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"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.
