“Wait!” he rasped, yanking at his hand, but Agatha held him in place, the fish surging out of the pond, gripping his elbow, his bicep, his armpit—
“Let go!” he cried, fighting Agatha.
“Trust me,” she soothed.
The swarming school was at his shoulder, his throat . . . his chin . . . their interlocked bodies turning clear as glass, revealing small throbbing hearts. Then, all at once, the fish began to swell. Inflating like balloons, they amassed into a clear, gelatinous globe, expanding in every direction, pressing into Tedros’ face.
“Help!” he yelled, but the warm, slobbery bubble laminated his mouth, his nose, his eyes, suffocating him with a salty smell. He could feel Agatha’s arms on him, but he couldn’t see her. He couldn’t see anything. He closed his eyes, his lashes lacquered in itchy scales, his chest pumping shallow breaths, leaking last bits of air—
Then it stopped. The pressure. The smell. As if his head had separated from his body. The prince opened his eyes to find himself inside the fish bubble, floating above the pond.
Agatha was in the bubble with him.
“Like I said,” she smiled. “Trust me.”
Then his princess began to shrink. And now, so did the prince, his whole body pinching down, inch by inch, to the size of a tea mug. The bubble closed in, too, its watery edges leaving just enough room around them.
Tedros glanced at his pants. “This better not be permanent.”
Instantly the bubble split in two, each sealing up whole, separating prince and princess in their own orbs.
“Agatha?” Tedros called, his voice bouncing against liquid walls.
He saw his tiny princess call back, her lips moving but only a squeak coming through.
Rays of light refracted against the bubbles and Tedros watched the pond opening up like a portal, revealing a familiar castle and a pink-purple sky . . . the scene of a Wish Fish painting he’d mocked, now come to life. . . .
“Trust me.”
Tedros looked up at Agatha, eyes wide—
He never had time to scream. The two balls plunged into the portal like they’d been shot from a cannon, vanishing into the glare of a faraway sun.
4
THE STORIAN
Altar and Grail
The Pen that tells the tale is just that: the teller, with no place in the story. It should not be a character or a weapon or a prize. It should not be lionized or persecuted or thought of at all. The Pen must be invisible, doing its work in humble silence, with no bias or opinion, like an all-seeing eye committed only to unspooling a story until its end.
Yet here we are: things once held sacred are sacred no longer.
The Pen is under siege.
My spirit is weakened, my powers fading.
I must tell my own story or risk Man erasing it forever.
Man, who despite thousands of years of trusting in my powers . . . has now come to take them from me.
NO ONE KNEW where in the gardens the wedding would take place, for there was no stage or altar or priest and no sign of a bride or groom. But as the sun dipped into the horizon, guards continued to let guests in—men, women, children, dwarves, trolls, elves, ogres, fairies, goblins, nymphs, and more citizens of the Woods—all dressed in their finest as they crammed through the gates of Camelot’s castle.
After King Arthur’s death, the gardens had fallen to blight, but under a new king, they’d been revived to glory, a sprawling wonderland of color and scent. Packed hip to hip, the people flooded the groves of the Orangerie, the paths of the Sunken Garden, and the lawns of the Rosefield, all of which orbited the long Reflecting Pool crowned with a marble statue of King Rhian hammering Excalibur into the masked Snake’s neck. Muddy shoes stained the grass and flattened the willows; restless children tore branches and ate the lilacs; a family of giants broke an orange tree. But still guards continued to let guests in, even as the setting sun halved and quartered and the smell of sweaty bodies clogged the air.
“Is there no end to this?” the Empress of Putsi growled, holding her nose as people jostled against her, nearly knocking her and her goose-feather coat into the Reflecting Pool. “Putsi butchers and millers and maids given the same treatment as their Empress! Ever and Never royalty thrown to the masses and left to fend for ourselves! After all we’ve done for King Rhian? After we burned our rings in his name? Who ever heard of commoners at a royal wedding!”
“It is the commoners who have made him king,” said the Maharani of Mahadeva, watching a mountain troll pee in the tulips. “And now that we’ve burned our rings, our voice has no more weight than theirs.”
“We burned our rings to save our kingdoms. To earn the king’s protection,” the Empress of Putsi argued. “Your castle was attacked like mine. Your sons might be dead if not for you giving up your ring. Your realm is safe now.”
“Is it? How are we protected if the Kingdom Council no longer has a vote against the king?” the Maharani pressed. “A king who my advisors believe seeks the power of the Storian.”
“The ‘One True King’ is an old wives’ tale spread by that Sader family. But even if any of their flimflam was true, you of all people should welcome it. The Storian did nothing for Evil kingdoms like yours or for the Nevers of the Woods. If Rhian had the Storian’s power, he might do Evil a world of Good.” The Empress stood straighter. “King Rhian is a worthy king to both sides. He’ll listen to us, whether or not we have our rings. King Rhian will always put us above the people—”
Something smacked her face, and she looked up at a chubby boy high on a staircase, pelting people with gooseberries.
“Like he’s done today?” the Maharani asked, stonefaced.
The Empress went mum.
As for the berry-pelting boy, he found himself swatted by his Dean and yanked into place with the rest of her students, who’d traveled with the Dean from Foxwood.
“Behave, Arjun! Or I’ll tell King Rhian to throw you in the dungeon with his brother,” Dean Brunhilde scolded, swiping her student’s ammunition. “And I assure you, you won’t last a half second in a cell with RJ. Not an ounce of Good in that boy’s body.”
“Thought Rhian’s brother was called ‘Japeth,’” Arjun peeped.
“Even that name sounds Evil,” the Dean murmured. “I shortened his birth name to ‘RJ.’ Came to Arbed House because he, like you, couldn’t get along with his mother. I tried to make him Good. Did everything I could. Even his brother thought he could be fixed. But in the end, it seems Rhian learned what I did: some Evil can’t be fixed.”
“Still don’t believe we’re here. A royal wedding!” piped an older boy with sunken eyes. “A kid like us now the king!”
“And marrying a girl as pretty as Sophie,” said a bald boy, his collar littered with dandruff. “Don’t forget that, Emilio. That’s why I’d want to be a king.”
“Think I’ll get to be a king someday, Dean Brunhilde?” Arjun asked. “Or at least a prince?”
“I don’t see why not,” Dean Brunhilde said. “Things are different now. Most royal weddings don’t allow ordinary citizens. But King Rhian knows to respect every soul, Good or Evil, boy or girl, young or old. All of you have a chance at glory while he’s king. Taught him myself, just like I’m teaching you.”