“It’s obvious that the Pen has failed our Woods,” Sophie replied as reporters furiously transcribed. “The Storian is supposed to tell tales that inspire us and move our world forward. But these days, it fixates only on the students of a school that has become self-indulgent and obsolete. It’s why I left my post as Dean. The Pen no longer represents the people. It’s time for a Man to rise in its place. A King. Someone who can give everyone a chance at glory.”
The words slipped effortlessly out of her, as if they had a life of their own.
“The last ring left belongs to the Sheriff of Nottingham, who hasn’t been seen since the attack on Tedros’ execution,” prompted a reporter tagged Nottingham News. “Any information as to his whereabouts or the security of his ring?”
“Haven’t you heard? The Sheriff is marrying Robin Hood,” said Sophie archly.
The press brigade laughed.
“But do you yourself believe in the myth of the One True King?” asked the Hamelin Piper. “The legend that the Storian depends on the balance between Man and Pen. A balance protected by our leaders wearing their rings. As long as they wear these rings, Man and Pen share control. Each plays an equal part in writing fate. But if Man forsakes the Pen, if all 100 rulers burn their rings and swear loyalty to a king instead . . . then the balance is gone. The Storian would lose its powers to this new king.”
“And it would be about time!” Sophie tossed off. “Men should worship a Man. Not a Pen.”
“But what happens when Rhian is this One True King?” the Ooty Observer pushed. “Lionsmane would become the new Storian. King Rhian’s own pen. With the Storian’s powers, he could use this pen like a sword of fate. He could write anything he wants and have it come true. He could wipe out anyone who challenges him. He could wipe out entire kingdoms—”
“The only thing King Rhian might wipe out is a meddling press,” Sophie teased with a wink. “Besides, like you said, he only has 99 rings. Not 100.”
The press chuckled once more.
“What can we expect from the wedding?” a toothy woman asked from the Royal Rot.
“For Rapunzel’s wedding, I heard she floated ten thousand lanterns into the sky, and for Snow White’s, the bride rode in on a parade of forest animals.” Sophie grinned. “Mine will be better.” She rose off the throne. “On that note, I’ll take my leave—”
“Princess Sophie, any comment on the fact that the rebels sacking kingdoms were not students of the school but paid mercenaries of King Rhian? And that the attacks were King Rhian’s ploy to trick leaders into burning their rings?”
The Blue Ballroom went quiet. Slowly the throng of reporters parted, revealing a teenage girl sucking a red lollipop. Her badge was handwritten, dotted with a heart.
“Tell Agatha that Bettina says hello,” the girl smiled.
Sophie felt a command fly from her mouth like an arrow: “Arrest her!”
Kei and four guards streaked for Bettina, swords out—
The young girl vanished into thin air, leaving only her red lollipop, which fell to the marble and fractured to pieces.
Reporters eyed each other tensely, a chill seeping through the ballroom.
“Apparently local journalists are magicians now,” Sophie cooed, untroubled. “We’ll see how our little sorceress fares when she and the rest of the Courier’s staff are arrested for lies and treason. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a wedding to prepare for.”
She sashayed out of the room. The second she stepped into the hall, she was joined by the two Mistral Sisters, hewing to her sides like sentinels, leading her back to the queen’s chambers. Little by little, Sophie felt her gait loosen, her head lighten, her sense of direction and purpose disappear. All the words she’d spoken to the press slipped away like smoke out of a chimney. Suddenly, she had no memory of where she was coming from and where she was going, as if time was resetting itself.
She could hear the sisters tittering: “reporters seen in Putsi” . . . “where Bethna is” . . . “the girl used a disappearing hex” . . . “someone must be helping them” . . . “tell Japeth . . .”
Sophie’s brain itched.
Japeth . . . I know that name. . . .
But it vanished into the fog with everything else.
What’s happening to me? Sophie searched her mind, fumbling for an anchor to hold on to. Who am I? What am I doing here? A prickle went up her spine. Then a tingling in her nose. She smelled lavender . . . and cucumbers. . . . For a moment, she could see clearly, as if she’d crossed through that emerald light she had glimpsed within her eyes. . . . Again a skullcrushing headache assaulted her, but this time, Sophie fought back, clawing at her memories, trying to hold on—
“That girl, Bettina. What was she saying?” Sophie breathed. “About Rhian plotting the attacks . . .” The pain radiated into her teeth and jaw. Sophie dug in harder. “And Agatha. . . . She told me to say hi to Agatha. . . . Rhian said that name during the spellcast . . . Agatha. . . . She isn’t a rebel at all! She’s my friend—”
At once, the sisters raised their hands, twisting them sharply in midair as if to turn a screw—
The pain in Sophie’s head exploded, a stabbing blow so deep that she buckled, about to pass out.
The Mistrals caught her, moving her forward.
“You need rest,” said Alpa. “Focus on the wedding, my sweet. Once you wed the king, your work will be done.”
“You can rest forever after that,” said Omeida.
The sisters gave each other shrewd looks.
“Just focus on the wedding,” Alpa repeated.
The wedding, Sophie thought.
Then I can rest.
Focus on the wedding.
The stabbing pain eased, flooding her with glorious relief.
Yes . . . the wedding would fix everything.
3
TEDROS
Secret School
Tedros and Agatha stood between two graves.
The light of the fading sun caught the ring on the prince’s hand, the silver surface glinting with carved symbols that matched the Storian’s.
“That ring belongs to Camelot,” said Agatha, stunned. “Your father wouldn’t have left it to you if it wasn’t yours by right. Which means you’re the heir, Tedros. Just like he raised you to be.”
Tedros blinked at the ring, taking this in, before his eyes sharpened and rose to Agatha’s. “Then who’s sitting on the throne?”
“Not the heir, that’s for sure,” said his princess in her rumpled black dress. “We need to get to Camelot and show the people they’ve been duped by a Snake. And save our best friend from marrying him while we’re at it.”
“She deserves to marry him,” Tedros muttered. “Got herself into this mess going back to Rhian.”
“To help us—”
“We don’t know that.”
“I do,” Agatha said firmly. “We’re going back to Camelot. For your throne. And my friend.”
Tedros gazed at the grove’s two graves, each marked with a glass cross: one his father’s, dug up and empty; the other Chaddick’s, untouched in the shadows. Tedros’ shirt clung to his chest, soaked with his sweat, his breeches smeared with dirt from his father’s grave. Pain rattled his body, the exhaustion of the journey and the wounds he’d suffered against his enemies soothed by knowing now that his dad was on his side. He’d followed his heart to Avalon, trusting in his father’s last message—“Unbury Me”—which brought him here, to King Arthur’s tomb, in the Lady of the Lake’s secret haven. But there was no body to find. Instead, Tedros had encountered his father’s soul, magically preserved by Merlin so that he could appear to Tedros one last time and bequeath his son the ring that would save him. And Camelot. For as long as Tedros wore this ring, the Snake couldn’t be the One True King. The Snake who had killed his own brother to claim the Storian’s power. But it was in vain. With this ring, Tedros’ father had ensured that a Snake would never take the Storian’s place. That Lionsmane would never replace free will with Japeth’s will. That Man would never become Pen. With this ring, Tedros’ father had given his son one last chance at his throne.