فصل 2

Chapter 2

SOPHIE

The Girl with No Past

Sophie no longer wanted to kill the boy she was about to marry.

Nor could she make sense of the fleeting thought that she’d wanted to kill him in the first place. From what she could tell, he was gorgeous, eloquent, and cocksure, just like a king should be. And soon, she’d be his queen. The queen.

Not that she had the slightest clue how it had happened. The past was fuzzy now, her memories elusive. Any attempt to penetrate them spawned a spearing headache, as if there was an iron spike through her brain, before she’d jolt straight back to the present, the ache gone, as if she’d been born this second, again and again and again. Efforts to recall why she’d ended up like this—a girl with no past—only brought on stronger pain, and it wasn’t long before she stopped trying to find her memories altogether.

All she knew was that she’d woken in this prim white dress and tonight she would marry King Rhian, the Lion of Camelot, keeper of Lionsmane, and savior of the Endless Woods. She’d yet to have a private moment with her betrothed: their only time together spent recording a spellcast, which she’d struggled to follow . . . about a brother gone rogue and rebels in the Woods, ending with her pledging allegiance to the Lion, her husband-to-be, just as he’d instructed. . . . But even from this, she knew she loved him, body and soul. Sitting next to him, she’d inhaled his frosty scent and basked in his tan glow, almost too perfect. When the spellcast finished, he stroked her cheek with cold fingers and gave her a snake-eyed smile: “See you at the altar, my sweet.” Sophie’s heart fluttered like he was her fairy-tale prince.

Any girl would die to be in her shoes, she thought now, powdering her nose in the queen’s boudoir and peering in the mirror at her crown of gold braids and the fussy white dress that hijacked nearly every inch of her skin. She had no inkling of where this dress had come from or who had made it, but now that she was about to convene with the Woods-wide press and answer their pre-wedding questions, she wished the dress had a bit more panache . . . straps instead of sleeves or a dash of color around the waist— On cue, the dress shape-shifted, as if her thoughts were commands, the sleeves whittling to thin strands over her shoulders, while a slash of blue cut across her hips, forming a belt of silk butterflies. Sophie hardly flinched. For something so strange, there was no surprise in the dress’s magic, as if she’d had this happen before but couldn’t remember when. She glanced into her own eyes in the mirror and saw a flash of sparkle, an emerald gleam, like a light in a tunnel. . . . Then it was gone, as quickly as it came.

“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.