The School for Good and Evil #5: A Crystal of Time

by Soman Chainani

  It impaled Japeth’s chest.

  Clean through the heart.

  Japeth closed his eyes in shock, stumbling backwards, his face slick with blood.

  Rhian drew the sword out and his brother fell.

  Sophie put a hand to her mouth, watching the scene play out as it had in the crystal. Only this time it was real, the smell of blood and sweat suffocating her.

  Rhian kneeled over Japeth’s body, watching his twin take his last breath.

  The king bowed his head, holding the Snake’s corpse.

  Excalibur lay abandoned behind him.

  Rhian didn’t see Sophie move from the corner.

  The fear was gone from her face.

  Replaced with intent.

  She picked up the sword, her slippered feet creeping along the carpet.

  Without a sound, she raised the sword over Rhian’s back.

  Then she froze.

  Rhian was crying.

  Sobbing.

  Like a little boy.

  Crying for his dead brother.

  Crying for his other half.

  Something in Sophie’s heart stirred.

  A bond of blood she understood.

  “Rhian?” she whispered.

  He didn’t look at her.

  “You can bring him back,” Sophie breathed. “You can use the pen. You can bring him back to life.”

  His sobs went softer.

  “Rhian?”

  Then his cries changed. Louder, wilder, pealing through the silent room. Until Sophie realized they weren’t cries at all.

  They were laughs.

  He turned around, his ice-blue eyes slashing through her. As he stood, he wiped the blood off his face, revealing his milk-white skin.

  A scream caught in Sophie’s throat.

  “Not Rhian,” she choked.

  Not Rhian!

  Not Rhian!

  “Oh?” said the Snake.

  A gold scim floated off his king’s suit and sheared the wet, matted locks of his hair to a close-skulled crop. Then it stroked the Snake’s face like a pen, magically tanning him to a burnished amber.

  “More Rhian than the real thing,” he smiled.

  He stabbed a finger at the hovering scim and it shot through the window like a knife, surged into the sky, and inked a golden message against the slate of gray.

  The wedding of King Rhian and Princess Sophie will take place as scheduled. . . .

  Sophie dashed for the door, but it was still bolted by scims. She recoiled in horror, watching Japeth move towards her, his grin dark and unhinged.

  Agatha!

  Agatha, help me!

  Sophie backed against a wall.

  The Snake put his cold lips to her ear.

  “Ready for a wedding?”

  She belted him in the face and leapt for the sword, her hands finding the hilt—

  But the eels were already coming. As they speared into her ears from both sides, her consciousness fading, the last thing she thought of was her best friend, the other half of her soul, the Lion of her heart.

  26

  AGATHA

  A Grave Mistake

  Agatha dreamt of her own coffin.

  She was trapped inside, water filling it as she pounded and kicked against steel walls, carved with strange symbols, her shouts choked by the liquid coating her face. Tiny black-and-white swans floated past, the size of seahorses, oblivious to her plight. A few seconds more and she was fully underwater, holding her breath and thrashing harder against her coffin . . . but now she felt a deep pain in her ears and then something warm and thick leaking out into the water, turning it red. Blood. Agatha screamed out any air she had left. Around her, swans began to sink like stones. Agatha bashed at the walls, but she was losing consciousness, the coffin’s sides closing in. She clawed at her own tomb, her last breaths leaving, her face reflected in the murderous steel.

  Only it wasn’t her reflection.

  It was Sophie’s.

  Agatha threw herself awake. “Sophie,” she gasped, lunging through pitch-dark—

  She hit her face on a hard wood beam and ricocheted backwards into more wooden beams, arranged in a lattice around her like a cage. A birdcage. For a moment, she thought she was still dreaming. Then she looked through her cage at two other birdcages, hooked to a thick blanket over a camel’s rump, each cage filled: Tedros and Guinevere in one, Hort and Nicola in the other. The camel teetered downhill in the moonlight, kicking up dust around gravestones.

  “Sultan of Shazabah gives me gold. Tells me: ‘bring camel across Savage Sea to King Rhian,’” said the camel’s rider as the birdcages jostled, sending the prisoners tumbling. “Wedding gift for king.”

  The rider looked back: a balding beaver with yellow-stained teeth.

  “Extra wedding gifts now,” he said, grinning at his prisoners. “Extra gold for Ajubaju.”

  That’s when Agatha remembered everything.

  AS HER CAGE tossed her around, Dovey’s bag under her arm, Agatha watched Tedros probe at his cage bars with his fingerglow, only to see his gold spell burn out. Either the cages were cased in magic or the wood was too dense to penetrate.

  “Told you we should have gone through the Stymph Forest,” Hort groused to Nicola in their coop. “Fastest way to Avalon. And we wouldn’t have gotten caught!”

  “Skirting the coastline was the safest plan,” Nicola argued, her voice masked by the camel’s grunts as Ajubaju smacked it with a stick. “We were nearly to the Lady of the Lake. If we hadn’t passed those docks just as the Shazabah ship came in…”

  “Or if Tedros’ mother hadn’t barreled straight into the beaver,” Hort whispered.

  “It was dark,” Guinevere sighed.

  The camel tripped over a headstone, launching the old queen across her cage—

  Tedros caught her in his arms. He glowered at Hort. “You’re looking for someone to blame. I’m looking for a way out. Difference between a boy and a man.”

  Hort grumbled, glancing away.

  Tedros gripped his bars, trying to snap them, his face red, muscles swollen, battling his cage the way he once battled his father’s sword in the stone. He failed now as he did then. Agatha and her prince locked eyes through their cages. Tedros’ father had given him a message: Unbury Me. Now they needed to follow that command and dig up the old king. Something is in that grave, Agatha thought. Something that could give them a chance against Rhian even when all seemed lost. But after a full day of sneaking up the coast from Gnomeland, with only a few miles to go, they’d been snared by Ajubaju, a goon for hire, who’d nearly killed Agatha in Avalon once before. Now with the beaver towing them back to Camelot, they were passing through a different gravesite altogether: the Garden of Good and Evil, where Evers and Nevers of the Woods were buried.

  A glass coffin with a fair princess resting beside her prince mirrored blurs of gold overhead, and Agatha glanced up to see Lionsmane’s announcement of King Rhian and Sophie’s wedding glowing against a star-filled sky. Residues of her dream fluttered in her chest: the black-and-white swans . . . the blood coming out of her ears . . . Sophie’s reflection as her own. . . . Her soul was trying to tell her something. But what? They’d been on the road more than a day since Lionsmane’s message had branded in the sky and there’d been no change to it. No sign that it was anything other than the truth. Which meant there was less than a day left until Rhian and Sophie were married. Until Rhian had the Storian’s powers. Until Agatha, Tedros, and all their friends were dead. And their only hope was in a king’s coffin that they were riding farther and farther away from.

  “That’s where my dad’s buried. Vulture Vale,” Agatha heard Hort whisper to Nicola. “Not Necro Ridge or anything, but decent enough. School Master got my dad a proper burial. Only nice thing that bastard ever did.”

  “Must have wanted something from you in return,” said his girlfriend.

  “Not even. Said he understood the bond between father and son. That one day he’d have a son w
ith his true love,” Hort replied. “Gave me the creeps. His true love was Sophie.”

  Agatha shuddered.

  “Wait. Look there,” said Tedros, pointing ahead. “On Necro Ridge.”

  Atop a hill with the most lavish villain memorials—menacing statues, obsidian obelisks, thorn-wrapped tombs—rose a polished slab of stone, freshly laid and bigger than any other, lit by torches on both sides. Agatha could read it clearly.

  HERE LIES THE SNAKE

  Terror of the Woods

  Slain by the Lion of Camelot

  As Witnessed by the People

  Agatha thought of the newspapers Devan and Laralisa had shown her when she’d first returned to school. The Camelot Courier had questioned the Snake’s death, claiming the Cryptkeeper had never buried him, only to have other kingdoms’ papers confirm the Snake’s burial in Necro Ridge. No doubt Rhian took matters into his own hands after the Cryptkeeper spoke to the Courier and had this showy grave made to avert further queries. A grave Agatha knew must be empty. As for the Cryptkeeper . . . it was telling that he was nowhere to be seen.

  They were nearing the outskirts of the cemetery now. In hours, they’d be back at Camelot.

  “We have to do something,” Agatha said to Tedros. “Fast.”

  “Magic won’t work. Can’t break the cage. No one’s coming to save us,” the prince gritted, shielding his mother from the rough ride. He pointed at the bag under Agatha’s arm. “What about Dovey’s crystal?”

  “You want me to throw it at the beaver’s head?” asked Agatha sarcastically. “It’s not a weapon!”

  “Then why did you bring it?”

  “Dovey told me not to let it out of my sight!”

  “Well, she wouldn’t know, would she?” Tedros said, frustrated. “I refuse to die on a camel—”

  A fireball streaked over Tedros’ head, singeing his hair. They spun to see the camel spit a new flamebomb at Agatha, who ducked just in time.

  “No more talking,” Ajubaju warned.

  The beaver turned back around.

  “Not an ordinary camel,” Guinevere whispered to the others, undaunted. “Spitfire camel. Invincible killers, like gargoyles. Sultan of Shazabah has an army of them. Arthur was wary; thought those camels gave Shazabah too much power. King must really trust Rhian to be giving him one as a gift. . . .”

  Agatha’s mind snagged on one of the old queen’s words.

  Gargoyles.

  “Invincible killers.”

  Only Agatha had beaten a gargoyle once. Her first year at school. . . . She’d used her special talent to stop it from eating her. A talent she wasn’t sure she still had.

  Somewhere in the cave of her heart, an old spark kindled.

  Agatha hoisted herself onto her knees, clutching Dovey’s bag tighter. For her talent to work, she needed to look in the camel’s eyes, but from her cage, all she could see was Ajubaju’s big buttocks obscuring the creature’s head.

  She closed her eyes.

  Can you hear me?

  No answer.

  Maybe talents dried up like unnourished fruit.

  Maybe talents had a life and death of their own.

  Agatha focused harder.

  Tell me if you can hear me.

  Give me a sign.

  A breeze cooled her face.

  She opened her eyes to see the camel raise its tail and poo, just missing her.

  Agatha smiled.

  So you can hear me.

  I’m your friend here, not the beaver.

  I know what you’ve left behind.

  The camel’s steps stuttered, sending the prisoners toppling against their bars. Ajubaju lashed the camel harder and the animal moaned. Agatha struggled back onto her knees.

  I can help you.

  This time, the camel subtly peeked back.

  You’re in a cage, came its voice. A female’s. You’re in no position to help anyone.

  Agatha met its eyes. In the camel’s dark pools, she saw Present and Past. Agatha’s heart throbbed harder, as if pumping for two.

  I hear wishes. That is my gift, she said to the camel. And I know your wish is to return home. To your two daughters. To the rest of your herd.

  The camel stalled in surprise, then faced forward, withstanding more blows from Ajubaju’s stick.

  I am a soldier of Shazabah, the animal spoke coldly, moving faster. I do as ordered.

  No one is a soldier first, said Agatha. You are a mother first. A sister. A daughter. A friend.

  You’ll say anything to be free, the camel scoffed.

  We can both be free if you help me, Agatha replied.

  I’m a gift for King Rhian, said the camel. If I reject my duty and return to Shazabah, I’ll be killed.

  King Rhian’s reign will soon be at an end, Agatha replied. The sultan will be relieved you never made it to Camelot. Hide in the Woods until that time comes. Then you will be reunited with your family.

  The camel marched ahead silently.

  Why should I trust you? it said.

  For the same reason I trust you, Agatha answered. Because I have to.

  The camel glanced back at her. Then it faced forward.

  What they say about you is true, Agatha of Woods Beyond.

  Who’s “they”? Agatha asked.

  The camel didn’t answer.

  Sharply, it began to turn.

  Get ready, the camel said.

  Then it was running, back into the graveyard, towards the densest patch of tombs.

  “What’s happening!” Ajubaju blurted, beating the camel—

  Agatha spun to her friends. “Take cover!”

  Tedros, Hort, Nicola, and Guinevere gaped at her.

  “Now!” Agatha cried—

  At full sprint, the camel threw itself against a tomb’s obelisk, shattering Agatha’s birdcage and spraying her to the dirt in a hail of wood. The camel bashed Tedros’ cage against a headstone, then Hort’s cage against another, freeing the prisoners. Shell-shocked, Ajubaju seized the camel’s throat, trying to strangle it—

  The camel reared like a horse, bucking the beaver off and pinning him to the ground with its hoof. Gobs of fire spewed from the camel’s mouth, burning an outline in the dirt around the beaver’s body. The ground imploded. With a scream, Ajubaju plunged into the hole, disappearing into darkness.

  The camel shook out its fur, as if it had hardly broken a sweat, before surveying the stunned prisoners strewn across graves. It found the one it was looking for. Gently, it nosed Agatha out of her cage’s wreckage and pressed its warm, scratchy cheek to hers.

  Thank you, princess.

  The camel bowed to Tedros and her friends . . . then pranced into the forest.

  Flat on her back, hugging Dovey’s bag, Agatha stared into the sky, stars winking down at her. None of her friends moved. It was so quiet Agatha could hear the embers crackling around Ajubaju’s new grave.

  “What just happened?” Hort rasped, shaking wood out of his pants.

  Tedros pulled Agatha up. “Whatever happened, I’m pretty sure I know who was responsible.”

  Agatha blushed, holding tight to her prince’s hand.

  Then her face changed.

  “Someone’s here,” she breathed.

  Tedros and the others tracked her eyes down the slope.

  On Necro Ridge, shadows were coming out of a carriage.

  Agatha recognized the carriage at once.

  It was the same one that had taken away her best friend.

  FIVE SHADOWS TIPTOED between graves until they got close enough to see. They hunched behind a tomb crowned with a wreath of flowers. Agatha peeked out first.

  Two pirates in Camelot armor were digging up the Snake’s grave. Kei watched over these pirates, his arms crossed, the captain’s face a cold mask. Soon, they’d dug enough for Agatha to confirm what she’d already known: the grave was empty.

  Kei opened the carriage and the pirates reached inside, Agatha expecting them to bring out the king.

  Ins
tead, the pirates brought out something else.

  A body.

  Quickly, they lowered the corpse into the Snake’s grave and began refilling it.

  “Who is it?” Nicola asked. “Who are they burying?”

  “I can’t see,” said Hort, leaning further over the tomb—

  He knocked into the wreath and it spun away, smacking into an adjacent headstone.

  Kei swiveled in their direction—

  Hort plastered to the ground.

  “He saw me,” the weasel croaked. “Definitely saw me.”

  “They’re coming for us, then,” said Guinevere.

  “Light your glows,” Agatha ordered.

  They waited behind the tomb, fingertips lit, prepared to defend themselves. . . .

  Minutes passed.

  No one came.

  Slowly Agatha peered out.

  The Snake’s grave was filled in. Down the ridge, the pirates were climbing back into their carriage.

  Agatha crawled out from behind the tomb. . . .

  Tedros squeezed her hand. “Wait for me.”

  The prince followed her into the moonlight—

  Both of them froze.

  Kei was watching them.

  He stood on the Snake’s grave, his face half-lit by the torches, his eyes pinned on the prince and princess.

  Panicked, Agatha shielded Tedros, her fingerglow aimed at the captain.

  But Kei didn’t attack.

  He just gazed at her. Not with anger or threat . . . but with something softer. Sadness. Mourning.

  The captain kneeled down and laid a rose on top of the Snake’s grave.

  Then he glanced back at Agatha and Tedros one last time, before he hustled to join his men. Agatha watched the horses quietly pull the royal carriage back into the night, stars moving against the horizon as if to make way for it.

  Tedros, meanwhile, was already scrambling downhill. He flung himself to the Snake’s grave and started scraping away dirt with both hands.

  “What is he doing?” Guinevere asked Agatha, as Hort and Nicola rose from the ground with them. But now, Agatha was running too, Dovey’s bag pounding her flank. By the time she got to the Snake’s grave, Tedros had lurched back in surprise—

  Rhian’s tan face lay uncovered. Blood coated the king’s hairline. Deep, needle-like wounds flecked with black scales dotted the sides of his neck.