Chapter
13
We have now spent two complete chapters trapped in the dungeon. We’re about to embark on our third chapter in there, assuming I ever finish with this introduction.
Three chapters is an awfully long time in book terms. You see, time moves differently in novels. The author could, for instance, say, “And I spent fourteen years in prison, where I obtained the learning of a gentleman and discovered the location of a buried treasure.” Now, this sounds like it would be a great deal of time—fourteen years—but it actually only took one sentence to explain. Therefore it happened very quickly.
Three chapters, on the other hand, is a very long time. It is a longer time than I spent in my foster home. It is a longer time than I spent visiting the gas station. It’s even a longer time than I spent in childhood, which was covered in only about two sentences.
Why so long in prison? At that moment, I was struggling with the same question. Few things are more maddening than forced inactivity, and I had been forced into inactivity for two entire chapters. True, I’d had some good, deep, personal revelations—however, the time for those had passed. I would almost rather have been tied to an altar and sacrificed, as opposed to being forced to sit around and wait while my grandfather was towed off to be tortured.
For, you see, that was what happened in between chapters—a space of time so short that it’s practically nonexistent. During that void of nothingness, Blackburn laughed evilly a couple of times, then pulled Grandpa Smedry off to the “Interrogation Room.” Apparently the Dark Oculator was overjoyed at the prospect of having a fully trained Smedry to torture.
But then again, who wouldn’t be?
“Come back here!” Bastille screamed, pounding the latrine bucket repeatedly against the bars. I was now even more glad that I hadn’t ended up needing to use it.
“Come back and fight me!” she yelled, slamming the bucket in one final overhand strike, venting her fury by smashing the wooden container into a dozen different pieces. She stood, puffing for a second, holding a broken handle.
“Well,” Sing whispered, “at least she’s getting back some of her good humor.”
Right, I thought. By then my agony had faded almost to nothingness. (I later learned that I’d only been subjected to the Torturer’s Lens for a period of three seconds. It takes at least five to do permanent damage.)
I empathized with Bastille—I even felt some of her same rage, even if I didn’t express it by destroying innocent bucketry. The longer I sat, the more ashamed I felt at how quickly I’d broken. Yet remembering those three seconds of pain made me shudder.
And even worse than the memory was the knowledge that my grandfather—a man I barely knew, but one for whom I already felt a sincere affection—had been captured. At that very moment, the old man was probably being subjected to the Torturer’s Lens. And his torture would last far longer than three seconds.
Bastille reached down, picking up a few bucket shards and tossing them in annoyance at the wall outside the cell.
“That isn’t helping, Bastille,” I said.
“Oh?” she snapped. “And what about sitting on the ground looking stupid? How much good is that doing?”
I blinked, flushing.
“Bastille, lass,” Sing said quietly. “That was harsh, even for you.”
Bastille puffed quietly for a few more moments, then turned away. “Whatever,” she muttered, walking over to kick at the hay pile with a frustrated motion. “It’s just that … Old Smedry … I mean, he’s a fool, but I think of him being tortured…”
She kicked at the hay again, tossing a pile into the air. The way it bounced off the wall and fell back on her might have been comical, had the situation been different.
“We all care for him, Bastille,” Sing said.
“You don’t understand,” Bastille said, picking a few strands of hay out of her silvery hair. “I’m a Knight of Crystallia! I’m sworn to protect the Oculators of the Free Kingdoms. And I was assigned to be his guard. I’m supposed to protect the old Smedry—keep him out of situations like this!”
“Yes, but—”
“No, Sing,” Bastille said. “You really don’t understand. Leavenworth is a fully trained Smedry of the pure line. Not just that, he’s a member of the Council of Kings—he’s the trusted friend of dozens of kings and rulers. Do you have any idea the kinds of state secrets he knows?”
Sing frowned, and I looked up.
“Why do you think the Council insists that he always keep a Knight of Crystallia around to protect him?” Bastille asked. “He complains—says he doesn’t need a Crystin guard. Well, the Council would have conceded to him long ago, if it were just his life that he endangered. But he knows things, Sing. Important things. That’s why I’m supposed to keep him out of trouble, why I’m supposed to do my best to protect him.” She sighed, slumping down beside the wall. “And I failed.”
And at that moment, I probably said the dumbest thing I ever have.
“Why you?” I asked. “I mean, if he’s so important, why—of all people—did they choose you to protect him?”
Yes, it was very insensitive. No, it wasn’t very helpful. However, it’s what slipped out.
You know you were thinking the same thing anyway.
Bastille’s eyes widened with anger, but she didn’t snap at me. Finally, she just let her head slump against her knees. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “They never told me—they never even explained. I had barely achieved knighthood, but they sent me anyway.”
We all fell quiet.
Finally I stood. I walked to the bars of the cell. Then I knelt. I’ve broken cars, kitchens, and chickens, I thought. I’ve destroyed the homes and possessions of people who took me in. I’ve broken the hearts of people who wanted to love me.
I can break the cell that is keeping me a prisoner.
I reached out, gripping the bars, then closed my eyes and focused.
Break! I commanded. Waves of power washed down my arms, tingling like jolts of electricity. They slammed into the bars.
And nothing happened.
I opened my eyes, gritting my teeth in frustration. The bars remained where they were, looking annoyingly unbroken. There wasn’t even a crack in them. The lock was made of glass as well, and somehow I knew that it would react the same way to my Talent.
Again, I feel the need to point out the Popsicle lesson. Desire does not instantly change the world. Sometimes, stories gloss over this fact, for the world would be a much more pleasant place if you could obtain something simply by wanting it badly enough.
Unfortunately, this is a real and true story, not a fantasy. I couldn’t escape from the prison simply because I wanted to.
Yet I would like to note something else at this point. Determination—true determination—is more than simply wanting something to happen. It’s wanting something to happen, then finding a realistic way to make certain that what you want to happen, happens.
And that happened to be what was happening with the story’s current happenings.
I ignored the bars, instead laying my palm flat against the stones of the cell floor. They were large, sturdy blocks plastered together with a smooth mortar. The bars ran directly into holes in the stone.
I smiled, then closed my eyes again, focusing. I hadn’t often used my Talent so intentionally, but I felt that I was gaining some skill with it. I was able to send a wave of power through my arms and into the rocks.
The mortar fractured quietly beneath my fingers. I focused harder, sending out an even larger wave of breaking power. There was a loud crack. When I opened my eyes, I found that I was kneeling in dust and chips, the stones beneath my knees reduced entirely to rubble.
I stared, a little shocked at just how much of the stone I had broken. Sing stood, looking on with a surprised expression. Even Bastille looked up from her mourning. Cracks in the stone twisted across the floor, spiderwebbing all the way to the back of the cell.
They
keep saying that my Talent is powerful, I thought. How much could I really break, if I set my mind to it? Eagerly, I reached up, grabbing a bar and trying to pull it free from its now-rubbled mountings.
It remained firm. It didn’t even budge a bit.
“Did you really think that would work?” an amused voice asked.
I looked up at the dungeon guard, who had walked over to watch me. He wore the clothing one might have expected of a Librarian—unfashionable suspenders pulled tight over a buttoned pink shirt, matched by a slightly darker pink bow tie. His glasses even had a bit of tape on them.
Only one thing about him deviated from what I would have expected: He was huge. He was as tall as Sing, and easily twice as muscular. It was like a bodybuilder supersoldier had beaten up an unfortunate nerd and—for some inconceivable reason—stolen his clothing.
The guard punched a fist into his palm, smiling. He wore a sword tied at his waist, and his glasses—the taped ones—were dark, like the ones that Sing and Bastille wore. Once again I was struck by the unfairness of letting the warriors wear sunglasses, while I was stuck with slightly pink ones.
That is one complaint, by the way, I still haven’t gotten over.
“The stones are just there for show,” the Librarian said. “The entire cage is made from Enforcer’s Glass—it’s a box, with the bars at the front. Breaking the stones won’t do any good. You think we aren’t familiar with Smedry tricks?”
He’s too far away to touch, I thought with frustration. But … what was it Grandpa Smedry said when I destroyed that gunman’s weapon?
That man had threatened me. And my Talent had worked proactively, instinctively.
At a distance.
I reached down, picking up a few pieces of wood from the broken bucket. The beefy Librarian snorted and turned to walk back to his post. I, however, tossed a piece of wood through the bars, hitting him in the back of the head.
The guard turned, frowning. I bounced another piece of wood off his forehead.
“Hey!” the Librarian barked.
I threw harder, this time causing the Librarian to flinch as the bit of wood came close to his eyes.