Alcatraz Versus the Knights of Crystallia

There were dozens of them, perhaps hundreds. The entire city was made of castles, reaching toward the sky, lofty towers and delicate spires. Flags flapping from the very tips. Each castle had a different design and shape, and a majestic city wall surrounded them all.

Three structures dominated the rest. One was a black castle on the far south side of the city. Its sides were sheer and tall, and it had a powerful feel to it, like a mountain. 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 from 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 crystalline mushroom. It was at least a hundred feet tall and twice as wide. It sprouted from the city, its bell top throwing a huge shadow over a bunch of smaller castles. 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 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, refreshed and alert after a remarkably good sleep.

It felt right. Serene.

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

Chapter 2

I hate explosions. 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 Hawkwind exploding right now. Instead I’m going to talk about something completely unrelated: fish sticks. (Get used to it. I do this sort of thing all the time.)

Fish sticks are without a doubt the most disgusting 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 nothing 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? Well, because in addition to being an unwholesome 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 awesome 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 now, just try not to treat books like fish sticks. (And if you are forced to eat one of the two, go with the books. Trust me.)

The right side of Hawkwind exploded.

The vehicle pitched in the air, chunks of glass sparkling as they blew free. To my side, 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, my panicked mind realized that the section of glass under my feet—the one my boots were still stuck to—had broken away from Hawkwind. The vehicle was still managing to fly. I, however, was not. Unless you count plummeting to your doom at a hundred miles an hour as “flying.”

Everything 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.

Break! I thought, sending a shock of my Talent through my legs, shattering my boots and the sheet beneath them. Shards of glass exploded around me, but I stopped spinning. I twisted, looking down at the waves. I didn’t have any 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 Grandpa Smedry.