One True King

by Soman Chainani

  The camel spat a gob of fire past Sophie’s ear.

  “Must everything in our story be twisted and barbarous?” Sophie moaned.

  She peeked back at Agatha, expecting the usual wry response. But instead, Aggie looked afraid. More than afraid. She looked lost.

  “No, I mean, how did we get here?” Agatha said. “So far from a happy ending?”

  “We were meant for a bigger life, Agatha,” Sophie reminded. “From the beginning. August Sader told the School Master that a Reader would be his true love . . . the Evil soul Rafal had been waiting for. That’s why Rafal kidnapped Readers like us to this world. To find his true love. But Sader lied to him: because he knew that you and I would kill Rafal. That our love would destroy him. After Rafal died, we thought the story was over. We assumed our happy ending would last forever. Because that’s what storybooks taught us. That Good always wins. That Ever After is Ever After. But our fairy tale changed the rules. We punched holes in the old ways of Good and Evil. And now we’re in a new tale where it’s no longer enough to be Good. The Storian wants more from us. Enough to risk its own destruction. To win, we have to follow our story wherever it leads. Beyond Ever and Never. Beyond Man and Pen. To the End of Ends.”

  Agatha went quiet behind her, her body no longer rigid, a calm settling into her breath. She touched Sophie’s shoulder.

  “To the End of Ends,” said Agatha.

  The words echoed in the dark forest.

  Wisps of blue smoke floated down and curdled in front of Sophie, a message in Hort’s scraggly glow: “Tell Agatha to switch with me.”

  Sophie waved away the smoke. “You know, for a boy with a girlfriend, he certainly doesn’t act like it.”

  “Which makes me wonder why Nicola is with him at all,” said Agatha, her tone lighter, as if gossiping about someone else’s love life was a tonic for doom. “Nicola’s as sharp as they come. She’s read our fairy tale and knows every detail. She must know Hort can’t let go of you.”

  “And having read our story, she also thinks Hort’s too good for me, which is why she continues to date him,” said Sophie. “Nic’s a Reader like us. She grew up reading tales where witches don’t have boyfriends. To her, Hort liking me is unnatural. She truly believes he deserves someone better. Someone like her. And that if she stays with him, Hort will eventually see the light. But that implies love is rational. That when backed into a corner, the heart does the sensible thing. But that’s where Hort and I are the same. Neither of us has the least control over our heart.”

  “Hmm. Interesting,” Agatha said.

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Our third year, Hort saw a vision in the Wish Fish lake. When we were at Guinevere’s safe house. The fish told him that you and him would be married in the end. And we’re not yet at The End . . .”

  “I know this will surprise you, but I’ve considered it, Aggie,” said Sophie. “Especially after Hort tried to rescue me from Rhian. For the briefest of moments, I saw him as my prince . . . I saw what our story together could be . . . And there are moments, now more than ever, where I think: Take a chance. Date the weasel. Go for the doting, soft boy instead of the sultry hunk who ends up wanting to kill me. At least I’ll be loved. At least I’ll have kisses without a knife in my back.” Sophie paused. “But then I think . . . where’s the challenge in that?” She grinned back at her friend.

  “And you wonder why witches don’t have boyfriends,” said Agatha.

  NEVER ENTER THE Woods at night.

  That had been one of the first rules Sophie had learned at the School for Good and Evil. And with good reason. After sunset, the forest turned into a haunting ground. Red and yellow eyes twinkled like jewels in the underbrush, followed by the gleam of sharp teeth. Dark outlines flitted across trees: snouts, claws, wings. The night came with its own sounds, too, a steady roll of growls and skitters and shrieks. The deeper you prowled into the Woods, the more it prowled back, tickling the crooks of your legs, breathing at your neck. But safe atop the camel, Sophie took in the night with new eyes. Fluorescing green spores on poisonous ivy. Black scorpions, shiny like obsidian. Red and blue snakes twined around a tree. There was beauty in the danger, if you let yourself see it.

  The thoughts were fleeting. Sophie knew it was only a matter of time before they ran into someone after Agatha. A few hours into their trek and they’d already caught glimpse of two teenage boys, a lone dwarf, a witch wheeling a cart . . . but all bustled by with hardly a glance, as if using the dark to hide from something themselves.

  “That age potion must be working,” Agatha said. “Merlin’s getting heavier.”

  Sophie studied the child strapped to her friend, his body bigger, his hair bushier than when they’d left school, the once baby-sized robes seeming to magically grow with him. Merlin eagerly sucked milk from his blue hat, leaking all over Agatha.

  “Make Mama wet!” the wizard chimed, rubbing milk into her hair.

  “Now I see why you hate children,” said Agatha.

  “He’s in the terrible twos. For the night anyway,” Sophie noted. “Hester said to feed him the next dose of potion. That’ll grow him to three by tomorrow.”

  “Already heavy on my back at two.”

  “Let me hold him, then. At least for a little while.”

  “He’s due for a poo.”

  “Give him to me, Aggie.”

  Agatha unhooked Merlin with a sigh and handed him to Sophie, who used her good hand to secure him in her lap—

  The Woods vanished.

  Sophie was high on a cloud, silver stars winking against a purple sky.

  The Celestium.

  Someone was sitting next to her.

  Tedros.

  Tedros, who had no head.

  His neck a bloody stump.

  “Peekaboo!” a voice said.

  She turned and saw Tedros’ decapitated head floating in the air behind her.

  “Peekaboo!”

  Sophie screamed—

  But now she was back in the forest, so jolted with shock that she was about to fall off the camel, the baby with her, before Agatha lunged and saved them both.

  “Have you lost your mind!” she berated Sophie.

  Sophie gaped at Merlin, the child grinning at her. The wizard had done it. Was it a prank? More terrible twos? And yet, the way Merlin was smiling, so calm and assured . . .

  “Wait. Did something happen?” Agatha asked suddenly, her expression changing, as if she’d had her own bout with Merlin’s tricks. “Sophie, what did you see?”

  Your boyfriend in two pieces.

  “Nothing,” Sophie said out loud. “Just got dizzy.”

  Hort’s glow-smoke drifted in front of her again, a new message: “Saw you fall. I’m coming down.”

  Sophie scrawled back in pink glow—“Come down and I’ll give you a slap”—swatting the message up to him.

  Hort stayed where he was.

  They rode on. Freed from carrying Merlin, Agatha promptly fell asleep against Sophie’s shoulder. The wizard poked at the vial sticking out of Sophie’s dress pocket.

  “Drinkie,” he peeped.

  Sophie pulled out the bottle of green goo that Hester had given her and squeezed a few steamy drops onto Merlin’s tongue, the child eager for it, despite the potion’s hellish smell and the face he made upon swallowing. Sophie tried to shake off what she’d seen in the Celestium, while Merlin sang nonsense and toyed with her veil. Every time she looked at him, he seemed to have grown, his diaper no longer soiled every hour. Instead, he’d tug on Sophie with a spooked look, his new way of indicating he needed to relieve himself. Time slowed to a crawl, the wizard’s growth outpacing the night, until at last the black sky started to blue. The camel peered up at Uma, expecting her to scout the path and signal a spot to hide until morning. But the stymph stalled, Uma hesitating . . .

  There were campfires ahead, circled by shadows.

  “Aggie, look,” Sophie nudged.

  Agatha
snored awake. Her eyes widened. “Pirates,” she breathed, taking in the fleet of Camelot guards, led by Wesley, his sunburnt face visible through his helmet.

  But not just pirates, Sophie realized.

  Wolves.

  Dozens of them, man-wolves and werewolves alike, mixed with Japeth’s army, the wolves’ hulking torsos and feral faces flamelit as the teams shared roasted rabbit and squirrel.

  Sophie looked to Uma for guidance, but treetops and rising smoke had obscured the stymph. Sophie tugged on the camel’s reins, reversing course, but more wolves were coming that way, towing a dead boar. The camel hustled forward, sneaking a narrow path around the camp. Sophie tightened her veil and Agatha grabbed Merlin’s blue hat to fashion her own mask, both girls keeping their heads low.

  “Bloodbrook ain’t no friend to Camelot,” Wesley said to the largest man-wolf, as the returning wolves heaped the boar on the fire. “King musta promised yers a pretty penny to help us catch Agatha.”

  “Storian hasn’t written the tale of a Bloodbrook Never in a hundred years. Closest we came was that pathetic Hort, who played the fool in Agatha’s tale,” said the wolf leader. “No legends or heroes to believe in anymore. Reason we’ve become a slum instead of the kingdom we once were. If Rhian gets the Pen’s powers, he promised to restore Bloodbrook to glory.”

  “With yer noses helpin’ us, king’ll win the second test in no time,” said Wesley. “Track that wench down like a dog.” He smiled at the wolf leader. “No offense.”

  And yet, with the smoke and meat, none of them caught scent of Agatha, who was slipping right past them, almost out of the thicket. Sophie tried to quiet Merlin, who was squirming for Agatha as the camel skirted the enemy camp, about to break into open Woods. But Merlin thrashed harder in Sophie’s arms, angling for Agatha—

  His hat, Sophie realized.

  He wanted it back.

  Merlin started to swell red.

  No, no, no, Sophie prayed.

  The wizard went redder, redder, redder.

  She covered his mouth—

  Merlin exploded.

  A loud, piercing wail that startled even the camel.

  Agatha and Sophie froze. Merlin, too.

  Wolves and guards raised their eyes.

  The Woods went still.

  Instantly, the camel fled, but wolves surrounded it. The camel spat a blast of fire, torching one, but the rest of the wolves tackled it to the ground, hoisting Sophie and Agatha off, separating them from Merlin, before they cut the camel’s reins and stuffed them in its mouth.

  As wolves gripped the two veiled girls and a guard gagged Merlin, Wesley approached, sword in hand.

  “Heidy-ho, fair lasses. May I ask where yer going inna middle of a night wit a Shazaboo camel?”

  Sophie looked at Agatha. Agatha looked at Sophie. Each knew who was the better liar.

  “To the island of Markle Markle. Hafsa and I are to dance for the king,” Sophie touted, nodding at hat-masked Agatha. The white scarf around Sophie’s nose and mouth magically tightened, leaving only her green eyes visible. “We’ve been sent by the sultan. A diplomatic mission.”

  “Markle Markle, eh?” said Wesley. “And where izzat? East of Shangri-la and West of Santy Claus’ den?”

  “Off the shores of Ooty, actually,” Sophie replied.

  Wesley grinned. “Lies.”

  “To a guard of Camelot, perhaps,” said Sophie. “The island is hidden by fog. Visible only to maidens and pirates, of which you are neither.”

  Her emerald gaze cut through him.

  Wesley stopped grinning.

  “Show yer face,” he said. “Both of ye.”

  Neither girl obeyed.

  “Then I’ll do it meself,” he snarled, his sword reaching for Sophie’s veil—

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Sophie calmly. “Remove a girl’s veil and you’ll be cursed to die before the day is done.”

  Wesley stared at her. Then at Agatha.

  “Bad death!” Agatha piped, with a hideous accent.

  Wesley turned to his men. “That true?”

  No one disputed it.

  “Best be on our way then,” Sophie said, breaking free—

  “Not until you dance,” said a voice.

  The largest man-wolf stepped into the firelight. The pack leader.

  “What?” Sophie asked, off guard.

  “Whole Woods is searching for a fugitive girl about your age. King Rhian’s orders,” the man-wolf spoke. “If you are who you say you are, then prove it. One dance and you’re free to go.”

  Sophie hesitated, but Agatha jumped in. “No moosic,” she said, sounding like a stuffed-up goat.

  “Exactly,” Sophie echoed. “No music, no dance.”

  A steady beat punctured the silence.

  Both girls looked up at two wolves, rapping on guard armor with sticks.

  Tikka tik tok . . . Tikka tik tok . . .

  Another wolf slapped his paw against a stone: duk duk dop . . . duk duk dop . . .

  A last wolf threw mulch into the fire, with a percussive pahhh . . . pahhh . . .

  The man-wolf leader bared teeth at Sophie.

  “Dance,” he said.

  Sophie glared back at the wolf.

  If there was one thing wolves and men had in common, it was that they underestimated the power of a girl.

  Sophie could feel Evelyn’s dress changing on her skin, as if she had full command over it the same way Japeth controlled his scims. Soon her white riding clothes had become a sparkly fitted halter and matching harem pants, her veil coated in glitterdust.

  The wolf stepped back, startled.

  Sophie kicked off her shoes, her arms flurrying, her body spinning into motion. Around her enemies she danced, making them dizzy with her whirls and twists, her bandaged hand grazing Wesley and wolf with teasing touches, before her good hand slashed nails across their cheeks, drawing blood. They were too entranced to revolt, watching Sophie twirl with speed and glimmer, like a sylph born out of the fire, yanking guards’ hair to jeté over them and clutching wolves’ throats to launch into luscious arabesques. The beat quickened, the wolves gaping wet-mouthed. A long time ago, a Beast had punished Sophie by stealing her beauty. Now his kin were slaves to it. Faster and faster, the music went, Sophie heightening her glissades, dropping into splits, capping moves with winks and trills, tossing a guard’s meal into the fire for a last spike of flames . . . before she thrust her heel in a high, stabbing kick, which connected hard with Wesley’s head, knocking his helmet into the fire and revealing his peeling, mottled face.

  “Strange you don’t know Markle Markle,” Sophie cooed, eyeing him. “Look more pirate than Camelot guard to me.”

  Wolves gave Wesley an odd glance as if they agreed.

  “Best of luck finding your fugitive. Come, Hafsah,” Sophie said, snatching Merlin from a guard and strutting towards the tied-up camel—

  “Stop.”

  Sophie turned.

  The wolf was pointing at Agatha. “She dances too.”

  Sophie cleared her throat. “Hafsah only does private dances. For kings who pay their weight in gold.”

  “Dance,” Wesley commanded, honed in on Agatha.

  A guard stripped Merlin from Sophie.

  The music began again.

  Tikka tik tok.

  Tikka tik tok.

  Agatha peeked at the treetops, the stymph long gone, then at baby Merlin in the guard’s arms, as if hoping the wizard would rescue them. But he just chewed on his gag like a pacifier, beaming at his “Mama” and clapping along to the wolves’ beat.

  The man-wolf tapped his claw in the dirt, his lips curling over jagged teeth.

  Sophie gave Agatha an encouraging nod. Come on, Aggie. Surely she could muster a competent waltz or volta or something. Her friend had received dance lessons at school. And more lessons at Camelot. Besides, dancing was the easiest thing in the world. All it required was comfort of body, grace of movement, and a child’s sense of rhyt
hm.

  Then she saw the ghostly pallor of her friend’s face and remembered that Agatha had none of these things.

  Agatha lifted her leg and shook it a few times. At first Sophie thought this was the warm-up for the dance, but no, this was the dance, her friend gyrating like a flamingo before dropping into a hideous squat and rocking from side to side, her bony knees cracking. “Ooh de lally, ooh de lally,” Aggie mumbled, as if keeping time to a beat that had nothing to do with the one being played. Aggie glanced at Sophie and must have seen her expression because now she was shaking her bottom and waving her arms as if hailing a carriage, before she started running in place as if the carriage had left without her. This went on, the phantom sprint, along with strange hand sweeps like a sad version of tai chi, until she tripped on her cloak and crashed onto her stomach, only to pretend this, too, was the dance, flailing her legs, flashing her dusty petticoat, before lumbering onto her side, caked in dirt, like a mummy washed ashore at the beach.

  Her veil fell off.

  Agatha and Sophie stared at the shrunken wizard hat on the ground.

  Merlin stopped clapping.

  The music halted too, the audience stone silent.

  Slowly Agatha looked up, face in plain sight.

  “Oh, hullo,” she said.

  Like a storm, they came for her, swords and snouts. Sophie blasted her pink glow, but the wolves were already on her, tying her and Agatha up with pig-smelling rope, while Merlin was stuffed into a burlap sack. Sophie strained for breath, Wesley’s knees on her chest, his black nails stabbing her neck, his rancid face in hers—

  “King wants yer friend alive. Never said anythin’ ’bout you.”

  He strangled her so hard that her heart jolted to a stop, the life squeezed out of her, while Agatha screamed into a gag, forced to watch her best friend die—

  Thunder hammered from above.

  A roaring wolf-bomb straight for Wesley, shattering his skull with his fists.

  A crater imploded beneath, swallowing wolves and guards as the new man-wolf landed, swinging Agatha, Sophie, and Merlin onto his back. He grabbed the boar off the roast, axing it at the remaining wolves, painting them with flames and sending them fleeing into the Woods, before savaging the last few guards with blows to the head. Only when they were all gone did he take a breath, his wolf teeth smeared with blood, his fur lit with embers, before Hort held Sophie up by his paw, gnashing into her face.