فصل 6

Chapter 6

SOPHIE

Good Little Girl

Excalibur.

That was its name, Sophie thought, gazing at the sword hilt rising out of the mountain of scrolls that swathed the garden.

They’d fallen from the sky at dawn, waking Sophie with their plip-plop into the flowers. She heard a boy’s voice from the garden, a spew of shouts. By the time she’d run to the window, hair a mess, last night’s makeup smudged, the snow had abated, a few last scrolls drifting into the sea of thousands more, reaching far beyond the castle, past the church and stables, to the hills of Camelot.

Sophie’s eyes stayed on the sword, glinting in the scroll-covered stone. She could hardly remember anything that happened last night, her brain foggier than ever . . . but she knew a few things for sure.

I’m not married.

Scrolls should not fall from the sky.

The sword’s name is Excalibur.

A headache attacked her as if trying to erase these facts, as if determined to clear the slate again, her mind squeezing from both sides like a vise . . .

But Sophie was on to the pain now. There was a crack in it. Things had slipped through.

I’m not married.

Scrolls should not fall from the sky.

The sword’s name is Excalibur.

Sophie peered closer at the sword.

Maids shuffled into the garden, marched there by guards. Armed with brooms and buckets, the women in white dresses and bonnets swept the scrolls away, the guards watching them stony-eyed. “King wants every last scrap gone,” growled one. “Don’t want the princess seein’ ‘em.” Sophie could feel her gaze hardening, overriding the fog of her mind.

What doesn’t he want me to see?

The king had ordered her to stay in her chamber and locked her door. She knew not to disobey him. Until now, her body didn’t even know how.

But then the snow happened.

Something had changed.

Her chest thumped faster, hotter.

I’m not married.

Scrolls should not fall from the sky.

The sword’s name is Excalibur.

Pain bashed her like a hammer, but Sophie was already moving for the door.

She needed to escape this room.

She needed to find out what the king was hiding.

Her finger glowed pink, aimed at the lock.

She needed to know what was in that scroll.

WITH THE GUARDS supervising the maids, Sophie slipped through the hall undetected, ignoring the stabbing in her head getting worse with every step. Her blood slapped so sharply at her temples that she nearly missed the voices, coming from the Blue Tower foyer below. Sophie peeked through the railing.

“I have an appointment with her,” said a woman with braided butterscotch hair, thin eyebrows, and stern brown eyes. She wore a cream-colored dress, a crystal tiara, and carried a pearly clamshell purse. “And seeing that I’ve come here at your demand, on a moment’s notice, to help you win your first test, I expect that appointment to be honored—” “Princess Sophie is ill,” said a tan boy, standing at the open door, where outside, that sullen Kei was saddling two horses. Inside, the tan boy glared harder at the woman as he fit a riding coat over his blue-and-gold suit. “Did you bring what I asked for?” My prince, Sophie recognized, with a swell of love. My king.

And yet the king had no crown.

A vague memory snaked through her: crowns vanishing . . . a wedding incomplete . . . a dagger of ice in her fist . . .

She looked down at her hand, no ring on her finger.

What happened last night?

She peered closer at her beloved, taking in the alien green of his eyes, the color not quite real . . . the serpentine lankness of his body . . . the milk-white rim around his ear, as if his tan had missed a spot . . .

That unsettled feeling deepened inside her . . .

Something in the king’s eyes flickered. He glanced up to the second floor. Sophie ducked, a new pain shearing her head, pushing her backwards, as if hell-bent on returning her to her room. Suddenly she couldn’t remember why she’d left her room to begin with. She couldn’t remember why she had this anxious feeling or what she was doing hiding under a rail. But she stayed in place, trusting the moment. Trusting whatever had brought her here.

Slowly she peeked back out.

“The people are in shock, of course,” the woman was saying to the king. “Excalibur returning to the stone. Arthur’s voice from beyond the grave. A tournament to decide the king when they thought they already had one . . . But the Woods is on your side. For now. Betting has Tedros at 100 to 1 odds.” “Too generous,” the king sniped.

“Tedros has his defenders. And many more who are seeing him in a new light,” the woman observed. “They wonder if he is the true king that Arthur spoke of. The Lion instead of the Snake you make him out to be. My advice to you: win the first test quickly. Because if Tedros wins the first test . . .” Her eyes drilled into the king’s. “Then people will really start to wonder.” “Which is why you’re here to help me,” the king said icily. He held out his palm. “Give it to me.” “Princess Sophie looked well enough last night,” the woman replied, ignoring the king’s outstretched hand. “Unless she too is disturbed by the vanishing of your crown. Unless she questions how Tedros has Camelot’s ring instead of its king. Unless she wonders why Arthur’s ghost would declare a tournament when his heir already sits on the throne. Perhaps the sum of it left her feeling queasy. Like it has me.” “Sophie’s not seeing visitors,” said the king.

“Sophie’s the one who requested a meeting,” the woman answered.

“Impossible,” said the king.

“Why’s that?” his guest asked. “Is it impossible your queen would reach out to a fellow queen? Is it impossible she wants to control her own life?” “Give it to me, Jacinda.”

“Queen Jacinda to you,” the woman parried. “I think it perfectly fitting that the Queens of Camelot and Jaunt Jolie be friends. That’s a queen’s job: diplomacy. I myself had meetings this morning with leaders from the Kingdom Council, whose realms were blizzarded by scrolls with Arthur’s first test. Naturally, the other leaders still favor you in the tournament over Tedros, given you saved their kingdoms from attacks.” She smiled. “Too bad they’re not the ones who crown the winner.” “I’m leaving for Putsi,” the king intoned. “Did you bring it or not?” “Will Sophie meet with me or not?” the woman returned. “Just a meeting, King Rhian. That’s all.” The boy’s eyes cut into her.

Rhian, Sophie thought. That’s his name. Rhian. My king.

As for the Queen of Jaunt Jolie, Sophie couldn’t remember her in the slightest. She certainly didn’t recall making an appointment. Nor did she recognize much of what this woman had said to the king: Arthur? Tedros? Tournament of Kings? None of it penetrated the pain in her head, worsening by the second. Everything she’d gleaned had slithered back into its cracks.

“So much for diplomacy,” the queen sighed, relenting under Rhian’s glare. “I will help you with the first test, King Rhian. For the same reason I agreed to burn my ring. Because you saved my children from being hanged by the Snake. But the debt is repaid now. After this, you cannot lord yourself over me anymore. Understood?” She snapped open her purse roughly, thrusting a hand in. The queen drew out a spotted black-and-white key that seemed to quiver in her palm like a newborn pup. Sophie squinted closer at it through the rail. The key was made of . . . fur.

Rhian seized it, pocketing the key into his coat. “We can reschedule your appointment with Sophie. Once Tedros is dead and you’re feeling less queasy about my place on the throne.” He guided the queen towards the door. She pulled from Rhian stiffly, closing her purse— That’s when Sophie noticed it.

The scroll inside the queen’s bag.

Sophie homed onto it, a moth to a flame.

Scrolls should not fall from the sky.

Scrolls should not fall from the sky.

Scrolls should not fall from the sky.

The pair were almost through the door—

“Jacinda! Sweetie, darling!”

Queen and king froze. Both looked up at the bedraggled girl in her nightgown.

“My apologies, Jacinda. I was feeling quite poorly this morning, but I’m turned around now,” Sophie chimed, forcing words through the pain. “Shall we keep our appointment? The king will be relieved I’m well enough to sit with you. Won’t you, pumpkin?” Sophie smiled down at Rhian, her hair like a wild animal’s, her lipstick smeared like a clown’s.

The king gave her a stare so cold she thought he’d turned to stone.

SOPHIE BET THAT whatever business lay in Putsi was too important for the king to be waylaid by his princess’s sudden appearance. She’d bet well, the king having ridden off with his captain as planned, unable to supervise her meeting with Jaunt Jolie’s queen.

What she hadn’t accounted for was that he’d leave someone to supervise her in his place.

Now, as she cozied up to Jacinda in a Blue Tower sitting room, laid out with ginger tea and pastries, she endured the watchful eyes of the Mistral Sisters, seated on couches in the corner, notepads and pens in hand.

“Would you prefer to speak . . . privately?” the Queen of Jaunt Jolie asked Sophie, who’d cleaned herself up, her white dress reshaped to its prim, ruffled form. “Perhaps we can meet in your chambers—” “This is a scheduled meeting between dignitaries, is it not?” said Alpa from the corner.

“And all scheduled meetings must be recorded,” Omeida added. “Besides, there’s been mischief in the castle of late. A precious map burned to ash. An intruder at the press gathering. We have to keep our eye on everyone. Queens included.” The Queen of Jaunt Jolie turned to them. “When King Rhian pursued the powers of the One True King, I believed he had noble intentions. Now that I know it’s the Mistral Sisters advising him, I’m relieved that pursuit came to naught.” “Still holding grudges, are you?” cooed Alpa.

“All because Arthur wouldn’t betroth your eldest to his son,” said Omeida.

“You took advantage of Arthur when he was grief-stricken and alone. You isolated him and poisoned his mind. You made him believe he was the One True King,” the queen shot back. “Suddenly, he wouldn’t let Tedros and my Betty have their usual playdates. He wouldn’t meet with me or any other leaders. Arthur lost respect in the last months of his life because of you. Which is why no one trusts you.” “Until now,” said Alpa, with a thin smile. “Seems like we found the One True King after all.” “And yet there’s one ring still left,” the queen replied. “Worn by a son of Arthur who reminds me more of the Arthur I knew than the one you currently advise. If there is such a thing as the One True King, perhaps it’s Tedros.” Alpa’s face darkened. “We’ll let King Rhian know the next time your children are in danger, he should leave them to their fate.” For the first time, the queen looked shaken.

Sophie hadn’t the faintest clue what they were prattling on about. All she knew was she needed that scroll in the queen’s bag. Everything else had sloughed away in the pounding thud of her head. Indeed, she’d almost forgotten who the woman seated in front of her was.

The scroll, she reminded herself, clawing the thought back from the brink. I need that scroll.

But new thoughts were coming, thoughts not hers, pushing words onto her tongue. Behind the queen, Sophie could see the Mistrals, subtly moving their hands over their notebooks . . .

“What did you want to discuss?” Sophie asked Jacinda, pouring tea into the queen’s cup.

Her brain felt like it was axed in two: one part ramming words and actions through her body; the other trying to hold on to the reason she was here.

The scroll.

She started losing the thought . . .

What scroll?

More words flooded through, the pain in her head evaporating, everything running smooth as milk.

“How is your eldest daughter?” Sophie said, confident and controlled, the way she’d been when she briefed the press. “I wish she and I could have had a chance to be friends at school.” “Betty wasn’t taken,” Jacinda replied bitterly. “Another from Jaunt Jolie was kidnapped instead. This stultifying Beatrix girl who kept trying to be Betty’s friend, hoping it would ingratiate her in royal circles. But it’s all worked out in the end. Betty doesn’t need that school or the Storian. She’s found her own way to tell tales . . .” “Aren’t you glad you burned your ring, then? If Betty doesn’t need the school or Storian, the rest of the Woods shouldn’t either,” quipped Sophie brightly, without a clue what she was saying.

The queen searched Sophie’s face. “Something’s not right with you,” she said quietly. “Tell me what’s going on. Even if those two witches are listening. I’ll take you to Jaunt Jolie. My Knights of the Eleven are fierce warriors and will keep you safe. And I have the ear of other leaders, Good and Evil. I have the power to protect you, Sophie.” Jacinda looked back at the Mistral Sisters, as if expecting them to revolt or attack, but Alpa and Omeida said nothing, their hands fidgeting over their notebooks.

“Would you like a rum baba?” Sophie offered, on cue, holding out a cream-topped cake. “The new chef here is marvelous.” “Didn’t know you were one to eat pastries,” the queen said tartly. “And it looks soggy and ill-made.” Jacinda locked eyes with Sophie. “I saw you at Tedros’ execution. I saw you and your Dean. I know whose side you’re really on.” Sophie’s mind went stiff, the script aborted.

Behind the queen, the Mistral Sisters mirrored her pause.

“Me and the Dean?” Sophie asked, using her own words now. “Which Dean? What execution? I’m sorry . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about . . .” The queen stared into the void of her gaze. “What’s happened to you?” she whispered, clasping Sophie’s wrist. “Why are you here instead of with Agatha?” The warmth of touch.

The comfort of skin.

The sound of a name.

Agatha.

It slashed through the fog of Sophie’s mind like a lightning bolt to a lake.

Scrolls should not fall from the sky.

Scrolls should not fall from the sky.

Scrolls should not fall from the sky.

She saw the Mistral Sisters’ hands moving again, their faces tight, but Sophie was already short-circuiting the script.

“I’m feeling a bit ill,” said Sophie, standing up— As she did, she knocked over the queen’s purse, which fell to the floor. “Oopsy,” said Sophie, reaching for it, only to punt it farther under the couch.

“Let me—” the queen started.

“I’ve got it,” said Sophie, already on her knees, reaching beneath the couch. “I certainly gave it a good kick . . . oh, here it is . . .” She stood and handed the purse back to the queen. “My advisors will see you out.” Sophie smiled at the Mistral Sisters, who looked more at ease now, as if Sophie had steered things back on track.

Jaunt Jolie’s queen studied Sophie one last time. “I wish . . .” She shook her head, trying to finish the thought— Sophie kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Then before anyone could say another word, the princess ushered herself back to her chambers, like a good little girl.

SOMETHING WAS INSIDE her head.

Something was controlling this pain.

Sophie had figured it out while sitting with the queen. First, there were those sisters, pretending to take notes. But every time they moved their hands, she lost control, someone else’s words coming out of her mouth, someone else’s thoughts usurping her mind. And if she tried to reclaim her thoughts, to think for herself, the pain came to hurt her.

Yet the pain attacked even when the Mistrals weren’t there. She could feel it now, slithering around her mind, waiting to strike.

Which meant the Mistrals might be able to control the pain . . .

But they weren’t its source.

The source was her head. Inside her head.

She didn’t yet know what was causing this pain, exactly. But she knew how to keep it at bay . . .

Don’t think.

So rather than thinking about the scroll in her fist, Sophie focused on the sounds of her feet: plip, plop, plip, plop, like the patter of rain, pulling her towards her chamber. Her white dress itched at her skin, surely suspecting something, but the dress stopped short of anything more as she slipped into her sun-drenched room and closed the door.

Quickly she tried to lock it, but the latch was broken. Her fault, of course. She’d burned through it to leave this room. Already her head was starting to throb harder, sensing mischief afoot.

She could hear footsteps coming down the hall.

Voices growing closer.

But then something strange happened.

A ribbon of white lace fluttered off her dress, fully alive. For a moment, Sophie thought it might attack her: this dress, which had a mind of its own. Instead, it slid through the broken lock and morphed into a white-stone bolt, jamming the door.

There was no time to think about why the dress was helping her.

The pain was already coming like an alarm.

Sophie flung open her fist, yanking the crumpled scroll out and matting it against a mirror on the wall, the bold, black ink slick in the sunlight— So it begins, the first test arrives

Two kings race to stay alive

For a king cannot rule if he is dead

Or lead a kingdom without his head

But once upon a time, a man came to my court Who gave up his head, just for sport

He wanted one thing, this headless knave

Tried to claim it and dug his grave

What did he want? Only my true heir will know Now go and find it, where wizard trees grow!

Sophie couldn’t make any sense of it, not with her head about to pop like a balloon. Headless knights . . . wizard trees . . . ? The pain intensified, about to rip open her brain. She shoved the scroll into her pocket. It had to mean something. Something the pain didn’t want her to figure out— Loud knocks attacked the door.

“Sophie!” Alpa said.

Hands jostled the lock, blocked by the ribbon of stone.

“Don’t do anything stupid!” Omeida harassed. “The king will know! He’ll see you! Wherever he is, he’ll come back and punish you!” Sophie stared at the door, pain blotting out all thoughts but one.

“See” me?

Fists pummeled harder, but the stone held tight.

“Open this door!” Alpa demanded.

How can the king see me if he isn’t here? Sophie thought. Unless . . .

She peered at the scroll’s poem, flattened against the mirror.

Then, slowly, her gaze shifted to her reflection.

She heard guards coming now, the sisters ordering them to bash down the door . . . but Sophie was lost in her own eyes, studying her electric-green irises and big black pupils, the pain cleaving through her head, harder, angrier, as if it knew she was getting close. She couldn’t breathe, her mind impaled from every direction, her vision dotting with lights, her body seconds from passing out. But Sophie didn’t yield, glaring into the gems of her eyes, mining deeper, deeper, searching the darkness and light for something that wasn’t hers . . . until at last she found them.

Hiding like two snakes in a hole.

Guards bludgeoned the door with axes and clubs, the wood splintering.

Sophie had already lit her finger.

Pink glow reflected in her pupils like a torch in a cave.

She could hear their screams, the scaly eels, as they stabbed harder and harder behind her eyes, trying to regain control.

But the truth was in her sights now. Pain had become pleasure.

Sophie raised her finger and slipped it into her ear.

She grinned in the mirror like a devil facing itself.

This is going to hurt.

STONE SHATTERED IN the lock.

The door burst open, guards and Mistrals coming through.

A breeze sifted through the room, rippling across the blood-soaked curtains, the window wide open.

On the windowsill lay two scims crushed to filth.

But it was outside where the real message had been left.

Dripped in crimson across the white snow of scrolls, across the white dresses of maids, lying stunned by a spell.

Five bloody words.

The remnants of a princess.

The warning of a witch.

ALL OF YOU WILL DIE