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Books to Give the Teen and Young Readers On Your List

Welcome to the procrastinator’s club! If you’re one of those lucky or organized people who’ve already finished your shopping, that’s okay too–buy yourself a present as a reward for a job well done. The rest of us have no clue how you do it, because we’ve barely started. Luckily, we know the best last minute gift for nearly everyone: books. If you’re like us and looking for some last minute gifts, never fear–we’re here to help. Here are some recommendations for the teen and young readers in your life. And don’t forget to check out our Science Fiction and Fantasy lists as well!

opens in a new windowBan This Book by Alan Gratz

opens in a new windowPoster Placeholder of - 82 Middle Grade, Ages 8-12

You’re never too young to fight censorship. Do you have a budding activist on your shopping list? Check out Ban This Book, the story of shy and soft-spoken Amy Anne, who finds herself standing up to her school administration when her favorite book is challenged and taken off the library shelves.

opens in a new windowAlcatraz vs the Evil Librarians by Brandon Sanderson

opens in a new windowImage Placeholder of - 64 Middle Grade, Ages 8-12

Are you shopping for a kid who loves Artemis Fowl? How about Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events? Look no further than #1 New York Times bestselling author Brandon Sanderson’s sharp, funny series of supernatural adventures about a boy whose superpower is breaking things. This is a great series for reluctant readers, who’ll desperately want to know if Alcatraz can do the impossible: defeat those evil librarians for good.

opens in a new windowStrikeout of the Bleacher Weenies by David Lubar

opens in a new windowPlace holder  of - 99 Middle Grade, Ages 9-12

Does the kid on your list like the spooky stuff? Are they a fan of R. L. Stine’s Goosebumps series? Then they’re going to love David Lubar’s Weenies series! Each book is a collection of short, twisty, sometimes chilling stories designed to scare you, make you laugh, or just see the world in a whole new way. Read these stories–if you dare!

opens in a new windowThe Rains by Gregg Hurwitz

opens in a new windowPlaceholder of  -57 Young Adult, Age 13+

For the teenage Walking Dead fan in your life, we recommend this terrifying read from acclaimed thriller writer Gregg Hurwitz. Everyone over the age of 18 in Creek’s Cause has suddenly turned into deadly inhuman beings, killing everyone they can. Chance and his brother Patrick must try to figure out how the adults got infected–before Patrick’s 18th birthday, which is only days away. A brilliant reimagining of the classic zombie novel for all the zombie fans out there.

opens in a new windowMetaltown by Kristen Simmons

opens in a new windowImage Place holder  of - 16 Young Adult, Age 13+

If you’re shopping for a teen who loves to rebel, who loved Divergent and Under the Never Sky, then look no further than Kristen Simmons. In her most recent novel, Metaltown, the rules are simple: work hard, keep your head down, and watch your back. Looking out for yourself is the only way to survive…but Colin and Lena are sure there’s a better way. A story of friendship and rebellion, Metaltown is sure to capture any dystopia fan’s attention.

opens in a new windowSeriously Wicked by Tina Connolly

opens in a new window Young Adult, Age 13+

For the teen witch in your life, we recommend Tina Connolly’s hilarious series about reluctant teen witch Camellia. Cam’s adopted mother is determined to turn Cam into a first rate wicked witch, but all Cam wants is a normal life. But when the witch summons a demon that takes over a guy in Cam’s school, Cam doesn’t have much of a choice–she’d better figure out this magic thing, fast, before the demon destroys the guy’s soul.

opens in a new windowTruthwitch by Susan Dennard

opens in a new window Young Adult, Age 13+

Is the teen on your list basically surgically attached to her bestie? Are they constantly texting and Snapchatting even when they’re not together? Then Truthwitch is definitely the book for her–though if you want to win major points with the teen in your life, get a copy for her and a copy for her bestie! In Susan Dennard’s first Witchlands novel, all best friends Safiya and Iseult want is to be left alone to live their lives. Instead, they’re going to have to save the world–together.

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$2.99 eBook Sale: Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians

The ebook editions of the first three books of Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians, Brandon Sanderson’s fantasy series for young readers, are now on sale for $2.99!*

Image Place holder  of - 29 opens in a new windowAlcatraz vs. the Evil LibrariansOn his thirteenth birthday, foster child Alcatraz Smedry gets a bag of sand in the mail-his only inheritance from his father and mother. He soon learns that this is no ordinary bag of sand. It is quickly stolen by the cult of evil Librarians who are taking over the world by spreading misinformation and suppressing truth. Alcatraz must stop them, using the only weapon he has: an incredible talent for breaking things.

Buy Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians:

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Placeholder of  -56 opens in a new windowThe Scrivener’s BonesIn his second skirmish against the Evil Librarians who rule the world, Alcatraz and his ragtag crew of freedom fighters track Grandpa Smedry to the ancient and mysterious Library of Alexandria. Hushlanders—people who live in the Librarian-controlled lands of Canada, Europe, and the Americas—believe the Library was destroyed long ago. Free Kingdomers know the truth: the Library of Alexandria is still around, and it’s one of the most dangerous places on the planet. For it is the home of the scariest Librarians of them all: a secret sect of soul-stealing Scriveners. Can Alcatraz and his friends rescue Grandpa Smedry and make it out of there alive?

Buy The Scrivener’s Bones:

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opens in a new windowImage Placeholder of - 86 opens in a new windowThe Knights of CrystalliaIn this third Alcatraz adventure, Alcatraz Smedry has made it to the Free Kingdoms at last. Unfortunately, so have the evil Librarians–including his mother! Now Alcatraz has to find a traitor among the Knights of Crystallia, make up with his estranged father, and save one of the last bastions of the Free Kingdoms from the Evil Librarians.

Buy The Knights of Crystallia:

opens in a new windowkindle-3 opens in a new windownook-3 opens in a new windowebooks.com-3 opens in a new windowPlaceholder of google play -91 opens in a new window opens in a new windowkobo-3

This offer ends September 1st.

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On the Road: Tor/Forge Author Events for September

tor-Everfair-2 forge-Stripped-Bare teen-Dark-Talent

opens in a new windowTor/Forge authors are on the road in September! See who is coming to a city near you this month.

Shannon Baker,  opens in a new windowStripped Bare

Wednesday, September 7
opens in a new windowBoulder Bookstore
Boulder, CO
7:30 PM
Also with Kevin Wolf

Thursday, September 8
opens in a new windowOld Firehouse Books
Fort Collins, CO
6:00 PM

Tuesday, September 20
opens in a new windowBookworks
Albuquerque, NM
6:00 PM

Wednesday, September 21
opens in a new windowOp. Cit. Books
Taos, NM
11:30 AM

Saturday, September 24
opens in a new windowBarbed Wire Books
Longmont, CO
3:00 PM

Sunday, September 25
opens in a new windowHampden Hall
Englewood, CO
3:00 PM

Tuesday, September 27
opens in a new windowBarnes & Noble
Cheyenne, WY
4:00 PM

Wednesday, September 28
opens in a new windowBooks-a-Million
Rapid City, SD
6:00 PM

Thursday, September 29
opens in a new windowTattered Cover
Littleton, CO
7:00 PM
Also with Kevin Wolf

Friday, September 30
opens in a new windowBarnes & Noble
Pueblo, CO
4:00 PM

Robert Brockway, opens in a new windowThe Empty Ones

Saturday, September 3
opens in a new windowVillage Books
Bellingham, WA
7:00 PM

Blake Charlton,  opens in a new windowSpellbreaker

Wednesday, September 14
opens in a new windowMysterious Galaxy
San Diego, CA
7:30 PM

Max Gladstone, opens in a new windowFour Roads Cross

Sunday, September 4
opens in a new windowDecatur Book Festival
Decatur, GA
5:00 PM

David Hagberg, opens in a new windowEnd Game

Sunday, September 4
opens in a new windowDecatur Book Festival
International Covert Ops Panel, with David Hagberg, Bret Witter, moderated by Alice Murray
Decatur, GA
5:00 PM

Thursday, September 8
opens in a new windowBookstore 1
Sarasota, FL
7:00 PM

Kij Johnson opens in a new windowThe Dream-Quest of Vellitt Boe

Thursday, September 15
Kansas University, opens in a new windowJayhawk Ink Lounge
Lawrence, KS
5:30 PM

Sarah Porter, opens in a new windowVassa in the Night

Sunday, September 18
Brooklyn Book Festival
opens in a new windowMagic and Mayhem in New York
Brooklyn, NY
4:00 PM

Sunday, September 25
opens in a new windowOblong Books
Also with Danielle Paige
Rhinebeck, NY
4:00 PM

Monday, September 26
opens in a new windowBooks of Wonder
Also with Kerri Maniscalco
New York, NY
6:00 PM

Thursday, September 29
opens in a new windowOne More Page Books
Fall for the Book YA Panel
Also featuring opens in a new windowA. J. Hartley and opens in a new windowCarrie Jones
Arlington, VA
7:00 PM

Cherie Priest, opens in a new windowThe Family Plot

Tuesday, September 20
opens in a new windowBarnes & Noble
Chattanooga, TN
7:00 PM

Thursday, September 22
opens in a new windowStar Line Books
Chattanooga, TN
6:00 PM

Brandon Sanderson, opens in a new windowThe Dark Talent

Tuesday, September 6
opens in a new windowThe King’s English Bookshop
Salt Lake City, UT
6:00 PM

Nisi Shawl, opens in a new windowEverfair

Tuesday, September 6
opens in a new windowUniversity Bookstore
Seattle, WA
7:00 PM

Friday, September 9
opens in a new windowMalvern Books
Also with Christopher Brown
Austin, TX
7:00 PM

Saturday, September 10
opens in a new windowPoisoned Pen
Scottsdale, AZ
2:00 PM

Monday, September 12
opens in a new windowMysterious Galaxy
San Diego, CA
7:30 PM

Tuesday, September 13
opens in a new windowEso Won
Los Angeles, CA
7:00 PM

Monday, September 19
opens in a new windowA Room of One’s Own
Madison, WI
7:00 PM

Wednesday, September 21
opens in a new windowNicola’s Books
Ann Arbor, MI
7:00 PM

Friday, September 23
opens in a new windowCharis Books & More
Atlanta, GA
7:30 PM

Kristen Simmons, opens in a new windowMetaltown

Tuesday, September 20
opens in a new windowJoseph-Beth Booksellers
Crestview Hills, KY
7:00 PM

Thursday, September 22
opens in a new windowJoseph-Beth Booksellers
Lexington, KY
7:00 PM

Friday, September 23
opens in a new windowAnderson’s Bookshop
Also with Paula Stokes
Downers Grove, IL
7:00 PM

Paula Stokes, opens in a new windowVicarious

Thursday, September 22
opens in a new windowLeft Bank Books
St. Louis, MO
7:00 PM

Friday, September 23
opens in a new windowAnderson’s Bookshop
Also with Kristen Simmons
Downers Grove, IL
7:00 PM

Fran Wilde, opens in a new windowCloundbound

Tuesday, September 27
opens in a new windowBarnes & Noble
With Chuck Wendig
Philadelphia, PA
7:00 PM

Anne A. Wilson, opens in a new windowClear to Lift

Thursday, September 22
opens in a new windowCoronado Public Library
Books provided by Bay Books
Coronado, CA
6:00 PM

Simone Zelitch, opens in a new windowJudenstaat

Saturday, September 3
opens in a new windowDecatur Book Festival
Decatur, GA
12:30 PM

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Sneak Peek: The Dark Talent by Brandon Sanderson

opens in a new windowPoster Placeholder of amazon- 24 opens in a new windowPlace holder  of bn- 30 opens in a new windowImage Place holder  of booksamillion- 33 opens in a new windowibooks2 87 opens in a new windowindiebound-1 opens in a new windowpowells-1

Sneak Peek: The Dark Talent by Brandon SandersonAlcatraz Smedry has successfully defeated the army of Evil Librarians and saved the kingdom of Mokia. Too bad he managed to break the Smedry Talents in the process. Even worse, his father is trying to enact a scheme that could ruin the world, and his friend, Bastille, is in a coma. To revive her, Alcatraz must infiltrate the Highbrary–known as The Library of Congress to Hushlanders–the seat of Evil Librarian power. Without his Talent to draw upon, can Alcatraz figure out a way to save Bastille and defeat the Evil Librarians once and for all?

opens in a new windowThe Dark Talent–available September 6this the fifth action-packed fantasy adventure in the Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians series for young readers by the #1 New York Times bestselling author Brandon Sanderson. This never-before-published, fast-paced, and funny novel is now available in a deluxe hardcover edition, illustrated by Hayley Lazo. Please enjoy this excerpt. 

Chapter

Doug

So there I was, standing in my chambers on the day before the world ended, facing my greatest adversary to date.

The royal wardrobe coordinator.

Janie was a perky Nalhallan woman wearing trendy Free Kingdomer clothing. Technically you could describe her outfit as a tunic—but it was only similar to a tunic in the same way that a high-end sports car is similar to a broken-down pickup. It was more like a dress with a belt at the waist, and had a large bow on one side with stylish embroidery up the sleeves.

It looked nice, making it a complete contrast to the monstrosity she held up for me to wear.

“That,” I said, “is a clown costume.”

“What?” Janie said. “Of course it isn’t.”

“It’s a white jumpsuit,” I said, “with fluffy pink bobs over the buttons!”

“White for the purity of the throne, Your Former Highness,” Janie said, “and pink to indicate your magnanimous decision to step down peacefully.”

“It has oversized floppy shoes.”

“A representation of your magnificent footprint upon the kingdom, Your Former Highness.”

“And the fake flower to squirt water?”

“So that you may shower all who approach you with symbolic waters of life.”

I raised a skeptical eyebrow at her and walked over to the bed, picking up the poofy rainbow clown wig she’d brought for me to wear.

“Obviously,” Janie said, “that is a representation of the varieties of cultures and peoples you served during your kingship.” She smiled.

“Let me guess,” I said, tossing the wig onto the bed. “The Librarians took this ‘regal’ costume worn by retired Mokian kings and, in my lands, gave it to clowns. That turned it into something ridiculous in the Hushlands, like how they named prisons after famous Free Kingdomers.”

“Uh, yeah,” Janie said. “Sure … Uh, that’s … exactly what happened.”

I frowned at her evasiveness. At the moment, I wore only a bathrobe. My old clothing—green jacket, T-shirt, jeans—was gone. My jacket had been cut up, and the rest of my clothing had been vaporized in a rather unfortunate incident containing far too much Alcatraz nudity.

Outside my room, Tuki Tuki—capital city of Mokia—was utterly silent. The drums of celebration had stopped, as had the songs of joy. Their day of celebration past, the Mokians now mourned in silence to highlight the voices among them that had been quieted.

If I was right, that silence was about to get a lot worse. I refer you to the footnote* for proof.

“What else do you have?” I asked Janie.

“Well, let’s see,” she said, obviously disappointed I wouldn’t wear the clown outfit. I might be a former king of Mokia—though I’d only served for one day—but if that was the traditional costume of my station, I’d go without.

She reached into her large trunk and pulled out what appeared to be a dog costume, with furred feet, a tail, and a headpiece with floppy ears.

“No,” I said immediately.

“But it’s the official outfit for a retired prince of—”

“No.”

Janie sighed, setting it on the bed and digging farther into her trunk.

“What is it with these ‘traditional’ outfits?” I said, poking the dog costume. “I mean, even without Librarian interference, you have to admit they’re kind of…”

“Regal?”

“Ridiculous,” I said. “It’s almost like you want your former kings to look silly.”

Janie shifted. “Uh … why would we want to do that? It’s not like we want people to see former monarchs as foolish, so a ruler who has stepped down can never change his mind, stage a coup, and seize back the kingdom.” She forced out a laugh.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Thank you! How about this nice cat costume? It represents the way you gracefully maneuvered the politics of the throne!”

“No animal costumes at all, please.”

She sighed, then continued digging in her trunk. A moment later she cursed under her breath. The lights at the sides of the trunk had stopped working.

Curious, I walked over. Why did she even need lights? I soon saw that the inside of the trunk was much larger than the outside would indicate. The trunk was a neat trick, but nothing I hadn’t seen before—in the Free Kingdoms, people use different varieties of glass to accomplish some pretty amazing things.*

The lights at the side were made of a special kind of glass to provide illumination—and that glass was powered by a special type of sand called brightsand. It worked somewhat like a battery for glass. (In the same way that shipwrecked people act like batteries for sharks.)

Her brightsand for the lights appeared to have lost its charge. Fortunately, I knew something else that worked as a battery for both sand and sharks: me.

I reached out and touched the glass of her lights. I might have—somehow—broken the Smedry Talents, but I was still an Oculator. That meant I could power special types of glass.

I dredged up something inside me and pushed it out—it was a little like trying to throw up when not nauseous. The glass lights shining into Janie’s trunk burst aglow, brilliant as the sun. I yelped, startled by the sudden explosion of power. Usually there was a sense of resistance when trying to do this, but today the energy came right out.

I stumbled back as the glass plates actually melted.

“Wow,” Janie said. “Uh … you really hate these clothes, don’t you?”

“I…”

Let me pause here and explain an important point. When you are a coward like me, you should always take credit for something you didn’t intend to do. You see, part of being a coward is being too afraid of not being seen as awesome to admit to not being awesome, though you have to be careful not to let on that you’re too afraid of not being awesome to admit that not being awesome would indicate to those that want someone to be awesome that you are not as awesome as your awesomeness would otherwise indicate.

“I’m awesome,” I said.

Sorry. I got a little confused in that last paragraph. Man, this writing can be as regal as a former Mokian monarch sometimes.

Janie looked at me.

“Ah, ahem,” I said. “I saw a military uniform. What about that?”

I’d only seen a glimpse of it in the bright light: an outfit of Nalhallan design, with big epaulettes* on the shoulders and all kinds of ropes and ribbons and buttons and things, intended to make officers stand out on a battlefield and get shot first so the soldiers doing the real fighting are safe.

“I suppose,” Janie said, “I can try to dig that out—but I’ll need to install some new lights first.” She glanced at the bubbling globs of glass on the sides of her trunk.

“Uh, thanks,” I said.

“You sure you don’t want a frog costume? Technically it’s supposed to be for a retired king who served at least seven days, but you could swing it.”

“No thanks.” I hesitated, but was too curious not to ask. “Let me guess. The frog costume represents how a monarch leaps hurdle after hurdle as a leader?”

“Nah. It’s symbolic of how you survived your kingship without croaking.”

Of course.

Janie got out another pack and began digging around for some lights. Embarrassed at having ruined her glass, I made an excuse about needing to use the restroom and slipped out. In truth, I just wanted to be alone for a little while.

The hallway outside my room was decorated with a woven mat, the walls constructed of large reeds, the roof thatched. I didn’t see a soul. The place was freakishly quiet, and I found myself tiptoeing. (A common action of cowards like me.)

It seemed to me that with everything that had happened in the last few days, I should be doing something far more important than deciding what to wear. Tuki Tuki was safe, but I hadn’t won this war. Not as long as Bastille and so many Mokians lay in comas, Librarians still ruled the Hushlands, and there were footnotes lying scattered around unused.*

We needed to chase down my father and stop him from putting his insane plan into motion. Though … maybe his plan wouldn’t work anymore. I’d broken the Talents, after all. Maybe that would stop him from giving Talents to everyone else.

No, I thought. This is my father. He’d bested the undead Librarians of Alexandria and had uncovered the secret of the Sands of Rashid. He would be able to do this too. If we didn’t stop him.

I heard voices in the hallway, so I followed them to a spacious room topped by lazy ceiling fans. Inside, my grandfather stood before a large wall of glowing glass that showed the faces of numerous people in a variety of ethnic costumes. I recognized them as the monarchs of the Free Kingdoms—I’d saved their lives at one point. Maybe two. I lose count.

Bald on top, my grandfather wore a bushy mustache and had an equally bushy ring of white hair that puffed out along the back of his head, like he’d been in an epic pillow fight and a mass of stuffing had gotten stuck to his scalp. He was, as always, decked out in a stylish tuxedo.

“Now, I don’t want to act ungrateful,” my grandfather was saying to the monarchs, “but … Accountable Alatars, people! Don’t you think you’re a little late?”

“Mokia asked for aid,” said Queen Kamiko, an Asian-looking woman in her fifties.

“Yes,” agreed a man in a European-looking crown. I didn’t know his name. “You wanted armies. We’re sending them, along with the air guard, to help you Smedrys. What is the complaint?”

“My complaint?” Grandpa Smedry sputtered. “The war is over! My grandson won it!”

“Yes, well,” said a dark-skinned monarch in a colorful hat. “Certainly there is still work to be done. Cleanup, reconstruction, that sort of thing.”

“You cowards,” I said, stepping into the room.

Trust me. I know how to spot cowards.

My grandfather looked toward me, as did the monarchs on the screen. The Free Kingdomers liked to claim that they are nothing like the Hushlanders, but things like this glass wall—which was Communicator’s Glass, designed for speaking over long distances—are very similar to Hushlander technology. The two could be sides to the same coin.

The same went for those monarchs and the leaders of the Librarians. Politicians, it seemed, often shared more with one another than they did with the people they represented.

“Lad…” Grandpa Smedry said.

“I will speak to them,” I said, stepping up beside him.

“But—” Grandpa said.

“I won’t be shushed!”

“I wasn’t going to shush you,” Grandpa said. “I was going to point out that you’re addressing the world’s collected monarchs in a bathrobe.”

Uh …

Right.

“It’s a representation of my disdain for their callous disregard for Mokian lives!” I proclaimed, raising a hand with my finger pointed toward the sky.

Thanks, Janie.

“Young Smedry,” said Kamiko, “we are grateful for what you have done, but you have no right to speak to us in such a way!”

“I have every right!” I snapped. “I am a former king of Mokia.”

“You were king for one day,” said a tiny dinosaur. I knew that one; Supremus Rex, monarch of the dinosaurs.

“One day is long enough to get some of the stench on me,” I said, “but brief enough to not be overwhelmed by it. You send armies now? After the fight is won, and you realize that an alliance with the Librarians is impossible? I can’t believe that you—”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” Kamiko interrupted, turning off her section of the glass. The others followed suit, switching off their screens until only one remained, a man with red hair and beard, looking sorrowful. Brig, the High King, Bastille’s father.

I felt my anger fade, and I looked sheepishly at my grandfather. I’d stormed in and ruined his meeting.

“That was quite energetic!” Grandpa Smedry said. “I approve.”

“I don’t know,” another voice said from the back of the room. My uncle Kaz was there, sitting and sipping a fruit drink, his adventuring hat on the table beside him. Four feet tall—and please don’t call him a dwarf or a midget—Kaz was dressed in a leather jacket and sturdy hiking boots. He had a pair of Warrior’s Lenses hanging from his pocket; he wasn’t an Oculator, but he was pretty handy in a fight.

Kaz raised his cup toward me. “It was good calling them cowards, Al, but I think you could have slipped another insult or two in before they switched off their glass. And the send-off … yeah, that wasn’t suitably theatrical at all.”

“True, true,” Grandpa said. “The dramatic effect of your intrusion could have been much greater, and you could have been far more annoying.”

And that’s probably the best introduction I could give you to my family. In the last six months of my life, I’d taunted undead Librarian ghosts, recklessly used my Talent to lay waste to armies, run headlong into danger a dozen times over, and aggravated some of the most powerful Librarians who have ever lived—but compared to the rest of the Smedry clan, I’m the responsible, cool-headed one.

“I doubt insulting the monarchs would do any good, Leavenworth,” the High King said to my grandfather, speaking through his glowing pane of glass. “They are afraid. A few days ago the world made sense to them—but now everything has changed.”

“Because the Librarians were driven off?” I asked. Bastille’s father looked very, very tired, with red eyes and drooping features.

“Yes,” the king said to me. “Driven off by one person, and by a power they didn’t know he had—a power they can’t imagine or understand. They’re afraid that what you have done will enrage the Librarians.”

“Mokia was their sacrifice,” Grandpa Smedry said, angry. “They foolishly hoped it would satiate the Librarians. And now they’re convinced that the Librarians will return in force, determined this time to crush the entirety of the Free Kingdoms.”

Politics.

I hate politics. When I’d first learned about the Free Kingdoms, I’d imagined how wonderful and amazing they’d be. I spent two entire books trying to get there, only to find that—despite their many wonders—the people in them were … well, people.* Free Kingdomers had all the flaws of people in the Hushlands, except with sillier clothing.

I thought of Bastille, unconscious. She’d be so embarrassed to be seen that way. Those monarchs had abandoned her, and Mokia, for their own petty games. It made me angry. Angry at the monarchs, angry at the Librarians, angry at the world. I sneered, stepping forward, and slapped my hands against the Communicator’s Glass on the wall.

“Lad?” Grandpa Smedry asked.

The glass beneath my fingers began to glow.

Perhaps I should have been wary, considering what I’d done to Janie’s lights. I just wanted to do something. I powered the wall glass. I threw everything I had into those panels, causing them to shine brightly.

“You can’t call them back,” Kaz said, “not unless they allow you to—”

I pushed something into that glass, something powerful. I had certain advantages, being raised in the Hushlands. Everyone in the Free Kingdoms had expectations about what was and wasn’t possible.

I was too stupid to know what they knew, and I was too much a Smedry to let that bother me.

What I did next defies explanation. But since it’s my job to try to convey difficult concepts to you, I’m going to try anyway. Imagine jumping off a high building into a sea of marshmallows, then reaching out with a million arms to touch the entire world, while realizing that every emotion you’ve ever had is connected to every other emotion, and they’re really one big emotion, like an emotion-whale that you can’t completely see because you’re up too close to notice anything other than a little bit of leathery emotion-whale skin.

I let out a deep breath.

Wow.

In that moment, the squares of Communicator’s Glass each winked back on. They showed the rooms of the monarchs, most of whom were still there, though they’d stood from their chairs to speak with their attendants. One had gotten a sandwich. Another was playing solitaire.*

They looked at me, and I somehow knew that my face had appeared on each of their panes of glass, large and dominating.

“I,” I told them, “am going to the Highbrary.”

Is that my voice?

“You are worried I’ve started something dangerous,” I said. “You’re wrong. I’m not starting it, I’m finishing it. The Librarians have terrorized us for far too long. I intend to make certain they are the ones who are frightened and they are the ones, for once, who have to worry about what they’re going to lose.

“Some of you are scared. Some of you are selfish. The rest of you are downright ignorant. Well, you’re going to have to put those things aside, because you can’t ignore what’s coming. I know something the Librarians don’t. The end is here. You can’t stop this war from progressing. So it’s time for you to stand up, stop whining, and either help or get out of my way.”

I let go of the glass. The images winked off, the wall turning dark.

“Now that,” Kaz said from behind, “is how you end a conversation with style!”

  •  People who use footnotes in books are very smart, and you can trust what they say.
  •  Like adding footnotes to books.
  •  Footnote: It’s true. Think about it.
  • Epaulettes are those things soldiers wear on their shoulders to make them look more important. Nothing proclaims “look how macho I am” more than a good set of epaulettes. Other than, I guess, a big sign that reads “look how macho I am,” but we wouldn’t want to be flagrant about it, would we?
  • There. That’s better.
  • I guess I was expecting marmosets?
  • Yes, solitaire. What, you think kings and queens are always doing important stuff, like chopping off heads and invading neighboring kingdoms?

Copyright © 2016 by Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC

Buy The Dark Talent here:

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Sneak Peek: The Shattered Lens by Brandon Sanderson

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opens in a new windowThe Shattered Lens by Brandon SandersonAlcatraz Smedry is up against a whole army of Evil Librarians with only his friend Bastille, a few pairs of glasses, and an unlimited supply of exploding teddy bears to help him. This time, even Alcatraz’s extraordinary talent for breaking things may not be enough to defeat the army of Evil Librarians and their giant librarian robots.

opens in a new windowThe Shattered Lens is the fourth action-packed fantasy adventure in the Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians series for young readers by the #1 New York Times bestselling author Brandon Sanderson. These fast-paced and funny novels are now available in deluxe hardcover editions illustrated by Hayley Lazo. Please enjoy this excerpt.

Chapter 2

So there I was, holding a pink teddy bear in my hand. It had a red bow and an inviting, cute, bearlike smile. Also, it was ticking.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Now you throw it, idiot!” Bastille said urgently.

I frowned, then tossed the bear to the side, through the open window, into the small room filled with sand. A second later, an explosion blasted back through the window and threw me into the air. I was propelled backward, then slammed into the far wall.

With an “urk” of pain, I slid down and fell onto my back. I blinked, my vision fuzzy. Little flakes of plaster—the kind they put on ceilings just so they can break off and fall to the ground dramatically in an explosion—broke off the ceiling and fell dramatically to the ground. One hit me on the forehead.

“Ow,” I said. I lay there, staring upward, breathing in and out. “Bastille, did that teddy bear just explode?”

“Yes,” she said, walking over and looking down at me. She had on a gray-blue militaristic uniform, and wore her straight, silver hair long. On her belt was a small sheath that had a large hilt sticking out of it. That hid her Crystin blade; though the sheath was only about a foot long, if she drew the weapon out it would be the length of a regular sword.

“Okay. Right. Why did that teddy bear just explode?”

“Because you pulled out the pin, stupid. What else did you expect it to do?”

I groaned, sitting up. The room around us—inside the Nalhallan Royal Weapons Testing Facility—was white and featureless. The wall where we’d been standing had an open window looking into the blast range, which was filled with sand. There were no other windows or furniture, save for a set of cabinets on our right.

“What did I expect it to do?” I said. “Maybe play some music? Say ‘mama’? Where I come from, exploding is not a normal bear habit.”

“Where you come from, a lot of things are backward,” Bastille said. “I’ll bet your poodles don’t explode either.”

“No, they don’t.”

“Pity.”

“Actually, exploding poodles would be awesome. But exploding teddy bears? That’s dangerous!”

“Duh.”

“But Bastille, they’re for children!”

“Exactly. So that they can defend themselves, obviously.” She rolled her eyes and walked back over to the window that looked into the sand-filled room. She didn’t ask if I was hurt. She could see that I was still breathing, and that was generally good enough for her.

Also, you may have noticed that this is Chapter Two. You may be wondering where Chapter One went. It turns out that I—being stoopid—lost it. Don’t worry, it was kind of boring anyway. Well, except for the talking llamas.
I climbed to my feet. “In case you were wondering—”

“I wasn’t.”

“—I’m fine.”

“Great.”

I frowned, walking up to Bastille. “Is something bothering you, Bastille?”

“Other than you?”

“I always bother you,” I said. “And you’re always a little grouchy. But today you’ve been downright mean.”

She glanced at me, arms folded. Then I saw her expression soften faintly. “Yeah.”
I raised an eyebrow.

“I just don’t like losing.”

“Losing?” I said. “Bastille, you recovered your place in the knights, exposed and defeated a traitor to your order, and stopped the Librarians from kidnapping or killing the Council of Kings. If that’s ‘losing,’ you’ve got a really funny definition of the word.”

“Funnier than your face?”

“Bastille,” I said firmly.

She sighed, leaning down, crossing her arms on the windowsill. “She Who Cannot Be Named got away, your mother escaped with an irreplaceable book in the Forgotten Language, and—now that they’re not hiding behind the ruse of a treaty—the Librarians are throwing everything they’ve got at Mokia.”

“You’ve done what you could. I’ve done what I could. It’s time to let others handle things.”

She didn’t look happy about that. “Fine. Let’s get back to your explosives training.” She wanted me well prepared in case the war came to Nalhalla. It wasn’t likely to happen, but my ignorance of proper things—like exploding teddy bears—has always been a point of frustration to Bastille.

Now, I realize that many of you are just as ignorant as I am. That’s why I prepared a handy guide that explains everything you need to know and remember about my autobiography in order to not be confused by this book. I put the guide in Chapter One. If you ever have trouble, you can reference it. I’m such a nice guy. Dumb, but nice.
Bastille opened one of the cabinets on the side wall and pulled out another small, pink teddy bear. She handed it to me as I walked up to her. It had a little tag on the side that said “Pull me!” in adorable lettering.

I took it nervously. “Tell me honestly. Why do you build grenades that look like teddy bears? It’s not about protecting children.”

“Well, how do you feel when you look at that?”

I shrugged. “It’s cute. In a deadly, destructive way.” Kind of like Bastille, I thought. “It makes me want to smile. Then it makes me want to run away screaming, since I know it’s really a grenade.”

“Exactly,” Bastille said, taking the bear from me and pulling the tag—the pin—out. She tossed it through the window. “If you build weapons that look like weapons, then everyone will know to run away from them! This way, the Librarians are confused.”

“That’s sick,” I said. “Shouldn’t I be ducking or something?”

“You’ll be fine,” she said.

Ah, I thought. This one must be some kind of dud or fake.

At that second, the grenade outside the window exploded. Another blast threw me backward. I hit the wall with a grunt, and another piece of plaster fell on my head. This time though, I managed to land on my knees.
Oddly, I felt remarkably unharmed, considering I’d just been blown backward by the explosion. In fact, neither explosion seemed to have hurt me very badly at all.

“The pink ones,” Bastille said, “are blast-wave grenades. They throw people and things away from them, but they don’t actually hurt anyone.”

“Really?” I said, walking up to her. “How does that work?”

“Do I look like an explosives expert?”

I hesitated. With those fiery eyes and that dangerous expression …

“The answer is no, Smedry,” she said flatly, folding her arms. “I don’t know how these things work. I’m just a soldier.”

She picked up a blue teddy bear and pulled the tag off, then tossed it out the window. I braced myself, grabbing the windowsill, preparing for a blast. This time, however, the bear grenade made a muted thumping sound. The sand in the next room began to pile up in a strange way, and I was suddenly yanked through the window into the next room.

I yelped, tumbling through the air, then hit the mound of sand face-first.

“That,” Bastille said from behind, “is a suction-wave grenade. It explodes in reverse, pulling everything toward it instead of pushing it away.”

“Mur murr mur mur murrr,” I said, since my head was buried in the sand. Sand, it should be noted, does not taste very good. Even with ketchup.

I pulled my head free and leaned against the pile of sand, straightening my Oculator’s Lenses and looking back at the window, where Bastille was leaning with arms crossed, smiling faintly. There’s nothing like seeing a Smedry get sucked through a window to improve her mood.

“That should be impossible!” I protested. “A grenade that explodes backward?”

She rolled her eyes again. “You’ve been in Nalhalla for months now, Smedry. Isn’t it time to stop pretending that everything shocks or confuses you?”

“I … er…” I wasn’t pretending. I’d been raised in the Hushlands, trained by Librarians to reject things that seemed too … well, too strange. But Nalhalla—city of castles—was nothing but strangeness. It was hard not to get overwhelmed by it all.

“I still think a grenade shouldn’t be able to explode inward,” I said, shaking sand off my clothing as I walked up to the window. “I mean, how would you even make that work?”

“Maybe you take the same stuff you put in a regular grenade, then put it in backward?”

“I … don’t think it works that way, Bastille.”

She shrugged, getting out another bear. This one was purple. She moved to pull the tag.
“Wait!” I said, scrambling through the window. I took the bear grenade from her. “This time you’re going to tell me what it does first.”

“That’s no fun.”

I raised a skeptical eyebrow at her.

“This one is harmless,” she said. “A stuff-eater grenade. It vaporizes everything nearby that isn’t alive. Rocks, dead wood, fibers, glass, metal. All gone. But living plants, animals, people—perfectly safe. Works wonders against Alivened.”

I looked down at the little purple bear. Alivened were objects brought to life through Dark Oculary.

I’d once fought some created from romance novels. “This could be useful.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Works well against Librarians too. If a group is charging at you with those guns of theirs, you can vaporize the weapons but leave the Librarians unharmed.”

“And their clothing?” I asked.

“Gone.”

I hefted the bear, contemplating a little payback for being sucked through the window. “So you’re saying that if I threw this at you, and it went off, you’d be left—”

“Kicking you in the face?” Bastille asked coolly. “Yes. Then I’d staple you to the outside of a tall castle and paint ‘dragon food’ over your head.”

“Right,” I said. “Er … why don’t we just put this one away?”

“Yeah, good idea.” She took it from me and stuffed it back into the cabinet.

“So … I noticed that none of those grenades are, well, deadly.”

“Of course they aren’t,” Bastille said. “What do you take us for? Barbarians?”

“Of course not. But you are at war.”

“War’s no excuse for hurting people.”

I scratched my head. “I thought war was all about hurting people.”

“That’s Librarian thinking,” Bastille said, folding her arms and narrowing her eyes. “Uncivilized.” She hesitated. “Well, even the Librarians use many nonlethal weapons in war these days. You’ll see, if the war ever comes here.”

“All right … but you don’t have any objections to hurting me on occasion.”

“You’re a Smedry,” she said. “That’s different. Now do you want to learn the rest of these grenades or not?”

“That depends. What are they going to do to me?”

She eyed me, then grumbled something and turned away.

I blinked. I’d gotten used to Bastille’s moods by now, but this seemed irregular even for her. “Bastille?”
She walked over to the far side of the room, tapping a section of glass, making the wall turn translucent. The Royal Weapons Testing Facility was a tall, multitowered castle on the far side of Nalhalla City. Our vantage point gave us a great view of the capital.

“Bastille?” I asked again, walking up to her.

She said, arms folded, “I shouldn’t be berating you like this.”

“How should you be berating me, then?”

“Not at all. I’m sorry, Alcatraz.”

I blinked. An apology. From Bastille? “The war really is bothering you, isn’t it? Mokia?”

“Yeah. I just wish there were more to do. More that we could do.”

I nodded, understanding. My escape from the Hushlands had snowballed into the rescue of my father from the Library of Alexandria, and following that we’d gotten sucked into stopping Nalhalla from signing a treaty with the Librarians. Now, finally, things had settled down. And not surprisingly, other people—people with more experience than Bastille and I—had taken over doing the most important tasks. I was a Smedry and she a full Knight of Crystallia, but we were both only thirteen. Even in the Free Kingdoms—where people didn’t pay as much attention to age—that meant something.

Bastille had been rushed through training during her childhood and had obtained knighthood at a very young age. The others of her order expected her to do a lot of practice and training to make up for earlier lapses. She spent half of every day seeing to her duties in Crystallia.

Generally, I spent my days in Nalhalla learning. Fortunately, this was a whole lot more interesting than school had been back home. I was trained in things like using Oculatory Lenses, conducting negotiations, and using Free Kingdomer weapons. Being a Smedry—I was coming to learn—was like being a mix of secret agent, special forces commando, diplomat, general, and cheese taster.

I won’t lie. It was shatteringly cool. Instead of sitting around all day writing biology papers or listening to Mr. Layton from algebra class extol the virtues of complex factoring, I got to throw teddy bear grenades and jump off buildings. It was really fun at the start.

Okay, it was really fun the WHOLE TIME.

But there was something missing. Before, though I’d been stumbling along without knowing what I was doing, we’d been involved in important events. Now we were just … well, kids. And that was annoying.

“Something needs to happen,” I said. “Something exciting.” We looked out the window expectantly.

A bluebird flew by. It didn’t, however, explode. Nor did it turn out to be a secret Librarian ninja bird. In fact, despite my dramatic proclamation, nothing at all interesting happened. And nothing interesting will happen for the next three chapters.

Sorry. I’m afraid this is going to be a rather boring book. Take a deep breath. The worst part is coming next.

Copyright © 2010 by Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC

Buy The Shattered Lens here:

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Sneak Peek: The Knights of Crystallia by Brandon Sanderson

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opens in a new windowThe Knights of Crystallia by Brandon SandersonIn this third Alcatraz adventure, Alcatraz Smedry has made it to the Free Kingdoms at last. Unfortunately, so have the evil Librarians–including his mother! Now Alcatraz has to find a traitor among the Knights of Crystallia, make up with his estranged father, and save one of the last bastions of the Free Kingdoms from the Evil Librarians.

opens in a new windowThe Knights of Crystallia is the third action-packed fantasy adventure in the Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians series for young readers by the #1 New York Times bestselling author Brandon Sanderson. These fast-paced and funny novels are now available in deluxe hardcover editions illustrated by Hayley Lazo. Please enjoy this excerpt.

Chapter 1

So there I was, hanging upside down underneath a gigantic glass bird, speeding along at a hundred miles an hour above the ocean, in no danger whatsoever.

That’s right. I wasn’t in any danger. I was more safe at that moment than I’d ever been in my entire life, despite a plummet of several hundred feet looming below me. (Or, well, above me, since I was upside down.)

I took a few cautious steps. The oversized boots on my feet had a special type of glass on the bottom, called Grappler’s Glass, which let them stick to other things made of glass. That kept me from falling off. (At which point up would quickly become down as I fell to my death. Gravity is such a punk.)

If you’d seen me, with the wind howling around me and the sea churning below, you might not have agreed that I was safe. But these things—like which direction is up—are relative. You see, I’d grown up as a foster child in the Hushlands: lands controlled by the evil Librarians. They’d carefully watched over me during my childhood, anticipating the day when I’d receive a very special bag of sand from my father.

I’d received the bag. They’d stolen the bag. I’d gotten the bag back. Now I was stuck to the bottom of a giant glass bird. Simple really. If it doesn’t make sense to you, then might I recommend picking up the first two books of a series before you try to read the third one?

Unfortunately, I know that some of you Hushlanders have trouble counting to three. (The Librarian-controlled schools don’t want you to be able to manage complex mathematics.) So I’ve prepared this helpful guide.

Definition of “book one”: The best place to start a series. You can identify “book one” by the fact that it says BOOK ONE on the back cover. Smedrys do a happy dance when you read book one first. Entropy shakes its angry fist at you for being clever enough to organize the world.

Definition of “book two”: The book you read after book one. If you start with book two, I will make fun of you. (Okay, so I’ll make fun of you either way. But honestly, do you want to give me more ammunition?)

Definition of “book three”: The worst place, currently, to start a series. If you start here, I will throw things at you.

Definition of “book four”: And … how’d you manage to start with that one? I haven’t even written it yet. (You sneaky time travelers.)

Anyway, if you haven’t read book two, you missed out on some very important events. Those include: a trip into the fabled Library of Alexandria, sludge that tastes faintly of bananas, ghostly Librarians that want to suck your soul, giant glass dragons, the tomb of Alcatraz the First, and—most important—a lengthy discussion about belly button lint. By not reading book two, you also just forced a large number of people to waste an entire minute reading that recap. I hope you’re satisfied.

I clomped along, making my way toward a solitary figure standing near the chest of the bird. Enormous glass wings beat on either side of me, and I passed thick glass bird legs that were curled up and tucked back. Wind howled and slammed against me. The bird—called Hawkwind—wasn’t quite as majestic as our previous vehicle, a glass dragon called Dragonaut. Still, it had a nice group of compartments inside where one could travel in luxury.

My grandfather, of course, couldn’t be bothered with something as normal as waiting inside a vehicle. No, he had to cling to the bottom and stare out over the ocean. I fought against the wind as I approached him—and then suddenly the wind vanished. I froze in shock, one of my boots locking into place on the bird’s glass underside.

Grandpa Smedry jumped, turning. “Rotating Rothfusses!” he exclaimed. “You surprised me, lad!”

“Sorry,” I said, walking forward, my boots making a clinking sound each time I unlocked one, took a step, then locked back onto the glass. As always, my grandfather wore a sharp black tuxedo—he thought it made him blend in better in the Hushlands. He was bald except for a tuft of white hair that ran around the back of his head, and he sported an impressively bushy white mustache.

“What happened to the wind?” I asked.

“Hum? Oh, that.” My grandfather reached up, tapping the green-specked spectacles he wore. They were Oculatory Lenses, a type of magical glasses that—when activated by an Oculator like Grandpa Smedry or me—could do some very interesting things. (Those things don’t, unfortunately, include forcing lazy readers to go and reread the first couple of books, thereby removing the need for me to explain all of this stuff over and over again.)

“Windstormer’s Lenses?” I asked. “I didn’t know you could use them like this.” I’d had a pair of Windstormer’s Lenses, and I’d used them to shoot out jets of wind.

“It takes quite a bit of practice, my boy,” Grandpa Smedry said in his boisterous way. “I’m creating a bubble of wind that is shooting out from me in exactly the opposite direction of the wind that’s pushing against me, thereby negating it all.”

“But … shouldn’t that blow me backward as well?”

“What? No, of course not! What makes you think that it would?”

“Uh … physics?” I said. (Which you might agree is a rather strange thing to be mentioning while hanging upside down through the use of magical glass boots.)

Grandpa Smedry laughed. “Excellent joke, lad. Excellent.” He clasped me on the shoulder. Free Kingdomers such as my grandfather tend to be very amused by Librarian concepts like physics, which they find to be utter nonsense. I think that the Free Kingdomers don’t give the Librarians enough credit. Physics isn’t nonsense—it’s just incomplete.

Free Kingdomer magic and technology have their own kind of logic. Take the glass bird. It was driven by something called a silimatic engine, which used different types of sands and glass to propel it. Smedry Talents and Oculator powers were called “magic” in the Free Kingdoms, since only special people could use them. Something that could be used by anyone—such as the silimatic engine or the boots on my feet—was called technology.

The longer I spent with people from the Free Kingdoms, the less I bought that distinction. “Grandfather,” I said, “did I ever tell you that I managed to power a pair of Grappler’s Glass boots just by touching them?”

“Hum?” Grandpa Smedry said. “What’s that?”

“I gave a pair of these boots an extra boost of power,” I said. “Just by touching them … as if I could act like some kind of battery or energy source.

My grandfather was silent.

“What if that’s what we do with the Lenses?” I said, tapping the spectacles on my face. “What if being an Oculator isn’t as limited as we think it is? What if we can affect all kinds of glass?”

“You sound like your father, lad,” Grandpa Smedry said. “He has a theory relating to exactly what you’re talking about.”

My father. I glanced upward. Then I turned back to Grandpa Smedry and focused on his pair of Windstormer’s Lenses that kept the wind at bay.

“Windstormer’s Lenses,” I said. “I … broke the other pair you gave me.”

“Ha!” Grandpa Smedry said. “That’s not surprising at all, lad. Your Talent is quite powerful.”

My Talent—my Smedry Talent—was the magical ability to break things. Every Smedry has a Talent, even those who are only Smedrys by marriage. My grandfather’s Talent was the ability to arrive late to appointments.

“The Talents were both blessings and curses. My grandfather’s Talent, for instance, was quite useful when he arrived late to things like bullets or tax day. But he’d also arrived too late to stop the Librarians from stealing my inheritance.

Grandpa Smedry fell uncharacteristically silent as he stared out over the ocean, which seemed to hang above us. West. Toward Nalhalla, my homeland, though I’d never once set foot upon its soil.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Hum? Wrong? Nothing’s wrong! Why, we rescued your father from the Curators of Alexandria! You showed a very Smedry-like keenness of mind, I must say. Very well done! We’ve been victorious!”

“Except for the fact that my mother now has a pair of Translator’s Lenses,” I said.

“Ah yes. There is that.

”The Sands of Rashid, which had started this entire mess, had been forged into Lenses that could translate any language. My father had somehow collected the Sands of Rashid, then he’d split them and sent half to me, enough to forge a single pair of spectacles. He’d made another pair for himself. After the fiasco at the Library of Alexandria, my mother had managed to steal his pair. (I still had mine, fortunately.)

Her theft meant that if she had access to an Oculator, she could read the Forgotten Language and understand the secrets of the ancient Incarna people. She could read about their technological and magical marvels, discovering advanced weapons. This was a problem. You see, my mother was a Librarian.

“What are we going to do?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” Grandpa Smedry said. “But I intend to speak with the Council of Kings. They should have something to say on this, yes indeed.” He perked up. “Anyway, there’s no use worrying about it at the moment! Surely you didn’t come all the way down here just because you wanted to hear doom and gloom from your favorite grandfather!”

I almost replied that he was my only grandfather. Then I thought for a moment about what having only one grandfather would imply. Ew.

“Actually,” I said, looking up toward Hawkwind, “I wanted to ask you about my father.”

“What about him, lad?”

“Has he always been so…”

“Distracted?”

I nodded.

Grandpa Smedry sighed. “Your father is a very driven man, Alcatraz. You know that I disapprove of the way he left you to be raised in the Hushlands … but, well, he has accomplished some great things in his life. Scholars have been trying to crack the Forgotten Language for millennia! I was convinced that it couldn’t be done. Beyond that, I don’t think any Smedry has mastered their Talent as well as he has.”

Through the glass above, I could see shadows and shapes—our companions. My father was there, a man I’d spent my entire childhood wondering about. I’d expected him to be a little more … well, excited to see me.

Even if he had abandoned me in the first place.

Grandpa Smedry rested his hand on my shoulder. “Ah, don’t look so glum. Amazing Abrahams, lad! You’re about to visit Nalhalla for the first time! We’ll work this all out eventually. Sit back and rest for a bit. You’ve had a busy few months.”

“How close are we anyway?” I asked. We’d been flying for the better part of the morning. That was after we’d spent two weeks camped outside the Library of Alexandria, waiting for my uncle Kaz to make his way to Nalhalla and send a ship back to pick us up. (He and Grandpa Smedry had agreed that it would be faster for Kaz to go by himself. Like the rest of us, Kaz’s Talent—which is the ability to get lost in very spectacular ways—can be unpredictable.)

“Not too far, I’d say,” Grandpa Smedry said, pointing. “Not far at all…”

I turned to look across the waters, and there it was. A distant continent just coming into view. I took a step forward, squinting from my upside-down vantage. There was a city built along the coast of the continent, rising boldly in the early light.

“Castles,” I whispered as we approached. “It’s filled with castles?”

“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.

Copyright © 2009 by Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC

Buy The Knights of Crystallia here:

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Sneak Peek: The Scrivener’s Bones by Brandon Sanderson

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opens in a new windowThe Scrivener's Bones by Brandon SandersonIn his second skirmish against the Evil Librarians who rule the world, Alcatraz and his ragtag crew of freedom fighters track Grandpa Smedry to the ancient and mysterious Library of Alexandria. Hushlanders—people who live in the Librarian-controlled lands of Canada, Europe, and the Americas—believe the Library was destroyed long ago. Free Kingdomers know the truth: the Library of Alexandria is still around, and it’s one of the most dangerous places on the planet. For it is the home of the scariest Librarians of them all: a secret sect of soul-stealing Scriveners. Can Alcatraz and his friends rescue Grandpa Smedry and make it out of there alive?

opens in a new windowThe Scrivener’s Bones is the second action-packed fantasy adventure in the Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians series for young readers by the #1 New York Times bestselling author Brandon Sanderson. These fast-paced and funny novels are now available in deluxe hardcover editions illustrated by Hayley Lazo. Please enjoy this excerpt.

Chapter 1

So there I was, slumped in my chair, waiting in a drab airport terminal, munching absently on a bag of stale potato chips.

Not the beginning you expected, is it? You likely thought that I would start this book with something exciting. A scene involving evil Librarians, perhaps—something with altars, Alivened, or at least some machine guns.
I’m sorry to disappoint you. It won’t be the first time I do that. However, it’s for your own good. You see, I have decided to reform. My last book was terribly unfair—I started it with an intense, threatening scene of action. Then I cut away from it and left the reader hanging, wondering, and frustrated.

I promise to no longer be deceptive like that in my writing. I won’t use cliffhangers or other tricks to keep you reading. I will be calm, respectful, and completely straightforward.

Oh, by the way. Did I mention that while waiting in that airport I was probably in the most danger I’d ever faced in my entire life?

I ate another stale potato chip.

If you’d passed by me sitting there, you would have thought that I looked like an average American boy. I was thirteen years old, and I had dark brown hair. I wore loose jeans, a green jacket, and white sneakers. I’d started to grow a bit taller during the last few months, but I was well within the average for my age.

In fact, the only abnormal thing about me was the blue glasses I was wearing. Not truly sunglasses, they looked like an old man’s reading glasses, only with a baby-blue tint.

(I still consider this aspect of my life to be terribly unfair. For some reason, the more powerful a pair of Oculatory Lenses is, the less cool they tend to look. I’m developing a theory about it—the Law of Disproportionate Lameness.)

I munched on another chip. Come on … I thought. Where are you?

My grandfather, as usual, was late. Now, he couldn’t completely be blamed for it. Leavenworth Smedry, after all, is a Smedry. (The last name’s a dead giveaway.) Like all Smedrys, he has a magic Talent. His is the ability to magically arrive late to appointments.

While most people would have considered this to be a large inconvenience, it’s the Smedry way to use our Talents for our benefit. Grandpa Smedry, for instance, tends to arrive late to things like bullet wounds and disasters. His Talent has saved his life on numerous occasions.

Unfortunately, he also tends to be late the rest of the time too. I think he uses his Talent as an excuse even when it isn’t to blame; I’ve tried to challenge him on this several times, but always failed. He’d just arrive late to the scolding, and so the sound would never reach him. (Besides, in Grandpa Smedry’s opinion, a scolding is a disaster.)

I hunched down a little bit more in the chair, trying to look inconspicuous. The problem was, anyone who knew what to look for could see I was wearing Oculatory Lenses. In this case, my baby-blue spectacles were Courier’s Lenses, a common type of Lens that lets two Oculators communicate over a short distance. My grandfather and I had put them to good use during the last few months, running and hiding from Librarian agents.

Few people in the Hushlands understand the power of Oculatory Lenses. Most of those who walked through the airport were completely unaware of things like Oculators, silimatic technology, and the sect of evil Librarians who secretly rule the world.

Yes. You read that right. Evil Librarians control the world. They keep everyone in ignorance, teaching them falsehoods in place of history, geography, and politics. It’s kind of a joke to them. Why else do you think the Librarians named themselves what they did?

Librarians. LIE-brarians.

Sounds obvious now, doesn’t it? If you wish to smack yourself in the forehead and curse loudly, you may proceed to do so. I can wait.

I ate another chip. Grandpa Smedry was supposed to have contacted me via the Courier’s Lenses more than two hours before. It was getting late, even for him. I looked about, trying to determine if there were any Librarian agents in the airport crowd.

I couldn’t spot any, but that didn’t mean anything. I knew enough to realize that you can’t always tell a Librarian by looking at one. While some dress the part—horn-rimmed glasses for the women, bow ties and vests for the men—others look completely normal, blending in with the regular Hushlanders. Dangerous, but unseen. (Kind of like those troublemakers who read fantasy novels.)

I had a tough decision to make. I could continue wearing the Courier’s Lenses, which would mark me as an Oculator to Librarian agents. Or I could take them off, and thereby miss Grandpa Smedry’s message when he got close enough to contact me.

If he got close enough to contact me.

A group of people walked over to where I was sitting, draping their luggage across several rows of chairs and chatting about the fog delays. I tensed, wondering if they were Librarian agents. Three months on the run had left me feeling anxious.

But that running was over. I would soon escape the Hushlands and finally get to visit my homeland. Nalhalla, one of the Free Kingdoms. A place that Hushlanders didn’t even know existed, though it was on a large continent that sat in the Pacific Ocean between North America and Asia.

I’d never seen it before, but I’d heard stories, and I’d seen some Free Kingdomer technology. Cars that could drive themselves, hourglasses that could keep time no matter which direction you turned them. I longed to get to Nalhalla—though even more desperately, I wanted to get out of Librarian-controlled lands.

Grandpa Smedry hadn’t explained exactly how he planned to get me out, or even why we were meeting at the airport. It seemed unlikely that there would be any flights to the Free Kingdoms. However, no matter the method, I knew our escape probably wouldn’t be easy.

Fortunately, I had a few things on my side. First, I was an Oculator, and I had access to some fairly powerful Lenses. Second, I had my grandfather, who was an expert at avoiding Librarian agents. Third, I knew that the Librarians liked to keep a low profile, even while they secretly ruled most of the world. I probably didn’t have to worry about police or airport security—the Librarians wouldn’t want to involve them, for that would risk revealing the conspiracy to people who were too low ranked.

I also had my Talent. But … well, I wasn’t really sure whether that was an advantage or not. It—

I froze. A man was standing in the waiting area of the gate next to mine. He was wearing a suit and sunglasses. And he was staring right at me. As soon as I noticed him, he turned away, looking too nonchalant.

Sunglasses probably meant Warrior’s Lenses—one of the only kinds of Lenses that a non-Oculator can use. I stiffened; the man seemed to be muttering to himself.

Or talking into a radio receiver.

Shattering Glass! I thought, standing up and throwing on my backpack. I wove through the crowd, leaving the gate behind, and raised my hand to my eyes, intending to pull off the Courier’s Lenses.

But … what if Grandpa Smedry tried to contact me? There was no way he’d be able to find me in the crowded airport. I needed to keep those Lenses on.

I feel obligated to break the action here to warn you that I frequently break the action to mention trivial things. It’s one of my bad habits that, along with wearing mismatched socks, tends to make people rather annoyed at me. It’s not my fault, though, honestly. I blame society. (For the socks, I mean. That breaking-the-action thing is totally my own fault.)

I hastened my pace, keeping my head down and my Lenses on. I hadn’t gone far before I noticed a group of men in black suits and pink bow ties standing on a moving airport walkway a short distance ahead. They had several uniformed security guards with them.

I froze. So much for not having to worry about the police.… I tried to hold in my panic, turning—as covertly as I could—and hurrying in the other direction.

I should have realized that the rules would start changing. The Librarians had spent three months chasing Grandpa Smedry and me. They might hate the idea of involving local law enforcement, but they hated the idea of losing us even more.

A second group of Librarian agents were coming from the other direction. A good dozen warriors in Lenses, likely armed with glass swords and other advanced weapons. There was only one thing to do.

I stepped into the bathroom.

Numerous people were in there, doing their business. I rushed to the back wall. I let my backpack fall to the ground, then placed both hands against the wall’s tiles.

A couple of men in the bathroom gave me odd looks, but I’d gotten used to those. People had given me odd looks for most of my life—what else would you expect for a kid who routinely broke things which weren’t really that breakable? (Once, when I was seven, my Talent decided to break pieces of concrete as I stepped on them. I left a line of broken sidewalk squares behind me, like the footprints of some immense killer robot—one wearing size six sneakers.)

I closed my eyes, concentrating. Before, I’d let my Talent rule my life. I hadn’t known that I could control it—I hadn’t even been convinced that it was real.

Grandpa Smedry’s arrival three months earlier had changed all of that. While dragging me off to infiltrate a library and recover the Sands of Rashid, he’d helped me learn that I could use my Talent, rather than just be used by it.

I focused, and twin bursts of energy pulsed from my chest and down my arms. The tiles in front of me fell free, shattering as they hit the ground like a line of icicles knocked off a railing. I continued to focus. People behind me cried out. The Librarians would be upon me at any moment.

The entire wall broke, falling away from me. A water line began to spray into the air. I didn’t pause to look behind at the shouting men, but instead reached back and grabbed my bag.

The strap broke loose. I cursed quietly, grabbing the other one. It broke free too.

The Talent. Blessing and curse. I didn’t let it rule me anymore—but I wasn’t really in control either. It was as if the Talent and I had joint custody over my life; I got it on every other weekend and some holidays.

I left the backpack. I had my Lenses in the pockets of my jacket, and they were the only things of real value I owned. I leaped through the hole, scrambling over the rubble and into the bowels of the airport. (Hmm. Out of the bathroom and into the bowels—kind of opposite of the normal way.)

I was in some kind of service tunnel, poorly lit and even more poorly cleaned. I dashed down the tunnel for several minutes. I think I must have left the terminal behind, traveling through an access passageway to another building.

At the end, there were a few stairs leading to a large door. I heard shouts behind me and risked a glance. A group of men were barreling down the passage toward me.

I spun and tugged on the doorknob. The door was locked, but doors have always been one of my specialties. The knob came off; I tossed it over my shoulder in an off-handed motion. Then I kicked the door open, bursting out into a large hangar.

Massive airplanes towered over me, their windshields dark. I hesitated, looking up at the enormous vehicles, feeling dwarfed as if by large beasts.

I shook myself out of the stupor. The Librarians were still behind me. Fortunately, it appeared that this hangar was empty of people. I slammed the door, then placed my hand on the lock, using my Talent to break it so that the deadbolt jammed in place. I hopped over the railing and landed on a short line of steps leading down to the hangar’s floor.

When I reached the bottom, my feet left tracks on the dusty ground. Fleeing out onto the runway seemed like an easy way to get myself arrested, considering the current state of airport security. However, hiding seemed risky as well.

That was a good metaphor for my life, actually. It seemed that no matter what I did, I ended up in even more danger than I’d been in before. One might have said that I constantly went “out of the frying pan and into the fire,” which is a common Hushlands saying.

(Hushlanders, it might be noted, aren’t very imaginative with their idioms. Personally, I say, “Out of the frying pan and into the deadly pit filled with sharks who are wielding chainsaws with killer kittens stapled to them.” However, that one’s having a rough time catching on.)

Fists began to bang on the door. I glanced at it, then made my decision. I’d try hiding.

I ran toward a small doorway in the wall of the hangar. It had slivers of light shining in around it, and I figured it led out onto the runway. I was careful to leave big, long footprints in the dust. Then—my false trail made—I hopped onto some boxes, moved across them, then jumped onto the ground.

The door shook as the men pounded. It wouldn’t hold for long. I skidded down next to the wheel of a 747 and whipped off my Courier’s Lenses. Then I reached into my jacket. I had sewn a group of protective pockets onto the inside lining, and each one was cushioned with a special Free Kingdomer material to protect the Lenses.

I pulled out a pair of green-Lensed spectacles and shoved them on.

The door burst.

I ignored it, instead focusing on the floor of the hangar. Then I activated the Lenses. Immediately, a quick gust of wind blew from my face. It moved across the floor, erasing some of the footprints. Windstormer’s Lenses, a gift from Grandpa Smedry the week after our first Librarian infiltration.

By the time the Librarians got through the door, cursing and muttering, only the footprints I wanted them to see were still there. I huddled down beside my wheel, holding my breath and trying to still my thumping heart as I heard a fleet of soldiers and policemen pile down the steps.

That’s when I remembered my Firebringer’s Lens.

I peeked up over the top of the 747 wheel. The Librarians had fallen for my trick and were moving along the floor toward the door out of the hangar. They weren’t walking as quickly as I would have wanted, though, and several were glancing around with suspicious eyes.

I ducked back down before I could be spotted. My fingers felt the Firebringer’s Lens—I had only one left—and I hesitantly brought it out. It was completely clear, with a single red dot in the center.

When activated, it shot forth a superhot burst of energy, something like a laser. I could turn it on the Librarians. They had, after all, tried to kill me on several different occasions. They deserved it.

I sat for a moment, then quietly tucked the Lens back in its pocket and instead put my Courier’s Lenses back on. If you’ve read the previous volume of this autobiography, you’ll realize that I had some very particular ideas about heroism. A hero wasn’t the type of person who turned a laser of pure energy upon the backs of a bunch of soldiers, particularly when that bunch included innocent security guards.

Sentiments like this one eventually got me into a lot of trouble. You probably remember how I’m going to end up; I mentioned it in the first book. I’ll eventually be tied to an altar made from outdated encyclopedias, with cultists from the Librarian Order of the Shattered Lens preparing to spill my Oculator’s blood in an unholy ceremony.

Heroism is what landed me there. Ironically, it also saved my life that day in the airport hangar. You see, if I hadn’t put on my Courier’s Lenses, I would have missed what happened next.

Alcatraz? a voice suddenly asked in my mind.

The voice nearly made me cry out in surprise.

Uh, Alcatraz? Hello? Is anyone listening?

The voice was fuzzy and indistinct, and it wasn’t the voice of my grandfather. However, it was coming from the Courier’s Lenses.

Oh, bother! the voice said. Um. I’ve never been good with Courier’s Lenses.

It faded in and out, as if someone were speaking through a radio that wasn’t getting good reception. It wasn’t Grandpa Smedry, but at that moment, I was willing to take a chance on whoever it was.

“I’m here!” I whispered, activating the Lenses.

A blurry face fuzzed into existence in front of me, hovering like a hologram in the air. It belonged to a teenage girl with dark tan skin and black hair.

Hello? she asked. Is someone there? Can you talk louder or something?

“Not really,” I hissed, glancing at the Librarians. Most of them had moved out the door, but a small group of men had apparently been assigned to search the hangar. Mostly security guards.

Um … okay, the voice said. Uh, who is this?

“Who do you think it is?” I asked in annoyance. “I’m Alcatraz. Who are you?”

Oh, I—the image, and voice, fuzzed for a moment—sent to retrieve you. Sorry! Uh, where are you?

“In a hangar,” I said. One of the guards perked up, then pulled out a gun, pointing it in my direction. He’d heard me.

“Shattering Glass!” I hissed, ducking back down.

You really shouldn’t swear like that, you know.… the girl said.

“Thanks,” I hissed as quietly as possible. “Who are you, and how are you going to get me out of this?”

There was a pause. A dreadful, terrible, long, annoying, frustrating, deadly, nerve-racking, incredibly wordy pause.

I … don’t really know, the girl said. I—wait just a second. Bastille says that you should run out somewhere in the open, then signal us. It’s too foggy down there. We can’t really see much.

Down there? I thought. Still, if Bastille was with this girl, that seemed like a good sign. Although Bastille would probably chastise me for getting myself into so much trouble, she did have a habit of being very effective at what she did. Hopefully that would include rescuing me.

“Hey!” a voice said. I turned to the side, staring out at one of the guards. “I found someone!”

Time to break things, I thought, taking a deep breath. Then I sent a burst of breaking power into the wheel of the airplane.

I ducked away, leaping to my feet as lug nuts popped free from the airplane wheel. The guard raised his gun but didn’t fire.

“Shoot him!” said a man in a black suit, the Librarian who stood directing things from the side of the room.

“I’m not shooting a kid,” the guard said. “Where are these terrorists you were talking about?”

Good man, I thought as I dashed toward the front of the hangar. At that moment, the wheel of the airplane fell completely off, and the front half of the vehicle crashed down against the pavement. Men cried out in surprise, and the security guards dived for cover.

The Librarian in black grabbed a handgun from one of the confused guards and pointed it at me. I just smiled.

The gun, of course, fell apart as soon as the Librarian pulled the trigger. My Talent protects me when it can—and the more moving parts a weapon has, the easier it is to break. I rammed my shoulder into the massive hangar doors and sent a shock of breaking power into them. Screws and nuts and bolts fell like rain around me, hitting the ground. Several guards peeked out from behind boxes.

The entire front of the hangar came off, falling away from me and hitting the ground outside with a reverberating crash. I hesitated, shocked, even though that was exactly what I’d wanted to happen. Swirling fog began to creep into the hangar around me.

It seemed that my Talent was getting even more powerful. Before, I’d broken things like pots and dishes, with the very rare exception of something larger, like the concrete I had broken when I was seven. That was nothing like what I’d been doing lately: taking the wheels off airplanes and making entire hangar doors fall off. Not for the first time, I wondered just how much I could break if I really needed to.

And how much the Talent could break if it decided that it wanted to.

There wasn’t time to contemplate that, as the Librarians outside had noticed the ruckus. They stood, black upon the noonday fog, looking back at me. Most of them had spread out to the sides, and so the only way for me to go was straight ahead.

I dashed out onto the wet tarmac, running for all I was worth. The Librarians began to yell, and several tried—completely ineffectively—to fire guns at me. They should have known better. In their defense, few people—even Librarians—are accustomed to dealing with a Smedry as powerful as I was. Against others, they might have been able to get off a few shots before something went wrong. Firearms aren’t completely useless in the Free Kingdoms, they’re just much less powerful.

The shooting—or lack thereof—bought me only a few seconds of time. Unfortunately, there were a pair of Librarians in my path.

“Get ready!” I yelled into my Courier’s Lenses. Then I whipped them off and put on the Windstormer’s Lenses. I focused as hard as I could, blowing forth a burst of wind from my eyes. Both Librarians were knocked to the ground, and I leaped over them.

Other Librarians cried out from behind, chasing me as I moved out onto a runway. Puffing, I reached into a pocket and pulled free my Firebringer’s Lens. I spun and activated the Lens.

It started to glow. The group of Librarians pulled to a halt. They knew enough to recognize that Lens. I held it out, then pointed it up into the air. It shot a line of red firelight upward, piercing the fog.

That had better be enough of a signal, I thought. The Librarians gathered together, obviously preparing to rush at me, Lens or no Lens. I prepared my Windstormer’s Lenses, hoping I could use them to blow the Librarians back long enough for Bastille to save me.

The Librarians, however, did not charge. I stood, anxious, the Firebringer’s Lens still blasting into the air. What were they waiting for?

The Librarians parted, and a dark figure—silhouetted in the muggy fog—moved through them. I couldn’t see much, but something about this figure was just plain wrong. It was a head taller than the others, and one of its arms was several feet longer than the other. Its head was misshapen. Perhaps inhuman. Most definitely dangerous.

I shivered, taking an involuntary step backward. The dark figure raised its bony arm, as if pointing a gun.

I’ll be all right, I told myself. Guns are useless against me.

There was a crack in the air, then the Firebringer’s Lens exploded in my fingers, hit square on by the creature’s bullet. I yelled, pulling my hand down.

Shoot my Lens rather than me. This one is more clever than the others.

The dark figure walked forward, and part of me wanted to wait to see what it was that made this creature’s arm and head so misshapen. The rest of me was just plain horrified. The figure started to run, and that was enough. I did the smart thing (I’m capable of that on occasion) and dashed away as quickly as I could.

Instantly, I seemed to be pulled backward. The wind whistled in my ears oddly, and each step felt far more difficult than it should have. I began to sweat, and soon it was tough to even walk.

Something was very, very wrong. As I continued to move, forcing myself on despite the strange force towing me backward, I began to think that I could feel the dark thing behind me. I could sense it, twisted and vile, getting closer and closer.

I could barely move. Each. Step. Got. Tougher.

A rope ladder slapped down against the tarmac a short distance in front of me. I cried out and lunged for it, grabbing hold. My weight must have told those above that I was aboard, because the ladder suddenly jerked upward, towing me with it and ripping me free from whatever force had been holding me back. I felt the pressure lighten, and glancing down, I let out a relieved breath.

The figure still stood there, indistinct in the fog, only a few feet from where I’d been. It stared up as I was lifted to safety, until the ground and the creature disappeared into the mist.

I let out a sigh of relief, relaxing against the wood and rope. A few moments later, my ladder and I were pulled free from the fog, bursting out into open air.

I looked up and saw perhaps the most awesome sight I’d ever seen in my entire life.

Copyright © 2008 by Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC

Buy The Scrivener’s Bones here:

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Sneak Peek: Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians by Brandon Sanderson

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opens in a new windowAlcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians by Brandon SandersonOn his thirteenth birthday, foster child Alcatraz Smedry gets a bag of sand in the mail-his only inheritance from his father and mother. He soon learns that this is no ordinary bag of sand. It is quickly stolen by the cult of evil Librarians who are taking over the world by spreading misinformation and suppressing truth. Alcatraz must stop them, using the only weapon he has: an incredible talent for breaking things.

opens in a new windowAlcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians is the first action-packed fantasy adventure in the Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians series for young readers by the #1 New York Times bestselling author Brandon Sanderson. These fast-paced and funny novels are now available in deluxe hardcover editions illustrated by Hayley Lazo. Please enjoy this excerpt.

Chapter 1

So there I was, tied to an altar made from outdated encyclopedias, about to get sacrificed to the dark powers by a cult of evil Librarians.

As you might imagine, that sort of situation can be quite disturbing. It does funny things to the brain to be in such danger—in fact, it often makes a person pause and reflect upon his life. If you’ve never faced such a situation, then you’ll simply have to take my word. If, on the other hand, you have faced such a situation, then you are probably dead and aren’t likely to be reading this.

In my case, the moment of impending death made me think about my parents. It was an odd thought, since I hadn’t grown up with them. In fact, until my thirteenth birthday, I really only knew one thing about my parents: that they had a twisted sense of humor.

Why do I say this? Well, you see, my parents named me Al. In most cases, this would be short for Albert, which is a fine name. In fact, you have probably known an Albert or two in your lifetime, and chances are that they were decent fellows. If they weren’t, then it certainly wasn’t the name’s fault.

My name isn’t Albert.

Al also could be short for Alexander. I wouldn’t have minded this either, since Alexander is a great name. It sounds kind of regal.

My name isn’t Alexander.

I’m certain that you can think of other names Al might be short for. Alfonso has a pleasant ring to it. Alan would also be acceptable, as would have been Alfred—though I really don’t have an inclination toward butlery.

My name is not Alfonso, Alan, or Alfred. Nor is it Alejandro, Alton, Aldris, or Alonzo.

My name is Alcatraz. Alcatraz Smedry. Now, some of you Free Kingdomers might be impressed by my name. That’s wonderful for you, but I grew up in the Hushlands—in the United States. I didn’t know about Oculators or the like, though I did know about prisons.

And that was why I figured that my parents must have had a twisted sense of humor. Why else would they name their child after the most infamous prison in U.S. history?”

On my thirteenth birthday, I received a second confirmation that my parents were indeed cruel people. That was the day when I unexpectedly received in the mail the only inheritance they left me.

It was a bag of sand.

I stood at the door, looking down at the package in my hands, frowning as the postman drove away. The package looked old—its string ties were frayed, and its brown paper packaging was worn and faded. Inside the package, I found a box containing a simple note.

Alcatraz,
Happy thirteenth birthday!
Here is your inheritance, as promised.
        Love, Mom and Dad

Underneath the note, I found the bag of sand. It was small, perhaps the size of a fist, and was filled with ordinary brown beach sand.

Now, my first inclination was to think that the package was a joke. You probably would have thought the same. One thing, however, made me pause. I set the box down, then smoothed out its wrinkled packaging paper.

One edge of the paper was covered with wild scribbles—a little like those made by a person trying to get the ink in a pen to flow. On the front there was writing. It looked old and faded—almost illegible in places—and yet it accurately spelled out my address. An address I’d been living at for only eight months.

Impossible, I thought.

Then I went inside my house and set the kitchen on fire.

Now, I warned you that I wasn’t a good person. Those who knew me when I was young would never have believed that one day I would be known as a hero. The word heroic just didn’t apply to me. Nor did people use words like nice or even friendly to describe me. They might have used the word clever, though I suspect that devious may have been more correct. Destructive was another common one that I heard, but I didn’t care for it. (It wasn’t actually all that accurate.)

No, people never said good things about me. Good people don’t burn down kitchens.

Still holding the strange package, I wandered toward my foster parents’ kitchen, lost in thought. It was a very nice kitchen, modern looking with white wallpaper and lots of shiny chrome appliances. Anyone entering it would immediately notice that this was the kitchen of a person who took pride in their cooking skills.

I set my package on the table, then moved over to the kitchen stove. If you’re a Hushlander, you would have thought I looked like a fairly normal American boy, dressed in loose jeans and a T-shirt. I’ve been told I was a handsome kid—some even said that I had an “innocent face.” I was not too tall, had dark brown hair, and was skilled at breaking things.

Quite skilled.

When I was very young, other kids called me a klutz. I was always breaking things—plates, cameras, chickens. It seemed inevitable that whatever I picked up, I would end up dropping, cracking, or otherwise mixing up. Not exactly the most inspiring talent a young man ever had, I know. However, I generally tried to do my best despite it.

Just like I did this day. Still thinking about the strange package, I filled a pot with water. Next I got out a few packs of instant ramen noodles. I set them down, looking at the stove. It was a fancy gas one with real flames. My foster mother Joan wouldn’t settle for electric.

Sometimes it was daunting, knowing how easily I could break things. This one simple curse seemed to dominate my entire life. Perhaps I shouldn’t have tried to fix dinner. Perhaps I should simply have retreated to my room. But what was I to do? Stay there all the time? Never go out because I was worried about the things I might break? Of course not.

I reached out and turned on the gas burner.

And, of course, the flames immediately flared up around the sides of the pan, far higher than should have been possible. I quickly tried to turn down the flames, but the knob broke off in my hand. I tried to grab the pot and take it off the stove. But, of course, the handle broke off. I stared at the broken handle for a moment, then looked up at the flames. They flickered, catching the drapes on fire. The fire gleefully began to devour the cloth.

Well, so much for that, I thought with a sigh, tossing the broken handle over my shoulder. I left the fire burning—once again, I feel I must remind you that I’m not a very nice person—and picked up my strange package as I walked out into the den.

There, I pulled out the brown wrapper, flattening it against the table with one hand and looking at the stamps. One had a picture of a woman wearing flight goggles, with an old-fashioned airplane in the background behind her. All of the stamps looked old—perhaps as old as I was. I turned on the computer and checked a database of stamp issue dates and found that I was right. They had been printed thirteen years ago.

Someone had taken quite a bit of effort to make it seem like my present had been packaged, addressed, and stamped over a decade earlier. That, however, was ridiculous. How would the sender have known where I’d be living? During the last thirteen years, I’d gone through dozens of sets of foster parents. Besides, my experience has been that the number of stamps it takes to send a package increases without warning or pattern. (The postage people are, I’m convinced, quite sadistic in that regard.) There was no way someone could have known, thirteen years ago, how much postage it would cost to send a package in my day.

I shook my head, standing up and tossing the M key from the computer keyboard into the trash. I’d stopped trying to stick the keys back on—they always fell off again anyway. I got the fire extinguisher from the hall closet, then walked back into the kitchen, which was now quite thoroughly billowing with smoke. I put the box and extinguisher on the table, then picked up a broom, holding my breath as I calmly knocked the tattered remnants of the drapes into the sink. I turned on the water, then finally used the extinguisher to blast the burning wallpaper and cabinets, also putting out the stove.

The smoke alarm didn’t go off, of course. You see, I’d broken that previously. All I’d needed to do was rest my hand against its case for a second, and it had fallen apart.

I didn’t open a window, but did have the presence of mind to get a pair of pliers and twist the stove’s gas valve off. Then I glanced at the curtains, a smoldering ashen lump in the sink.

Well, that’s it, I thought, a bit frustrated. Joan and Roy will never continue to put up with me after this.

Perhaps you think I should have felt ashamed. But what was I supposed to do? Like I said—I couldn’t hide in my room all the time. Was I to avoid living just because life was a little different for me than it was for ordinary people? No. I had learned to deal with my strange curse. I figured that others would simply have to do so as well.

I heard a car in the driveway. Finally realizing that the kitchen was still rank with smoke, I opened the window and began using a towel to fan it out. My foster mother—Joan—rushed into the kitchen a moment later. She stood, horrified, looking at the fire damage.

I tossed aside the towel and left without a word, going up to my room.

“That boy is a disaster!”

Joan’s voice drifted up through the open window into my room. My foster parents were in the study down on the first floor, their favorite place for “quiet” conferences about me. Fortunately, one of the first things that I’d broken in the house had been the study’s window rollers, locking the windows permanently open so that I could listen in.

“Now, Joan,” said a consoling voice. It belonged to Roy, my foster father.

“I can’t take it!” Joan sputtered. “He destroys everything he touches!”

There was that word again. Destroy. I felt my hair bristle in annoyance. I don’t destroy things, I thought. I break them. They’re still there when I’m finished, they just don’t work right anymore.

“He means well,” Roy said. “He’s a kindhearted boy.”

“First the washing machine,” Joan ranted. “Then the lawn mower. Then the upstairs bath. Now the kitchen. All in less than a year!”

“He’s had a hard life,” Roy said. “He simply tries too hard—how would you feel, being passed from family to family, never having a home…?”

“Well, can you blame people for getting rid of him?” Joan said. “I—”

She was interrupted by a knock on the front door. There was a moment of silence, and I imagined what was going on between my foster parents. Joan was probably giving Roy “the look.” Usually it was the husband who gave “the look,” insisting that I be sent away. Roy had always been the soft one here, however. I heard his footsteps as he went to answer the door.

“Come in,” Roy said, his voice faint, since he now stood in the entryway. I remained lying on my bed. It was still early evening—the sun hadn’t even set yet.

“Mrs. Sheldon,” a new voice said from below, acknowledging Joan. “I came as soon as I heard about the accident.” It was a woman’s voice, familiar to me. Businesslike, curt, and more than a little condescending. Perhaps that had something to do with why Ms. Fletcher wasn’t married.

“Ms. Fletcher,” Joan said, faltering now that the time had come. They usually did. “I’m … sorry to—”

“No,” Ms. Fletcher said. “You did well to last this long. I can arrange for the boy to be taken tomorrow.”

I closed my eyes, sighing quietly. Joan and Roy had lasted quite long—longer, certainly, than any of my other recent sets of foster parents. Eight months was a valiant effort when taking care of me was concerned. I felt a little twist in my stomach.

“Where is he now?” Ms. Fletcher asked.

“He’s upstairs.”

I waited quietly. Ms. Fletcher knocked but didn’t wait for my reply before pushing open the door.

“Ms. Fletcher,” I said. “You look lovely.”

It was a stretch. Ms. Fletcher—my personal caseworker—might have been a pretty woman, had she not been wearing a pair of hideous horn-rimmed glasses. She perpetually kept her blonde hair up in a bun that was only slightly less tight than the dissatisfied line of her lips. She wore a simple white blouse and a black skirt that went to mid-calf. For her, it was a daring outfit—the shoes, after all, were maroon.

“The kitchen, Alcatraz?” Ms. Fletcher asked. “Why the kitchen?”

“It was an accident,” I mumbled. “I was trying to do something nice for my foster parents.”

“You decided that you would be kind to Joan Sheldon—one of the city’s finest and most well-renowned chefs—by burning down her kitchen?”

I shrugged. “Just wanted to fix dinner. I figured even I couldn’t mess up ramen noodles.”

Ms. Fletcher snorted. Finally she walked into the room, shaking her head as she strolled past my dresser. She poked my inheritance package with her index finger, harrumphing quietly as she eyed the crumpled paper and worn strings; Ms. Fletcher had a thing about messiness. She turned back to me. “We’re running out of families, Smedry. The other couples are hearing rumors. Soon there won’t be any place left to send you.”

I remained quiet, still lying down.

Ms. Fletcher sighed, folding her arms and tapping her index finger against one arm. “You realize, of course, that you are worthless.”

Here we go, I thought, feeling sick. This was my least favorite part of the process. I stared up at my ceiling.

“You are fatherless and motherless,” Ms. Fletcher said, “a parasite upon the system. You are a child who has been given a second, third, and now twenty-seventh chance. And how have you received this generosity? With indifference, disrespect, and destructiveness!”

“I don’t destroy,” I said quietly. “I break. There’s a difference.”

Ms. Fletcher sniffed in disgust. She left me then, walking out and pulling the door closed with a snap. I heard her say good-bye to the Sheldons, promising them that her assistant would arrive in the morning to deal with me.

It’s too bad, I thought with a sigh. Roy and Joan really are good people. They would have made great parents.

Copyright © 2007 by Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC

Buy Alcatraz vs. the Evil Librarians here:

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New Releases: 2/16/16

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On his thirteenth birthday, foster child Alcatraz Smedry gets a bag of sand in the mail-his only inheritance from his father and mother. He soon learns that this is no ordinary bag of sand. It is quickly stolen by the cult of evil Librarians who are taking over the world by spreading misinformation and suppressing truth. Alcatraz must stop them, using the only weapon he has: an incredible talent for breaking things.

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Recovering from the accident that most definitely killed him, Gideon finds himself with strange new powers and a bizarre cuff he can’t remove. His death has brought to life his real destiny. He has become War, one of the legendary four horsemen of the apocalypse.

Over the coming weeks, he and the other horsemen–Conquest, Famine, and Death–are brought together by a beautiful but frustratingly secretive girl to help save humanity from an ancient evil on the emergence.

opens in a new windowThe Scrivener’s Bones by Brandon Sanderson

opens in a new windowThe Scrivener’s Bones by Brandon Sanderson In his second skirmish against the Evil Librarians who rule the world, Alcatraz and his ragtag crew of freedom fighters track Grandpa Smedry to the ancient and mysterious Library of Alexandria. Hushlanders—people who live in the Librarian-controlled lands of Canada, Europe, and the Americas—believe the Library was destroyed long ago. Free Kingdomers know the truth: the Library of Alexandria is still around, and it’s one of the most dangerous places on the planet. For it is the home of the scariest Librarians of them all: a secret sect of soul-stealing Scriveners. Can Alcatraz and his friends rescue Grandpa Smedry and make it out of there alive?

NEW FROM TOR.COM:

opens in a new windowThe Ballad of Black Tom by Victor LaValle

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Charles Thomas Tester hustles to put food on the table, keep the roof over his father’s head, from Harlem to Flushing Meadows to Red Hook. He knows what magic a suit can cast, the invisibility a guitar case can provide, and the curse written on his skin that attracts the eye of wealthy white folks and their cops. But when he delivers an occult tome to a reclusive sorceress in the heart of Queens, Tom opens a door to a deeper realm of magic, and earns the attention of things best left sleeping.

A storm that might swallow the world is building in Brooklyn. Will Black Tom live to see it break?

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