“Can we meet King Rhian? Can I get his autograph?” Emilio asked.
“I want to meet him!” another boy prompted.
“Me too! Me too!” clamored the rest of the group.
The Dean blushed. “I’m sure Rhian remembers me fondly. . . . Jorgen! Stop pinching fairies!”
Meanwhile, Arjun pulled a few last gooseberries from his pocket and aimed them over the rail.
“Quit it!” Emilio hissed.
“But if I hit that spellcast bubble roving around, everyone watching in the other kingdoms will see me!” said Arjun. “I’ll be famous! Like the king!”
“What bubble are you talking about?” Emilio asked, confused. “The spellcast comes from the shield over the garden. The pink fog up there. That’s what beams the scene to everywhere in the Woods.”
“Then what’s that?” Arjun said, pointing down.
Emilio squinted at a watery orb flitting between bodies in the crowd, nearing the edge of the reflecting pool—
But the last light of the sun vanished, and the bubble could be seen no longer, lost in the white mist rising over the lake.
AS NIGHT SETTLED, the mist spooled thicker, rolling over the waters in snow-colored waves. Behind the pool, Kei marched the Camelot guard into formation, the armored bodies silhouetted in fog. Standing on a staircase behind were Alpa and Omeida, the two Mistral Sisters, hooded amongst the crowd, eyes locked on Rhian’s statue, each muttering the same incantation under their breaths. On cue, the statue began to glitter a radiant gold, casting rippling light on the king’s carved face and the Snake crushed in his arms. The mist over the Reflecting Pool dissipated, revealing the surface had magically frozen, the ice strewn with blue and gold rose petals, the pool now a stage.
Soft music began to play in a strange key, the melody of a wedding march that sounded more like a funeral’s.
Then a blur of movement reflected in the ice.
Wedding guests raised their heads.
The sky had bloomed with constellations, Lions repeating endlessly as far as the eye could see, changing pose with every blink of stars. Against these celestial patterns, two more stars appeared: the bride and the king, floating down on the wings of a thousand white butterflies beating across the bride’s gown. Her shoes were made of glass, her throat collared with rubies, her face shrouded in a delicate veil. Her groom wore a white fur soaring behind him like a cape, belted with a chain of gold lions. Excalibur’s hilt gleamed at his waist. The crown of Camelot fit securely on his head. He made a fine King Rhian, this boy, with his tight copper hair, amber tan, and aqua-green gaze. . . .
But we know better.
“Rhian” was only playing the part of his brother, his wild hair hacked short, his skin painted tan, his eyes dyed by magic. His bride, too, seemed to be playing a role, her smile vacant, her hands clasping him the way she once clasped another boy she’d intended to marry: a young, frost-haired School Master who she thought she loved with all her heart. But now, in her wide green eyes, there was no love. There was nothing but the reflection of her groom, pleased with the emptiness of her gaze.
The young couple floated down towards the statue, “Rhian” gripping Sophie as tightly as the stone Rhian gripped the Snake. They neared the ground, bathed in the statue’s light, the Woods’ eyes upon them. The king loomed over his bride, placing a hand on her throat, and pulled her mouth to his. The crowd suspended in silence as he kissed her, time standing still. Look closer, the way I can, and one could see the chill in Sophie’s cheeks . . . the shudder in her legs . . . the hardness in the groom’s lips, repelled by the taste of his bride. . . .
Their feet touched down to the frozen pool.
The mob stayed hushed.
Then King Rhian’s statue began to rattle and quake. The edges of the ice pool splintered, shards of ice spraying into the sky, the glassy stage vibrating beneath the bride’s and groom’s feet. All at once, Rhian’s statue lifted out of the ground, taking the Reflecting Pool with it, the thick, frozen lake floating into the air, up, up, up, the bride and groom now high above the gardens, like toy figures on a cake.
Cheers burst out across the land, the crowd unleashing all they’d held back.
The wedding of the king had begun.
Orbiting the grounds, the spellcast shield strobed, recording every moment and beaming it to the Woods. Listen well and you might hear the cheers from kingdoms beyond, echoing on the wind . . .
“Rhian” turned from his bride and a flash of gold glowed beneath his cape, pulsing where his heart should be. He reached under the silk and drew out a cocoon of light. Only I know what is hidden within: a black scim disguised as Lionsmane—the king’s Pen, my so-called rival—which now rose out of the light, sharp at both ends and gold as the sun, into the night sky over the king’s palm.
From its tip came a shimmering dust, the color of pure ore, shapeshifting into the outlines of cuddling puppies, kissing lovebirds, arrows shot through hearts. Children hopped up in the crowd, reaching hands skyward, trying to touch these valentines before they broke apart and golden ash rained down, dusting their hair with sparkles. Sophie, too, clasped her hands to her chest, as if charmed by the sight of happy young souls. (Perhaps the clearest sign yet that this Sophie was as fraudulent as her groom.)
Meanwhile, “Rhian” spoke from the floating stage. “The Storian was the balance of our Woods. The Pen trusted with telling the stories that moved our world forward. That is, until it gave you the last Ever After. Tedros the ‘king.’ Or as you knew him: Tedros the coward, the fraud, the snake. He is no king, regardless of what that Pen says. You learned that the hard way. But this is what happens when we give the Storian free rein. Fate leaves us vulnerable and out of control. Fate leads us to false idols. But the Storian is no longer our future. And neither are the winds of fate. Man’s will is the future. Man’s will can bring glory to all. And tonight, Man becomes Pen. My pen. I will write the stories of the future. I will reward those who deserve to be rewarded and punish those who deserve to be punished. The power is with me now. The power is with the people.”
The crowd roared as Lionsmane rose higher in the sky, throbbing brighter like a north star. Sophie clapped along, not a wick of understanding in her gaze.
The king held her closer. “But as long as the Storian exists, it is a threat. Empower it and it will lead us astray. To more Tedroses, and more like him. So we must not only reject it . . . but destroy it. All but one kingdom in the Endless Woods has renounced faith in the old Pen. All but one of a hundred founding realms has broken their bond with it. Tonight, as a preface to our wedding, the last kingdom breaks its bond too. The 100th realm burns its ring, stripping the Pen’s powers and giving the power over Man’s fate to me. Tonight, you not only gain a queen.” His eyes pierced through the dark. “Tonight, the One True King lives.”
Lionsmane spawned flames from its tip: a ball of blue fire that lobbed high in the dark . . . then shot down, blasting past exuberant guests before catching to a halt in front of the Camelot guard. An armored soldier next to Kei stepped forward, the fire lighting up the wrinkles around his greedy eyes and the filthy hair spinning out from his helmet. A discerning Reader would recognize him quickly: this guard who wasn’t a guard at all. It was Bertie, the Sheriff of Nottingham’s once-steward, now the keeper of his ring. And in Bertie’s hands was this very ring, glinting atop a black pillow, the carved steel reflecting the contours of the flames.