Alcatraz

by Brandon Sanderson

  They nodded again. We prepared to go, and the door on the pig’s butt opened. (I think that undermined our dramatic exit.) Bastille stood to go with us, wobbling on unsteady feet.

  ‘Uh, Bastille,’ I said. ‘I think you should wait here.’

  She gave me a stiff glance – the kind that made me feel like I’d just been smacked across the face with a broom. I took that as her answer.

  ‘All right,’ I said with a sigh. ‘Let’s go, then.’

  We marched out of the pig and up the steps. Prince Rikers called for guards immediately – I think he just liked the drama of having a full troop of soldiers with us. Indeed, our entrance into the hallway with the wall-hanging panes of glass was rather intimidating.

  The Knights of Crystallia standing at attention in the hallway saluted us as we passed, and I felt significantly more safe, knowing they were there.

  ‘Do you think your mother will have warned the others of what happened?’ Sing whispered.

  ‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘Mother’s allies contacted She Who Cannot Be Named to gloat over having captured some valuable prisoners. You don’t call to gloat over having lost those same prisoners. I think we’ll surprise them.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Sing said as we approached the doors to the council room. We nodded to the pair of knights, and then I stepped aside.

  ‘Time for your big entrance, your Highness,’ I said, gesturing for Prince Rikers.

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘I get to do it?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ I said.

  The prince dusted himself off. He smiled broadly, then strode through the doors into the chamber and bellowed in a loud voice, ‘In the name of all that is just, I demand these proceedings to be halted!’

  Down below, the monarchs sat around their table, a large document set out before them. King Dartmoor held a quill in his hand, poised to sign. We’d arrived just in the nick of time. (What the heck is a nick anyway?)

  The monarchs’ table sat in the open area in the center of the room, between the two raised sets of bleacherlike seats that were filled with patrons. Knights of Crystallia stood in a ring around the bottom of the floor, between the people and the rulers. They were most concentrated, I noticed, near where the Librarians sat.

  She Who Cannot Be Named sat at the front of the Librarian group, pleasantly knitting an afghan.

  ‘What is this?’ King Dartmoor asked as the rest of my team piled into the room.

  ‘The Librarians are lying to You, Father!’ Rikers declared. ‘They tried to kidnap me!’

  ‘Why, that’s the most distressing thing I’ve ever heard,’ said She Who Cannot Be Named. (You know what? That name is really too hard to type all the time. From here on, I’m going to call her Swcbn.)

  My companions looked at me. I wore the Truthfinder’s spectacles, one eye closed to look through the single Lens. Unfortunately, Swcbn hadn’t said anything that was false – she’d avoided doing so deliberately, I’m sure.

  ‘Father,’ Prince Rikers said, ‘We can provide proof of what happened!’ He waved behind him, and the two knights we’d brought with us entered, carrying the tied and gagged Fitzroy. ‘This is a Librarian of the order of the Dark Oculators! He was involved in a plot to steal books from the Royal Archives—’

  ‘Mumf mu mumfmumf,’ Fitzroy added.

  ‘—which turned into a plot to kidnap me, the royal heir!’ Rikers continued.

  Rikers certainly did know how to get into a part. He didn’t seem as much a buffoon now that he was in his element of the court.

  ‘Lady Librarian,’ King Dartmoor said, turning to Swcbn.

  ‘I’m . . . not sure what is happening,’ she said. Another half-truth that didn’t come out as a lie.

  ‘She does, Your Majesty,’ I declared, stepping up. ‘She ordered the death of Himalaya, who is now a member of the Smedry clan.’

  That caused a stir.

  ‘Lady Librarian,’ the king said, red-bearded face growing very stern. ‘Is what he says true, or is it false?’

  ‘I’m not sure if you should be asking me, dear. It’s quite—’

  ‘Answer the question!’ the king bellowed. ‘Have Librarians been plotting to steal and kidnap from us while these very treaty hearings have been occurring?’

  The grandmotherly Librarian looked at me, and I could tell that she knew she was caught. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that my team and I should be granted a short recess to discuss.’

  ‘No recess!’ the king said. ‘Either you answer as asked, or I’m tearing this treaty in half this instant.’

  The elderly Librarian pursed her lips, then finally set down her knitting. ‘I will admit,’ she said, ‘that some other branches of the Librarians have been pursuing their own ends in the city. However, this is one of the main reasons we are signing this treaty – so that you can give my sect the authority it needs to stop the other sects from continuing this needless war!’

  ‘And the execution of my beloved?’ Folsom demanded.

  ‘In my eyes, young man,’ Swcbn said, ‘that one is a traitor and a turncoat. How would your own laws treat someone who committed treason?’

  The room fell still. Where was my grandfather? His seat at the table was noticeably empty.

  ‘Considering this information,’ said King Dartmoor, ‘how many of you now vote against signing the treaty?’

  Five of the twelve monarchs raised their hands.

  ‘And I assume Smedry would still vote against the signing,’ Dartmoor said, ‘assuming he hadn’t stormed out in anger. That leaves six against six. I am the deciding vote.’

  ‘Father,’ the prince called. ‘What would a hero do?’

  The king hesitated. Then, embarrassingly, he looked up at me. He stared me in the eyes. Then he ripped the treaty in two.

  ‘I find it telling,’ he declared to Swcbn, ‘that you cannot control your own people despite the importance of these talks! I find it disturbing that you would be willing to execute one of your own for joining a kingdom with which you claim you want to be friends. And, most of all, I find it disgusting what I nearly did. I want you Librarians out of my kingdom by midnight. These talks are at an end.’

  The room exploded with sound. There were quite a number of cheers – many of these coming from the section where the Mokians, Australia included, were sitting. There were some boos, but mostly there was just a lot of excited chatter. Draulin approached from the ranks of knights, laying a hand on the king’s shoulder and – in a rare moment of emotion – nodded. She actually thought that ripping up the treaty was a good idea.

  Maybe that meant she’d see Bastille’s help in this entire mess as validation for restoring her daughter’s knighthood. I glanced about for Bastille, but she wasn’t to be found. Sing tapped my arm and pointed behind. I could see Bastille in the hallway, sitting in a chair, arms wrapped around herself, shivering. She’d lost her Warrior’s Lenses back when we’d been captured, and I could see that her eyes were red and puffy.

  My first instinct was to go to her, but something made me hesitate. Swcbn didn’t seem particularly disturbed by these events. She’d turned back to her knitting. That bothered me.

  ‘Socrates,’ I whispered.

  ‘What’s that, Alcatraz?’ Sing asked.

  ‘This guy I learned about in school,’ I said. ‘He was one of those annoying types who always asked questions.’

  ‘Okay . . .’ Sing said.

  Something was wrong. I began asking questions that should have bothered me long before this.

  Why was the most powerful Librarian in all of the Hushlands here to negotiate a treaty that the monarchs had already decided to sign?

  Why wasn’t she worried at being surrounded by her enemies, capable of being captured and imprisoned at a moment’s notice?

  Why did I feel so unsettled, as if we hadn’t really won after all?

  At that moment, Draulin screamed. She collapsed to the ground, holding her head. Then every Knight of Crystallia in the room dropped to the groun
d, crying out in pain.

  ‘Hello, everyone!’ a voice suddenly cried. I spun to find my grandfather standing behind us. ‘I’m back! Did I miss anything important?’

  21

  At that moment, a lot of things happened at once. The common people in the crowd began to scream in fear and confusion. A group of Librarian thugs pushed their way down to the floor around Swcbn, who continued to sit and knit.

  King Dartmoor unsheathed his sword and turned to face the thugs. Grandpa Smedry and I tried to rush down the stairs to get to the monarchs, but were blocked by the crowds, who were trying to flee.

  ‘Hiccupping Huffs!’ Grandpa Smedry cursed.

  ‘Follow me, Lord Smedry!’ Sing said, muscling up to the top of the stairs beside us. Then he tripped.

  Now, I don’t know how you’d react if a three-hundred-pound Mokian tripped and began to roll down the stairs toward you, but I safely say that I’d either:

  Scream like a girl and jump out of the way.

  Scream like a gerbil and jump out of the way.

  Scream like a Smedry and jump out of the way.

  The people on the steps chose to scream like a bunch of people on some steps, but they did get out of the way.

  Grandpa Smedry, Folsom, Himalaya, and I charged down the stairs behind the Mokian. Prince Rikers stayed behind, looking confused. ‘This part actually looks dangerous,’ he called. ‘Maybe I should stay here. You know, and guard the exit.’

  Whatever, I thought. His father, at least, proved to have a spine. King Dartmoor stood over the body of his fallen wife, facing down the group of Librarian thugs, sword held before him. The other monarchs were in the processes of scattering away.

  It looked as if the Librarians would easily cut down the king before we could reach him.

  ‘Hey!’ a voice yelled suddenly. I recognized my aunt Patty standing in the audience, pointing. As always, her voice managed to carry over any and every bit of competition. ‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ she bellowed, ‘but is that toilet paper stuck to your leg?’

  The Librarian thug at the front immediately looked down, then blushed, realizing that he did indeed have toilet paper stuck to him. He bent down to pull it off, causing the others to bunch up behind him awkwardly.

  That distraction gave us just enough time to cover the distance to the king. Grandpa Smedry whipped out a pair of Lenses. I recognized the green specks in the glass, marking them as Windstormer’s Lenses. Sure enough, the Lenses released a blast of air, knocking back the Librarians as they tried to rush the king.

  ‘What happened to the knights?’ the king yelled, desperate.

  ‘Librarians must have corrupted the Mindstone, Brig,’ Grandpa Smedry said.

  That’s the problem with having a magic rock that connects the minds of all of your best soldiers. Take down the stone, and you take down your soldiers. Kind of like how taking out one cell phone tower can knock out the texting ability of an entire school’s worth of teenage girls.

  Grandpa Smedry focused on blasting the Librarians with his Lenses, but they got smart quickly. They spread out, forcing their way around the perimeter of the floor, trying to get at the king. Grandpa Smedry couldn’t focus on all the different groups; there were too many.

  The room was a chaotic mess. People screaming, Librarians pulling out swords, wind blowing. The monarchs were trying to escape, but the stairs were clogged again. Sing sat dazed from his roll down the stairs. He wouldn’t be able to help again anytime soon.

  ‘Alcatraz, get those monarchs out!’ Grandpa Smedry said, pointing toward the wall. ‘Folsom, if you’d help me . . .’

  And with that, Grandpa Smedry began to sing.

  I stared at him, dumbfounded, until I realized this gave Folsom the music he needed to dance. Both Folsom and Himalaya spun toward the Librarians, knocking down those who had tried to push around the outsides of the room.

  I turned and dashed up a section of bleacherlike seats. ‘Monarchs, up here!’ I said. The seats here were empty, their occupants all trying to crowd out the other door.

  Several of the monarchs turned toward me as I reached the far wall. I placed two hands against it and blasted it with breaking power. The entire wall fell away as if it had been shoved by the hand of a giant.

  Monarchs rushed up the steps, wearing a variety of costumes and crowns: A man with dark skin in red African-style clothing. The Mokian king in his islander wrap. A king and queen in standard crowns and European robes. I counted them off, but didn’t see Bastille’s father.

  That was, apparently, because he was still down below. I could see that he was trying to pull Draulin to safety – unfortunately, she weighed like a bazillion pounds with all that armor on, not to mention the awkward sword strapped to her back. The king must have come to the same conclusion, as he pulled free her sword and tossed it aside, then began to work off the armor.

  I moved to go help, but the crowds had seen my new exit and were swarming around me. I had to fight against them, and it really slowed me down.

  ‘Grandpa!’ I yelled, pointing.

  Below, my grandfather turned toward the king, then cursed. Folsom and Himalaya were holding off the Librarians pretty well, so Grandpa Smedry rushed over to help the High King. I tried to do likewise, but it was slow going with the crowd in my way. Fortunately, it looked like I wouldn’t be needed.

  People escaped out of the broken hole in the wall. Folsom and Himalaya handled the Librarians. My grandfather helped the High King pick up Draulin. Everything seemed good.

  Swcbn continued to knit quietly.

  Questions. They still itched at me.

  How exactly, I wondered, did the Librarians get to the Crystin Mindstone? That thing must be freakishly well guarded.

  Why was Swcbn acting so content? Who had blown up the Hawkwind? It had to have been someone who would have been able to get Detonator’s Glass into Draulin’s pack. Hers was the room that had exploded.

  I glanced at Himalaya, who fought beside her new husband, knocking down enemy after enemy as my grandfather sang opera. It occurred to me that perhaps we’d overlooked something. And at that moment, I asked the most important question of all.

  If there could be such a thing as a good Librarian, might there also be such a thing as an evil Knight of Crystallia? A knight who could get to the Mindstone and corrupt it? A knight who could slip a bomb into Draulin’s pack? A knight who had been involved in sending Bastille out to fail?

  A knight whom I had personally seen hanging around the Royal Archives within a few hours of the swap?

  ‘Oh, no . . .’ I whispered.

  At that moment, one of the ‘unconscious’ knights near Grandpa Smedry began to move. He lifted his head, and I could see a deadly smile on it.

  Archedis, otherwise known as Mr. Big Chin, supposedly the most accomplished of all the Knights of Crystallia.

  I should have listened more to Socrates.

  ‘Grandfather!’ I screamed, trying to fight the crowd and run forward, but they were so frightened that I barely got a few steps before being pushed back again.

  Grandpa Smedry turned, still singing, looking up at me and smiling. In a flash, Archedis rose, pulling free his crystalline sword. He slammed the pommel against Grandpa Smedry’s head.

  The old man went cross-eyed – his Talent unable to protect him from the power of a Crystin blade – and he fell to the side. With his singing gone, Himalaya and Folsom immediately stopped fighting and froze in place.

  The Librarians tackled them.

  I struggled against the flow of people again, trying desperately to get down. The seats on the north side were now completely empty, save for Swcbn. The grandmotherly woman looked up at me, smiling. She held up the afghan she’d been knitting.

  It depicted a bloody skull. Archedis turned toward King Dartmoor.

  ‘No!’ I screamed.

  The corrupted knight raised his sword. Then he froze as a small, quiet figure stepped between him and the king.

  Bastille. S
he hadn’t been affected by the fall of the Mindstone . . . because the knights themselves had cut her off from it.

  Bastille raised her mother’s sword. I don’t know where she’d gotten it – I don’t even know how she’d gotten into the room. She had found a pair of Warrior’s Lenses, but I could see from her profile that she was still exhausted. She looked tiny before the figure of the enormous knight, with his silvery armor and heroic smile.

  ‘Come now,’ Archedis said. ‘You can’t stand against me.’

  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.