The School for Good and Evil #6: One True King

by Soman Chainani

“Wait. So he gets dropped at Camelot. Rafal’s son. At my castle. By my dad,” Tedros growled, “and we get dropped in a middle-of-nowhere snowhole?”

  “Not exactly nowhere,” said Merlin. He flicked his fingers and magically swelled the snow beneath his and Agatha’s feet, raising the mound higher and higher, until the wizard and princess were fifty feet above ground.

  “What about me?” Tedros shouted below.

  “Oops,” said the young wizard, flicking fingers quickly—

  The snow ruptured under Tedros’ feet, sending him plummeting ten feet into ice. “MERLIN!”

  “Still rusty!” Merlin called, with a wink at Agatha, before springing Tedros up on a spout of snow.

  “This is pointless. I just see more swords,” wet Tedros groused, glaring into endless white—

  Only it wasn’t endless, he realized now.

  In the distance, he could see a house on a hill.

  A small farm cottage, breaking up the sweep of snow.

  The same farmhouse where he and his princess once came to hide from the same School Master whose son threatened them now.

  “Agatha?” he rasped.

  But she was looking upwards, straight into the gray sky, which upon closer inspection had a flat, undulating sheen as if it was a glass wall, hiding waves of water behind it . . .

  Not just water.

  Hiding something else too.

  A face.

  Spying on them from behind the sky, before it vanished back into the lake from which it came.

  “Always summer here when the Lady was in good spirits,” said Merlin. “Her mood has changed, it seems.”

  “But why are we here?” Tedros asked Merlin. “Why would Dad drop us in Avalon and Japeth at the castle?”

  “Who’s to say it was your dad and not you who decided that we be dropped here?” said Merlin, cocking a brow, suddenly looking like the wizard Tedros knew, despite his twelve-year-old form. “Japeth would have wished to return to the castle where he could seek the people’s help to win the last test. Maybe deep down, you knew coming here would be your best chance to find the sword.”

  Tedros crossed his arms. “Doesn’t make sense. Why would I come to the Lady of the Lake? What does she have to do with Excal—”

  His eyes widened.

  Merlin grinned crookedly. “Everything to do with it, Tee Tee. She did make it, after all.”

  The prince swallowed. “We have to talk to her, don’t we?”

  “You need to talk to her,” said the wizard boy. “Can’t remember the specifics, but I have the vague feeling she hates me. Old me, I mean.”

  “While you were gone, she tried to kill me,” said Tedros.

  “Mmm, maybe Agatha, then,” the wizard murmured.

  They turned to the girl between them.

  She was still looking into the sky.

  “So let me get this straight,” Agatha spoke finally. “Japeth wished to return to Camelot. Tedros wished to come to Avalon . . .”

  She leveled with the two boys.

  “So where did Sophie wish to go to?”

  26

  SOPHIE

  Don’t Talk to Strangers

  “Yoo-hoo! Boys!” Dean Rowenna sang at the bottom of the staircase, smacking a ruler against her palm. “Hurry up or someone else will find the sword first!”

  Sounds of commotion echoed from the top floor.

  “Emilio! Arjun! Pierre-Eve! And the rest of you whose names I haven’t learned yet!” She rapped the ruler on the banister. “Get your bottoms downstairs at once!”

  Eight boys trampled down the steps of Arbed House, uniform shirts half-buttoned, boots untied, faces in various stages of cleanliness, all with Lion pins on their lapels. Arjun tripped on the last stair, toppling the others in a domino fall.

  “Now I see why Arbed boys are kept separate from the rest of the school,” said Dean Rowenna.

  “Sorry, Dean Rowenna,” Arjun panted. “Dean Brunhilde said we have to say our prayers and brush our teeth and step in the bath for at least five seconds every morning or the Evil will get in.”

  Dean Rowenna lowered her spectacles, revealing emerald eyes, her lips painted matching green, her black hive of hair speared with a pencil and her nose anointed with a big brown wart. She wore a black whipstitch skirt, a green ruffled blouse, and long green boots that shined against black stockings. “Well, Dean Brunhilde isn’t here, is she? Gone to help the Lion find his sword. Called upon by King Rhian himself, since he used to be her student right here, in this very house. Which is why Rhian sent me, his beloved cousin Rowenna, to take Brunhilde’s place as your Dean. And now we, too, will assist the Lion in winning the tournament’s last test.” She leaned in, green eyes sparkling. “Because I know for a fact Excalibur is somewhere here in Foxwood. Which means we’re going to find it, aren’t we?”

  A dark-skulled boy looked suspicious. “Whole Woods is covered in swords. How do you know the real one’s in Foxwood? If that’s true, wouldn’t everyone be searching here?”

  “Emilio’s right. How would you know where King Arthur hid his sword?” said a boy at once bald and littered with dandruff.

  “No one can know where the sword is. They all look exactly the same,” a boy said, dark skin still damp from his bath. “And it’s not like we’ll even know if we find it. Every time I grab one, it stays stuck in the dirt.”

  “And if we do find something suspicious and write the king, he sends his guards to investigate and they probably have a thousand false leads already,” said Emilio.

  “Plus, why would King Rhian ask Dean Brunhilde to help him instead of a wizard or sorcerer?” Arjun peppered. “And why didn’t Dean Brunhilde say bye to us? And why is the wart on your nose a different size every day?”

  “Questioning your new Dean with such arrogance! Speaking so rudely to the blood cousin of the king! All of you!” Dean Rowenna chided. “I see why your households sent you here to be reformed. No matter. I’ll have the Evil out of you soon enough. As to how I know the sword’s whereabouts, let’s call it a Dean’s intuition. And since I’m Rhian’s cousin, there’s no need to piddle with guards. I have a direct line to the Lion himself! Come, my loves. Whoever finds Excalibur will accompany me to tell the king!”

  “I’m gonna find it!” Arjun yelped, bolting out the door.

  “No, I will!” cried the bald boy.

  “Wait for me!” shouted another, and another, until all eight were gone, even stink-eyed Emilio.

  Dean Rowenna watched them go, her smile tightening, before she followed them out to the courtyard, packed with autumn leaves and swords fallen from the sky, her boys yanking uselessly at the hilts.

  They were right, of course.

  There was no way to find Excalibur.

  But she was a witch, after all.

  And witches always find a way.

  SOPHIE COULDN’T BE sure how she ended up in Foxwood, but she had a pretty good idea.

  It was that moment in the Celestium.

  After Arthur had revealed the third test, when a thousand Excaliburs stabbed through the night and ripped open the sky. As she fell, two portals appeared: one to Camelot’s castle, taking Japeth . . . one to Avalon’s lake, taking Agatha and Tedros . . .

  Sophie could feel herself wanting to chase Japeth, to kill him and finish the job this time. In a flash, she was pulled towards the Camelot portal. Then her heart jolted, wishing to be with Agatha, and her body swerved towards the Avalon portal. She had a split second to choose who to follow, to wish for where she wanted to go next . . .

  Which is how she’d ended up falling into bushes near shirtless lads playing rugby, a second before swords rained down from the midnight sky, sending the boys scattering for their lives.

  As Sophie caught her breath in the bushes, Evelyn Sader’s dress magically camouflaging her, one might think this is precisely where Sophie had asked the universe to send her—a harem of athletic, teenage males—but it wasn’t.

  To Sophie’s own surprise, sh
e’d forgone her wish to kill Japeth or stay with Agatha and made a third wish instead.

  A wish to help Tedros win the last test.

  Right then and there, a new portal had opened, and this is where it had sent her.

  Foxwood.

  Which meant the answer to the last test must be here.

  Excalibur was in Foxwood.

  Except there were swords everywhere, she’d realized as she slipped out of the bushes, scanning the blades blanketing the field and streets beyond. A few night owls poked their heads out of windows and, seeing the new landscape, promptly ducked back into their houses. Hiding in the shadows, Sophie grabbed at a few hilts, but they didn’t budge. Which they wouldn’t, of course, until the true king pulled the true Excalibur.

  She had to make sure that king was Tedros.

  But there were obstacles. First off, she was a Wanted girl, with Japeth’s men surely hunting her. And she was famous in the Woods, with most kingdoms still thinking she was Camelot’s queen. The moment she was spotted lurking around, word would get back to the Snake. Plus, there was Foxwood’s sheer size, with countless swords alone within its vast borders. To find Excalibur, she’d need help. Manpower she could supervise until there was an inkling of Arthur’s grail . . .

  That’s when she saw where she’d fallen.

  A gray castle towered above her, bright gold letters carved into stone.

  THE FOXWOOD SCHOOL FOR BOYS

  Boys, Sophie thought.

  A castle full of them . . .

  And weren’t some of those boys missing a Dean?

  SIX DAYS LATER, Sophie roamed the dead grass around Foxwood’s vales, drearily inspecting another cluster of swords while her students’ voices carried from cottage lanes.

  “This one looks suspicious!” Arjun’s voice piped. “The hilt is marked!”

  “With crow poo, you idiot!” Pierre-Eve yelled.

  “Emilio, where you going!” said Arjun. “Headmistress told us not to talk to strangers!”

  A good Dean would go check on Emilio, Sophie thought, but she kept walking in the opposite direction of her students. Her eyes glazed over more swords, on and on and on, her fists balling with frustration. Suddenly, she kicked a blade, then kicked it harder, scuffing its steel. She slapped it with a stun spell for good measure, which ricocheted off the handle and knocked her on her rump. Sophie blinked into the murky sky, Lionsmane’s message still appealing for the Woods’ help.

  Clearly, Japeth was having as much luck as she was.

  Rafal’s son . . .

  And to think she’d kissed that demon at their “wedding.”

  Not by her own volition, but still. A kiss is a kiss.

  Wherever in hell he was, Rafal must be laughing.

  He’d had his revenge.

  For now.

  Her time was coming.

  But first she had to get off the ground, her body still throbbing as she lumbered to her feet. She was tired of looking at the same sword over and over with no clue what she was looking for. She was tired of babysitting smelly boys and reading them stories where Good always won and eating their ghastly meals, which Dean Brunhilde had made them cook to learn “personal responsibility.” She was tired of getting her hopes up every time a student showed her a sword, insisting it was “The One,” only to find a bee nest on the hilt or steel sprayed with skunk stench or a blade caught in tumbleweeds. She was tired of disguising herself to be a Dean, tired of Evelyn’s dress hiding her beauty, tired of the wart she’d conjured on her nose. Most of all, she was tired of missing Agatha.

  “This is stupid,” she growled out loud as if hoping some cosmic voice would reassure that she’d made the right wish to come here . . . that the sword was indeed close for her to find . . .

  A horn blared in the distance.

  It was the Headmistress’s signal, herding the rest of the Foxwood schoolboys on their hunt for the sword. The horn usually sounded at 1:00 p.m., starting the hunt, and sounded again at 3:00 p.m., to signal the boys back to class. Each day, Sophie spied on their efforts, in case one of them found Excalibur, which would send her dashing off to Avalon to tell Tedros. Not that any of them did, of course—including the boys who’d bought phony “Excalibur Detectors” at the market, the sons of blacksmiths who insisted they’d know a king’s sword when they saw one, or the cocky, big-talking lads who claimed to have a drop of Arthurian blood in their veins. Meanwhile, Sophie made it a point to send her own students home for these two hours so she could peek in on the schoolboys undisturbed. (That Foxwood lads tended to be deliriously handsome had nothing to do with it.) Until now, Sophie had also managed to avoid the school’s Headmistress, which meant she’d eluded pesky questions about where Dean Brunhilde had gone. But today, the Headmistress’s horn had come much earlier than usual. It wasn’t even half-past ten.

  Sophie knew she should find her group and hide them in the forest until the second horn in case the Headmistress or other meddling boys came this way. But she didn’t have the energy to wrangle pesky Arjun or insolent Emilio or hoggish Jorgen, who never used a toilet he didn’t miss. Why was it that her story always brought her back to being a steward of dark souls and misanthropes? Was the Storian trying to tell her something? That no matter how she wished her story would go, it would end with her being a Dean somewhere? Perhaps that was the original sin: leaving her post as Evil’s Dean to marry Rhian. Because if she hadn’t left school, if she’d stayed loyal to her Nevers and turned Rhian down, then none of this would have happened. She’d still be stalking the halls of Lady Lesso’s old tower and Tedros would be on his throne.

  But she didn’t want to be a Dean anymore, Sophie reminded herself. Not there or here or anywhere else. She didn’t want to be like Lesso or Dovey or Brunhilde—

  Why?

  All were formidable, intelligent, strong. All were leaders she admired, with honor and wisdom and conviction. What else did Sophie want from a life? Why couldn’t she be happy as a Dean? What was missing?

  Tears stung her eyes, the answer so obvious.

  Love.

  The first of the holy trinity.

  Love. Purpose. Food.

  As Dean, she could have Purpose. She could have Food and earthly delights. But like Lesso and Brunhilde and Dovey before her, Sophie would never have Love. For that was the rule, wasn’t it? To be a good Dean in this world, you sacrificed all attachments and devoted yourself to your students. It wasn’t meant to be a punishment. By the time you became a Dean, you should have had your fun. You were ready to put others’ needs before your own, like a mother would for her child.

  But Sophie’s life had only just begun. She wasn’t ready at all. True, she had Agatha, but Agatha had Tedros, who she’d likely marry and then there’d be babies (ick) and then what would become of her? The spinster best friend? The eternal third wheel? She could picture it now: giving baby Tedros a bath and pureeing his green peas while Agatha and Teddy were off at a court ball. At night, she’d hug a pillow as she slept, her substitute for love. But it wasn’t being alone that was the problem. Sophie didn’t fear loneliness. She’d be perfectly happy in a chateau by herself until the end of her days, feasting on caviar and cucumbers, soaking in milk baths and taking vigorous massages. Indeed, that’s what most people would expect from her. Sophie, who answered to no one. Sophie, who’d learned to be happy on her own . . . But there was no surprise in that ending. Nothing that would challenge her or make her grow. Couldn’t there be another end? Another chance at Ever After, even if she’d failed all her chances thus far?

  As tears and feelings flowed, she looked up to a dark forest. How long had she been walking on her own? Where had she left the boys? Her stomach was gurgling, her forehead clammy. She suddenly felt faint. Was it the lingering effects of her spell that had knocked her on her bum? Or that hellish broccoli quiche the boys made last night? She knew she should turn back before she got too lost, but now she spotted a seed of light through the trees, an opening out of the forest. Perhaps she
could find some chickweed or dandelion to appease her stomach . . . Her pulse slowed, her body weaker with every step. The corners of her mind drew in, but she couldn’t let herself pass out. Not here, where no one would find her. She struggled between trunks and over tangled twigs, breathing shallower, shallower, before she finally limped out of the forest, stumbling into the light—

  Sophie went still.

  A sun-soaked wheat field stretched before her, the tall, golden reeds up to her ears. A breeze swept through, bowing the wheat to the ground, revealing dozens of swords glinting between stalks, their Lion-carved hilts shimmering. And in the middle of these swords, bent over, inspecting each one . . .

  A boy.

  His hair was light brown, his Foxwood school shirt slung over his shoulder, his sweat-drenched chest burly and strong. He sensed Sophie’s presence and looked up with big gray eyes.

  Sophie’s heart thundered. Her head spun.

  “Chaddick?” she gasped.

  The boy rushed towards her—

  But she had already fallen.

  “DRINK THIS,” THE voice ordered.

  Sophie pried her eyes open to a blurry silhouette, holding a glass of creamy goo to her lips. She was on a bed, her head propped by pillows, her blouse scattered with wheat. Her temples spasmed, making her gaze squinty and wet. Slowly, the boy came into focus, with thick eyebrows, a commanding nose, and that surly Chaddick mouth. But he was tall. And Chaddick wasn’t tall. So this couldn’t be Chaddick. Her rescuer was someone else entirely, a thought that made Sophie sit up with a kittenish smile . . . only to remember she wasn’t Sophie, but Dean Rowenna, with ugly clothes and a fat wart.

  “What’s in it?” she asked, pointing at the glass.

  “Bananas, yogurt, and coconut,” the boy replied. “Will get you back on your feet.”

  Sophie didn’t like any of those things, but she sucked it down, ignoring the syrupy taste as her eyes roved the room: a smooth blue mural of a knight fighting a dragon, a closet full of boys’ clothes and boots, and the four-post bed she was on now, with stiff navy sheets. “Where am I?”

  “My brother’s room. Carried you up here,” said the boy. “Would have kept you downstairs . . . but it’s not habitable at the moment.”