I inspected the bookshelf. There was enough space to the side of it—between it and the next bookshelf over—that I could reach through and touch the back wall. I took a deep breath, leaning up against the bookcase, careful to keep from touching any of the books.
“Alcatraz…” Bastille said with concern.
I nodded, careful as I pressed my hand against the back wall. If I break this, and the bookshelf falls over, it will cost me my soul.
My Discerner’s Lenses told me that this portion of the brick wall behind the bookshelf was older than even the rest of the walls and floor. Whatever was behind that wall had been there even before the Curators moved into the area.
I released my power.
The wall crumbled, bricks breaking free of their mortar. I anxiously tried to hold the bookcase steady as the wall collapsed behind it. Kaz rushed forward, grabbing it on the other side, and Bastille pressed her hands against the books that were teetering slightly on their shelves. Apparently none of this was enough to give the Curators leave to take our souls, because they watched with an air of petulance as not a single book slid out.
I wiped my brow. The entire wall had fallen away, and there was some kind of room back there.
“That was rash, Alcatraz,” Bastille said, folding her arms.
“He’s a true Smedry!” Kaz said, laughing.
I glanced at the two of them, suddenly embarrassed. “Someone had to break down that wall. It’s the only way we were going to get through.”
Bastille shrugged. “You complain about having to make decisions, then you make one like that without even asking. Do you want to be in charge or not?”
“Uh … Well … I, that is…”
“Brilliant,” she said, peeking into the hole between the bookcases. “Very inspiring. Kaz, do you think we can get through?”
Kaz was prying a lamp off the wall. “Sure we can. Though we may have to move that bookcase.”
Bastille eyed it and then, sighing, helped me ease the bookcase back from the wall a few inches. We didn’t, fortunately, lose any books—or any souls—in the process. Once finished, Kaz was able to slip through the opening.
“Wow!” he said.
Bastille, standing on that side of the bookcase, went next. I, therefore, had to go last—which I found rather unfair, considering that I’d been the one to discover the place. However, all feelings of annoyance vanished as I stepped into the chamber.
It was a tomb.
I’d seen enough movies about wisecracking archaeologists to know what an Egyptian pharaoh’s tomb looked like. A massive sarcophagus sat in the center, and there were delicate golden pillars spaced around it. Mounds of wealth were heaped in the corners—coins, lamps, statues of animals. The floor itself seemed to be of pure gold.
So I did what anyone would do if he’d discovered an ancient Egyptian tomb. I yelped for joy, then rushed directly over to the nearest pile of gold and reached for a handful.
“Alcatraz, wait!” Bastille said, grabbing my arm with a burst of Crystin speed.
“What?” I asked in annoyance. “You’re not going to give me some kind of nonsense about grave robbing or curses, are you?”
“Shattering Glass, no,” Bastille said. “But look—those coins have words on them.”
I glanced to the side and noticed that she was right. Each coin was stamped with a foreign kind of character that wasn’t Egyptian, as far as I could tell. “So?” I asked. “What does it matter if…”
I trailed off, then glanced at the three Curators, who floated in through the wall in a fittingly ghostly manner.
“Curators,” I said. “Do these coins count as books?”
“They are written,” one said. “Paper, cloth, or metal, it matters not.”
“You can check one out, if you wish,” another whispered, floating up to me.
I shivered, then glanced at Bastille. “You saved my life,” I said, feeling numb.
She shrugged. “I’m a Crystin. That’s what we do.” However, she did seem to walk a little bit more confidently as she joined Kaz, who was inspecting the sarcophagus.
You should have realized that I wouldn’t be able to have any of the coins. That’s what happens in stories like this. Characters in books find heaps of gold or hidden treasure all over the place—but then of course they never get to spend a penny of it. Instead, they either:
1) Lose it in an earthquake or natural disaster.
II) Put it in a backpack that then breaks at a climactic moment, dropping all of the treasure as the heroes flee.
C) Use it to rescue their orphanage from foreclosure.
Stupid orphanages.
Anyway, it is very common for authors to do things like this to the people in their stories. Why? Well, we will claim it’s because we want to teach the reader that the real wealth is friendship, or caring, or something stupid like that. In reality, we’re simply mean people. We like to torment our readers, and that translates to tormenting our characters. After all, there is only one thing more frustrating than finding a pile of gold, then having it snatched away from you.
And that’s being told that at least you learned something from the experience.
I sighed, leaving the coins behind.
“Oh, don’t mope, Alcatraz,” Bastille said, waving indifferently toward another corner of the room. “Just take some of those gold bars instead. They don’t seem to have anything written on them.”
I turned and smacked my forehead, suddenly realizing that I wasn’t in a fictional story. This was an autobiography and was completely real—which meant that the “lesson” I could learn from it all is that grave robbing is way cool.
“Good idea!” I said. “Curators, do those bars count as books?”
The ghosts floated sullenly, one shooting an angry glare at Bastille. “No,” it finally said.
I smiled, then proceeded to stuff a few bars in my pocket, then a few more in Bastille’s pack. In case you were wondering, yes. Gold really is as heavy as they say. And it’s totally worth carrying anyway.
“Don’t you guys want any of this?” I asked, putting another bar in my jacket pocket.
Kaz shrugged. “You and I are Smedrys, Alcatraz. We’re friends to kings, counselors to emperors, defenders of the Free Kingdoms. Our family is incredibly wealthy, and we can pretty much have anything we want. I mean, that silimatic dragon we crashed was probably worth more money than most people would ever be able to spend in a lifetime.”
“Oh,” I said.
“And I kind of took a vow of poverty,” Bastille said, grimacing.
That was new. “Really?”
She nodded. “If I brought some of that gold, it would end up going to the Knights of Crystallia—and I’m a little annoyed with them right now.”
I stuffed a few more bars in my pocket for her anyway.
“Alcatraz, come look at this,” Kaz said.
I reluctantly left the rest of the gold behind, clinking my way over to the other two. They stood a distance away from the sarcophagus, not approaching. “What’s wrong?”
“Look closely,” Kaz said, pointing.
I did, squinting in the light of the single lamp. With effort, I saw what he was talking about. Dust. Hanging in the air, motionless.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Kaz said. “But, if you look, there’s a bubble of clean ground around the sarcophagus. No dust.”
There was a large circle on the ground, running around the casket, where either the dust had been cleaned away, or it had never fallen. Now that I thought to notice, I realized that the rest of this room was far more dusty than the library. It hadn’t been disturbed in some time.