“Can’t I go through the line?” Sophie asked.
“The Councillors asked that you don’t,” Grady said quietly, as he and Edaline caught up with them. “The less interaction you have with the crowd, the better.”
“Great—maybe they should just lock me away in Exile.”
Edaline hugged her. “It’s going to be okay. We just need to give the public some time to reset.”
“Or to gather the torches and pitchforks and come after me,” Sophie mumbled.
“They’d come after me, too—if it makes you feel any better,” Fitz said behind her.
Sophie turned to find him leaning against a nearby tree. His smile was too sad to make her heart do anything except break.
“We’ll let you two talk,” Edaline said, taking Grady’s hand and leading him back toward the woods. “Sandor will keep an eye on things while we pay our respects.”
“Tell them I’m sorry,” Sophie called after them.
Edaline turned back. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Sophie. But we will give them your condolences.”
Sophie watched them go, not sure if she should be grateful for not having to face the heartbreaking scene, or mad that the angry crowds were keeping her away.
“My parents are in there too,” Fitz said after a second, waving her over to join him in the shade. “I stayed with them as long as I could, but we were standing near the Hekses and they got everyone all riled up pretty quickly.”
“What were they saying?”
“The usual. That my family needs to get away from you to save our reputation, that we’re ruining the world, blah, blah.” He tore a piece of dead bark from the tree and flung it away.
Sophie’s stomach wrenched as she sat beside him. “If you want to stop hanging out with me—”
“I told you, I’m in. In fact, there’s something I have to tell you—”
“There you are,” Keefe interrupted, stomping over from the exit to the Wanderling Woods. “You could’ve told me about your little private party out here. I’ve been stuck watching my parents play who can pretend to be the saddest? in the middle of a mob that smelled like a goblin’s armpit.”
“I’d be careful what you say,” Sandor warned, pointing to the three scowling goblins behind him.
Keefe shrugged, unfazed. “So . . . ,” he said, his smile fading as he turned to Fitz and Sophie. “Rough weekend?”
“You could say that,” Fitz mumbled, tearing off another piece of dead bark.
“And you,” Keefe said, turning to Sophie, “didn’t I tell you I wanted to be there the next time you—nope, actually, I can’t joke about this.” He shook his head—hard—and sat down facing them. “Are you guys okay?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Fitz answered when Sophie didn’t say anything. “I think I’m still . . . processing it.”
“I think we all are.” Keefe turned to stare at the Wanderlings. “And I’m guessing there’s no chance this could all be a mistake again?”
Fitz shook his head, twisting the piece of bark in his hands until it crumbled. “My dad saw it happen.”
Sophie shuddered, trying not to imagine it.
“So what’s the plan now?” Keefe asked after a painful silence. “And don’t pretend you don’t have one, Foster.”
“But I don’t have one. That’s the problem.”
She’d found no other record of the Neverseen. Jolie’s mirrored compact had been a bust. Vertina wasn’t cooperating. The Black Swan was compromised. And everyone was so distracted by the fire that there’d been no more news about the missing dwarves or the ogre footprints.
All she had were questions and problems.
Fitz glanced over his shoulder and leaned closer. “I might have a plan.”
“Hmm,” Keefe jumped in before Sophie could say anything. “Team Keefe-Foster-Fitz doesn’t have quite the same ring, but I’m still in. Oh—maybe we could be the Keefitzter!”
“Not unless it’s the Keefianaitzter,” Biana informed them as she appeared next to Keefe. “Or the Keefitzeriana.”
“That doesn’t really have the same ring,” Keefe told her. “And have you been there the whole time?”
“Yep. I followed Fitz after he left, figuring I could sneak up on anyone if they tried to hassle him. And then Sophie came out, and I stayed hidden so I could make sure they couldn’t leave me out of their plans.”
Fitz rolled his eyes. “This vanishing thing is going to be a problem, isn’t it?”
“Not if you include me.”
“You guys shouldn’t be doing this,” Sophie said, wondering if Dex was about show up to complete the Let’s Ruin Our Lives Club. “Don’t you see? Everyone blames me for what happened, and they’ll hold that against anyone who’s friends with me.”
“So?” Biana asked.
“So . . . don’t you care that you’re stuck outside the Wanderling Woods instead of standing in the receiving line with the normal people?”
“No,” Keefe answered immediately, with Fitz and Biana only a fraction of a second later.
“You think I care about not getting to be around the people saying horrible things about my best friend and my brother?” Biana asked.
“I’m your best friend?” Sophie said—then realized she was focusing on the wrong thing. “Never mind, what I mean is, they’re only saying that because of me. Because of this like . . . aura of doom that seems to ruin everything I touch.”
“Aura of doom?” Keefe asked, a smirk curling his lips. “Sounds like my kind of party.”
“Mine too,” Fitz chimed in.
“And mine,” Biana agreed. “Besides, you already agreed to this, remember?”
“And I’m the only one with a plan,” Fitz reminded them.
“Hey—I’ve got plans,” Keefe argued.
“Plans that don’t involve tormenting Dame Alina,” Fitz clarified.
“But those are always the best plans!”
Fitz and Biana laughed, and Sophie couldn’t decide if she wanted to join them or scold them. Kenric was dead—and they were sitting outside his funeral, making jokes and . . .
Actually, that was probably exactly what Kenric would’ve wanted. If he were still there, he would’ve laughed right along with them.
“Fine,” she told them, wondering what she was getting herself into. “So what’s the plan?”
“Wait,” Sandor shouted before Fitz could say anything.
“Aw, don’t be like that, Gigantor. We’ll play by your rules—mostly.”
“No,” Sandor insisted, waving Keefe silent and sniffing the air. “Do you smell that?” He turned to the other goblins, who were all unsheathing their swords.
“What is it?” Sophie whispered.
Sandor tightened his grip on his weapon. “Something unpleasant is coming.”
Before he could say anything else, the ground rumbled, creating a wide sinkhole.
Sophie and her friends scrambled back as the goblins shouted orders at each other and surrounded the opening, holding their swords at the ready.
One . . . two . . . three seconds passed.
Then a stocky brown beast leaped out of the fissure, scattering rocks and dirt and grass as it landed with a heavy thud.
“Is that an ogre?” Sophie whispered, staring at the creature’s lumpy face, trying to understand why none of the goblins were attacking.
“Yes,” Sandor said, a snarl in his voice as he lowered his head with a reluctant bow. “This is their king.”
FORTY-TWO
THE OGRE KING, SOPHIE THOUGHT slowly, fairly certain her brain was about to call it quits.
He wasn’t dressed like a king—at least not by elvin standards. Or human standards, for that matter.
The only clothing he wore looked like riveted steel underwear, and his body was shaped like a hairless gorilla on a massive amount of steroids, with skin that reminded Sophie of weathered marble. He carried no weapons and arrived with no guards. And while he did have enormous glittering yellow stones s
et into the centers of his stretched-out earlobes, he had no crown, no scepter, no signet ring. His bald head was marked with some sort of black, squiggly patterns, but it didn’t look kingly. It pretty much just screamed, This dude is scary.
Still, there was something regal about the way he fearlessly faced the goblins, all of whom were at least a foot taller than him. And his scratchy voice held authority as he turned to Sandor and said, “Settle down, goblin. I’m only here to pay my respects.”
For a second Sophie thought Sandor was going to pounce. But his snarl faded to a glare as he stepped back and said, “Then allow us to clear you a path.”
Sandor glanced at Sophie as he turned to leave, and his eyes seemed to be saying, Follow us and I will clobber you!
But there was no way Sophie was going to miss this.
“I’m pretty sure that was the freakiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Fitz whispered as he, Keefe, and Biana caught up with her.
“Yeah, not gonna lie—I almost peed my pants. Did you see his nose?” Keefe curled his fingers in front of his face to mime the gigantic bulbous mass. “He could’ve taken us all out with one sneeze. And his teeth?”
He shuddered.
Fitz and Biana did too—and the king’s gray pointed teeth were terrifying. But Sophie was much more bothered by his eyes.
The two cold silver orbs tucked among the lumps and bumps of his face had a glint to them. A hint of glee that didn’t belong on the face of someone coming to a funeral.
The crowd toppled over themselves to get out of the king’s way, and Sophie and her friends rode the wake, ducking back into the masses when they had a clear view of the stage.
The Councillors stood hand in hand in a precise line, and their bodyguards had formed two lines surrounding them: one on the ground with their backs against the stage, the other behind them, their swords raised.
“King Dimitar,” Councillor Emery said from the center of the line, while all eleven Councillors bowed as one. “How generous of you to come.”
King Dimitar bobbed his head in the briefest bow possible—though he didn’t have much of a neck, so that might have been the best he could do. His droopy chin seemed to connect directly to his muscle-bound shoulders, giving him a permanent hunch.
“I assumed all the kings would be here,” he said, turning to study the sea of curious faces. “But perhaps I was too late to catch them?”
“No,” Councillor Emery said carefully. “They were otherwise engaged.”
“Of course they were,” King Dimitar agreed. “And I’m sure you will have their full support for whomever you elect as your newest Councillor.”
His cold smile said otherwise, and it stretched wider as he scraped one of his teeth with a black fingernail. “I stopped by your capital on my way here, by the way. The damage is far more extensive than I’d been led to believe.”
That earned him a few gasps from the audience, but Councillor Emery held up his hand. He addressed the crowd, not the king, as he said, “We’d been waiting to share that announcement until we’d completed the memorial proceedings, but yes, King Dimitar speaks correctly. The Everblaze consumed much of Eternalia. However”—he paused, waiting for the murmurs to die down—“the gnomes and dwarves have surveyed the damage and believe they can rebuild before the equinox, which, as you all know, is less than four months away. And they’ve assured us that the new buildings will be even greater than the former.”
Whispers followed—most of them sounding pleased. Though it was a far cry from the cheers Sophie suspected the Council had been hoping for.
“And when will you hold your election?” King Dimitar asked, triggering another silence.
“That is also an announcement we had planned to make momentarily,” Emery told him. He closed his eyes, like he was listening to the thoughts of the other Councillors, before he said, “The period for nominations will begin tonight, and last for exactly one week, after which we will work to select our newest member as quickly as possible. And once the Councillor is elected,” he added, turning to King Dimitar, “a gathering will be held in Lumenaria with yourself and all the other leaders, so that we all can prepare to move forward together.”
“Looking forward to it,” King Dimitar told him.
“One final announcement—since I’ve covered all the others,” Councillor Emery added. “Given recent events, we’ve decided to declare a period of grieving, effective immediately. All noble facilities—including Foxfire Academy—are closed until the new Councillor is elected.”
Sophie glanced at her friends as the crowd hissed with more whispers.
No school for at least a week?
“I assume that includes your legendary Sanctuary?” King Dimitar asked, forcing Sophie to pay attention. She wanted to strangle something when he added, “I’d been hoping to pay a visit before I left. I’ve heard wonders about your newest transplant.”
“The Council better not let him anywhere near Silveny,” Keefe told her under his breath.
Sophie nodded, resisting the urge to cheer when Councillor Emery told the king, “We must respect the grieving period.”
“Perhaps after the gathering in Lumenaria, then,” King Dimitar pressed.
“Yes, perhaps,” Councillor Emery agreed. “We appreciate your patience—and the time you shared with us today. Please bring our regards to the rest of your court.”
“That’s it?” Sophie asked—a little louder than she meant to—as all eleven Councillors bowed.
But seriously, what was the Council thinking?
They should be demanding to know why he was interested in Silveny—and if he knew anything about the homing device and the Neverseen and the footprints outside the Sanctuary. And if he refused to tell them, they should arrest him, or have Alden probe his mind or . . . something—anything.
Instead, they stood silent as King Dimitar bobbed another halfhearted bow and told them, “Should you need any assistance from my people, all you must do is ask. We’re always there for our neighbors—especially in their hour of need.”
“Thank you,” Councillor Emery said with a tight smile. “We ask only what we always do. Patience. Kindness. And the continued pursuit of peace.”
King Dimitar snorted, his wide nostrils spraying something wet in the process. But he said nothing further as he turned to leave.
Sophie had to bite her tongue to stop herself from screaming Wait!
“We have to do something,” she whispered to Fitz and Keefe.
“Like what?” Biana asked.
Sophie was pretty sure jumping in front of King Dimitar and demanding he answer her questions wouldn’t be very effective—especially when she took another look at his rippled chest. He had muscles on top of muscles, and paired with his freakishly long arms, he could probably tear her in half.
But there was more than one way to find out what he was hiding.
“I have a plan,” she told her friends, before she darted into the crowd, moving parallel to the king.
Keefe was the first to catch up with her. “Okay, I have no idea what you’re thinking, but the amount of panic radiating off you tells me it’s probably not a good thing.”
It wasn’t.
This was arguably the most dangerous idea she’d ever had.
But what was the point of being an unstoppable Telepath if she couldn’t use the ability to protect Silveny and maybe even catch Kenric’s killers?
Somewhere deep in the back of her brain, a tiny voice reminded her of the laws of telepathy. But a much more desperate voice convinced her those rules only applied to elves.
Plus, she’d broken rules before, when the situation called for it—and if any situation called for it, it was this.
“Cover me,” Sophie whispered.
Keefe grabbed her arm as she tried to duck behind him. “Cover you how? Don’t you think you should at least tell me your crazy plan before you start doing it?”
“What crazy plan?” Fitz asked, pushing through the crowd to join
them.
“Ask her—she’s the one wigging out over here,” Keefe told him.
“I’m not wigging out, I’m just trying to do something and I need you to cover me so no one knows I have my eyes closed.”
“You better not be doing what I think you’re doing,” Fitz told her.
But he was too late.
Sophie had already opened her mind to the ogre king’s.
FORTY-THREE
SOPHIE HAD NO IDEA WHAT an ogre’s mind was supposed to feel like. But she definitely wasn’t expecting it to be so . . . soft.
And blank.
No color.
No sound.
Just a thick, endless sea of fuzzy white nothing. Like trying to shove her way through a giant ball of cotton.
She took a deep breath, rallying her mental energy as she tried to decide if a brain push would be too risky.
She knew from past experience that she could slip in and out of a mind completely undetected. But if she pressed too hard, she could accidentally give herself away.
Deciding to play it safe, she tried to imagine her mind sweeping away the cottony thickness in layers—like carefully pulling back sheer drapes, trying to find the window underneath. Each pass did seem to brighten the fog around her, revealing hints of shadows and shapes, and filling the silence with the trace of whispers. But nothing she could translate or recognize.
Maybe if she—
“Sophie, please stop!” Fitz begged, shaking her so hard it knocked her off balance.
She was about to ask him what he was doing when she noticed where Keefe was pointing.
King Dimitar stood in the middle of the path. And his eyes were locked on her.
“Oh, Councillors,” the king called, his lips curling back to show every one of his pointed teeth. “Perhaps you can explain why this little girl has taken it upon herself to probe my mind without my permission. And don’t even think about denying it,” he told Sophie, as gasps echoed through the silent woods—along with a squeaky groan, which had to have come from Sandor. “I felt you the second you slipped in.”
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