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 throughout 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 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 study 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 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 conversations.

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.