Alcatraz versus the Knights of Crystallia (2 page)

“
Actually," I said, looking up toward the
Hawkwind
, "I
wanted to ask you about my father."

"What about him, lad?"

"Has he always been so . . ."

"Distracted?"

I nodded.

Grandpa Smedry sighed.
"Your father is a very driven
man,
Al
atraz.
You know that I disapprove of the way he
left you to be raised in the Hushlands . . . but, well, he
has
accomplished some great things in his life.
Scholars have
been trying to crack the Forgotten Language for millennia!
I was convinced that it couldn't be done.
Beyond that, I
don't think any Smedry has mastered their T
a
lent as well as
he has."

Through the glass above, I could see shadows and
shapes
–
our
companions.
My father was there, a man I'd
spent my entire childhood wondering about.
I'd expected
him to be a little more . . . well, excited to see me.

Even if he
had
abandoned me in the first place.

Grandpa Smedry rested his hand on my shoulder.
"Ah,
don't look so glum.
Amazing Abrahams, lad!
You're about
to visit Nalhalla for the first time!
We'll work this all out
eventually.
Sit back and rest for a bit.
You've had a busy few
months."

"How close are we an
ywa
y?" I asked.
We'd been flying
for the better part of the morning.
That was after we'd spent
two weeks camped outside
the Library of Alexandria, wait
ing for my uncle
Kaz to make his way to Nalhalla and send
a ship back to pick us up.
(He and Grandpa Smedry had
agreed that it would be faster for Kaz to go by himself.
Like
the rest of us, Kaz's T
a
lent - which is the ability to get lost
in very spectacular ways
–
can
be unpredictable.)

"Not too far, I'd say," Grandpa Smedry said, pointing.
"Not far at all . . ."

I turned to look across the waters, and there it was.
A
distant continent, just comi
ng into view. I took a step for
ward, squinting from my upside-down vantage.
There was
a
c
ity built along the coast of the continent, rising boldly in
the early
light.

"
C
astles," I whispered as we approached.
"It's filled with
ca
stl
e
s?"

T
here were dozens of them, perhaps hundreds.
The
entire
city
was made of castles, reaching toward the sky,
lo
f
ty towers and delicate spires.
Flags flapping from the very
tips.
Each castle had a different design and shape, and a
maje
stic city wall surrounded them all.

T
hree structures domi
nated the rest. One was a powerfu
l black castle on the far south side of the city.
Its sides
w
e
re sheer and tall, and it had a powerful feel to it, like a
m
ountain.
Or a really big stone bodybuilder.
In the middle
of
the city, there was a strange white castle that looked
something like a pyramid with towers and parapets.
It flew
an
enormous, brilliant red flag that I could make out even
fro
m a distance.

On the far north side of the city, to my right, was
the oddest structure of all.
It
appeared to be a gigantic crys
talline mushroom.
It was at least a hundred feet tall
and twice as wide.
It sprouted from the city, its bell
top throwing a huge sha
dow over a bunch of smaller cas
tles.
Atop the mushroom sat a more traditional-looking
castle that sparkled in the sunlight, as if constructed entirely
from glass.

"Crystallia?" I asked, pointing.

"Yes indeed!" Grandpa Smedry said.

Crystallia, home of the Knights of Crystallia, sworn
protectors of the Smedry clan and the royalty of the Free
Kingdoms.
I glanced back up at the
Hawkwind
.
Bastille
waited inside, still under condemnation for having lost her
sword back in the Hushlands.
Her homecoming would not
be as pleasant as mine would be.

But . . . well, I couldn't focus on that at the moment.
I
was coming
home
.
I wish I could explain to you how it felt
to finally see Nalhalla.
It wasn't a crazy sense of excitement
or glee
–
it
was far more peaceful.
Imagine what it's like to
wake up in the morning, ref
reshed and alert after a remark
ably good sleep.

It felt
right
.
Serene.

That, of course, meant it was time for something
to explode.

I hate explosion
s
.
Not only are they generally
bad
for one's health but they're just so demanding.
Whenever one comes along, you have to pay attention to it
instead of whatever else you were doing.
In fact, explosions
are
suspiciously like baby sisters in that regard.

Fortunately, I'm not going to talk about the
Hawkwind
e
xploding right now. Instea
d, I'm going to talk about somet
hing completely unrelated: fish sticks.
(Get used to it. I do
this sort of thing all the time.)

Fish sticks are
,
wi
thout a doubt, the most disgust
ing things ever created.
Regular fish is bad enough, but
fish sticks . . . well, they raise disgustingness to an entirely
new level.
It's like they exist
just
to make us writers
come up with new words to describe them, since the
old words just aren't horrible enough.
I'm thinking of
using
crapaflapnasti
.

Definition of "crapaflapnasti":
“
Adj.
Used to describe
an item that is as disgusting as fish sticks."
(Note: This word
can only be used to describe
fish sticks themselves, as noth
i
n
g has yet been found that is equally
crapaflapnasti
.
Though the unclean, moldy, cluttered space under Brandon
Sanderson's bed comes close.)

Why am I telling you about fish sticks?
W
ell, because in
addition to being an
u
nwholesome blight upon the land,
they're all pretty much the same.
If you don't like one brand,
chances are very good you won't like any of them.

The thing is, I've noticed that people tend to treat books
like fish sticks.
People try one, and they figure they've tried
them all.

Books are not fish sticks.
While they're not all as awe
some as the one you are now holding, there's so much
variety to them that it can be unsettling.
Even within the
same genre, two books can be totally different.

We'll talk more about this later.
For no
w
just try not to
treat books like fish sticks.
(And if you are forced to eat one
of the two, go with the books.
T
r
ust me.)

The right side of the
Hawkwind
exploded.

The vehicle pitched in the air, chunks of glass sparkling
as they blew free.
To the side of me, the glass bird's leg broke
off and
the world lurched, spun, and distorted
–
like
I was
riding
a madman's version of a merry-go-round.

At that moment, m
y
panicked mind realized that the
section
of glass under my feet
–
the
one my boots were
s
till stuck to
–
had
broken away from the
Hawkwind
.
The
v
ehicle
was still managing to fly.
I, however, was not.
Unless
yo
u count plummeting to your doom at a hundred miles
an hour
"flying."

E
verything was a blur.
The large piece of glass I was
stuck to was flipping end over end, the wind tossing it about
like
a sheet of paper.
I didn't have much time.

B
reak
! I thought, sending a shock of my T
a
lent through
m
y legs, shattering my boots and the sheet beneath them.
S
h
ards of glass explode
d around me, but I stopped spinn
ing.
I twisted, looking down at the waves.
I didn't have
a
ny Lenses that could save me
–
all
I was carrying were
the Translator's Lenses and my Oculator's Lenses.
All my
other pairs had been broken, given away, or returned to
G
randpa Smedry.

That only left my T
a
lent.
The wind whistled about
m
e, and I extended my arms.
I always wondered just
what my T
a
lent could break, if given the chance.
Could I,
perhaps . . . I closed my eyes, gathering my power.

BREAK
! I thought, shooting the power out of my arms
and into the air.

Nothing happened.

I opened
m
y eyes, terrified, as the waves rushed up at
me.
And rushed up at me.
And rushed up at me.
And . . . rushed up at me some more.

It sure is taking a long time for me to plunge to my death
,
I thought.
I
felt
as if I were falling,
yet the nearby waves
didn't actually seem to be getting any closer.

I turned, looking upward. There, falling toward me, was
Grandpa Smedry, his tuxedo jacket flapping, a look of
intense concentration on his face as he held his hand toward
me, fingers extended.

He's making me arrive late to my fall
!
I thought.
On occa
sion, I'd been able to make my Talent work at a distance,
but it was difficult and unpredictable.

"Grandpa!" I yelled in excitement.

Right about that moment, he plowed into me face-first,
and both of us crashed into the ocean.
The water was cold,
and my exclamation of surprise quickly turned into a
gurgle.

I burst free from the water, sputtering.
Fortunately,
the water was calm
–
if
frigid
–
and
the waves weren't
bad
.
I straightened my Lenses
–
which, remarkably, had
r
ema
ined on my face
–
and
looked around for my grandfathe
r, who came up a few seconds later, his mustache
drooping
and his wisps of wh
ite hair plastered to his other
wis
e
bald head.

"Wasted Westerfields!
" he exclaimed. "That was exciting
,
e
h, lad?"

I shivered in response.

“
All right, prepare yourself," Grandpa Smedry said.
He
looke
d surprisingly fatigued.

"For what?" I asked.