A Crystal of Time Page 13

  THE NOTTINGHAM NEWS

  AGATHA SAFE AT SCHOOL! STIRRING A REBEL ARMY?

  THE SHERWOOD FOREST REPORT

  AGATHA LIVES! REAL QUEEN OF CAMELOT LEADING ARMY AGAINST RHIAN!

  Loud cracks detonated behind him and Rhian turned to see a hawk rapping on the glass with its beak, a scroll in its talons and a royal collar around its neck. Then a collared crow flew up next to the hawk with its own scroll . . . then a fairy . . . then a hummingbird . . . then a winged monkey . . . all unfurling notes against the glass.

  “Messages from your allies, sire,” said the guard closest to the window. “They want to know if the Blessing will be secure, given rumors of a ‘rebel army.’”

  Rhian bared his teeth, turning on Kei. “Catch that witch now!”

  “The magical barrier around the school is stronger than we thought,” Kei defended. “We’ve recruited the best sorcerers from other kingdoms, trying to find one who can break through—”

  But suddenly Hort wasn’t listening anymore. He was staring at Rhian’s tea mug, abandoned on the seat of the throne, directly under the balcony.

  This was his chance.

  As the scim curled around his right ear, Hort slowly slipped his hand into his left pocket, out of the eel’s view.

  Standing to Hort’s left, Sophie felt his hand brush her hip. She glanced down and saw him draw two hazelnuts out of his pants, globbed in honey. Her eyes flew to Hort’s. But he didn’t look at her as he leaned across the railing on his right elbow, hung his left hand over the balcony . . . and smoothly released the clumped nuts.

  They plunked deep into the mug of tea with the cleanest of splashes.

  Sophie goggled at Hort, but the scim on Hort’s ear had curled around, sensing something afoot, and Sophie quickly pretended to fix Hort’s collar. “You know what? The king seems busy,” she said to her steward, with a loaded look. “Let’s go back to our chamber and let him enjoy his tea.”

  “Yes, mistress,” Hort said, stifling a grin.

  As they started walking, Hort could see Rhian still chastising Kei below.

  “You got my brother out of prison, out of the Sheriff’s enchanted sack, and now you can’t break into a school?” the king seethed. “You and I are a team. We’ve been a team since the beginning. But if you’re going to be the weak link, especially after I took you back—”

  Kei reddened. “Rhian, I’m trying—”

  The king lifted a finger and Lionsmane flew out of his pocket and lined up in front of Kei’s brown eye, the pen’s razor-tip caressing his pupil like a target.

  “Try harder, captain,” said the king, needling the pen even closer.

  Kei’s voice came out strangled. “Yes, sire.”

  “Guards!” Rhian called, summoning Lionsmane back into hand. “Bring me Sophie.”

  Spooked, Sophie sped her pace down the hall, but Hort’s eel bolted off him and over the balcony, letting out a piercing shriek.

  Rhian’s eyes flicked to the second floor, where the black scim had blocked Sophie’s path, pointing at the princess’s head like an arrow.

  A SHORT WHILE later, Sophie paced on the throne stage, gazing at her work, glowing hot pink in midair.

  A pirate stood onstage, hand on his sword, his dark helmeted eyes moving warily between Hort and Sophie.

  Sophie tapped her glowing pink fingertip to her lips, rereading her words—

  Agatha has been caught! Another traitor of Camelot, brought down by the Lion. Do not believe other reports.

  “Not quite right,” Sophie murmured.

  Hort studied her from one side of the stage steps, while Rhian watched her from the other.

  Sophie turned to Rhian. “Are you sure this is wise? You said Lionsmane is supposed to rival the Storian. To ‘inspire’ and ‘give hope.’ Not be the king’s mouthpiece.”

  “I choose the stories. You write them,” said Rhian curtly.

  “Plus, the Storian reports facts,” Sophie argued. “So far Lionsmane’s stories have been true, distorted as they are. But this is a lie that can be found out—”

  “When your dear friend Agatha is being tortured in our dungeons, we can finish this conversation,” said the king.

  Sophie stiffened and went back to work.

  Hort, meanwhile, had fantasies of bashing Rhian’s head like a ripe pumpkin. Comparatively, Sophie was handling the situation quite well, he thought. He knew how much she cared about Agatha. Touting her own friend’s demise couldn’t be easy.

  He glanced furtively at the mug of tea on Rhian’s throne, growing cold.

  He saw Sophie glance over at it too and meet his eyes for a half-second.

  “Drat’s your name, isn’t it?” Rhian asked, sidling against Hort.

  Hort wanted to knee the sleazy, lying scum in the crown jewels or at least tell him to back the hell up, but he controlled himself.

  “It’s Hort, Your Highness. And thank you for generously allowing me to serve in your castle.”

  “Mmhmm,” said Rhian. “Though you won’t serve long if you keep smelling like a sewer. Do us all some good and learn to bathe. I’m not sure that’s something they teach you in fairy-tale school.”

  Hort clenched his teeth. Rhian knew full well why he stank. He just wanted to bully Hort the way he’d bullied Tedros. It’s why Rhian was pressed hard against him, so Hort could feel his biceps, bigger than his own. Hort himself had been jacked with muscle until he’d left on this quest, but he hadn’t lifted weights in weeks and he’d started to whittle back down to a weasel’s frame. It hadn’t bothered him much, since Nicola liked the old, scrawny Hort she’d read about in books. But it bothered him now.

  “Truth is, when Sophie chose you, I couldn’t remember you at all,” said Rhian. “Had to flip back through Sophie’s fairy tale to see who you were. Easy to get you and Dot confused, since you’re both deadweight. But you’re the one who Sophie wanted free, so here you are . . . for now.” The king turned to Hort, hardening to stone. “One wrong move and I’ll carve out your heart.”

  Hort didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. He could see Sophie pretending to work, but he knew she was listening. The color had returned to her cheeks, as if her spirit had revived. As if she was brewing a plan . . . Her eyes darted back to the tea on the king’s throne.

  “Surprised she picked you,” Rhian baited Hort. “From what I read, you’re the boy she never wanted.”

  “Surprised you’re still alive, Your Highness,” said Hort.

  “Oh, is that why she picked you? Because you’re going to kill me?” Rhian attacked, eyes flashing.

  Hort looked at him quizzically. “No, Your Highness. I meant that Willam and Bogden predicted you’d be dead by now. That you’d have an accident before the Blessing. Saw it in their tarot cards down in the dungeons. And they’re never wrong.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Hort,” Sophie said, turning. “Those two couldn’t predict a storm if they were in the middle of one.” She peered at Hort intently, as if reading his mind, before looking at the king. “Bogden was my student and failed all of his classes and Willam is an altar boy who I once caught having a passionate conversation with a peony bush. If those two are ‘seers,’ then I’m the Bearded Lady of Hajira.” She turned back to her work. “Oh yes, I see what’s missing.” She revised with her pink glow—

  Celebrate! Rogue Agatha has been caught! Yet another enemy of Camelot, brought down by the Lion. Scoff at all other reports. There is only one army: the Lion’s Army. And it is made of you: the people of the Woods! Live under the Lion and you will be safe forever.

  “There. Ready to post,” Sophie said, itching at her starchy white dress. “You know, the writing process is strangely fulfilling. Challenges every part of you.” She picked Rhian’s mug of tea off the throne, handed it to the guard onstage, and sank down onto the golden seat. “Even if it’s in the service of pure fiction.”

  Hort tracked the mug in the guard’s hands, waiting for Sophie to make her move . . . but in
stead, she reclined against the throne, looking increasingly at ease, as Rhian inspected her work. Lionsmane floated out of the king’s pocket, the gold pen hovering next to him, waiting for him to approve Sophie’s message.

  Rhian kept rereading it.

  “If you think you can do better, you’re welcome to try,” Sophie mused.

  “Just seeing if you’ve hidden anything inside of it,” the king growled. “You know . . . like a message to your friend and her ‘rebel’ army.”

  “Yes, that’s me. The Sultaness of Subterfuge,” Sophie wisped. “Slipping unbreakable codes into a king’s propaganda.”

  Rhian ignored her, still studying her words.

  To Hort’s alarm, the king had forgotten about his tea entirely. With Rhian’s back turned, Hort kept glaring at Sophie, who seemed to have forgotten about the tea too as she sat there smiling like a Cheshire cat. What was she doing? Why did she look so smug? She needed to get him to drink the tea! Hort’s heart hammered. Should he offer Rhian the tea himself? How suspicious would that look! Sweat trickled down his cheek. He needed to settle down or his scim would sense something—

  That’s when Sophie rose and calmly took the mug back from the guard.

  “Your tea is getting cold and I can’t stand the smell,” she said, walking it down to the king. “What did you make it with? Burnt leather and cow dung?”

  Barely looking at her, Rhian swiped it and magically reheated the mug with his gold fingerglow, his eyes still vetting Sophie’s message. . . .

  “We’re going to be late,” Sophie said, firing a spell at the message, gilding it in gold, before she magically shot it through the window and into the sky, where it branded against the brilliant blue. “People will think I’m having cold feet.”

  Rhian frowned, still focused on the message. “Where’s Japeth?”

  “Licking his scales?” Sophie mused.

  Rhian turned to the guard. “Fetch my brother, so we can ride with him.” He took a last big swig of his tea.

  Hort held his breath. He saw the clumped hazelnuts slide to the surface and straight into the king’s throat—

  Rhian choked instantly.

  He dropped the teacup, which shattered and splashed as he grabbed his throat with a wheezing spasm.

  It’d been the same choke that Hort had induced in Dabo with a tree-sapped pebble before the bully had managed to cough it out. But this time, Hort used two nuts. Rhian doubled over, hacking with all his might, but all that came out was a gasp.

  For a brief, shining moment, he thought Rhian was going to die, just like he’d hoped. Sophie backed up at Hort’s side, eyes widening, as if her nightmare was over—

  But then Hort saw the guards running for the king.

  Time for Plan B.

  Hort’s head swung to Sophie. She read his face.

  Sophie sprinted in front of the guards and seized Rhian from behind, crushing his stomach with both arms, again and again, until the king coughed up the nuts with such force that they slammed a hole in the glass and flew out into the clean air.

  Blue-faced, Rhian heaved for breath as Sophie thumped on his spine. He yanked away from her—

  “You poisoned me . . . you witch!” he wheezed, spotting the crack in the window. “You put something . . . in my tea. . . .”

  Sophie flashed that indignant look that Hort knew so well. “Poisoned you! And here I thought I saved your life!”

  Doubled over, Rhian shook his head. “It was you—I know it was you—”

  “Wouldn’t the guard on the stage have seen it, then?” Sophie lashed. “Wouldn’t my steward’s slimy little eel?”

  The king turned his head to the guard, who said nothing. Hort’s scim gave a confused burble.

  “If I wanted you dead, I’d have let you strangle yourself,” Sophie hectored. “Instead, I rescued you. And you have the nerve to accuse me?”

  Rhian searched her face. He glanced at Hort, who made his move.

  “Not to overstep my bounds, sire,” said Sophie’s steward, “but the real question is who made the tea.”

  Rhian eyed him narrowly. “Japeth brought it from the kitchens,” he said, still rasping. He swiveled to a guard. “Ask him who made it. Whoever made the tea, bring them here and I’ll rip out their throat—”

  “I made it,” said a voice.

  Rhian, Hort, and Sophie raised their eyes.

  Japeth posed in silhouette at the entrance to the Throne Room.

  “And I made it exactly how you like it,” he said.

  “And you didn’t notice something in it?” Rhian blasted. “Something big enough to kill me?”

  Japeth’s blue eyes chilled. “First you indulge that witch. Then you let a prisoner free. And now I’m trying to kill you with your tea.”

  “Accidents happen,” his brother fumed. “Especially accidents that would make you king.”

  “That’s right. Such a good sleuth,” Japeth sneered. “Such a good king.”

  The two brothers glared daggers at each other.

  “Think I’ll skip this morning’s festivities,” said Japeth.

  He exited the room, his boots clacking on tile.

  A hot, wormy tension stayed behind.

  Hort picked his moment.

  One last move.

  “See? Willam and Bogden were right,” Hort whispered to Sophie, but loud enough for Rhian to hear. “They said the king would die before the Blessing!”

  “Don’t be an imp,” Sophie scoffed, catching his drift. “First of all, the king didn’t die. Second, it was a silly accident, and third, just because Willam and Bogden have had a few lucky guesses, doesn’t mean they’re harbingers of doom. Now go fetch the carriage. I’ll bring Rhian—”

  “Wait,” said the king.

  Hort and Sophie turned in perfect synch.

  Rhian straightened, his shadow casting over them.

  “Guards, bring Willam and Bogden from the dungeons,” he ordered. “They’ll ride with us too.”

  Sophie clasped her chest. “Willam and Bogden? Are you . . . sure?”

  Rhian didn’t answer, already stalking out of the hall.

  Sophie hurried behind him, snapping at her steward to follow. And as she did, her eyes met Hort’s for a sliver of a moment.

  Not long enough for Rhian or a scim to notice.

  But long enough for Hort to see Sophie wink at him, as if he’d earned his place at her side.

  Hort blushed in his heart, chasing after his mistress.

  At last, her Weasel had come.

  9

  SOPHIE

  Empress under the Boot

  As Sophie followed Rhian, Hort trailing behind her, she could feel her heart rumbling like a drum. The weasel had done well, but until Tedros was back on the throne, their work was far from done. She needed to talk to Hort alone, but there was no chance of that. Not with Rhian riding with them to the Blessing and that demented eel on Hort’s neck—

  Sophie glimpsed the horses through the window, pulling the royal carriage up the drive.

  Unless . . .

  No time to think. She made her move, lurching back and grabbing on to Hort’s sweaty hand, ignoring his stunned expression. She’d never held the weasel’s hand before—who knew where that hand had been—but these were desperate times.

  Tattooed Thiago held the door open for the king as the carriage arrived. “Wesley is fetching those boys from the dungeons as you ordered, sire,” he said, armor glinting in the sunlight. “Will you need a second carriage?”

  The king didn’t break stride. “We’ll all fit in one.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. A queen can’t arrive at her first wedding event packed like a sardine. Hort and I can ride alone,” Sophie scoffed, barreling past the king, dragging Hort like a scolded child, and throwing him into the carriage that hadn’t fully stopped. She fumbled in behind him, grabbing on to his rump to steady herself, and smiled back at Rhian. “See you at the church!”

  Pretending to lose her balance, she rippe
d Hort’s scim off like a strip of hot wax and flung it out the carriage door—“Oh dear!” she gasped—before slamming the door shut.

  “We have five seconds before he opens this door,” Sophie intoned.

  “Good news is I got Rhian and Japeth fighting,” Hort said, breathless.

  “Evil news: Rhian is still alive, Japeth is still his brother, and I’m still marrying a monster,” said Sophie.

  “Good: Agatha is safe at the School for Good and Evil,” Hort contended.

  “Evil: A team of sorcerers is on their way to her and I just lied to the entire Woods that she’s been captured,” said Sophie.

  “Good: Willam and Bogden are about to be free—”

  “Evil: Literally anyone else in that cell would have been more useful than those goons, your girlfriend included, and if the Blessing goes off as planned, that means we’re three events from Tedros losing his head. If Agatha is building an army, then we need more time, Hort. We need to delay the Blessing, somehow!”

  “Exactly,” said Hort. “Why do you think I picked Willam and Bogden over everyone else?”

  Sophie stared at him . . . then grinned with understanding.

  The carriage door swung open—

  Rhian glowered, his face in shadow.

  Before Sophie could speak, a scim shot through the door and smashed into Hort, who let out a resounding shriek, sending the horses rearing.

  A FEW MINUTES later, Willam and Bogden studied four tarot cards, laid out in Bogden’s lap.

  Neither Willam nor Bogden had time to bathe before being shoved next to Hort inside the carriage, which now reeked so badly of dungeon sweat that Sophie could hardly breathe.

  Sitting beside Sophie, Rhian focused intensely on the two boys across from him. Meanwhile, Bogden and Willam kept giving Sophie anxious peeks as if they had no idea why they were here, but Sophie just smiled at Bogden reassuringly, the same way she did when she expected the beady-eyed stooge to do her bidding back at school.

  “It’s a yes-or-no question,” the king said, his teeth clenched. “So let’s have the answer. For the last time: Is my brother trying to kill me?”

  Bogden looked at Willam, waiting for Willam to say something.