The School for Good and Evil #6: One True King Page 4

  I still feel the heat from here.

  Little by little, the crowd quieted, sensing the magnitude of the moment, realizing that they too were now pledging loyalty to Man over me. Sophie seemed to stir from her daze, as if deep inside, a kernel of the past had shaken loose in her memory.

  “The last piece of the Storian’s power,” the king declared, fixed on Bertie’s ring. “The last tether between Man and Pen.”

  Bertie stepped forward, his eyes on the king.

  “Rhian” nodded.

  My spirit cries out in its shell—

  The Sheriff’s old friend opens his palm. Nottingham’s ring falls into the fire.

  Crackle! Whish! Pop!

  The ring is no more.

  All that’s left of me is a whisper.

  For the first time, the king’s face softens, the regal facade falling away, as if he too had dipped into memory. “With my Pen, I vow to write these Woods as they should be. To give all your stories the endings they deserve.” His gaze fell on Dean Brunhilde in the crowd. “Including mine.”

  The Dean locked eyes with “Rhian,” a cold tingle worming up her spine. She peered closer at him—

  “He sees you!” Arjun blurted, grabbing her. “Rhian remembers!” By the time the Dean turned back, the king had regained his poise, his focus on his bride.

  “No more rings left. No more pledges to make,” he said, touching Sophie’s cheek. “Except one.”

  Slowly his eyes lifted.

  From Lionsmane’s tip birthed two golden rings.

  One floated into the king’s hand.

  One into his bride’s.

  Lionsmane glowed brighter in the sky, the witness to this moment, both altar and grail.

  “With this ring, I thee wed,” the king said to Sophie.

  He slipped his ring onto her finger.

  What power I have left dwindles, my words fainter on the page, as if they cannot sustain another blow.

  Sophie stayed lost in his eyes.

  “With this ring, I thee wed,” she repeated.

  No hesitation: she slid her ring onto his finger.

  “Then by the power of the Pen, Man’s Pen,” the boy proclaimed, looking up into the sky, “I ask Lionsmane to seal the bonds of this marriage. To crown Sophie my queen. To name me, Rhian of Camelot, the One True King of these Woods!”

  Lionsmane burned brighter, brighter, drinking in all the force I have lost. Suddenly, it is alive, becoming me, my powers stolen into the hands of this king. Against the night, his pen paints a queen’s crown, five ribbons of jewels topped with a ring of fleur de lis—

  Instantly, the crown came to life, a dazzling tower of diamonds, as if the king’s wish had made it true, before the crown set down upon Sophie’s head. Sophie touched its grooves, the blinding glare of jewels casting sparkles on her hands. A strange bubble of light streaked past her, and she swiveled her head to follow it before she remembered what she was supposed to focus on: the crowd chanting her name . . . her wedding to the king nearly sealed. . . .

  As for this king, his focus was only on the pen, alive with the power of a hundred flames. His eyes quivered with triumph.

  The rings had been destroyed.

  The queen had her crown.

  The prophecy was complete.

  Raising his hands, he reached up for Lionsmane, the Pen he’d pillaged and betrayed and murdered for, the Pen that could now bring his deepest wishes to life. He claimed its warm gold in his palm, seizing its powers, seizing immortality, a roar rising into his throat and unleashed to the sky—

  The light of the pen snuffed out, its metal turned cold in his hands.

  The crown vanished from Sophie’s head.

  So did the crown on the king’s.

  Their wedding rings disappeared, too.

  Across the gardens, the crowd stood stunned.

  Sophie startled from her trance, looking to her groom.

  “Rhian” was frozen, his teeth clenched.

  Here in my school tower, a bolt of heat lights up my steel.

  There is one ring left, you see.

  A ring which precludes full transfer of my powers. A ring this king does not know of.

  And it is closer than he thinks.

  Now the last swan in my steel pumps its wings, harder, harder, as if to make up for all the other swans lost, all the other kingdoms who’ve surrendered their rings.

  Over Camelot’s castle, silver lightning lashed through the sky, imploding Rhian’s statue, and the whole of the frozen stage came plummeting down. People in the mob screamed, diving for cover—

  The iced pool shattered to the ground, launching bride and groom in opposite directions. Chunks of ice hailed around them, bashing into spectators.

  “Watch out!” Kei yelled, tackling Sophie—

  The remnants of Rhian’s statue cratered into the dirt behind her, a mountain of rubble.

  All went quiet in the gardens, thick with the smell of fire and ice.

  Slowly, adults, children, creatures inched out of their hiding places.

  Kei lifted his head, Sophie curled up beneath him, her eyes quivering with the blankness of someone who didn’t know where or who she was. She spotted the king, flat on his stomach near the statue’s ruins, Lionsmane clenched in his fist. Seeing “Rhian” centered her—

  But suddenly, from the king’s belt, Excalibur rocketed out of its sheath by its own power, flying high over the castle, swordtip gleaming like the point of a pen, before it came axing down into the statue’s rubble. It landed blade-first at the top of the heap, its hilt high and standing, like a cross out of a grave.

  The hilt magically opened, a scroll rising from inside. As the king and his princess watched, the crowd shellshocked around them, the scroll unfurled in midair, revealing a parchment card, filled with faded words, stamped with Camelot’s seal.

  Moonlight illuminated the decree.

  King Arthur’s voice thundered from beyond.

  “The first test was passed.

  Excalibur pulled from the stone.

  A new king named.

  But two claim the crown.

  The sword returns to the stone,

  for only one is the true king.

  Who?

  The future I have seen has many possibilities . . .

  So by my will, none shall be crowned until

  the Tournament is complete.

  The Tournament of Kings.

  Three trials.

  Three answers to find.

  A race to the finish.

  My last coronation test.

  Excalibur will crown the winner

  and take the loser’s head.

  The first test is coming. Prepare . . .”

  The card crumbled and blew away, like sand in the wind. The hilt of Arthur’s sword sealed up, leaving Excalibur in moonlight at the peak of piled stone.

  A new altar.

  A new grail.

  For a moment, there was utter silence, strangers and friends gawking at each other in the gardens. The students of Arbed House looked to their Dean, but she had no words. So too were the leaders of the Woods tongue-tied—the Empress of Putsi, the Queens of Mahadeva and Jaunt Jolie, the Kings of Foxwood and Maidenvale and Bloodbrook and more—scattered across the ice-strewn fields and unsure of what they’d just heard. Even Sophie’s vacant sheen had cracked, her eyes narrowing, her soul closer and closer to breaking through. . . .

  But now all of them caught sight of a figure rising out of the ruins, climbing the stone heap: the king, crownless and dirt-smeared, Lionsmane cold in his hands, his cheeks a violent red. Slamming a foot onto the highest stone, he seized Excalibur with a single fist, and pulled it hard.

  It didn’t move.

  He shoved Lionsmane into his furs and yanked the sword again, this time with both fists, only to suffer the same result. Sweat soaked his forehead. He raised his eyes to the sky, where King Arthur’s voice had spoken. . . .

  “Two kings?” he shouted mockingly. “Wha
t dirty trick is this? I pulled Excalibur from the stone. I am the king! Who dares to claim a second?”

  A watery orb slammed into the king, then another, bashing him off the stone. The bubbles expanded, two tiny figures growing taller within, rising to full size before they thrust out their hands, peeled their way through watery walls, and left the bubbles behind. Tedros strode atop the stone mountain, muscles clinging to his wet shirt, his princess at his side.

  “Me,” he declared. “And the only trick is how that sword ever came to a Snake in the first place.”

  Arthur’s son raised his hand into the moon’s beam, the silver ring stealing its light.

  “The last ring lives. Camelot’s ring. My father’s ring,” he thundered, resounding across the castle grounds. “I am the heir. I am the king.”

  The people of the Woods held their breath, their heads whipping between two defiant kings. Sophie, too, stayed still, even though her body told her to run to her groom’s side . . . to her king. . . . On her knees in shredded roses, she glanced at Kei, who had that same haunted look he’d had in the castle. Slowly, Sophie’s eyes went back to Tedros atop the stone. Kei knew this boy . . . and so did she. . . .

  Tedros glared his rival down. “You heard the king. Excalibur is returned to the stone. The crown no longer belongs to you,” he slashed. “Three tests. The sword crowns the winner. No more games. No more lies. . . . Let the tournament begin.”

  Flat on his stomach, “Rhian” peered up at the prince, a hint of fragility in his face. A sliver of fear.

  Then it was gone.

  He spun to Kei.

  “Kill him,” he ordered.

  Kei’s gaze hardened. He and the pirates launched for Tedros—the ring on the prince’s finger shot a blast of light, reforming the protective bubble, trapping Tedros inside. The prince whirled to Agatha: “Get Sophie!”

  But Agatha was already gone from his wing, surging for her best friend and tackling Sophie into her arms. White and black dresses coalesced, like the intermingling of two swans. The girls’ eyes locked, dark and light, an eternal connection made. Good and Evil. Boy and Girl. Old and Young. Truth and Lies. Past and Present. Sophie gasped, the color in her cheeks returning, the fire in her eyes pouring forth—

  It dampened, like a door slammed shut. Sophie grabbed Agatha by the neck and threw her to the ground.

  Lifting her head, Agatha saw the two Mistral Sisters on a staircase behind Sophie, directing their hands, puppeteering her best friend’s moves. Sophie grabbed a slab of frozen ice, jagged like a dagger. Grinning, the Mistrals swung their palms. Sophie pounced for Agatha, the ice knife plunging for her best friend’s chest—

  The ice knife trapped in a wall of water, a hair’s width from Agatha’s heart.

  For a moment, all Agatha could hear were her own shallow breaths, the hammer of her blood. She felt her prince’s arms drag her back, the two of them safe in the Wish Fish bubble, Arthur’s ring glowing on Tedros’ hand like a talisman. Behind the bubble, a portal opened, revealing the gray waters of a lake . . . its vast, snowy shores . . . three shadows in the distance. . . .

  But Tedros’ gaze was still on Sophie through the bubble, her teeth bared like a rabid animal’s, her fist tearing the ice knife into the watery wall again and again, yielding only the tiniest crack.

  “Rhian” gently clasped her from behind, staying his princess’s hand. Sophie gazed up at him, starry-eyed with love once more, fully under his spell.

  Tears rolled down Agatha’s cheeks. “What have you done to her! You monster! You creep! What have you done to my friend!”

  The boy ignored her, his eyes on Tedros. An eel curled off his wedding robe, so small that no one in the audience noticed as it slithered through the crack Sophie had made in the bubble—

  Tedros instantly snatched it into his fist.

  But now the eely scim was speaking with the Snake’s voice, so only the prince and Agatha could hear. . . .

  “Your weak magic can’t protect you from what’s coming,” the scim taunted. Outside the bubble, his master leered at Tedros. “You sniveling coward. You pretty-faced fool. You’re no one’s leader. No one in the Woods is on your side. And now you think you can win a fight against me?”

  “A fair fight, yes,” Tedros flared, glowering back at his nemesis. “As for the Woods, soon they’ll know that their ‘king’ isn’t who he says he is.”

  “Oh?” said the scim. “Let’s see if they believe anything you have to say. Tedros the rebel. Tedros the Snake.”

  “I don’t need to say a word. They’ll know when Excalibur takes your head,” the prince seethed, crushing the eel harder. “I’ll finish the tests first. I’ll win the tournament. The sword will crown me.”

  “Like it did last time? It will never let you be king because you have nothing in you that is a king. Nothing.”

  Tedros vibrated with anger. “I am Arthur’s son. I am his heir.”

  “There is only one ending to your tale,” said the eel coolly. “You dead and forgotten. That ring in my hands. The Storian’s powers mine. You and those you love . . . erased.”

  “Catch you at the finish,” Tedros vowed.

  “Rhian” didn’t flinch. “I’ll kill you long before.”

  Tedros glared into his black pupils. “I see you, Japeth. Like your brother surely did before you murdered him and stole his name. I can believe Rhian was Arthur’s son. At least he had a soul. At least he wanted to do Good. But how can a beast like you be my brother? How can filth like you be my father’s child?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” the scim replied.

  The Snake grinned, his face pressing to the prince’s against the slim ball of water, his voice inside a poisoned whisper. . . .

  “I’m not.”

  The words slammed Tedros like a kick to the chest. He killed the scim and smashed it to goo as he choked out a breath—“Who are you?”—but Agatha was pulling him back through a portal, lake water flooding his lungs, the prince’s question echoing again and again into the dark, dark deep.

  5

  AGATHA

  A Snow of Scrolls

  Her best friend had tried to kill her before.

  Their first year at school.

  And again during the third.

  Sophie was a witch, after all, and Agatha a princess.

  But this time was different, Agatha thought, clawing through water, running out of breath. Because whoever just tried to kill her on the other side of the portal . . . That wasn’t Sophie.

  Agatha tore through the surface, gulping air. She searched the lake for Tedros, her eyes flooding with water before she spotted three shadowy figures on Avalon’s shore, shouting out to her—

  But Agatha was already back under, prowling through gray depths for her prince. She’d been gripping on to him . . . then suddenly she wasn’t, distracted by her fears for Sophie . . .

  She squinted in every direction. No sign of him, the lake vast and still. She resurfaced, fueling more air—

  “Tedros!” she called across the lake.

  “Agatha!” Nicola returned from the shore.

  “Where’s Tedros!” Agatha gasped at her.

  “Don’t see him!” said Hort.

  “He’s not with you?” said Guinevere anxiously.

  Agatha dove under. Panic squeezed her throat. Had she left Tedros behind? In worrying about Sophie, had she doomed her prince? She whirled around, limbs flailing—

  Flashing gleams winked ahead, like an explosion of pearls.

  A swarm of Wish Fish cannoned towards her, Tedros caged within, the school of fish swallowing Agatha too, before they crashed out of the water and spewed the prince and princess to the snow-mounded shore. The two landed in each other’s arms, soggy and chilled, as the fish pirouetted in the air and speared back into the lake.

  Relieved, Agatha clasped her prince, Tedros still questioning: “Who is he? Who?”

  “We heard what he said,” Hort said, rushing in. “The Snake—”

&nbs
p; “Huh? How could you hear him?” said Agatha, confused.

  “We both heard him,” said Nicola, joining her boyfriend. “That he’s not your brother. That he’s not Arthur’s son.”

  “But whose son is he, then?” said Hort, ignoring Agatha’s perplexed look. “The blood crystal told us Rhian and Japeth were the sons of Evelyn Sader and King Arthur. Rhian’s blood can’t lie. So what are we missing? Did Japeth say anything else? We couldn’t hear it all—”

  “Because you kept tilting the mirrorspell to Sophie,” Nicola scorched.

  “Mirrorspell?” Tedros asked, mystified.

  Hort sighed impatiently. “We saw the Lady of the Lake open her portal when the crystal ball shattered. The portal that let you into her secret haven. Before the portal closed, I mirrorspelled inside of it, like Hester taught us. That spell let us follow you, as if we were by your side. We watched everything: from when you went to your father’s grave to when you found the Wish Fish to when the sword announced the Tournament of Kings.”

  “Amazing we watched anything except Sophie’s face,” Nicola piled on.

  “Amazing you can’t give me credit for thinking of the spell in the first place,” Hort shot back. “I was trying to see what the Snake did to my friend. She’s possessed by a curse. I could see the Mistral Sisters controlling her when she attacked Agatha.”

  “I didn’t know the Mistral Sisters could use magic,” said Agatha, her heart settling down enough for her brain to catch up. She looked up at the weasel, his hair dyed blond, his skin pale, standing beside his girlfriend, her black curls dusted with snow. “They’ve never used magic before. If they could, wouldn’t they have been able to skip the dungeons when Tedros put them there?”

  “Can’t use magic in Camelot’s dungeons,” Guinevere reminded, arriving with Tinkerbell on her shoulder, the fairy lighting up at the sight of Tedros. “Though I’ve known of the sisters for a long time and don’t remember them having powers either.”