Alcatraz Versus the Scrivener's Bones by Brandon Sanderson

  "I grew up with everyone expecting me to be a leader," she said. "Only, I'm not very well suited to it. Not like you."

  "I'm not well suited to it!"

  She snorted. "You are good with people, Smedry. Me, I don't want to lead people. They kind of annoy me."

  "You should have become a novelist."

  "Don't like the hours," she said. “Anyway, I can tell you that growing up learning how to lead doesn't make any difference. A lifetime of training only makes you understand just how inadequate you are."

  We fell silent.

  "So . . . what happened?" I asked. "How did you end up as a Crystin?"

  "My mother," Bastille said. "She's not noble, but she is a Crystin. She always pushed me to become a Knight of Crystallia, saying that my father didn't need another useless daughter hanging about. I tried to prove her wrong, but I'm too well-bred to do something simple, like become a baker or a carpenter."

  "So you tried to become an Oculator."

  She nodded. "I didn't tell anyone. I'd heard that Oculatory power was genetic, of course, but I intended to prove everyone wrong. I'd be the first Oculator in my line, then my mother and father would be impressed.

  "Well, you know how that turned out. So, I just joined the Crystin, like my mother had always said I should. I had to give up my title and my money. Now I'm realizing just how foolish that decision was. I make an even worse Crystin than I did an Oculator."

  She sighed, folding her arms again. "The thing is, I thought – for a while – that I would be good at it. I made knight faster than anyone ever had. Then, I was immediately sent out to protect the Old Smedry – which was one of the most dangerous, difficult assignments the knights had. I still don't know why they picked that as my first job. It's never made sense."

  "It's almost like they were setting you up to fail."

  She sat for a moment. "I never thought about it that way. Why would anyone do such a thing?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know. But, you have to admit, it does sound suspicious. Maybe someone in charge of giving the assignments was jealous of how quickly you made it to knight, and wanted to see you fall."

  "At the cost, maybe, of the Old Smedry's life?"

  I shrugged. "People do strange things sometimes, Bastille."

  "I still find it hard to believe," she said. "Besides, my mother was part of the group that makes those assignments."

  "She seems like a hard one to please."

  Bastille snorted. "That's an understatement. I made knight, and all she could say was, 'Make certain you live up to the honor.' I think she was expecting me to bungle my first job – maybe that's why she came to get me herself."

  I didn't reply, but somehow I knew we were thinking the same thing. Bastille's own mother couldn't have been the one to set her up to fail, could she? That seemed a stretch. Of course, my mother had stolen my inheritance, then sold me out to the Librarians. So, maybe Bastille and I were a well-matched pair.

  I sat with my back against the wall, looking up, and my mind turned away from Bastille's problems and back to what I'd said earlier. It had felt good to get the thoughts out. It had helped me, finally, sort out how I felt. A few months back, I would have settled for simply being normal. Now I knew that being a Smedry meant something. The more time I spent filling that role, the more I wanted to do it well. To justify the name I bore, and live up to what my grandfather and the others expected of me.

  Perhaps you find that ironic. There I was, deciding bravely that I would take upon myself the mantle that had been quite randomly thrust upon me. Now, here I am, writing my memoirs, trying as hard as I can to throw off that very same mantle.

  I wanted to be famous. That should, in itself, be enough to make you worried. Never trust a man who wants to be a hero. We'll talk about this more in the next book.

  "We're quite the pair, aren't we?" Bastille asked, smiling for the first time I'd seen since we fell down the shaft.

  I smiled back. "Yeah. Why is it that my best soulsearching moments always come when I’m trapped?"

  "Sounds like you should be imprisoned more often."

  I nodded. Then, I jumped as something floated out of the wall next to me. "Gak!" I said before I realized it was just a Curator.

  "Here," it said, dropping a leaf of paper to the ground.

  "What's this?" I asked, picking it up.

  "Your book."

  It was the paper I'd written in the tomb, the inscription about the Dark Talent. That meant we'd been trapped for nearly an hour. Bastille was right. Kaz had probably already reached the center of the Library.

  The Curator floated away.

  "Your mother," I said, folding up the paper. "If she gets that crystal thing back, she'll be all right?"

  Bastille nodded.

  "So, since we're trapped here with no hope of rescue, do you mind telling me what that crystal was? You know, to help pass the time?"

  Bastille snorted, then stood up and pulled the silvery hair up off the back of her neck. She turned around, and I could see a sparkling blue crystal set into the skin on the back of her neck. I could see it easily, as she still only wore the tight black T-shirt tucked into the trousers of her militaristic uniform.

  "Wow," I said.

  "Three kinds of crystals grow in Crystallia," she said, letting her hair back down. "The first we turn into swords and daggers. The second become Fleshstones, which are what really make us into Crystin."

  "What does it do?" I asked.

  Bastille paused. "Things," she finally replied.

  "How wonderfully specific."

  She flushed. "It's kind of personal, Alcatraz. It's because of the Fleshstone that I can run so quickly. Stuff like that."

  "Okay," I said. “And the third type of crystal?"

  "Also personal."

  Great, I thought.

  "It's not really important," she said. As she moved to sit down, I noticed something. Her hand – the one that had been holding the dagger that had blocked the Frostbringer's Lens – had red and cracking skin.

  "You okay?" I asked, nodding to her hand.

  "I'll be fine," she said. "Our daggers are made from immature swordstones – they aren't meant to hold out against powerful Lenses for long. A little of the ice got around and hit my fingers, but it's nothing that won't heal."

  I wasn't as convinced. "Maybe you should –“

  "Hush!" Bastille said suddenly, climbing to her feet.

  I did so, frowning. I followed Bastille's gaze up toward the top of our hole.

  "What?" I asked.

  "I thought I heard something," she replied.

  We waited tensely. Finally, we saw shadows moving above. Bastille slowly pulled her dagger from its sheath, and even in the darkness, I could see that it was laced with cracks. What she expected to do at such a distance was beyond me.

  Finally, a head leaned out over the hole.

  "Hello?" Australia asked. “Anybody down there?"

  CHAPTER 17

  I hope you didn't find the last line of that previous chapter to be exciting. It was simply a convenient place to end.

  You see, chapter breaks are, in a way, like Smedry Talents. They defy time and space. (This, alone, should be enough to prove to you that traditional Hushlander physics is just a load of unwashed underpants.)

  Think about it. By putting in a chapter break, I make the book longer. It takes extra spaces, extra pages. Yet, because of those chapter breaks, the book becomes shorter as well. You read it more quickly. Even an unexciting hook, like Australia's showing up, encourages you to quickly turn the page and keep going.

  Space becomes distorted when you read a book. Time has less relevance. In fact, if you look closely, you might be able to see golden dust floating down around you right now. (And if you can't see it, you're just not trying hard enough. Maybe you need to hit yourself on the head with another big thick fantasy novel.)

  "We're down here!" I yelled up to Australia. Beside me, Bastille looked relieved and slipped her
dagger back into its sheath.

  “Alcatraz?" Australia asked. “Uh . . . what are you doing down there?"

  "Having a tea party," I yelled back. "What do you think? We're trapped!"

  "Silly," she said. “Why'd you go and get trapped?"

  I glanced at Bastille. She just rolled her eyes. That's Australia for you.

  "We didn't exactly have a choice," I called back.

  "I climbed a tree once and couldn't get back down," Australia said. "I guess it's kind of the same, right?"

  "Sure," I said. "Look, I need you to find some rope."

  “Uh,” she said. “Where exactly am I going to find something like that?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “All right then.” She sighed loudly and disappeared.

  “She’s hopeless,” Bastille said.

  "I'm realizing that. At least she's still got her soul. I was half afraid that she'd end up in serious trouble."

  "Like getting captured by a member of the Scrivener's Bones, or perhaps falling down a pit?"

  "Something like that," I said, kneeling down. I wasn't about to count on Australia to get us out. I'd already been around her long enough to realize that she probably wasn't going to be of much help.

  (Which, incidentally, was why you shouldn't have been all that excited to see her show up. You still turned the page, didn't you?)

  I opened Bastille's pack and pulled out the boots with the Grappler's Glass on the bottom. I activated the glass, then stuck a boot to the side of the wall. As expected, it didn't stick. They only worked on glass.

  "So . . . maybe we should have you try to break the walls down," Bastille said speculatively. "You’ll probably bury us in stone, but that would be better than sitting around talking about our feelings and that nonsense."

  I glanced over, smiling.

  "What?" she asked.

  "Nothing," I said. "Just good to have you back."

  She snorted. "Well? Breaking? Can you do it?"

  "I can try,” I said speculatively. "But, well, it seems like a long shot."

  "We've never had to depend on one of those before," she said.

  "Good point." I rested my hands against the wall.

  The Dark Talent . . . beware it. . . .

  The words from the tomb wall returned to my mind. The paper with the inscription sat in my pocket, but I tried not to think about it. Now that I'd begun to understand what my Talent was, it didn't seem a good time to start second-guessing its nature.

  There would be time enough for that later.

  I tentatively sent a wave of breaking power into the wall. Cracks twisted away from my palms, moving through the stone. Bits of dust and chips began to fall in on us, but I kept going. The wall groaned.

  “Alcatraz!" Bastille said, grabbing my arm and pulling me back.

  I stumbled back, dazed, away from the wall as a large chunk of stone toppled inward and hit the floor where I had been standing. The soft, springy ground gave way beneath the stone. Kind of like my head would have, had it been in the way. Only that would have involved a lot more blood and a lot more screaming.

  I stared at the chunk of stone. Then, I glanced, up at the wall. It was cracked and broken, and other bits of it seemed ready to fall off too.

  "Okay, that was expected," Bastille said, "but still kind of dumb of us, eh?"

  I nodded, stooping over to pick up a Grappler's boot. If only I could get it to work. I put it up against the wall again, but it refused to stick.

  "That's not going to do anything, Smedry," Bastille said.

  "There's silicon in the rock. That's the same thing as glass."

  "True," Bastille said. "But there isn't enough to make the Grappler's Glass stick."

  I tried anyway. I focused on the glass, closing my eyes, treating it like it was a pair of Lenses.

  During the months Grandpa Smedry had been training me, I'd learned how to activate stubborn Lenses. There was a trick to it. You had to give them energy. Pour part of yourself into them to make them function.

  Come on! I thought to the boot, pressing it to the wall. There's glass in the wall. Little bits of it. You can stick. You have to stick.

  I'd contacted Grandpa Smedry at a much greater distance than I was supposed to be able to. I'd done that by focusing hard on my Courier's Lenses, somehow giving them an extra boost of power. Could I somehow do the same to this boot?

  I thought I felt something. The boot, pulling slightly toward the wall. I focused harder, straining, feeling myself grow tired. Yet, I didn't give up. I continued to push, opening my eyes and staring intently.

  The glass on the bottom of the boot began to glow softly. Bastille looked over, shocked.

  Come on, I thought again. I felt the boot drawing something from me, taking it out, feeding on it.

  When I carefully pulled my hand away, the boot stayed where it was.

  "Impossible," Bastille whispered, walking over.

  I wiped my brow, smiling triumphantly.

  Bastille reached out with a careful touch, poking the boot. Then, she easily pulled it off the wall.

  "Hey!" I said. "Did you see what I had to go through to get that to stick?"

  She snorted. "It came off easily, Smedry. Do you honestly expect that you'd be able to walk up the wall with it?"

  I felt my sense of triumph deflate. She was right. If I had to work that hard to get one boot to stay in one place, there was no way I'd be able to summon enough effort to get all the way to the top.

  "Still," Bastille said. "That's pretty amazing. How did you do it?"

  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 think your technology and your magic are more related than people believe, Bastille," I said.

  She nodded slowly. Then, she moved quickly, putting the boot back into the pack and zipping it up. "You still have those Windstormer's Lenses?" she asked.

  "Yeah," I said. "Why?"

  She looked up, meeting my eyes. ..I have an idea.”

  "Should I be frightened?” I asked.

  "Probably," she said. "The idea's a little bit strange. Like one you might have come up with, actually.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  "Get out those Lenses," she said, throwing her pack over her shoulder.

  I did so.

  "Now, break the frames.”

  I paused, eyeing her.

  "Just do it,” she said.

  I shrugged, then activated my Talent. The frames fell apart easily.

  "Double up the Lenses,” she said.

  "Okay," I said, sliding one over the other.

  "Can you do to those Lenses what you did to the boots? Put extra power through them?”

  "I should be able to," I said. “But . . .”

  I trailed off, suddenly coming to understand. If I blew a huge blast of air out of the Lenses, then I would be forced upward – like a fighter jet, with the Lenses being my engine. I looked up at Bastille. “Bastille! That’s absolutely insane."

  "I know," she said, grimacing. "I've been spending way too much time with you Smedries. But my mother is probably only a few minutes away from death. Are you willing to give it a try?"

  I smiled. "Of course I am! It sounds awesome!"

  Inclined toward leadership or not, thoughtful or not, uncertain of myself or not, I was still a teenage boy. And, you have to admit, it really did sound awesome.

  Bastille stepped up close to me, putting one arm around my waist, then holding on to my shoulder with the other. "Then I'm going with you," she said. "Hang on to my waist."

  I nodded, feeling a bit distracted having her so close. For the first time in my life, I realized something.

  Girls smell weird.

  I started to feel nervous. If I blew with the Lenses too softly we'd just fall bac
k down into the pit. If I blasted too hard, we'd end up smashing into the ceiling. It seemed like a very fine balance.

  I lowered my arm, pointing the Lenses down straight by my side, my other arm held tentatively around Bastille's waist. I took a breath, preparing myself.

  "Smedry,” Bastille said, her face just inches from mine.

  I blinked. Having her right there was suddenly really, really distracting. Plus, she was hanging on rather tightly, with the grip of a person whose strength has been enhanced by a Crystin Fleshstone.

  I fumbled for a response, my mind fuzzy. (Girls, you might have noticed, can do things like this to guys. It's a result of their powerful pheromones. They evolved that way, gaining the ability to make us men fuzzy-headed, so that it would be easier for them to hit us on the heads with hardback fantasy novels and steal our cheese sticks.)

  "You okay?" she asked.

  "Uh . . . yeah," I managed to get out. “What did you want?"

  "I just wanted to say thanks.”

  "For what?"

  "For provoking me," she said. "For making me think that someone had set me up to fail on purpose. It's probably not true, but it's what I needed. If there's a chance that someone stuck me in that situation intentionally, then I want to figure out who it was and why they did it. It’s a challenge."

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

  "You ready?" I asked.

  "Ready as I'll ever be."

  I focused on the Lenses – trying to ignore how close Bastille was – and built up Oculatory energy.

  Then, holding my breath, I released the power.

  We shot upward in a lurching burst of wind. Dust and chips of stone blew out beneath us, puffing up the sides of the shaft. We blasted upward, wind tussling my hair, the opening to the pit approaching far too quickly. l cried out, deactivating the Lenses, but we had too much momentum.