فصل 15

Chapter 15

AGATHA

One True King

“Tedros will die unless we stop the execution,” said Agatha, standing in the shadows of the School Master’s window, Lionsmane’s message glowing in the sky behind her. “And if he dies, the Woods belongs to Rhian. The Woods belongs to a madman. Two madmen. Our world is at stake. We can’t let them win. Not without giving Tedros a chance to fight for his throne.” She took a deep breath. “But first we need to get out of this tower without Rhian’s men seeing us.” Her army stared back at her, packed like sardines into Dean Sophie’s chamber.

“If Rhian plans to execute Tedros at dawn, then the other captives are in danger too, Clarissa included,” Professor Manley said, eyeing his fellow teachers. “Agatha’s right. We have to make a move.” Professor Anemone swallowed. “How many men are still down there?” Agatha inched to the side of the window, between crouching first years, and peeked through. Some of Rhian’s men roamed the grounds in front of the schools, hacking through lily beds with their swords, while the red and yellow flowers snared and strangled them. Through the glass of Good’s castle, Agatha saw others prowling Hansel’s Haven, smashing the candied halls, which belched sticky sugar in defense, gluing them to walls like flies in a web. There were more pirates skulking around the School for Evil, lighting smoke bombs in the corridors to snuff out their prey, only to have the bombs rebound and blast them off balconies. Alarms screeched from both castles as more magical safeguards activated, thwarting the guards’ advance.

But for every man foiled by the school’s defenses, there were ten more sliding through the hole in the shield over the North Gate, armed with weapons and brandishing lit torches against the dark.

“Agatha?” Professor Anemone pushed.

Agatha turned to her troops. “They’re everywhere.” She shoved down her panic. “We need to think. There has to be a way into the Woods without them seeing us.” “What would Clarissa do?” Princess Uma asked the teachers.

“She’d use every spell in her book to blast these goons,” Manley spat. “Come on, Sheeba, Emma, all of you. We’ll fight them ourselves.” He made a move to stand up, but blue firebolts shot across the chamber, electrifying him and knocking him to the ground.

Agatha froze. “What in the—”

Then she saw where the firebolts had come from.

The Storian, pulsing with spidery blue static, over its open storybook.

“Teachers can’t interfere in a fairy tale, Bilious,” said Professor Sheeks, helping her trembling colleague sit up. “We can shield the school. We can fight alongside our students. But we can’t do the job for them. Clarissa made that mistake and look where she is.” Wiping sweat from his face, Manley still looked shaken. But not as shaken as the first years, who now realized they were on their own.

The fourth years, meanwhile, were undaunted.

“What if me and Vex sneak out?” Ravan postured, a book in one bandaged hand, while his pointy-eared friend, leg in a cast, kept sniffing Sophie’s scented candles. “We can mogrify and escape before they notice a thing.” “You’re injured, first of all,” said Hester. “And if they catch you leaving, that means the rest of us are dead meat. Otherwise Ani and I would have gone a long time ago.” “Me too, obviously,” Dot pipped.

“And even if Hester and I could go, Rhian would see us coming on his map,” said Anadil.

“Not if we switch swan emblems,” said Bossam, pointing at the glittering silver crest on his black uniform. “If you guys wear these, the Map will think you’re us and won’t track you.” “Our emblems don’t come off, you three-eyed monkey. Castor told us at the Welcoming. Look,” Bodhi snapped, unbuttoning his shirt and disrobing, only to see the swan crest magically move and tattoo on his tan chest. “It’s on our bodies at all times. That’s the point of it. Right, Priyanka?” He flexed his muscles and Priyanka blushed.

“I could get it off if I tried,” Bossam puled, giving Priyanka a wounded look.

“Just like you said you could find Priyanka during the Glass Coffin challenge, when Yuba turned all the girls into identical princesses?” Bodhi jeered. “Guess who found her instead.” “Lucky guess,” Bossam sniffed. “And I’m not a monkey.”

“No one’s switching emblems and no one’s leaving on their own,” said Princess Uma firmly. “We have to stick together. The way lions do when they’re attacked. No one left behind. That’s our only chance to beat the pirates and save Tedros.” “There’s more than two hundred of us,” Hort pointed out helplessly. “Is there a spell to hide that many people? Maybe teachers can’t interfere, but that doesn’t mean you can’t give us ideas.” “Invisibility can only be conferred by snakeskin,” said Yuba, turning to Bodhi and Laithan. “Where’s Sophie’s cape? That won’t cover more than a few of you, but the right few might be able to save Tedros and the rest.” Bodhi frowned at Laithan. His friend’s shoulders sagged. “Lost it on our flight back,” Laithan mumbled.

“What about Transmutation?” Priyanka asked. “The spell Yuba used to make all the girls look the same during the Glass Coffin challenge. We could transmute into pirates!” “Highly advanced hex,” the gnome replied. “Even fourth years would struggle to perform it, let alone first years, and besides, the spell only lasts a minute.” “We know weather spells, though,” Devan proposed, gesturing to his classmates. “We could conjure a tornado and sweep us all to Camelot?” “And kill half the Woods in the process,” Professor Manley murmured, still convulsing slightly.

“What about the Flowerground train?” asked Beatrix.

“We’d have to get to the ground to call it,” said Anadil.

Agatha tried to stay engaged, but all she could think of was Tedros being dragged onto a wooden stage . . . thrashing against the guards . . . his head slammed on a block as the axe swung down. . . . Fear suffocated her like a hood. Her friends and teachers could flail for ideas all they wanted, but there was no way out of here. There were pirates occupying every corner of the school. And even if they could get past them, they’d never make it to Camelot in time. It was at least a day’s journey away and Tedros would die in hours— “Agatha,” said Hester.

Maybe I should go, Agatha thought. Alone. Before anyone can stop me.

She’d turn into a dove and fly out of here without Rhian’s men spotting her. She could get to Camelot easily . . . though it wouldn’t solve the problem of Rhian tracking her. . . . Even so, she trusted herself when it counted. And she knew Camelot better than anyone here. Still, stopping Tedros’ execution on her own seemed like a fool’s game. Too many things could go wrong and the stakes were too high— “Agatha,” Hester barked.

She raised her eyes and saw Hester looking at her. Along with everybody else.

No, not looking at her.

Looking past her.

She glanced down and saw the Storian paused over the storybook, its painting of the scene complete. The pen hadn’t added anything new to the scene since it drew Lionsmane’s message. But there was something different about the pen now. . . .

It was glowing.

An urgent orange-gold, the same color of Agatha’s fingerglow.

As she leaned in, though, she saw it wasn’t the whole pen that was glowing, but the carving along its side: an inscription in a deep, flowing script that ran unbroken from tip to tip. . . .

She didn’t know the language, but the pen pulsed brighter while Agatha gazed at it, as if it wanted her to know. Then, very deliberately, as if aware that it had Agatha’s attention, the Storian pointed at the storybook and a tiny circle of orange glow spooled from its tip like a smoke ring. Agatha stooped lower, watching the glowing circle drift around the painting like a spotlight, roving across the lurking pirates on the ground . . . then up the School Master’s tower and through the window . . . past the huddling first years . . . and settling on the fourth years in the corner.

No . . . not all the fourth years, Agatha realized, peering closer.

One fourth year.

And it wasn’t her.

Instead, the pen had picked a brown boy with long, matted hair, a bushy unibrow, and a surly scowl.

The glowing spotlight honed tighter on the boy, zeroing in on his bandaged hand . . . something in his bandaged hand. . . .

Agatha turned. “Ravan,” she said, whip-sharp. “Give me that book.” Ravan gawked at her.

“Now!” Agatha hissed.

Startled, Ravan tossed it to her like a hot stone. “It’s not mine! It’s a library book! It was the only one with pictures instead of words! Mona made us search for clues about Rhian while we recovered—” “Don’t blame me, you illiterate fool!” his green-skinned friend berated. “Who carries a library book when running from murderers! No wonder you were so slow!” “Tried to toss it along the way but the book bit me!” Ravan defended.

Agatha was already kneeling as she lit up the cover with her glowing fingertip, teachers hovering over her.

The History of the Storian

AUGUST A. SADER

Just seeing her old History professor’s name calmed Agatha’s heart. August Sader had never led her astray. Even after his death. If the Storian had pointed her to the book, then there was something she needed in its pages. Something she needed to win this fairy tale. She just had to find what it was.

She pulled open the cover and saw that like all of Professor Sader’s books, the pages didn’t have words. Instead, each page was streaked with a pattern of embossed dots in a rainbow of colors, small as pinheads. As a blind seer, Professor Sader couldn’t write history. But he could see it and he wanted his readers to do the same.

“Is there a reason we’re reading a crackpot’s theory while pirates ravage our school?” Professor Manley growled.

“If it wasn’t for August Sader, we wouldn’t have a school,” Professor Anemone chided.

“Bilious is right, Emma,” Princess Uma added meekly. “As much as I loved August, his theory about the Storian has no proof. . . .” Agatha tuned them out, thumbing through pages, but the book was as thick as her fist. Where was she supposed to start reading when all the pages looked exactly the same?

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Storian glow brighter in midair.

Without thinking, Agatha turned a page, keeping her eye on the pen.

The Storian pulsed brighter.

Agatha turned more pages.

The Storian pulsed even brighter.

Agatha flipped through the book, faster and faster, the Storian glowing hotter, hotter, like the last flare of a sunset, its light ballooning through the entire tower. Agatha surged to the next page— The Storian went dim.

She flipped back to the page before.

“This one,” she breathed.

Far below, she heard the pirates. “Light inna School Master’s tower! Someone’s inside!” Another answered: “How we gonna git up there?”

Inside the tower, teachers and students exchanged petrified looks.

Agatha was already running her fingertips across the dots on the page— “’Chapter 15: One True King,’” spoke Professor Sader’s voice.

Agatha swept her hand across the next line of dots and a ghostly three-dimensional scene melted into view atop the page: a living diorama, the colors gauzy, like one of Professor Sader’s old paintings. Agatha could see the whole school crowding in to watch a vision of the Storian, twirling over the book.

“From the very beginning of the Endless Woods, the Storian has been its lifeblood,” Sader’s voice narrated. “As long as the Storian writes new tales, the sun will keep rising over the Woods, for it is these lessons of Good and Evil that move our world forward. But just as the Pen keeps Man alive, so too does Man keep the Pen alive. Each ruler wears a ring that pledges his or her loyalty to the Storian, carrying the same inscription as the pen’s. A hundred founding realms in the Endless Woods. A hundred rulers. A hundred rings. As long as the rulers continue to wear these rings, the Storian will continue to write.” The scene zoomed in on the inscription, gleaming in the pen’s steel.

“For many years, the bond between Man and Pen was peaceful,” Sader continued. “But then rulers began to question what the inscription in their rings meant. It is not a known language of any kingdom. The inscription appears nowhere else. So the best scholars of the Woods studied the symbols and offered their own readings.” Over the book, the phantoms of three wizened old men appeared, their beards to the floor, holding hands in the School Master’s tower. . . .

“First, there were the Three Seers who brought the Storian to the School for Good and Evil for protection, believing only a School Master could prevent the pen from corruption by either side. These Seers testified the inscription was a simple edict: ‘THE PEN IS MAN’S TRUE KING.’ As such, the Storian was the Woods’ one true master, entrusted with preserving the balance. Man existed purely to serve the pen and should live humbly under its rule.” The scene atop the book changed: now a grisly war, soldiers of Good and Evil spilling each other’s blood. . . .

“This theory held for hundreds of years until a King of Netherwood insisted his scholars had decoded the carving to mean precisely the opposite: ‘MAN IS THE PEN’S TRUE KING.’ According to these scholars, the Storian needed a master. The Woods needed a master. This, in turn, set off a series of wars between kingdoms, each vying to claim the Storian, only to see those victorious suffer a grisly fate. . . .” Agatha watched as ruler after ruler triumphantly climbed the tower and seized the pen, only to be stabbed through the heart by it and pitched into the moat below.

“But then came the Sader line of seers, my ancestors, who proposed their own reading of the Storian’s inscription.” Once more, the scene depicted the pen’s strange symbols . . . only now they were shape-shifting into readable letters . . .

“WHEN MAN BECOMES PEN, THE ONE TRUE KING WILL RULE.”

Agatha studied these words. She could hear pirates outside and harsh scrapes against the School Master’s tower, like hooks or arrows hitting stone. Students moved away from the window, but Agatha kept her focus on the book— “Leaders clashed over the meaning of the Sader Theory. Was the Storian encouraging Man to fight the Pen? Or was it ordering Man to bow to the Pen as King? The Sader Theory, then, only added fuel to the fire that divided the Woods: Who controls our stories? Man or Pen?” The letters on the phantom Storian reverted to the unusual symbols.

“This battle raged for centuries until a new School Master, the Evil half of two twin brothers who presided over the School for Good and Evil, made a startling discovery. . . .” The scene zoomed in on the inscription, revealing etchings within the carvings.

“Each symbol of the Storian’s inscription was a mosaic of squares, and inside each square: a swan. One hundred swans in total, fifty of them white, fifty of them black, representing a hundred Ever and Never kingdoms in the Endless Woods. Taken together, the inscription included every known realm, Good and Evil, the entirety of our world reflected in the pen’s steel.” A silver ring appeared over the book, the same inscription carved in its surface.

“In light of this, I proposed a new theory,” said Sader. “’When Man Becomes Pen’ didn’t mean that one should reign supreme, but that Man and Pen existed in perfect balance. Neither could erase the other. Neither could manipulate fate. Neither could force the outcome of a story. They had to share power for the Woods to survive. At last, the debate was settled. Who controls our stories: Man or Pen? The answer was: both.” The silver rings multiplied in midair.

“The ring that each ruler wore, then, was an oath of loyalty to the Pen. As long as the rulers wore these rings, Man and Pen would stay in balance, just like Good and Evil. But if Man were to forsake the Pen and deny its place . . . if all the rulers were to burn their rings and instead swear loyalty to a king of their own . . .” The rings burned up in a burst of flames—

“. . . then the balance would be gone. The Storian would lose its powers and this king would claim them. A king who would become the new Storian.” Out of the ashes, a human form rose, holding a new pen.

A pen glowing gold.

“This king, the One True King, would no longer be bound by the balance. He could use his pen like a sword of fate. Every word he’d write would come to life. With his power, he could bring peace and wealth and happiness to the Woods without limit. Or he could kill his enemies, enslave the kingdoms, and control every soul in the Woods like a puppetmaster does a puppet.” The shadow of the king grew, bigger, bigger, and in this shadow, a new scene played: three scrawny hags atop wooden boxes, preaching to passersby in the square.

“My theory was widely dismissed, likely because no one wanted to entertain the thought of a single Man possessing so much power. To reject my theory was to keep the rings and the balance of Man and Pen intact. And yet, there were some ardent believers: most significantly, the Mistral Sisters of Camelot, who King Arthur brought in as his advisors before his death. Other proponents included Evelyn Sader, former Dean of the School for Girls; Rebesham Hook, grandson of Captain Hook; and Queen Yuzuru of Foxwood, who believed she was the One True King. But in the end, the solidarity of the Woods prevailed, their rings uniting them in trust of the sacred pen . . .” The mist over the book began to dissipate.

“. . . for now.”

The chapter went dark.

So did Agatha’s fingerglow.

Eyes met around the room, Evers and Nevers trying to decipher what they’d just heard. The whole school seemed to draw a collective breath.

“There’s a catwalk to the tower!” a pirate shouted outside. “Lookie!” “Get to the catwalk!” Kei commanded.

Pirate roars echoed over a low rattle of thunder.

“They found us,” Kiko peeped, glancing at her scared friends and teachers.

Agatha leaned across the windowsill to get a look, but Hort snagged her back.

“That’s how my dad died,” he glared. “Doing something stupid.” “I don’t get it. Storian knows we’re in trouble. That’s why it sent us to that book,” Anadil muttered, rubbing her bandaged arm. “How did any of that help us?” Agatha had the same question.

“I told you it’s all malarkey,” Professor Manley harrumphed. “No one knows what that inscription says. No one has the slightest clue. Just a bunch of guesses to suit those making them.” Except Agatha was considering the Storian now, its carvings still glowing as it hovered over the painting of this very scene . . . “Dot, what’s that spell you used in the breezeway? The one that zoomed into the crystal ball—” “Mirrorspell? That’s my spell,” Hester swiped, crawling towards Agatha, already anticipating what she was going to ask next.

“Show me the inscription,” Agatha told her.

Hester pointed her glowing fingertip at the Storian and immediately a two-dimensional projection floated over the floor, magnifying the mysterious script.

On their knees, students and teachers gathered closer, gazing at the enlarged symbols . . . at a hundred tiny squares buried inside them like seeds . . . and inside every square, a black or white swan. . . .

“Just like the book said,” Agatha pointed out. “Can’t all be malarkey, then.” Only she noticed something.

Something different about the inscription from the way it looked in the book.

There were empty squares in it.

Two of them, to be precise.

Two blank boxes, where a swan should be, the glow in the carving darkened in those spots like missing teeth.

Suddenly there was a sharp noise and Agatha’s eyes shifted further down the inscription.

A white swan had gone up in flames. It crumpled like burning metal—crackle, whish, pop!— Then it vanished. Just like the two others.

Only now another swan was on fire. A black one.

Then five more swans . . . no, ten more . . . no, more than that, combusting too fast for Agatha to count—crackle, whish, pop!—as they disappeared from the Storian’s steel.

“What’s happening?” Professor Anemone said nervously.

It can only mean one thing, Agatha thought.

“They’re burning their rings,” she said. “The leaders are burning their rings.” Her heart pumped harder.

Everything Rhian had done . . .

Saving kingdoms from the Snake.

Picking Sophie as his queen.

Telling lies with Lionsmane.

He’d had a bigger plan all along.

“Camelot isn’t what he wants,” she said, hearing her voice tighten. “Rhian wants the Storian. To destroy it. To become it. To rule as the One True King.” “Horsecrap,” Professor Manley scorched. “We told you there’s no proof!” “Then why did the Storian lead us to that book?” Agatha said intensely. “This is what it wanted us to see. Leaders are burning their rings. Something’s happened. Something that’s making them swear loyalty to Rhian over the Storian. Over the school. And it’s that loyalty that keeps the Storian alive. If all of them burn their rings . . . if that carving disappears . . . then Rhian will control the Woods. Professor Sader’s theory was right. That’s why the Storian’s doing more than just recording our fairy tale this time: it’s jumping ahead . . . warning us of dangers . . . guiding us to clues. . . . Don’t you see? The Storian needs our help. The Storian is asking us for help.” Professor Manley fell quiet. So did the other teachers.

“For a Man to possess the Pen’s magic . . . even Rafal never managed that,” said Professor Anemone, distressed.

“Rhian would be invincible,” said Hort.

“More than that,” Agatha warned. “You heard Sader. The One True King takes the Storian’s powers. But under Man’s control, those powers are unchecked. Rhian will be able to use Lionsmane to write whatever he wants . . . and it will come true. Imagine if everything Lionsmane writes could become real. If everything Rhian wishes could become real. You think he’s going to give everyone in the Woods a sack of gold and a pony? No, he wants the Storian’s powers for a reason. I don’t know what that reason is yet, but I know it’s nothing good. Not that we’ll be around to see it happen. He can write that I’ve been eaten by wolves and wolves will come to devour me. He can write that the School has fallen and it will crumble to dust. He can destroy kingdoms. He can bring people back from the dead. All with the stroke of his pen. Rhian will have control over every soul in the Woods. He’ll have control over all stories, past and present. Our world will be at his mercy. Forever.” No one spoke as Hester’s projection fizzled. Even the night air outside had gone silent, except for a misting rain, as if the pirates were listening too.

“Kiss my arse! All of you!” a voice yipped.

Everyone turned to hairy, three-eyed Bossam in the corner, holding up his silver swan emblem, detached from his uniform.

“Knew I could do it!” he boasted. “Castor’s strategies for training henchmen. You know, the ones we used in the Golden Goose challenge. Step 1: Command. Told the swans we’re gonna die unless they helped us and if we die, they die too.” He threw a dirty look at Bodhi and grinned at Priyanka. “Came right off.” Castor craned his head up, stirring. “Madman trying to control souls, whole Woods about to die, and you’re diddling with your clothes.” The sound of pen scratching against paper cut through the tower— Agatha spun to see the Storian writing again . . . adding to the same painting she’d thought was finished. . . .

This time, it was painting something on Sophie’s Way, the catwalk between Evil and the School Master’s tower.

The pen drew in slashes of lines, filling in slowly.

Rain misting over the catwalk.

And through the rain . . .

A shadow, Agatha realized.

Coming towards their tower.

Tall, hulking, with a black hat pulled low over the face.

It was carrying something over its shoulder.

Her stomach clamped.

“Pirate,” she said.

Instantly students sprung up from the floor, backing away from the window— Agatha turned and saw the shadow in real life, skulking across the catwalk towards the School Master’s tower.

With the rain pummeling harder, veiling his face under his black hat, she still couldn’t see which pirate he was. Nor could she see what he was toting over his shoulder. He wore all black instead of silver chainmail, his leather coat flapping in the wind. He must be of higher rank, Agatha thought. Like Kei. The pirate moved with no hurry, his right leg slowed by a clear limp, his tall black boots snapping against stone.

Castor surged forward to attack, but the Storian shot a firebolt past his head and teachers grabbed him back. First years shielded behind them.

“The alarm on the catwalk,” Professor Anemone rasped. “It’ll catch him!” On cue, red light beamed off the Sophie’s Way sign, scanning the man’s face.

The light turned green and let him pass.

“Or not,” said Hort.

“Must have tricked it—” said Reena.

“This is ridiculous. We’re not a bunch of geese about to be turned into a pie,” Hester blazed. “There’s one of him and a whole school of us.” She turned to Anadil.

“Ready?”

“Even with one arm,” Anadil replied coolly.

Hester’s demon exploded off her neck like a firebomb, engorging with blood as it scudded through the window and slammed the pirate in the face. With a flying leap, Hester and Anadil dove out the window and tackled the thug to the catwalk.

“Wait for me!” Dot called, hurrying after them and hopping over the windowsill, only to trip onto the catwalk with a shriek.

Behind her, students gawked as Hester and Anadil wrestled the pirate.

“What are we waiting for!” Agatha snapped at them. “Charge!” Her army let out a roar and throttled through the window to help their friends. As they besieged the villain with kicks and punches and amateur stun spells, Dot pushed through the crowd, knocking first years aside, determined to rejoin her coven and do her part. She jostled her way to the pirate, finger glowing, prepared to turn his clothes to chocolate licorice that would bind him like ropes— She saw his face and screamed.

“STOP!”

The attack ceased, everyone spinning to Dot, confused.

All except Agatha, who now saw the pirate’s bloodied, bruised face in the moonlight.

The pirate who wasn’t a pirate at all.

“Daddy?” Dot gasped.

Curled up on the stone, the Sheriff of Nottingham squinted up at her, his wild hair coated with rain, his beard dripping blood, his right eye swelling. “I really don’t like your friends,” he snarled.

“What are you doing here?” Dot asked as she, Hester, and Anadil sheepishly helped him up, the Sheriff giving the latter two a hateful look.

His face contorted with pain as he ignored his daughter and looked right at Agatha. “If you want to save your boyfriend, we have to go now.” Agatha’s chest tightened again, her eyes darting off the catwalk towards the castle. “Go where? There’s no way out . . . there’s pirates . . . they’re coming . . .” Except they weren’t coming, she realized.

Because she didn’t see any pirates at all.

Not on the catwalk. Not in the School for Evil. Not in the School for Good.

Every last pirate. Gone.

It’s a trap, she thought.

“No time to faff around, Agatha,” the Sheriff growled. “Rhian ain’t just killing your boyfriend. He’s killing all of ‘em, Dovey included.” It hit Agatha like a kick to the stomach. She saw teachers pale around her. Hort too, scared for Nicola.

“Bring your best fighters,” the Sheriff ordered, turning to leave. “Young ones and teachers stay behind to protect the school.” Agatha couldn’t breathe. “B-b-but I told you! There’s no way to get us out of here safely! Even if we could, there’s no way to get us to Camelot in time—” “Yes there is,” said the Sheriff, turning back to her.

He raised his arm and held up a familiar gray sack, its ripped pieces stitched together, something squirming inside. His bloodied lips curled into a grin.

“Same way I took care of all those pirates.”