فصل 4

Chapter 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.

After King Arthur’s death, the gardens had fallen to blight, but under a new king, they’d been revived to glory, a sprawling wonderland of color and scent. Packed hip to hip, the people flooded the groves of the Orangerie, the paths of the Sunken Garden, and the lawns of the Rosefield, all of which orbited the long Reflecting Pool crowned with a marble statue of King Rhian hammering Excalibur into the masked Snake’s neck. Muddy shoes stained the grass and flattened the willows; restless children tore branches and ate the lilacs; a family of giants broke an orange tree. But still guards continued to let guests in, even as the setting sun halved and quartered and the smell of sweaty bodies clogged the air.

“Is there no end to this?” the Empress of Putsi growled, holding her nose as people jostled against her, nearly knocking her and her goose-feather coat into the Reflecting Pool. “Putsi butchers and millers and maids given the same treatment as their Empress! Ever and Never royalty thrown to the masses and left to fend for ourselves! After all we’ve done for King Rhian? After we burned our rings in his name? Who ever heard of commoners at a royal wedding!” “It is the commoners who have made him king,” said the Maharani of Mahadeva, watching a mountain troll pee in the tulips. “And now that we’ve burned our rings, our voice has no more weight than theirs.” “We burned our rings to save our kingdoms. To earn the king’s protection,” the Empress of Putsi argued. “Your castle was attacked like mine. Your sons might be dead if not for you giving up your ring. Your realm is safe now.” “Is it? How are we protected if the Kingdom Council no longer has a vote against the king?” the Maharani pressed. “A king who my advisors believe seeks the power of the Storian.” “The ‘One True King’ is an old wives’ tale spread by that Sader family. But even if any of their flimflam was true, you of all people should welcome it. The Storian did nothing for Evil kingdoms like yours or for the Nevers of the Woods. If Rhian had the Storian’s power, he might do Evil a world of Good.” The Empress stood straighter. “King Rhian is a worthy king to both sides. He’ll listen to us, whether or not we have our rings. King Rhian will always put us above the people—” Something smacked her face, and she looked up at a chubby boy high on a staircase, pelting people with gooseberries.

“Like he’s done today?” the Maharani asked, stonefaced.

The Empress went mum.

As for the berry-pelting boy, he found himself swatted by his Dean and yanked into place with the rest of her students, who’d traveled with the Dean from Foxwood.

“Behave, Arjun! Or I’ll tell King Rhian to throw you in the dungeon with his brother,” Dean Brunhilde scolded, swiping her student’s ammunition. “And I assure you, you won’t last a half second in a cell with RJ. Not an ounce of Good in that boy’s body.” “Thought Rhian’s brother was called ‘Japeth,’” Arjun peeped.

“Even that name sounds Evil,” the Dean murmured. “I shortened his birth name to ‘RJ.’ Came to Arbed House because he, like you, couldn’t get along with his mother. I tried to make him Good. Did everything I could. Even his brother thought he could be fixed. But in the end, it seems Rhian learned what I did: some Evil can’t be fixed.” “Still don’t believe we’re here. A royal wedding!” piped an older boy with sunken eyes. “A kid like us now the king!” “And marrying a girl as pretty as Sophie,” said a bald boy, his collar littered with dandruff. “Don’t forget that, Emilio. That’s why I’d want to be a king.” “Think I’ll get to be a king someday, Dean Brunhilde?” Arjun asked. “Or at least a prince?” “I don’t see why not,” Dean Brunhilde said. “Things are different now. Most royal weddings don’t allow ordinary citizens. But King Rhian knows to respect every soul, Good or Evil, boy or girl, young or old. All of you have a chance at glory while he’s king. Taught him myself, just like I’m teaching you.” “Can we meet King Rhian? Can I get his autograph?” Emilio asked.

“I want to meet him!” another boy prompted.

“Me too! Me too!” clamored the rest of the group.

The Dean blushed. “I’m sure Rhian remembers me fondly. . . . Jorgen! Stop pinching fairies!” Meanwhile, Arjun pulled a few last gooseberries from his pocket and aimed them over the rail.

“Quit it!” Emilio hissed.

“But if I hit that spellcast bubble roving around, everyone watching in the other kingdoms will see me!” said Arjun. “I’ll be famous! Like the king!” “What bubble are you talking about?” Emilio asked, confused. “The spellcast comes from the shield over the garden. The pink fog up there. That’s what beams the scene to everywhere in the Woods.” “Then what’s that?” Arjun said, pointing down.

Emilio squinted at a watery orb flitting between bodies in the crowd, nearing the edge of the reflecting pool— But the last light of the sun vanished, and the bubble could be seen no longer, lost in the white mist rising over the lake.

AS NIGHT SETTLED, the mist spooled thicker, rolling over the waters in snow-colored waves. Behind the pool, Kei marched the Camelot guard into formation, the armored bodies silhouetted in fog. Standing on a staircase behind were Alpa and Omeida, the two Mistral Sisters, hooded amongst the crowd, eyes locked on Rhian’s statue, each muttering the same incantation under their breaths. On cue, the statue began to glitter a radiant gold, casting rippling light on the king’s carved face and the Snake crushed in his arms. The mist over the Reflecting Pool dissipated, revealing the surface had magically frozen, the ice strewn with blue and gold rose petals, the pool now a stage.

Soft music began to play in a strange key, the melody of a wedding march that sounded more like a funeral’s.

Then a blur of movement reflected in the ice.

Wedding guests raised their heads.

The sky had bloomed with constellations, Lions repeating endlessly as far as the eye could see, changing pose with every blink of stars. Against these celestial patterns, two more stars appeared: the bride and the king, floating down on the wings of a thousand white butterflies beating across the bride’s gown. Her shoes were made of glass, her throat collared with rubies, her face shrouded in a delicate veil. Her groom wore a white fur soaring behind him like a cape, belted with a chain of gold lions. Excalibur’s hilt gleamed at his waist. The crown of Camelot fit securely on his head. He made a fine King Rhian, this boy, with his tight copper hair, amber tan, and aqua-green gaze. . . .

But we know better.

“Rhian” was only playing the part of his brother, his wild hair hacked short, his skin painted tan, his eyes dyed by magic. His bride, too, seemed to be playing a role, her smile vacant, her hands clasping him the way she once clasped another boy she’d intended to marry: a young, frost-haired School Master who she thought she loved with all her heart. But now, in her wide green eyes, there was no love. There was nothing but the reflection of her groom, pleased with the emptiness of her gaze.

The young couple floated down towards the statue, “Rhian” gripping Sophie as tightly as the stone Rhian gripped the Snake. They neared the ground, bathed in the statue’s light, the Woods’ eyes upon them. The king loomed over his bride, placing a hand on her throat, and pulled her mouth to his. The crowd suspended in silence as he kissed her, time standing still. Look closer, the way I can, and one could see the chill in Sophie’s cheeks . . . the shudder in her legs . . . the hardness in the groom’s lips, repelled by the taste of his bride. . . .

Their feet touched down to the frozen pool.

The mob stayed hushed.

Then King Rhian’s statue began to rattle and quake. The edges of the ice pool splintered, shards of ice spraying into the sky, the glassy stage vibrating beneath the bride’s and groom’s feet. All at once, Rhian’s statue lifted out of the ground, taking the Reflecting Pool with it, the thick, frozen lake floating into the air, up, up, up, the bride and groom now high above the gardens, like toy figures on a cake.

Cheers burst out across the land, the crowd unleashing all they’d held back.

The wedding of the king had begun.

Orbiting the grounds, the spellcast shield strobed, recording every moment and beaming it to the Woods. Listen well and you might hear the cheers from kingdoms beyond, echoing on the wind . . .

“Rhian” turned from his bride and a flash of gold glowed beneath his cape, pulsing where his heart should be. He reached under the silk and drew out a cocoon of light. Only I know what is hidden within: a black scim disguised as Lionsmane—the king’s Pen, my so-called rival—which now rose out of the light, sharp at both ends and gold as the sun, into the night sky over the king’s palm.

From its tip came a shimmering dust, the color of pure ore, shapeshifting into the outlines of cuddling puppies, kissing lovebirds, arrows shot through hearts. Children hopped up in the crowd, reaching hands skyward, trying to touch these valentines before they broke apart and golden ash rained down, dusting their hair with sparkles. Sophie, too, clasped her hands to her chest, as if charmed by the sight of happy young souls. (Perhaps the clearest sign yet that this Sophie was as fraudulent as her groom.) Meanwhile, “Rhian” spoke from the floating stage. “The Storian was the balance of our Woods. The Pen trusted with telling the stories that moved our world forward. That is, until it gave you the last Ever After. Tedros the ‘king.’ Or as you knew him: Tedros the coward, the fraud, the snake. He is no king, regardless of what that Pen says. You learned that the hard way. But this is what happens when we give the Storian free rein. Fate leaves us vulnerable and out of control. Fate leads us to false idols. But the Storian is no longer our future. And neither are the winds of fate. Man’s will is the future. Man’s will can bring glory to all. And tonight, Man becomes Pen. My pen. I will write the stories of the future. I will reward those who deserve to be rewarded and punish those who deserve to be punished. The power is with me now. The power is with the people.” The crowd roared as Lionsmane rose higher in the sky, throbbing brighter like a north star. Sophie clapped along, not a wick of understanding in her gaze.

The king held her closer. “But as long as the Storian exists, it is a threat. Empower it and it will lead us astray. To more Tedroses, and more like him. So we must not only reject it . . . but destroy it. All but one kingdom in the Endless Woods has renounced faith in the old Pen. All but one of a hundred founding realms has broken their bond with it. Tonight, as a preface to our wedding, the last kingdom breaks its bond too. The 100th realm burns its ring, stripping the Pen’s powers and giving the power over Man’s fate to me. Tonight, you not only gain a queen.” His eyes pierced through the dark. “Tonight, the One True King lives.” Lionsmane spawned flames from its tip: a ball of blue fire that lobbed high in the dark . . . then shot down, blasting past exuberant guests before catching to a halt in front of the Camelot guard. An armored soldier next to Kei stepped forward, the fire lighting up the wrinkles around his greedy eyes and the filthy hair spinning out from his helmet. A discerning Reader would recognize him quickly: this guard who wasn’t a guard at all. It was Bertie, the Sheriff of Nottingham’s once-steward, now the keeper of his ring. And in Bertie’s hands was this very ring, glinting atop a black pillow, the carved steel reflecting the contours of the flames.

I still feel the heat from here.

Little by little, the crowd quieted, sensing the magnitude of the moment, realizing that they too were now pledging loyalty to Man over me. Sophie seemed to stir from her daze, as if deep inside, a kernel of the past had shaken loose in her memory.

“The last piece of the Storian’s power,” the king declared, fixed on Bertie’s ring. “The last tether between Man and Pen.” Bertie stepped forward, his eyes on the king.

“Rhian” nodded.

My spirit cries out in its shell—

The Sheriff’s old friend opens his palm. Nottingham’s ring falls into the fire.

Crackle! Whish! Pop!

The ring is no more.

All that’s left of me is a whisper.

For the first time, the king’s face softens, the regal facade falling away, as if he too had dipped into memory. “With my Pen, I vow to write these Woods as they should be. To give all your stories the endings they deserve.” His gaze fell on Dean Brunhilde in the crowd. “Including mine.” The Dean locked eyes with “Rhian,” a cold tingle worming up her spine. She peered closer at him— “He sees you!” Arjun blurted, grabbing her. “Rhian remembers!” By the time the Dean turned back, the king had regained his poise, his focus on his bride.

“No more rings left. No more pledges to make,” he said, touching Sophie’s cheek. “Except one.” Slowly his eyes lifted.

From Lionsmane’s tip birthed two golden rings.

One floated into the king’s hand.

One into his bride’s.

Lionsmane glowed brighter in the sky, the witness to this moment, both altar and grail.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” the king said to Sophie.

He slipped his ring onto her finger.

What power I have left dwindles, my words fainter on the page, as if they cannot sustain another blow.

Sophie stayed lost in his eyes.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” she repeated.

No hesitation: she slid her ring onto his finger.

“Then by the power of the Pen, Man’s Pen,” the boy proclaimed, looking up into the sky, “I ask Lionsmane to seal the bonds of this marriage. To crown Sophie my queen. To name me, Rhian of Camelot, the One True King of these Woods!” Lionsmane burned brighter, brighter, drinking in all the force I have lost. Suddenly, it is alive, becoming me, my powers stolen into the hands of this king. Against the night, his pen paints a queen’s crown, five ribbons of jewels topped with a ring of fleur de lis— Instantly, the crown came to life, a dazzling tower of diamonds, as if the king’s wish had made it true, before the crown set down upon Sophie’s head. Sophie touched its grooves, the blinding glare of jewels casting sparkles on her hands. A strange bubble of light streaked past her, and she swiveled her head to follow it before she remembered what she was supposed to focus on: the crowd chanting her name . . . her wedding to the king nearly sealed. . . .

As for this king, his focus was only on the pen, alive with the power of a hundred flames. His eyes quivered with triumph.

The rings had been destroyed.

The queen had her crown.

The prophecy was complete.

Raising his hands, he reached up for Lionsmane, the Pen he’d pillaged and betrayed and murdered for, the Pen that could now bring his deepest wishes to life. He claimed its warm gold in his palm, seizing its powers, seizing immortality, a roar rising into his throat and unleashed to the sky— The light of the pen snuffed out, its metal turned cold in his hands.

The crown vanished from Sophie’s head.

So did the crown on the king’s.

Their wedding rings disappeared, too.

Across the gardens, the crowd stood stunned.

Sophie startled from her trance, looking to her groom.

“Rhian” was frozen, his teeth clenched.

Here in my school tower, a bolt of heat lights up my steel.

There is one ring left, you see.

A ring which precludes full transfer of my powers. A ring this king does not know of.

And it is closer than he thinks.

Now the last swan in my steel pumps its wings, harder, harder, as if to make up for all the other swans lost, all the other kingdoms who’ve surrendered their rings.

Over Camelot’s castle, silver lightning lashed through the sky, imploding Rhian’s statue, and the whole of the frozen stage came plummeting down. People in the mob screamed, diving for cover— The iced pool shattered to the ground, launching bride and groom in opposite directions. Chunks of ice hailed around them, bashing into spectators.

“Watch out!” Kei yelled, tackling Sophie—

The remnants of Rhian’s statue cratered into the dirt behind her, a mountain of rubble.

All went quiet in the gardens, thick with the smell of fire and ice.

Slowly, adults, children, creatures inched out of their hiding places.

Kei lifted his head, Sophie curled up beneath him, her eyes quivering with the blankness of someone who didn’t know where or who she was. She spotted the king, flat on his stomach near the statue’s ruins, Lionsmane clenched in his fist. Seeing “Rhian” centered her— But suddenly, from the king’s belt, Excalibur rocketed out of its sheath by its own power, flying high over the castle, swordtip gleaming like the point of a pen, before it came axing down into the statue’s rubble. It landed blade-first at the top of the heap, its hilt high and standing, like a cross out of a grave.

The hilt magically opened, a scroll rising from inside. As the king and his princess watched, the crowd shellshocked around them, the scroll unfurled in midair, revealing a parchment card, filled with faded words, stamped with Camelot’s seal.

Moonlight illuminated the decree.

King Arthur’s voice thundered from beyond.

“The first test was passed.

Excalibur pulled from the stone.

A new king named.

But two claim the crown.

The sword returns to the stone,

for only one is the true king.

Who?

The future I have seen has many possibilities . . .

So by my will, none shall be crowned until

the Tournament is complete.

The Tournament of Kings.

Three trials.

Three answers to find.

A race to the finish.

My last coronation test.

Excalibur will crown the winner

and take the loser’s head.

The first test is coming. Prepare . . .”

The card crumbled and blew away, like sand in the wind. The hilt of Arthur’s sword sealed up, leaving Excalibur in moonlight at the peak of piled stone.

A new altar.

A new grail.

For a moment, there was utter silence, strangers and friends gawking at each other in the gardens. The students of Arbed House looked to their Dean, but she had no words. So too were the leaders of the Woods tongue-tied—the Empress of Putsi, the Queens of Mahadeva and Jaunt Jolie, the Kings of Foxwood and Maidenvale and Bloodbrook and more—scattered across the ice-strewn fields and unsure of what they’d just heard. Even Sophie’s vacant sheen had cracked, her eyes narrowing, her soul closer and closer to breaking through. . . .

But now all of them caught sight of a figure rising out of the ruins, climbing the stone heap: the king, crownless and dirt-smeared, Lionsmane cold in his hands, his cheeks a violent red. Slamming a foot onto the highest stone, he seized Excalibur with a single fist, and pulled it hard.

It didn’t move.

He shoved Lionsmane into his furs and yanked the sword again, this time with both fists, only to suffer the same result. Sweat soaked his forehead. He raised his eyes to the sky, where King Arthur’s voice had spoken. . . .

“Two kings?” he shouted mockingly. “What dirty trick is this? I pulled Excalibur from the stone. I am the king! Who dares to claim a second?” A watery orb slammed into the king, then another, bashing him off the stone. The bubbles expanded, two tiny figures growing taller within, rising to full size before they thrust out their hands, peeled their way through watery walls, and left the bubbles behind. Tedros strode atop the stone mountain, muscles clinging to his wet shirt, his princess at his side.

“Me,” he declared. “And the only trick is how that sword ever came to a Snake in the first place.” Arthur’s son raised his hand into the moon’s beam, the silver ring stealing its light.

“The last ring lives. Camelot’s ring. My father’s ring,” he thundered, resounding across the castle grounds. “I am the heir. I am the king.” The people of the Woods held their breath, their heads whipping between two defiant kings. Sophie, too, stayed still, even though her body told her to run to her groom’s side . . . to her king. . . . On her knees in shredded roses, she glanced at Kei, who had that same haunted look he’d had in the castle. Slowly, Sophie’s eyes went back to Tedros atop the stone. Kei knew this boy . . . and so did she. . . .

Tedros glared his rival down. “You heard the king. Excalibur is returned to the stone. The crown no longer belongs to you,” he slashed. “Three tests. The sword crowns the winner. No more games. No more lies. . . . Let the tournament begin.” Flat on his stomach, “Rhian” peered up at the prince, a hint of fragility in his face. A sliver of fear.

Then it was gone.

He spun to Kei.

“Kill him,” he ordered.

Kei’s gaze hardened. He and the pirates launched for Tedros—the ring on the prince’s finger shot a blast of light, reforming the protective bubble, trapping Tedros inside. The prince whirled to Agatha: “Get Sophie!” But Agatha was already gone from his wing, surging for her best friend and tackling Sophie into her arms. White and black dresses coalesced, like the intermingling of two swans. The girls’ eyes locked, dark and light, an eternal connection made. Good and Evil. Boy and Girl. Old and Young. Truth and Lies. Past and Present. Sophie gasped, the color in her cheeks returning, the fire in her eyes pouring forth— It dampened, like a door slammed shut. Sophie grabbed Agatha by the neck and threw her to the ground.

Lifting her head, Agatha saw the two Mistral Sisters on a staircase behind Sophie, directing their hands, puppeteering her best friend’s moves. Sophie grabbed a slab of frozen ice, jagged like a dagger. Grinning, the Mistrals swung their palms. Sophie pounced for Agatha, the ice knife plunging for her best friend’s chest— The ice knife trapped in a wall of water, a hair’s width from Agatha’s heart.

For a moment, all Agatha could hear were her own shallow breaths, the hammer of her blood. She felt her prince’s arms drag her back, the two of them safe in the Wish Fish bubble, Arthur’s ring glowing on Tedros’ hand like a talisman. Behind the bubble, a portal opened, revealing the gray waters of a lake . . . its vast, snowy shores . . . three shadows in the distance. . . .

But Tedros’ gaze was still on Sophie through the bubble, her teeth bared like a rabid animal’s, her fist tearing the ice knife into the watery wall again and again, yielding only the tiniest crack.

“Rhian” gently clasped her from behind, staying his princess’s hand. Sophie gazed up at him, starry-eyed with love once more, fully under his spell.

Tears rolled down Agatha’s cheeks. “What have you done to her! You monster! You creep! What have you done to my friend!” The boy ignored her, his eyes on Tedros. An eel curled off his wedding robe, so small that no one in the audience noticed as it slithered through the crack Sophie had made in the bubble— Tedros instantly snatched it into his fist.

But now the eely scim was speaking with the Snake’s voice, so only the prince and Agatha could hear. . . .

“Your weak magic can’t protect you from what’s coming,” the scim taunted. Outside the bubble, his master leered at Tedros. “You sniveling coward. You pretty-faced fool. You’re no one’s leader. No one in the Woods is on your side. And now you think you can win a fight against me?” “A fair fight, yes,” Tedros flared, glowering back at his nemesis. “As for the Woods, soon they’ll know that their ‘king’ isn’t who he says he is.” “Oh?” said the scim. “Let’s see if they believe anything you have to say. Tedros the rebel. Tedros the Snake.” “I don’t need to say a word. They’ll know when Excalibur takes your head,” the prince seethed, crushing the eel harder. “I’ll finish the tests first. I’ll win the tournament. The sword will crown me.” “Like it did last time? It will never let you be king because you have nothing in you that is a king. Nothing.” Tedros vibrated with anger. “I am Arthur’s son. I am his heir.” “There is only one ending to your tale,” said the eel coolly. “You dead and forgotten. That ring in my hands. The Storian’s powers mine. You and those you love . . . erased.” “Catch you at the finish,” Tedros vowed.

“Rhian” didn’t flinch. “I’ll kill you long before.”

Tedros glared into his black pupils. “I see you, Japeth. Like your brother surely did before you murdered him and stole his name. I can believe Rhian was Arthur’s son. At least he had a soul. At least he wanted to do Good. But how can a beast like you be my brother? How can filth like you be my father’s child?” “Isn’t it obvious?” the scim replied.

The Snake grinned, his face pressing to the prince’s against the slim ball of water, his voice inside a poisoned whisper. . . .

“I’m not.”

The words slammed Tedros like a kick to the chest. He killed the scim and smashed it to goo as he choked out a breath—“Who are you?”—but Agatha was pulling him back through a portal, lake water flooding his lungs, the prince’s question echoing again and again into the dark, dark deep.