A Crystal of Time

“Queen Sophie! Queen Sophie!” the masses anointed her.

Sophie’s posture straightened, listening to the adoring crowd.

In a flash, she yanked away from Rhian, daring him to do something to her.

Rhian froze, still gripping her hard. Though his face was in shadow, Hester could see him watching Sophie.

Silence fell over the crowd. They sensed the tension.

Slowly, King Rhian looked back at the people. “It seems our Sophie has a request,” he said, even and serene. “A request she’s been pressing upon me day and night and that I’ve been hesitant to grant, because I hoped the wedding would be our moment. But if there’s one thing I know about being king: what my queen wants, my queen must get.”

Rhian looked at his bride-to-be, a cold smile on his face.

“So the night of the wedding ceremony, at Princess Sophie’s insistence . . . we will begin with the execution of the impostor king.”

Sophie lurched back in shock, nearly slicing herself on Excalibur’s blade.

“Which means a week from today . . . Tedros dies,” Rhian finished, glaring straight at her.

Shrieks rang out from Camelot’s people, who rushed forward in defense of Arthur’s son, but they were stymied by citizens from dozens of other kingdoms, kingdoms once ignored by Tedros and now firmly behind the new king.

“TRAITOR!” one Camelot man screamed at Sophie.

“TEDROS TRUSTED YOU!” a Camelot woman shouted.

“YOU’RE A WITCH!” her child yelled at Sophie.

Sophie stared at them, speechless.

“Go now, my love,” Rhian cooed, giving her a kiss on the cheek before guiding her into the hands of his armored guards. “You have a wedding to plan. And our people expect nothing less than perfection.”

The last Hester saw of Sophie was her terrified face, locking eyes with her future husband, before the pirates pulled her into the castle.

As the crowd chanted Sophie’s name and Rhian presided calmly at the balcony, everyone inside the dungeon cell was stunned silent.

“Was he telling the truth?” a voice echoed down the hall.

Tedros’ voice.

“About Sophie wanting me dead?” the prince called out. “Was that the truth?”

No one answered him, because something else was happening onstage that the crew could see in the projection.

The Snake’s body was changing.

Or rather . . . his clothes were.

Magically, the remaining scims rearranged into a slim-fitted suit, which turned gold-and-blue all at once: a perfect inverse of the suit that Rhian was wearing.

As soon as the Snake had conjured his new clothing, Rhian seemed to sense it, for the king glanced back at the masked boy, acknowledging his presence for the first time. The quest team now saw Rhian’s tan, sharp-jawed face in full view, his hair glinting like a bronze helmet, his sea-green eyes running briefly over the Snake, who was still out of sight of the people. Rhian showed no surprise that his once mortal nemesis was alive or had magically changed his clothes or was wearing a suit that resembled his own.

Instead, Rhian offered the Snake the slightest hint of a smile.

The king turned back to the crowd. “The Storian never helps you. The real people. It helps the elite. It helps those who go to that school. How can it be the voice of the Woods, then? When it divides Good from Evil, rich from poor, educated from ordinary? That’s what’s made our Woods vulnerable to attack. That’s what let a Snake slither into your kingdoms. That’s what nearly killed you all. The pen. The rot starts with that pen.”

The people murmured assent.

Rhian’s eyes roamed the crowd. “You there, Ananya of Netherwood, daughter of Sisika of Netherwood.” He pointed down at a thin, unkempt woman, stunned that the king knew her name. “For thirty years, you’ve slaved at your kingdom’s stables, waking before dawn to groom horses for Netherwood’s witch-queen. Horses you’ve loved and raised to ride in battle. Yet no pen tells your story. No one knows about what you’ve sacrificed, who you’ve loved, or what lessons you might offer—lessons more worthy than any puffed-up princess the Storian might choose.”

Ananya blushed red as those around her gave her admiring looks.

“And you there, what about you?” said Rhian, pointing at a muscular man, flanked by three teenage boys with shaved heads. “Dimitrov of Maidenvale, whose three sons applied to the School for Good and were each denied, and yet all now serve as footmen for the young princes of Maidenvale. Day after day, you work to the bone, even though deep in your hearts you know these princes are no better than you. Even though you know that you deserved an equal chance at glory. Must you too die without your stories told? Must all of you die so ignored and forgotten?”

Dimitrov’s eyes welled with tears while his sons put their arms around their father.

Hester could hear the murmurs building in the crowd, awed that someone with such great power was honoring people like them. That he was even seeing them at all.

“But what if there was a pen that told your stories?” Rhian offered. “A pen that wasn’t controlled by mysterious magic, but by a man you trust. A pen that lived in plain sight instead of locked behind school gates. A pen made for a Lion.”

He leaned forward. “The Storian doesn’t care about you. I do. The Storian didn’t save you from the Snake. I did. The Storian won’t answer to the people. I will. Because I want to glorify all of you. And so will my pen.”

“Yes! Yes!” cried the people.

“My pen will give voice to the voiceless. My pen will tell the truth. Your truth,” the king announced.

“Please! Please!”

“The reign of the Storian is over!” Rhian bellowed. “A new pen rises. A new era begins!”

On cue, Hester and the crew watched as a sliver of the Snake’s gold suit peeled off and floated over the balcony wall, out of view of the crowd. The golden strip reverted to a scaly black scim as it drifted higher into the air, still unseen. Then it descended over the mob and into sunlight towards King Rhian, magically morphing into a long, gold pen, knife-sharp at both ends.

The people gazed at it, enthralled.

“At last. A Pen for the People,” Rhian called out, as the pen hovered over his outstretched hand. “Behold . . . Lionsmane!”

The masses exploded in their most passionate cheers yet. “Lionsmane! Lionsmane!”

Rhian pointed his finger and the pen soared into the sky over Camelot’s castle and wrote in gold against the pure blue canvas like it was a blank page—

THE SNAKE IS DEAD.

A LION HAS RISEN.

THE ONE TRUE KING.

Dazzled, all citizens of the Woods, Good and Evil, kneeled before King Rhian. Dissenters from Camelot were forced to a knee by those around them.

The king raised his arms. “No more ‘once upon a time.’ The time is now. I want to hear your stories. And my men and I will seek them out, so that each day, my pen can write the real news of the Woods. Not tales of arrogant princes and witches fighting for power . . . but stories that spotlight you. Follow my pen and the Storian will no longer have a place in our world. Follow my pen and all of you will have a chance at glory!”

The whole of the Woods roared as Lionsmane ascended into the sky over Camelot, sparkling like a beacon.

“But Lionsmane alone is not enough to overcome the Storian and its legacy of lies,” Rhian continued. “The Lion in the tale of The Lion and the Snake had an Eagle by his side to ensure that no Snake could ever find its way into his realm again. A Lion needs an Eagle to succeed: a liege to the king who can serve as his closest advisor. And today, I bring you this liege who will help me fight for a greater Woods. Someone you can trust as much as you trust me.”

The crowd hushed in expectation.

From inside the balcony, the Snake started to move towards the stage, his green mask still in place, his back to Hester and the crew.

But just before he moved past an obscuring wall and into the view of the mob, the scims that made up the Snake’s mask dispersed into the air, flying out of sight.

“I present to you . . . my Eagle . . . and the liege to your king . . . ,” Rhian proclaimed. “Sir Japeth!”

Into the light walked the Snake, revealing his face to the throng, the gold of his suit kindling to shimmers in the sun.

Gasps came from the crowd.

“In that old, obsolete school, two just like us ruled over a pen. Two of the same blood who were at war with each other, Good and Evil,” the king heralded, holding Japeth close beneath Lionsmane. “Now two of the same blood rule over a new pen. Not for Good. Not for Evil. But for the people.”

The crowd erupted, singing the new liege’s name: “Japeth! Japeth! Japeth!”

That’s when the Snake turned and looked right into Hester’s projection, revealing his face to the imprisoned crew, as if he knew they were watching him.

Taking in the Snake’s beautiful, high-boned face for the first time, Hester’s whole body went slack.

“What was that about staying one step ahead?” she breathed to Professor Dovey.

Good’s Dean said nothing as Sir Japeth grinned back at all of them.

Then he turned and waved to the people alongside his identical twin brother, King Rhian . . .

The Lion and the Snake now lording over the Woods as one.

3

SOPHIE

Bonds of Blood

While the guards held her offstage, Sophie saw all of it.

The Snake becoming the Lion’s liege.

Rhian’s brother unmasked.

Lionsmane declaring war on the Storian.

The people of the Woods cheering on two frauds.

But Sophie’s mind wasn’t on King Rhian or his snake-eyed twin. Her mind was on someone else . . . the only person who mattered to her right now . . .

Agatha.

Even with Tedros set to die, at least she knew where he was. In the dungeons. Still alive. And as long as he was alive, there was hope.

But the last she’d seen of Agatha was her best friend being hunted by guards through the crowd.

Did she escape?

Was she even alive?

Tears sprung to Sophie’s eyes as she looked down at the diamond on her finger.

Once upon a time, she’d worn another ring . . . the ring of an Evil man who’d isolated her from her only real friend, just as she was now.

But that was different.

Back then, Sophie had wanted to be Evil.

Back then, Sophie had been a witch.

Marrying Rhian was supposed to be her redemption.

Marrying Rhian was supposed to be true love.

She’d thought he’d understood her. When she looked into his eyes, she’d seen someone pure, honest, and Good. Someone who acknowledged the shades of Evil in her heart and loved her for them like Agatha did.

He was gorgeous too, of course, but it wasn’t his looks that made her take his ring. It was the way he looked at her. The same way Tedros looked at Agatha. As if he could only be complete by having her love.

Two by two and four best friends. It was the perfect ending. Teddy with Aggie, Sophie with Rhian.

But Agatha had warned her: “If there’s one thing I know, Sophie . . . it’s that you and I don’t get to have perfect endings.”

She’d been right, of course. Agatha was the only person Sophie ever truly loved. She’d taken for granted that she and Aggie would be in each other’s lives forever. That their ending was safe.

But they were far away from that ending now . . . with no way back.

Four guards grabbed Sophie from behind and yanked her into the Blue Tower, their bodies reeking of onions and cider and sweat beneath their armor, their filthy nails digging into her shoulder before she finally flung out both arms and shoved them away.

“I wear the king’s ring,” Sophie seethed, smoothing her plunging pink dress. “So if you would like to retain your heads, I suggest you take your stultifying stench to the nearest baths and keep your grubby paws off me.”

One of the guards doffed his helmet, revealing sunburnt Wesley, the teenage pirate who’d tormented her in Jaunt Jolie. “King gave us orders to take yer to the Map Room. Don’t trust yer to git there on yer own, case you run like that wench Agatha did,” he sneered, flashing a squalid set of teeth. “So either we walk yer nicely like we were doin’ or we git you there a little less nice.”

The three other guards removed their helmets and Sophie came face-to-face with the pirate Thiago, bloodred carvings around his eyes; a black boy with the name “Aran” tattooed in fire on his neck; and a supremely muscular girl with shorn dark hair, piercings in her cheeks, and a lecherous glare.

“Your choice, Whiskey Woo,” growled the girl.

Sophie let them drag her.

As they goaded her through the Blue Tower rotunda, she saw a cadre of fifty workers, repainting columns with fresh Lion crests, refurbishing marble floors with Lion insignias in each tile, replacing the broken chandelier with one dangling a thousand tiny Lion heads, and switching out frayed blue chairs with spruced-up seats, the cushions embroidered with golden Lions. All remnants of King Arthur were similarly replaced, every tarnished bust and statue of the old king usurped with a buffed one of the new.

Sun sifted through the curtains, setting the circular foyer aglow, the light dancing off the new paint and polished gems. Sophie noticed three skeletal women with identical faces moving across the room in matching silk lavender robes. They handed each worker a satchel that clinked with coins, the three sisters gliding as one unit with imperious stiffness, as if they were the queens of the castle. The women saw Sophie watching them and gave her a simpering smile, bobbing together in a tight curtsy.

There was something off about them, Sophie thought. Not just their fake monkey grins and that bungled bow, like they were freak-show clones . . . but the fact that under those clean pastel robes, they weren’t wearing any shoes. As the women continued to pay workers, Sophie peered at their grimy, bare feet that looked like they belonged to chimney sweeps, not ladies of Camelot.

No doubt about it. Something was definitely off.

“I thought Camelot had no money,” Sophie said to the guards. “How are we paying for all this?”

“Beeba, say we cut her brain open, what we gonna find,” Thiago asked the girl pirate.

“Worms,” said Beeba.

“Rocks,” countered Wesley.

“Cats,” offered Aran.

The others looked at him. He didn’t explain.

Nor did they answer Sophie’s question. But as Sophie passed sitting rooms, bedchambers, a library, and solarium, each being renovated with Lion crests and carvings and emblems, it became clear that Camelot did have money. Lots of it. Where had the gold come from? And who were those three sisters acting like they owned the place? And how was this happening so soon? Rhian had barely become king and suddenly, the whole castle was being remade in his image? It didn’t make any sense. Sophie saw more men shuffle by, carrying a giant portrait of Rhian in his crown and asking guards for directions to the “Hall of Kings” where they were supposed to hang it. One thing was for sure, Sophie thought, watching them veer towards the White Tower: all of this had to have been planned by the king long before today. . . .

Don’t call him that. He isn’t the king, she chastised herself.

But how did he pull Excalibur, then? a second voice asked.

Sophie had no response. At least not yet.

Through one window, she saw workers rebuilding the castle’s drawbridge. Through another, she glimpsed gardeners reseeding grass and pulling in brilliant blue rosebushes, replacing the old dead ones, while over in the Gold Tower courtyard, workers painted gold Lions in the basin of each reflecting pool. A commotion disturbed the work and Sophie spotted a brown-skinned woman in a chef’s uniform ushered out of the castle by pirate guards, along with her cooks, as a new young, strapping chef and his all-male staff were guided in to replace them.

“But the Silkima family has been cooking for Camelot for two hundred years!” the woman protested.

“And we thank you for your service,” said a handsome guard with narrow eyes who was in a different uniform than the pirates—gilded and elaborate, suggesting he was of higher rank.

He looks familiar, Sophie thought.

But she couldn’t study the boy’s face any longer because she was being pulled into the Map Room now, which smelled clean and light, like a lily meadow—which wasn’t what Map Rooms were supposed to smell like, since they were airless chambers, usually occupied by teams of unwashed knights.

Sophie looked up to see maps of the Woods’ realms floating in the amber lamplight above a large, round table like severed balloons. As she peered closer, she saw these weren’t old, brittle maps from King Arthur’s reign . . . but the same magical Quest Maps that she and Agatha once encountered in the Snake’s lair, featuring tiny figurines of her and her quest team, enabling the Snake to track their every move. Now all those figurines hovered over Camelot’s tiny, three-dimensional castle, while their real-life counterparts festered in the dungeons below. But as she looked closer, Sophie noticed there was one labeled crew member on the map who wasn’t near the castle at all . . . one who was breaking away from Camelot, slipping towards the kingdom border . . .

AGATHA.

Sophie gasped.

She’s alive.

Aggie’s alive.

And if she was alive, that meant Agatha would do everything she could to free Tedros. Which meant Sophie and her best friend could work together to save Camelot’s true king: Aggie from the outside, she from the inside.

But how? Tedros would die in a week. They didn’t have any time. Plus, Rhian could track Aggie himself on this Quest Map anytime he wanted—

Sophie’s eyes flared. Quest Map! She had her own! Her fingers clasped the gold vial attached to the chain around her neck, carrying the magical map given to each Dean. She tucked the vial deeper under her dress. As long as she had her own map, she could trace Agatha without Rhian knowing. And if she could trace her, maybe she could also send Agatha a message before the king’s men found her. Hope flooded through her, drowning out fear—

But then Sophie noticed the rest of the room.

Five maids with white lace dresses that covered every inch of their skin and wide white bonnets on their heads were fanned around the table, silent and still like statues, their heads bowed so she couldn’t see their faces, each holding a leather-bound book in her outstretched palms. Sophie moved closer, noticing that the books were labeled with the names of her and Rhian’s wedding events.

BLESSING

PROCESSION

CIRCUS OF TALENTS

FEAST OF LIGHTS

WEDDING

She stared at a slim maid holding the book marked PROCESSION. The girl kept her head down. Sophie flipped through the book while the girl held it, the pages filled with sketches of carriage options and animal breeds and outfit possibilities that she and Rhian could use for the town parade, where the king and new queen would have a chance to meet the people up close. Would they ride in a glass carriage pulled by horses? On a gold-and-blue flying carpet? Or together atop an elephant? Sophie shifted to the maid with the CIRCUS OF TALENTS book and scanned through stage designs and curtain choices and decorations for a show where the best talents from the various kingdoms would perform for the betrothed couple . . . then she moved to the book branded FEAST OF LIGHTS and perused dozens of bouquets and linens and candelabras for a midnight dinner. . . .

All Sophie had to do was point a finger and pick from these books, filled with everything she needed for the wedding of her dreams. A wedding bigger than life to a storybook prince. A wedding that had been her wish since she was a little girl.

But instead of joy, Sophie felt sick, thinking of the monster she was marrying.

That’s the problem with wishes.

They need to be specific.

“King says yer to work till supper,” Wesley ordered from the door.

He started to leave, then stopped.

“Oh. You’ve been asked to wear this at all times,” he said, pointing at a white dress hung up on the back of the door, prim, ruffly, and even more modest than the maids’.

“Over my dead body,” Sophie flamed.

Wesley smiled ominously. “We’ll let the king know.”

He left with his pirates, closing the door behind them.

Sophie waited a few seconds, then ran for the door—

It didn’t budge.

They’d locked her in.

No windows either.

No way to send Agatha a message.

Sophie turned, realizing the maids were still there, posed like statues in their white dresses, faces hidden, as they clutched the wedding books.

“Do you speak?” Sophie snapped.

The maids stayed silent.

She smacked a book out of one of their hands.

“Say something!” she demanded.

The maid didn’t.

Sophie snatched a book from the next maid and threw it against the wall, sending pages flying everywhere.

“Don’t you get it? He’s not Arthur’s son! He’s not the real king! And his brother is the Snake! The Snake that attacked kingdoms and killed people! Rhian pretended his brother was the enemy so he could look like a hero and become king! Now they’re going to kill Tedros! They’re going to kill the true king!”

Only one of the maids flinched.

“They’re savages! They’re murderers!” Sophie shouted.

None of them moved.

Furious, Sophie swiped more of the books and tore pages apart, ripping out the bindings. “We have to do something! We have to get out of here!” With a cry, she flung leather and parchment across the room, knocking the floating maps into walls—

Then she saw the Snake watching her.

He stood silently in the threshold of the open door, his gold-and-blue suit illuminated in the lamplight. Japeth had his brother Rhian’s copper hair, only longer and wilder, as well as Rhian’s sculpted face but paler, a cold milky-white, like he’d been sucked of blood.

“One book’s missing,” he said.

He tossed it on the table.

EXECUTION

Heart sinking, Sophie peeled it open to see an array of axes to choose from, followed by options for chopping blocks, each with a sketch of Tedros kneeling, his neck stretched over the block. There were even choices for baskets to catch his severed head.

Slowly Sophie looked back up at the Snake.

“I assume there’ll be no more trouble about the dress,” said Sir Japeth.

He turned to leave—

“You animal. You disgusting scum,” Sophie hissed at the Snake’s back. “You and your brother use smoke and mirrors to infiltrate Camelot and steal the real king’s crown and you think you can get away with it?” Her blood boiled, the fury of a witch rekindling. “I don’t know what you did to trick the Lady of the Lake or what Rhian did to trick Excalibur, but that’s all it was. A trick. You can put my friends in jail. You can threaten me all you want. But people can only be fooled for so long. They’ll see who you two are in the end. That you’re a soulless, murdering creep and he’s a fraud. A fraud whose throat I’ll cut the second he shows his face—”