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"This is not ours," the Curator said, throwing the paper at my feet.
As the others stood around me, confused, I snatched up the paper and read it. It wasn't what I'd been expecting.
It’s so simple, the paper read.
The Curators are, like most things in this world, bound by laws. They are strange laws, but they are strong laws.
The trick is to not own your own soul when you sign the contract. So, I bequeath my soul to my son, Alcatraz Smedry. I sign it away to him. He is its true owner.
I looked up.
"What is it, lad?" Grandpa Smedry asked.
"What would you do, Grandpa?" I asked. “If you were going to give up your soul not for a specific book, but because you wanted access to the Library’s entire contents. What book would you ask for?"
Grandpa Smedry shrugged. “Vague Volskies, lad, I don’t know! If you're just giving up your soul so that you can read the other books in the Library, it wouldn't matter which book you picked as the first, would it?"
“Actually, it would,” I whispered. "The Library contains all the knowledge humans have ever known."
"So?" Bastille asked.
"So, it contains the solutions to every problem. I know what I'd ask for." I looked straight at the Curators. "I'd ask for the book that explained how to get my soul back after I'd given it to the Curators!"
There was a moment of stunned silence. The Curators suddenly began floating away from us.
"Curators!" I yelled. "This note bequeaths the soul of Attica Smedry to me! You have taken it unlawfully, and I demand it back!"
The creatures froze, then they began to scream in a howling, despairing cry.
One of them suddenly spun and threw back its hood, the fires in its eyes puffing out, replaced by human eyeballs. The skull bulged, growing the flesh of a hawk-faced, noble-looking man.
He tossed aside his robe, wearing a tuxedo underneath. “Aha!" he said. "I knew you'd figure it out, son!" The man turned, pointing at the hovering Curators. "Thank you kindly for the time you let me spend rummaging through your books, you old spooks! I beat you. I told you I would!"
"Oh, dear," Grandpa Smedry said, smiling. “We'll never shut him up now. He's gone and come back from the dead."
"It's him, then?" I asked. "My . . . father?"
"Indeed," Grandpa Smedry said. "Attica Smedry, in the flesh. Ha! I should have known. If ever there were a man to lose his soul and then find it again, it would be Attica!"
"Father, Kaz!" Attica said, walking over, putting an arm around each one. "We have work to do! The Free Kingdoms are in deep danger! Did you retrieve my possessions?"
"Actually," I said. "Your wife did that."
Attica froze, looking back at me. Even though he’d addressed me earlier, it seemed that now he was seeing me for the first time. “Ah,” he said. "She has my Translator’s Lenses, then?"
"We assume so, son," Grandpa Smedry said.
Well then, that means we have even more work to do!" And with that, my father strode down the hallway, walking as if he expected everyone to hop quickly and follow.
I stood, staring after him. Bastille and Kaz paused, looking at me.
"Not what you were expecting?" Bastille asked.
I shrugged. This was the first time I'd met my father, and he had barely glanced at me.
"He's just distracted, I'm sure," Bastille said. “A little addled from having spent so long as a ghost."
"Yeah," I said. "I'm sure that's it."
Kaz slapped me on the shoulder. "Don't get down, Al. This is a time for rejoicing!"
I smiled, his enthusiasm contagious. "I suppose you're right." We began to walk, my step growing a bit more springy. Kaz was right. True, everything wasn't perfect, but we had managed to save my father. Coming down into the Library had proven to be the best choice, in the end.
I might have been a bit inexperienced, but I'd made the right decision. I found myself feeling rather good as we walked.
"Thanks, Kaz," I said.
"For what?"
"For the encouragement."
He shrugged. "We short people are like that. Remember what I said about being more compassionate."
I laughed. "Perhaps. I do have to say, though - I've thought of at least one reason why it's better to be a tall person."
Kaz raised an eyebrow.
"Lightbulbs," I said. "If everyone were short like you, Kaz, then who'd change them?"
He laughed. "You're forgetting Reason number sixty-three, kid!"
"Which is?"
"If everyone were short, we could build lower ceilings! Think of how much we'd save on building costs!"
I laughed, shaking my head as we caught up to the others and made our way out of the Library.
EPILOGUE
THERE YOU GO. BOOK TWO OF MY MEMOIRS. IT’S NOT THE END, OF COURSE. YOU DIDN’T THINK IT WOULD BE, DID YOU? WE HAVEN’T EVEN GOTTEN TO THE PART WHERE I END UP TIED TO THAT ALTAR, ABOUT TO BE SACRIFICED! BESIDES, THESE THINGS ALWAYS COME IN TRILOGIES, AT LEAST. OTHERWISE THEY’RE NOT EPIC!
THIS VOLUME CONTAINED AN IMPORTANT SECTION OF MY LIFE. MY FIRST MEETING – HUMBLE THOUGH IT WAS – WITH THE FAMOUS ATTICA SMEDRY. MY FIRST REAL TASTE OF LEADERSHIP. MY FIRST CHANCE TO USE WINDSTORMER’S LENSES LIKE A JET ENGINE. (I NEVER GET TIRED OF THAT ONE.)
BEFORE WE PART, I OWE YOU ONE MORE EXPLANATION. IT HAS TO DO WITH A BOAT: THE SHIP OF THESEUS. DO YOU REMEMBER? EVERY PLANK IN IT HAD BEEN REPLACED, UNTIL IT LOOKED LIKE THE SAME SHIP, BUT WASN’T.
I TOLD YOU THAT I WAS THAT SHIP. PERHAPS NOW, AFTER READING THIS BOOK, YOU CAN SEE WHY.
YOU SHOULD NOW KNOW THE YOUNG ME PRETTY WELL. YOU’VE READ TWO BOOKS ABOUT HIM AND HAVE SEEN HIS PROGRESS AS A PERSON. YOU’VE EVEN SEEN HIM DO SOME HEROIC THINGS, LIKE CLIMB ON TOP OF A GLASS DRAGON, FACE DOWN A MEMBER OF THE SCRIVENER’S BONES, AND SAVE HIS FATHER FROM THE CLUTCHES OF THE CURATORS OF ALEXANDRIA.
YOU MAY WONDER WHY I’VE STARTED MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY SO FAR BACK, WHEN I STILL SHOWED HINTS THAT I MIGHT BE A GOOD PERSON. WELL, I’M THE SHIP OF THESEUS. I WAS ONCE THAT BOY, FULL OF HOPE, FULL OF POTENTIAL. THAT?
?S NOT WHO I AM ANYMORE. I’M A COPY. A FAKE.
I’M THE PERSON THAT YOUNG BOY GREW INTO, BUT I’M NOT HIM. I’M NOT THE HERO THAT EVERYONE SAYS – EVEN THOUGH I LOOK LIKE I SHOULD BE.
THE PURPOSE OF THIS SERIES IS TO SHOW THE CHANGES I WENT THROUGH. TO LET YOU SEE THE PIECES OF ME SLOWLY GETTING REPLACED UNTIL NOTHING IS LEFT OF THE ORIGINAL.
I’M A SAD, PATHETIC PERSON, WRITING HIS LIFE STORY IN THE BASEMENT OF A LAVISH CASTLE HE REALLY DOESN’T DESERVE. I’M NOT A HERO. HEROES DON’T LET THE PEOPLE THEY LOVE DIE.
I’M NOT PROUD OF WHAT I’VE BECOME, BUT I INTEND TO MAKE CERTAIN THAT EVERYONE KNOWS THE TRUTH. IT’S TIME FOR THE LIES TO END; TIME FOR PEOPLE TO REALIZE THAT THEIR SHIP OF THESEUS IS JUST A COPY.
IF THE REAL ONE EVER EXISTED IN THE FIRST PLACE.
was not my place to say so.
"Bastille!" I screamed, holding her bloody body in my arms. "Why?"
She didn't respond. She just stared into the air, eyes glazed over, her spirit already gone. I shivered, pulling her close, but the body was growing cold.
"You can't die, you can't!" I said. “Please.”
It was no use. Bastille was dead. Really dead. Deader than a battery left all night with the high beam on. So dead, she was twice as dead as anyone I'd ever seen dead. She was that dead.
“This is all my fault,” I said. "I shouldn't have brought you in to fight Kiliman!"
I felt at her pulse, just in case. There was nothing'
Because, you know, she was dead.
"Oh, cruel world," I said, sobbing.
I put a mirror up to her face to see if she was breathing. Of course, there was no mist on the mirror. Seeing as how Bastille was totally and completely dead.
