

But if everyone had a Smedry Talent . . . Then, well, what would that mean for us? We wouldn’t be the only ones with Talents anymore. That made me feel a little sick.

Yes, I know it is selfish, but that’s how I felt. I think this is – perhaps – the capstone of this book. After all I’d been through, after all the fighting to help the Free Kingdoms, I was still selfish enough to want to keep the Talents for myself.

Because the Talents were what made us special, weren’t they?

‘I will have to think on this more,’ my father said. ‘It appears that we’ll have to search out that book. Even if it means confronting . . . her.’

He nodded to the kings, then walked away. He put on a smiling face when he met with the press, but I could tell that he was bothered. The disappearance of that book had fouled up his plans.

Well, I thought, he should have paid better attention!

I knew it was silly, but I couldn’t help feeling that I’d let him down. That this was my fault. I tried to shake myself out of it and walked back to my grandfather and the others.

Had my parents been like Folsom and Himalaya once? Bright, loving, full of excitement? If so, what had gone wrong? Himalaya was a Librarian and Folsom was a Smedry. Were they doomed to the same fate as my parents?

And Smedry Talents for everyone. My mind drifted back to the words I’d read on the wall of the tomb of Alcatraz the First.

Our desires have brought us low. We sought to touch the powers of eternity, then draw them down upon ourselves. But we brought with them something we did not intend . . .

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

The Dark Talent.

Wherever my father went on his quest to discover how to ‘make’ Smedry Talents, I determined that I would follow after him. I would watch, and make certain he didn’t do anything too rash.

I had to be ready to stop him, if need be.

THE LAST PAGES

Alcatraz walks onto the stage. He smiles at the audience, looking right into the camera.

‘Hello,’ he says. ‘And welcome to the after-book special. I’m your host, Alcatraz Smedry.’

‘And I’m Bastille Dartmoor,’ Bastille says, joining Alcatraz on the stage.

Alcatraz nods. ‘We’re here to talk to you about a pernicious evil that is plaguing today’s youth. A terrible, awful habit that is destroying them from the inside out.’

Bastille looks at the camera. ‘He’s talking, of course, about skipping to the ends of books and reading the last pages first.’

‘We call it “Last-Paging”’ Alcatraz says. ‘You may think it doesn’t involve you or your friends, but studies show that there has been a 4,000.024 percent increase in Last-Paging during the past seven minutes alone.’

‘That’s right, Alcatraz,’ Bastille says. ‘And did you know that Last-Paging is the largest cause of cancer in domesticated fruit bats?’

‘Really?’

‘Yes indeed. Also, Last-Paging makes you lose sleep, grow hair in funny places, and can decrease your ability to play Halo by forty-five percent.’

‘Wow,’ Alcatraz says. ‘Why would anyone do it?’

‘We’re not certain. We only know that it happens, and that this terrible disease isn’t fully understood. Fortunately, we’ve taken actions to combat it.’

‘Such as putting terrible after-book specials at the backs of books to make people feel sick?’ Alcatraz asks helpfully.

‘That’s right,’ Bastille says. ‘Stay away from Last-Paging, kids! Remember, the more you know . . .’

‘. . . The more you can forget tomorrow!’ Alcatraz says. ‘Good night, folks. And be sure to join us for next week’s after-book special, where we expose the dangers of gerbil snorting!’