“Forward!” Grandpa Smedry said, rushing up the steps like a general running into battle. He’s remarkably spry for a person who is always late to everything.
I glanced at Bastille, who looked kind of sick. “I think I’ll wait outside,” she said.
“You’re going in,” Draulin snapped, walking up the steps, her armor clinking.
I frowned. Usually Draulin was very keen on making Bastille wait outside, since a mere “squire” shouldn’t be involved in important issues. Why insist that she enter the palace? I shot Bastille a questioning glance, but she just grimaced. So I rushed to catch up to my grandfather and Sing.
“… afraid I can’t tell you much more, Lord Smedry,” Sing was saying. “Folsom is the one who has been keeping track of the Council of Kings in your absence.”
“Ah yes,” Grandpa Smedry said. “He’ll be here, I assume?”
“He should be!” Sing said.
“Another cousin?” I asked.
Grandpa Smedry nodded. “Quentin’s elder brother, son of my daughter Pattywagon. Folsom’s a fine lad! Brig had his eye on the boy for quite some time to marry one of his daughters, I believe.”
“Brig?” I asked.
“King Dartmoor,” Sing said.
Dartmoor. “Wait,” I said. “That’s a prison, isn’t it? Dartmoor?” (I know my prisons, as you might guess.)
“Indeed, lad,” Grandpa Smedry said.
“Doesn’t that mean he’s related to us?”
It was a stupid question. Fortunately, I knew I’d be writing my memoirs and understood that a lot of people might be confused about this point. Therefore, using my powers of awesomosity, I asked this stupid-sounding question in order to lay the groundwork for my book series.
I hope you appreciate the sacrifice.
“No,” Grandpa Smedry said. “A prison name doesn’t necessarily mean that someone is a Smedry. The king’s family is traditional, like ours, and they tend to use names of famous historical people over and over. The Librarians then named prisons after those same famous historical people to discredit them.”
“Oh, right,” I said.
Something about that thought bothered me, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Probably because the thought was inside my head, and so “putting my finger on it” would have required sticking said finger through my skull, which sounds kind of painful.
Besides, the beauty of the hallway beyond those doors stopped me flat and cast all thoughts from my mind.
I’m no poet. Anytime I try to write poetry, it comes out as insults. I probably should have been a rapper, or at least a politician. Regardless, I sometimes find it hard to express beauty through words.
Suffice it to say that the enormous hallway stunned me, even after seeing a city full of castles, even after being carried on a dragon’s back. The hallway was big. It was white. It was lined with what appeared to be pictures, but there was nothing in the frames. Other than glass.
Different kinds of glass, I realized as we walked down the magnificent hallway. Here, the glass is the art! Indeed, each framed piece of glass was a different color. Plaques at the top listed the types of glass. I recognized some, and most of them glowed faintly. I was wearing my Oculator’s Lenses, which allowed me to see auras of powerful glass.
In a Hushlander palace, the kings showed off their gold and their silver. Here the kings showed off their rare and expensive pieces of glass.
I watched in wonder, wishing Sing and Grandpa Smedry weren’t rushing so quickly. We eventually turned through a set of doors and entered a long rectangular chamber filled with elevated seats on both the right and the left. Most of these were filled with people who quietly watched the proceedings below.
In the center of the room sat a broad table at which were seated about two dozen men and women wearing rich clothing of many exotic designs. I spotted King Dartmoor immediately; he was sitting on an elevated chair at the end of the table. Clothed in regal blue-and-gold robes, he wore a full red beard, and my Oculator’s Lenses—which sometimes enhanced the images of people and places I looked at—made him seem slightly taller than he really was. More noble, larger than life.
I stopped in the doorway. I’d never been in the presence of royalty before, and—
“Leavenworth Smedry!” a vivacious feminine voice squealed. “You rascal! You’re back!”
The entire room seemed to turn as one, looking at a full-figured (remember what that means?) woman who leaped from her chair and barreled toward my grandfather. She had short blonde hair and an excited expression.
I believe that’s the first time I ever saw a hint of fear in my grandfather’s eyes. The woman proceeded to grab the diminutive Oculator in a hug. Then she saw me.
“Is this Alcatraz?” she demanded. “Shattering Glass, boy, does your mouth always hang open like that?”
I shut my mouth.
“Lad,” Grandpa Smedry said as the woman finally released him. “This is your aunt, Pattywagon Smedry. My daughter, Quentin’s mother.”
“Excuse me,” a voice called from the floor below. I blushed, realizing that the monarchs were watching us. “Lady Smedry,” King Dartmoor said in a booming voice, “is it requisite that you disrupt these proceedings?”
“Sorry, Your Majesty,” she called down. “But these fellows are a lot more exciting than you are!”
Grandpa Smedry sighed, then whispered to me, “Do you want to take a guess at her Smedry Talent?”
“Causing disruptions?” I whispered back.
“Close,” Grandpa Smedry said. “She can say inappropriate things at awkward moments.”
That seemed to fit.
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” she said, wagging her finger at the king. “You can’t tell me you’re not excited to see them back too.”
The king sighed. “We will take a recess of one hour for family reunions. Lord Smedry, did you return with your long-lost grandson, as reports indicated you might?”
“Indeed I did!” Grandpa Smedry proclaimed. “Not only that but we also brought a pair of the fabled Translator’s Lenses, smelted from the Sands of Rashid themselves!”
This prompted a reaction in the crowd, and murmuring began immediately. One small contingent of men and women sitting directly across from us did not seem pleased to see Grandpa Smedry. Instead of tunics or robes, the members of this group wore suits—the men with bow ties, the women with shawls. Many wore glasses, which had horned rims.
Librarians.
The room grew chaotic as the audience began to stand, producing an excited buzz, as if a thousand hornets had suddenly been released. My aunt Patty began to speak animatedly with her father, demanding the details of his time in the Hushlands. Her voice managed to carry over the noise of the crowd, though she didn’t appear to be yelling. That was just how she was.
“Alcatraz?”
I glanced to the side, where Bastille stood shuffling uncomfortably. “Yeah?” I said.
“This … might be an appropriate place to mention something.”
“Wait,” I said, growing nervous. “Look, the king’s coming up this way!”
“Of course he is,” Bastille said. “He wants to see his family.”
“Of course. He wants to … Wait, what?”
At that moment, King Dartmoor stepped up to us. Grandpa Smedry and the others bowed to him—even Patty—so I did the same. Then the king kissed Draulin.
That’s right. He kissed her. I watched with shock, and not just because I’d never imagined that anyone would want to kiss Draulin. (Seemed a little like kissing an alligator.)
And if Draulin was the king’s wife, that meant …
“You’re a princess!” I said, pointing an accusing finger at Bastille.