One True King

by Soman Chainani

  “Dad kept a lot of secrets from me,” said Tedros, shifting. “Not sure how well we really knew each other.”

  Agatha waited for Tedros to elaborate, but he put his head between his knees and curled up tighter. Guinevere peered at Agatha expectantly, as if hoping his princess might press the point . . . but Agatha let Tedros be, thinking about how she herself never knew her own father, even if he was there all along.

  But there was no more time to think. The fairies were starting to descend.

  They’d made it to Sherwood Forest.

  AT TEDROS’ INSISTENCE, the fairies had landed them near Beauty and the Feast.

  “It must be six in the morning. Won’t be anyone there. Even if there was, they’re not going to let us in like this,” Agatha said, surveying the group’s slovenly appearance, as they slid between tight-packed trees.

  “They can give us food in a bag for all I care,” said Tedros, combing a hand through his thick gold hair. “But I need to eat.”

  Agatha had learned not to argue with a hungry boy, letting Tedros lead the group towards the dark green cottage hidden in the thicket ahead. She smelled the hot dew of dawn, the sweet scent of leaves brushing her neck . . . then realized it was her prince, slipping his hand around her waist and planting a sly kiss on her cheek.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  She peeked back and saw his ravenous pace had left the others behind. Raising her eyes to his, Agatha let Tedros pull her to his chest as he kissed her, his warm, minty taste filling her mouth. He pulled her behind a tree.

  “I promise you,” he whispered, his blue eyes afire. “We will be married. You will be my queen, Agatha. Because you deserve a happy ending. And I will find a way to get us there. Trust me. That’s all I ask. I need you to trust me.”

  Agatha had lost her breath, taken by the heat of his gaze, a passion she’d never seen in him before.

  “You must be very hungry,” she said, kissing him again.

  Tedros guided her out from behind the tree, just in time to join the others.

  Agatha was still tasting Tedros, her skin hot, her hair a mess . . . For a second, she’d forgotten why they were here. She’d forgotten a monster had stolen her best friend and was trying to kill them. All she could think about was the look in her prince’s eyes.

  The sound of loud banging broke her trance. Tedros and Hort pummeled the door of a green bungalow with a terra-cotta rooftop, the two boys practically drooling. Agatha expected the door to fly open and Masha Mahaprada, the Master of Dining, to appear in a storm of gold feathers and give them each a slap.

  Instead, the door popped open.

  The prince pushed in, the group crowding behind him. “Let me do the talking—”

  Agatha stopped cold. So did the rest of them.

  The ballroom of Beauty and the Feast, once glittering with magical chandeliers, peacock-feather tablecloths, singing hummingbirds, and spreads of golden-goose egg fondue, fairy-churned butterbread, and chocolate waterfalls . . . was now completely hollowed out.

  “Out of business, loves,” said a voice from the corner.

  Agatha turned to a matronly fox in a white apron, sweeping the floor, two baby foxes clinging to her.

  “Impossible,” Guinevere spurned. “How can the most famous restaurant in all the Woods be out of business?”

  “No one comin’ to Sherwood Forest anymore, love, that’s how,” the fox replied, going on with her sweeping. “Not since Robin Hood teamed up with the Sheriff. Everyone afraid Sheriff’s gonna come and make ’em pay the piper. Why’d you think they loved Robin ’round these parts? Long as Robin and the Sheriff were at odds, no one here paid their taxes, did they? Been goin’ on for years. Hoity-toity types takin’ shelter in the Forest. There’s a reason the last line of Beauty and the Feast’s song was ‘Always pay in cash’ . . .” The fox chuckled. “Moment Masha heard Sheriff might be in cahoots with Robin, he whisked elsewhere, along with everyone else. Not payin’ taxes ain’t the only sneak happenin’ in Sherwood, if you know what I mean. Had to stay meself ’cause of the pups. Can’t be movin’ ’em ’til they’re older. Suppose I could rustle up somethin’ for you lot if you’re desperate?” She looked up—

  But there wasn’t anyone there.

  “NEED TO GET to Robin,” Agatha insisted, Tedros jogging at her side, the two of them clearing low branches.

  “No wonder we haven’t seen any people,” said her prince.

  “The place was a den of vice. Robin’s job was to keep the Sheriff away,” his mother added, catching up. “Arthur came here too. Mostly right after he was crowned, to escape the pressure. That’s how he and Robin became friends. Whole forest was a sinful hideaway, where people could do as they liked. Even the King of Camelot.”

  “What happens in Sherwood stays in Sherwood,” said Hort.

  “Until the Sheriff comes. Then no one stays in Sherwood at all,” said Nicola.

  Agatha bit down. “There’s a Snake ruling the Woods and all people care about is their taxes?”

  Tedros gripped her wrist, stalling in his tracks.

  Agatha followed his stare.

  The treehouses were torn down. Robin and his Merry Men’s homes, all bashed to filth and strewn to the ground, the paper lanterns that once connected their rogue village ripped apart too, the pieces floating in the morning light like confetti.

  Agatha found a handwritten poster tacked to a tree:

  WANTED

  ROBIN HOOD

  DEAD OR ALIVE

  BY THE PEOPLE

  For ruining their fun!

  Agatha pivoted to the others. “Marian’s Arrow. Now.”

  By the time they made it to the clearing, Agatha’s heart was in her throat.

  Then came the smell.

  A putrid scent of rotten eggs and dung that made them hold their noses and gulp for breath.

  Marian’s Arrow had been pelted with refuse, the familiar painting of a young Robin Hood kissing Maid Marian on its outside wall now vandalized to have Robin Hood kissing the Sheriff instead. The motto of the place—“Leave All Ye Troubles Behind”—had been scrawled over to read:

  YOU ARE OUR TROUBLES

  More graffiti littered the door.

  SHERIFF LOVER

  ROBIN OF NOTTINGHAM

  MERRY TRAITORS

  Fists clenched, stifling her breath, Agatha pried the door open. A charred, acid smell overwhelmed her, instantly making her eyes water. She heard Hort and Nicola coughing, their footsteps hugging hers as they made their way into Robin Hood’s late-night haunt, now burned to ash. Agatha lit her fingerglow, Hort’s sapphire glow and Nicola’s soft-yellow beaming around hers, illuminating blackened table stumps and toasted fragments of chairs. Shattered beer mugs and plates crunched under their shoes, chunks of a chalkboard hawking daily specials—the Blue Plate Robin, Marian’s Mead—

  “Wait . . . ,” said Nicola.

  Agatha followed her glow to a singed countertop, where Maid Marian used to tend bar. Only there was something embedded in the ash . . . something that made a pit in Agatha’s stomach . . .

  A feather.

  A green feather.

  Agatha’s knees buckled.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” said Hort quietly.

  Agatha’s shaking fingers touched the feather, thinking of the man who’d sacrificed his friends, his home, his life to help her. Not Robin, too. Another grown-up cut down by her fairy tale. Another one killed because they’d taken her side. Agatha held the feather closer. Would Readers come to know the real Robin Hood? Would the Storian survive to tell the tru—

  Robin’s feather shimmered.

  Something slipped off it.

  A green powder that sprinkled onto the countertop, rearranging into a pattern in the ash.

  The crest seeped into the cinders and vanished.

  Agatha gaped at the scorched bar.

  Did that happen?

  Am I imagining things?

  Pitter-patter echoed on the roof. P
lip. Plip. Plip. A dance of rain, a storm blowing in.

  Agatha was still staring at the bar, trying to remember the details of the message Robin left behind—

  Then she heard it. Under the rain.

  The sharp rustling from the back of the pub.

  A closet door vibrating . . . shaking.

  “Not opening that,” Hort said.

  Nicola didn’t hesitate. She stepped in front of Hort, sucked in a nervous breath, and threw the door open—

  “Holy hell,” Hort blurted.

  Inside the closet were three of Robin Hood’s Merry Men, bound with rope and gagged with napkins, their faces and chests painted with red, raging words.

  SHERIFF MEN

  Instantly, Hort and Nicola were on them, untying their ropes, yanking out their gags, helping them to their feet.

  Agatha’s neck seared red, anger seizing her like a collar. Merry Men, hog-tied like pigs? Merry Men, once the heroes of this place? All because people wanted Robin and the Sheriff to stay enemies so they could hoard more money? Once Tedros was king, she’d find those responsible and punish them—

  Tedros.

  “Where’s Tedros?” she breathed.

  Her prince and his mother had never entered the bar.

  Panic ripped through her. Through the cracked-open door, Agatha caught a glimpse of movement outside: falling slashes of white . . . like stones . . . or arrows . . .

  Plip. Plip. Plip.

  It wasn’t rain.

  She threw aside a crumbling chair, running so hard she lost a clump, and crashed against the front door, sliding outside into the dirt. “Tedros!”

  He was there.

  Exactly where she’d left him.

  Standing beneath the trees with his mother.

  Surrounded by thousands and thousands of scrolls, blanketing the forest.

  Each was identical: a single sheet of parchment, tied with a silver string, stamped with the seal of a Lion.

  King Arthur’s seal.

  Agatha looked up as more scrolls snowed from the sky, whiting out the floor of Sherwood Forest, catching in its trees, the magical storm extending beyond the wood, through the pink-and-gold sky, to kingdoms near and far.

  Slowly, she looked back at Tedros, her eyes wide.

  Then she saw the opened scroll in his palm, limp at his side, his fingers specked with wax from his father’s seal.

  Tedros blinked at her, ghost-pale.

  “Looks like we found my first test.”

  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 de
clare 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—