I hear a scrap of conversation—
“My castle has been firebombed,” says a woman I recognize as the Empress of Putsi, who pushed me to accept her son into Good. “As soon as I destroyed my ring, Rhian sent his men to Putsi and the attackers fled.”
“I thought you and I agreed to keep our rings,” the Duke of Hamelin retorts, still wearing his. “To protect the Storian. To protect the school.”
“The school is behind these attacks. You heard the king,” the Empress defends. “I didn’t believe it before, but I do now. My people come first.”
“Your castle, you mean,” snipes the Duke.
The Empress is about to respond when she sees us coming. The other leaders spot us too, as we curl towards the steps leading up to the stage. From the looks on their faces, it’s clear that they’ve either forgotten we were imprisoned or they didn’t know it was more than Tedros who would die today. And when they see me—Dean of Good, fairy godmother of legend, protector of the pen that keeps our world alive—their eyes widen in recognition. . . .
And yet, none move.
They just stand there, tethered in place, as if the same reason they’re not wearing their rings also precludes them from helping me and my charges.
I stare at the Princess of Altazarra, who once bawled in my arms when the boy she loved betrayed her to win a Trial by Tale her first year at school.
She looks away.
Sheep, I scorn. Rhian has the people’s support and no ruler dares challenge him, even if they know better. Every one of these leaders lives in fear of what’s about to happen to me happening to them, only at the hands of an angry mob instead of a king. Which means, even though I teach their sons and daughters, even though I’ve taught many of them, they won’t stand up for me or my students.
We’re dragged up creaking wooden steps to the stage, where the guards hold us in a line at the back, facing the chopping block and the audience below. A pirate is sharpening steel pikes and stacking them at the side of the stage.
I count seven.
“What are those for?” Aja murmurs on one side of me.
“Our heads,” says Nicola on the other, her eyes on Lionsmane’s message in the sky, ending with Rhian’s promise to mount our skulls for the Woods to see.
Next come the maids, in their white dresses and bonnets, who roll out a long gold-trimmed carpet patterned with lions, leading up to the stage.
Guinevere is amongst them, one of Japeth’s gruesome scims sealing her lips.
Tedros flushes red when he sees his mother in a maid’s outfit and the Snake’s slithering worm on her face, but Guinevere looks right at her son, her eyes smoldering. The glare disarms him as it does me. It’s the same look Lady Lesso used to give me before the Circus of Talents when Evil had a new trick up its sleeve.
Then I notice something in Guinevere’s hair. Tucked behind the ear, standing out against the white strands . . . a stray purple petal, unusual in shape.
A lotus petal.
Strange. Lotus blossoms don’t grow in Camelot. Nowhere near it. They only bloom in Sherwood Forest. . . .
But now the king approaches, his princess on his arm.
The crowd of leaders swivels to watch Rhian glide down the gold carpet, Excalibur on his belt, as he and Sophie make their way to the stage.
Rhian sees their faces, still stunned by the added executions, and he calmly stares back. That’s when I understand: this execution isn’t about Tedros or his allies. Not really. This is about threatening every leader here: if Rhian can cut off the head of Arthur’s son and Good’s Dean . . . then he can certainly cut off any of theirs.
The wind picks up, sweeping blades of grass across the hill. Sunlight spears past our shoulders, dawn anointing the copper-haired king and his princess with light.
Sophie grips Rhian like a crutch, her movement stooped and submissive. She’s wearing a white ruffled gown, even more prim than the maids’; her hair is tied back in a staid bun; and her face is bare and humble, though as she ascends the stage on Rhian’s arm and I get a closer look, I sense she’s painted herself to look that way.
As she takes her place beside Rhian at the front of the stage, she glances back at me, but there’s nothing in her eyes, as if the shell of her is here, but not her spirit.
I’m hit with déjà vu—
Not of Sophie, but Guinevere. That day I met her with her newborn son, when August was painting Tedros’ portrait. While Lady Gremlaine fixed her attentions on Arthur, her eyes so soulful, Guinevere was dead-eyed and distracted. As if she was only playing the part of Arthur’s wife.
Now Sophie has the same look as she holds on to a boy who is about to kill her friends and fellow Dean. Her gaze flits around the field, searching for someone. Someone she can’t find. Rhian senses her inattention. Instantly, Sophie’s demeanor changes: she gives him a doting smile, a caress of his arm.
I peer at her closely . . . then back at the lotus petal in Guinevere’s hair.
No doubt about it.
Skullduggery’s afoot.
Tedros studies me once more, knowing I’ve sleuthed something out—
Again that sting hits, telling me he’s the key to a happy ending. Like the mirror was to Agatha or the pumpkin I used to send Cinderella to the ball. It’s Tedros I need.
But for what! What am I supposed to do! What good is a sixth sense if we have no heads! I hold in a scream, my chest imploding—
Rhian clutches Sophie tighter as he addresses his audience.
“For a brief moment, after the Council meeting, I couldn’t find my princess.” He gives Sophie a look; her eyes glue to her dull, flat, highly suspect slippers. “Then I saw her, sitting calmly by the window. She said that she’d needed a moment to think. That she’d had the same doubts all of you had at the meeting. Was the school the enemy? Should you destroy your rings? Must Tedros die? But she’d looked you in the eyes and answered yes for a reason. I’d pulled Excalibur from the stone and Tedros hadn’t. That alone earned me the crown. For Tedros to no longer command the sword that he flaunted at school was proof that he was only a pretender.”
I see Tedros’ eyes flick to Sophie. He’s glowering at her the way he used to in class. Back when she was trying to kill him.
“But there was more, my princess said,” Rhian continues, Excalibur shining against his thigh. “She told me that Tedros was her friend. She’d even loved him once. But he’d been a poor king. He’d been the rot at Camelot’s core. Arthur’s will was clear: the one who pulls the sword is king. For Sophie to fight for Tedros even after I pulled the sword was to fight against Arthur’s will. To fight against the truth. And without truth, our world is nothing.”
The rulers of the Woods are quiet. The tension in their faces dissolves, as if Sophie’s words have reminded them why they’ve traded their rings for a king.
“Now I know she’s truly on my side,” Rhian says, gazing at his princess. “Because she’s willing to sacrifice her old loyalties for what’s right. She’s willing to let go of the past and be the queen the Woods needs.” He raises her hand and kisses it.
Sophie meekly meets his eyes, then steps to the side of the stage.
Glaring at her, Tedros is foaming at the mouth. He believes every word Rhian has said about Sophie. So do the other captives, judging from their expressions. They believe Sophie would trade our lives to save her own. I almost do too.
Almost.
Tedros looks at me once more, seeking a mirror for his rage, but his guard is dragging him forward now.
“Bring me the impostor king,” Rhian declares.
Tedros is thrown to his knees, the prince’s neck slammed over the wooden block, hands still bound, as Thiago tears off his metal collar. It happens so fast Tedros can’t resist. Breath flies out of me. Time is slipping away. And I’m still frozen, like those sheep in the crowd.
Rhian bends down to Tedros.
“Coward. Traitor. Fraud. Any other king would kill you with pride,” he says. “But I am
not any other king. Which means I’ll give you one chance, Tedros of Camelot.”
Rhian lifts Tedros’ chin.
“Swear your loyalty to me and I’ll spare you,” he says. “You and your friends can live out your days rotting in my dungeons. Speak your words of surrender and Lionsmane will write them for all to see.”
Tedros searches Rhian’s face.
The offer is real.
A humbled enemy is worth more to Rhian than a dead one. Sparing Tedros makes Rhian a merciful king. A Good king. Sparing Tedros makes Rhian a Lion instead of a Snake.
King and prince lock eyes.
Tedros spits on Rhian’s shoe. “I’d rather give you my head.”
Good boy.
The king goes a dark shade of red. He stands.
“Kill him,” he says.
The executioner skulks forward, both fists on the axe handle, the leather flaps of his vest slapping against his hairy belly. I try to think harder, to will a plan into being, but I’m distracted by a young maid, shoving a basket beneath Tedros’ head, before stepping back into line next to Guinevere and the other maids.
Tedros raises his eyes to his mother, who hardly looks at him, her gaze hollow. But the veins in her neck are pulsing, her body stiff as stone.
The executioner looms over Tedros, while Rhian speaks—
“Tedros of Camelot, you are hereby charged with the crimes of treason, usurpation, embezzlement of royal funds, conspiracy with the enemy, and impersonating a king.”
“Those are your crimes,” Tedros hisses.
Rhian kicks him in the mouth, crushing Tedros’ cheek against the block.
“Each of these crimes carries a penalty of death,” says the king. “Losing your head is only a fraction of what you deserve.”
The leather-hooded man runs his fat fingers along Tedros’ neck, pulling down his collar and exposing his flesh to the sun. He touches his axe blade to the prince’s skin as if to measure his stroke, all the while maintaining a lustful smile.
That’s when Tedros looks back at me, petrified, realizing that I’ve lied. That there isn’t a greater power within that can save him. That he’s going to die.
My heart swoops like a diving hawk. I’ve failed him. I’ve failed us all.
The executioner leans back and swings the blade high over his shoulder. It comes crashing down towards Tedros’ neck—
A crow skims his head, knocking him off-balance.
Screams rip through the crowd.
The executioner swivels, as does Rhian, but a demon’s coming too fast, slamming through the crowd like a bullet, blasting leaders aside, before it bashes into Rhian’s face, throwing the king off the stage and wrestling him downhill.
Time slows to a dream. As if Tedros is dead and my mind is masking it. I must be imagining this, because not only is a red-skinned demon biting and smacking Rhian like a rabid bat, but there’s also a magic carpet floating down over the stage—less a carpet and more a sack, its billowing sides stitched up—with two figures standing atop, like marauding pirates. . . .
The Sheriff of Nottingham.
And . . . Robin Hood?
Together?
I see Robin grin down at me: the same bumptious grin he flashed when he wanted to avoid punishment at school. Then he raises his bow and lets an arrow fly—
It hits the executioner in the eye, who falls instantly, dropping his axe, missing Tedros’ head by an inch.
Another arrow flies, stabbing the pirate holding me, spilling his blood onto my dress.
Time returns to full throttle.
From inside the sack comes an army—Agatha, Hort, Anadil, Hester, Dot, and more—who dive-bomb the pirates holding the captives onstage. All are armed for battle, like warrior angels, except Agatha, who has nothing but my old bag, the outline of my heavy crystal visible through the fabric. Within seconds, they subdue the pirates and sever their friends’ binds, setting Nicola, Willam, Bogden, Aja, and Valentina free.
Meanwhile, Sophie’s already hiking her dress and fleeing the stage into the frantic crowd, as if this is everyone else’s battle but hers. I try to track her, but now I see the pirate Thiago lunging towards Tedros, who’s still bound to the chopping block—
Agatha is on the pirate with a panther’s speed, swinging the bag with my crystal ball like a mace and crushing Thiago in the ribs. Gasping, he kicks her in the chest, knocking her off the stage. Thiago collapses to his knees, reaches for his sword, and with his last dregs of strength, raises it above Tedros’ spine, the prince still flailing against the block.
“TEDROS!” Agatha cries, too far to get to him—
Two pale hands grab Thiago from behind and break his neck with one twist.
Guinevere tosses his body aside. Then she seizes his sword, tears the scim off her lips and hacks it to shreds, crushing the remnants with her shoe. While she cuts Tedros loose with the goo-covered sword, she sees Agatha and her son gaping.
“I’m a knight’s wife,” she says.
Tedros grins at her, then spots Rhian in the grass, still thrashing at Hester’s demon on his face. As his mother knifes into his binds, Tedros pins his eyes on the king, his face hardening, his muscles tensing, like a caged lion about to be unleashed. But now Tedros sees Agatha climbing to her feet, her eyes on Rhian too. The instant Tedros is free, he leaps off the stage, seizes his princess, and presses his lips hard against hers, before looking her in the eyes—
“Run. Somewhere safe. Understood?”
“Is that an order?” she says.
“You bet it is.”
“Good, because I never listen to those.”
Agatha’s already sprinting towards Rhian, but my bag on her arm slows her down. Tedros cuts in front of her—
“He’s mine!”
He flying-tackles the king, rips Hester’s demon off him, and punches Rhian in the face. Reeling, Rhian goes for his sword but Agatha swipes it off his belt and flings it down the hill while Tedros keeps smashing the king’s head into the ground.
I shake off my daze and realize my hands are still roped behind my back, preventing me from doing magic. Even so, we’re on our way to victory, with Rhian’s thugs outnumbered. I scan the stage around me—
Robin targets pirates’ hands with arrows and the Sheriff wrangles their bodies into his enchanted sack. Nicola, meanwhile, conjures a storm cloud over Wesley’s head, which zaps him with lightning, before Hort cuffs him with the rusted collar that leashed Tedros. A pirate comes barreling at Hester, swinging the axe; Hester levitates him into the air, while Anadil levitates the chopping block, before the two witches magically smash the block and pirate together (Dot turns the axe to chocolate). Kiko mogrifies into a skunk, sprays Beeba in the eyes, who writhes right into Beatrix and Reena’s rope. Ravan and Mona hold up a wooden plank they’ve stripped off the stage, while Valentina climbs it like a tree and shoots spells at pirates from overhead. Even Willam and Bogden have somehow bagged a rogue of their own.
But I don’t see Sophie fighting for us.
I don’t see Sophie at all.
For a moment, I find myself wondering whether what Rhian said was true . . . whether she sold Tedros out to save her own skin . . . whether she switched sides after all. . . .
“Watch out!” Aja cries.
I wheel around and see bodies rushing the stage—leaders of the Woods, the strongest and most able, along with more guards from the castle and Camelot’s gates—who launch into battle in defense of Rhian. If they needed proof the school is a menace, its students terrorists, we’ve given it to them. The Ice Giant of Frostplains sweeps Agatha and Tedros into his ice-blue fists and catapults them at the stage, knocking Robin and the Sheriff down like bowling pins. Beneath the giant, Rhian struggles to his knees in the grass, the king’s face a mess of blood.
Like a second wave, Hester, Anadil, and Dot hurtle at him, fingerglows ready, but the Ice Giant spins towards them, hoisting Hester’s demon up by a leg, poised to tear it apart. Hester blanches and stops short, A
nadil and Dot too. The Ice Giant thrusts out a finger, magically freezing the witches into blocks of ice. He freezes the demon too, tossing it to the girls’ side.
Rhian’s recovering now . . . limping towards Excalibur. . . .
Onstage, the Fairy Queen of Gillikin slings off her crown, revealing a hive of whip-tailed fairies, who sting Robin and the Sheriff into submission before lifting them up and dropping them down the Sheriff’s own sack. Pirates tie up Beatrix, Reena, and Kiko’s skunk, while Hort lights up his fingerglow, about to morph into a man-wolf, only to be pummeled by the Elf King of Ladelflop, who shoves him to the ground next to Nicola, who he’s already bound.
At the same time, I glimpse a pirate sword abandoned on the stage and duck to my knees, trying to cut myself loose—
A flurry of goose feathers and sweaty weight crushes me. “Your thugs attack my castle and you think you’ll get away with it?” the Empress of Putsi bleats, squeezing my throat.
“Rhian’s thugs . . . ,” I wheeze, but she isn’t listening, her face engorged red, her breath smelling of sausages.
As she strangles me, I see the sword close and inch my fingers onto its hilt, but I can’t breathe with the Empress’s buttocks on my chest, her nails jamming my windpipe. I scrape the swordblade against the rope cuffing my hands. My lungs, already weakened, are collapsing now. My mind fogs black, my field of vision shrinks. . . .
“You didn’t take Peeta into your school,” she boils. “Peeta, a real prince who would have challenged Tedros and warned us he was a fake! But you didn’t take him. Because you wanted to protect Tedros. Just like you’re protecting him now—”
The School for Good and Evil #5: A Crystal of Time Page 25
