The School for Good and Evil

“Press is waiting for you, Princess,” a voice said.

Sophie turned to the captain of the guard standing at the door to her bedroom, the gold of his jacket specked with dried blood. Kei, he said his name was when he’d woken her from sleep. Handsome as anything, with hawkish eyes and a square jaw, but a glum, tortured expression, as if haunted by a ghost.

They walked towards the ballroom, Kei tight at her side. She noticed him peeking at her, like he was waiting for her to say something. As if they shared a secret. It made Sophie uncomfortable.

A guard cut in front of them, scanty-haired and pockmarked: “Cap, the map inna Map Room’s been burnt ta nothin’—one witha rebels’ wherebouts!”

Kei flexed his jaw. “Could be one of the maids or cooks. I’ll question them.”

“But that wazza king’s map! Should I tell ’im—”

“Get back to your post,” the captain ordered, guiding Sophie past him.

Sophie was mystified by this map business, but whatever it was, it made Kei even more sour than before.

He caught Sophie looking at him.

For the first time, Kei’s face changed, replaced by a sharp gaze that seemed to drill into her mind. . . .

“You there?” he whispered.

Sophie stared into his big, dark eyes . . . then snapped from her trance. “Of course I’m here! Where else would I be?” she scolded. “And stop scowling and giving me strange looks. You’re the captain of the guard. The king’s new liege. Act the part or I’ll tell the king to find someone who will.”

Kei hardened to stone. “Yes, Princess.”

“Good,” said Sophie. “And clean your jacket while you’re at it. Unless there’s a coup unfolding in the castle, there’s no reason to be flaunting your blood as part of your uniform.”

“Rhian’s blood,” said Kei.

“Excuse me?” said Sophie, stopping.

“It’s Rhian’s blood,” Kei repeated, with that drilling gaze again.

“Then kindly return it to him,” Sophie quipped, strutting ahead.

She smiled, her white dress puffing up like peacock feathers.

Rhian would be proud of her.

She was settling into the role of his queen already.

“PRINCESS SOPHIE, WHAT’S your reaction to the imprisonment of the king’s brother?” asked a blue-haired reporter with a badge labeled The Pifflepaff Post. “Are you confident that all traitors have been rooted out from the kingdom?”

“I hardly knew Rhian’s brother,” Sophie replied, perched on an elevated throne beneath a massive Lion’s head. “And I have full confidence in King Rhian to keep Camelot and the Woods safe. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m here to answer your questions about tonight’s wedding. That is all I wish to speak about. The rest I leave to the king.”

As the reporters packed into the Blue Ballroom clamored for the next question—“Princess Sophie! Princess Sophie!”—Sophie glanced at two identical women hidden in shadows at the back, barefoot and dressed in lavender robes, who gave her a curt nod of approval. With high foreheads and long noses, they wore the same blithe grin, as if all was going to plan. The Mistral Sisters, they’d called themselves when they briefed her before letting reporters in (“Just answer their questions,” said the one called Alpa. “Everything will take care of itself,” said the other, named Omeida).

A reporter’s voice broke through the din—

“And what of the evidence that King Rhian has enlisted the Kingdom Council to reject the Storian’s power?” said a man from the Netherwood Villain Digest. “Our reporting suggests that in the past week, 99 of the 100 founding kingdoms have destroyed their rings, with these leaders disavowing the Storian and pledging allegiance to King Rhian instead. Does King Rhian believe in the legend of the One True King? Is he seeking to claim the Storian’s powers for himself? Is that why kingdoms are burning their rings for him?”

“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.

A king’s true coronation test.

The prince noticed Agatha peering edgily at the sky, her black clumps shifting.

“Sun will set soon,” she worried. “How will we get there in time? We need to mogrify into birds . . . or use Tinkerbell and the school fairies to fly. . . . They’re waiting with your mother at the lake—”

“Still won’t get there by sunset,” Tedros pointed out. “We’re half a day’s journey, at least, even by flight.”

“Maybe the Lady of the Lake knows a way—”

“The Lady who’s lost her magic and almost killed me. Twice. We’ll be lucky if she lets us out of this cove,” said Tedros, his lit finger about to cast a flare for the Lady. “Let’s find my mother and use the fairies to fly back to school. Then we can plan our attack.”

“I’m not leaving Sophie with the Snake!” Agatha blistered, her eyes watering. “I don’t care if it’s just me, up against every one of his thugs. I’m getting my best friend back.”

Tedros clasped her palm. “Look, I know what Sophie means to you. Which is why I’ll go to the ends of the earth to keep her safe, even if she and I make better enemies than friends. But there’s no way to Camelot in time. There’s no way to shrink a hundred miles.”

Agatha pulled her hand away. “Does your mother know a spell? Or Hort or Nicola? They’re with her! Maybe they have a talent that’s useful—”

“Hort’s talent is busting out of his clothes. Nicola’s is reminding us how smart she is. And my mother’s is an unhelpful mix of cluelessness and evading responsibility. What about your talent? You’re the one who saved us from that spitfire camel.”

“By hearing its wishes, and you can’t use that as a means to teleport across half the—” Agatha’s eyes sparked. “Wishes!”

She bolted past him. “Hurry! Before it’s too late!”

He watched Agatha weave between trees, disappearing into the darkness of the grove. Tedros knew better than to ask. Standing between his dad’s and his knight’s graves, the prince let his fingerglow dim before he sucked in a breath and summoned what strength he had left in his legs to chase her.

HE FOLLOWED THE sounds of Agatha’s steps pattering across the forest floor, crackling on fallen branches. But the deeper Tedros drew through the oaks, the more he began to remember his way. Soon, he saw his princess kneeling at the edge of a pond, hidden within the thicket. Just as he’d seen her the first time he’d been here.

Back then, it was Hort who’d led Agatha to the pond, when they’d been hiding from Rafal at his mother and Lancelot’s safehouse. Tedros had concealed himself behind a tree, listening as the weasel berated Agatha for not following her heart, for sacrificing Tedros instead of fighting for him: a revelation that made Tedros realize just how much Agatha needed him and how much he needed her, right when both of them were doubting it the most. It was here at this pond, only a short distance from two graves, that their love was sealed. The love that would never be broken again, no matter what Evils lay ahead.

Tedros crouched beside her, the mud soft under his boots. Beneath the heavy veil of trees, the pond glistened with embers of sunset. Agatha met her prince’s blue gaze in the water’s mirror.

“Where are they?” he asked, searching the surface.

The pond stayed still, its inhabitants gone.

Agatha’s lips trembled as the sun shimmers faded in the reflection. “But . . .”

Tedros stroked her hair. “Let’s get back to the others—”

But then the shimmers changed color, from gold to silver, nuggets of glow pulsing in rhythmic synch. All at once, the glows began to move, rocketing through the pond in crisscrossing patterns like underwater fireworks, rising towards the prince and princess, closer, closer, brighter, brighter, until they splashed through the surface, a thousand tiny fish, spitting tails of water like fountains of light.

“Not gone after all,” said Tedros, watching the Wish Fish crowd towards his princess as if they knew her well. “Your secret little school.”

“If I put my finger in the water, they’ll paint my soul’s greatest wish,” said Agatha breathlessly. “And my wish is to find a way to rescue Sophie before she marries the Snake. If there’s a way, the fish will show it to us!”

Agatha slipped her finger in the water.

Instantly, the Wish Fish dispersed, flickering different colors as they joined fins like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. At first, Tedros had no clue what he was seeing, with the fish switching hues and rearranging feverishly, as if they were still debating Agatha’s wish. But little by little, the fish committed to colors and then to their places, and a painting came into focus across their smooth, silky scales. . . .

A royal garden gleamed beneath a sunset, Camelot’s castle silhouetted against the pink and purple sky. Masses of well-dressed spectators gathered, the people and creatures of the Woods watching something attentively, something neither Tedros nor Agatha could make out, since the crowd was obscuring it. But there was something else in the painting, foregrounded and sharply clear, floating over the mob: a pair of watery bubbles, each the size of a crystal ball, two tiny figures enclosed within.

“Those are us,” Agatha said, peering at the bubbled clones.

“Those are not us,” Tedros rejected. “You and I are full-grown, we live on the ground, and we breathe air.”

Agatha turned to him. Her distraction snapped the spell, and the fish splintered, colors draining from their scales.

“Not all that surprised, though. First time I tried Wish Fish after Dad died, it showed me crying in Lancelot’s arms. Lancelot, who destroyed my Dad,” said Tedros. “Wish Fish are batty.”

“Or your soul craved a new father and Lancelot was the closest you had to one at the time,” Agatha disputed. “Wish Fish aren’t batty. That painting meant something. And this painting is how we get to Sophie.”

“By levitating in body-shrinking bubbles?” the prince repelled. “And I would never wish to cuddle with Lancelot—”

But Agatha wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was looking at the fish, which had rearranged into a stark-white arrow, pointing directly, unmistakably at . . . Tedros.

“Your turn,” said Agatha.

Tedros grimaced. “Next thing you know, they’ll show me baking cookies with the Snake.” He thrust his finger in the water.

Nothing happened.

Instead, the fish clung tighter to their arrow, pointing insistently at Tedros’ hand.

“Told you. They’re addled, these fish,” Tedros carped.

“Wrong finger,” his princess said. “Look.”

The Wish Fish were pointing at another finger of Tedros’ hand.

The one with King Arthur’s ring.

Tedros’ heart beat faster.

Without a word, he dipped the finger in, warm water filling the cold, steel grooves of the ring—

A shockwave of light detonated across the pond.

Prince and princess stared at each other.

“What was that?” said Tedros.

But now the fish were gluing into a silver mob, fastening hard around the steel circle, trying to kiss the ring with their bobbing little mouths. With each kiss, the fish flashed with light, as if a secret power had been transferred. Soon they were strobing like stars in the dark, faster and faster, this power magnifying, charging their bodies with mysterious force. Tedros waited for them to disperse, to paint his wish, like they’d done with his princess, but instead, the fish gobbed tighter, a ragged mass, sucking wet and tight to his ring. Then slowly they slid up his palm . . . his wrist . . .

“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.