Agatha could see Tedros and his mother eyeing each other, as if they knew what Merlin meant. Whatever plan Tedros and his knights had made to defeat Japeth, the old queen was most certainly involved.
Powers, Agatha recalled. That’s what Tedros said he’d asked the genie for. That’s why he’d gone into the Cave of Wishes. What kind of powers?
“If this is Japeth’s thinking place, then where is he?” Tedros growled. “Watching us, no doubt, like the creep he is.” He bellowed to the sky. “You slithering fraud! Rhian really thought he was my dad’s son. But you? You knew the truth. You knew you were Rafal’s son with that witch—”
“What?” a voice gasped.
Tedros and Agatha turned.
Sophie was alone on a cloud, her face ashen.
“Couldn’t remember if Tee Tee needs Big Mama or Not-the-Mama, so I bring both,” Merlin squeaked at Tedros.
Agatha was already leaping to Sophie’s cloud.
“I d-d-don’t understand,” Sophie spluttered in her friend’s arms. “Rafal’s son? Japeth is Rafal’s son? With Evelyn Sader?” Her eyes brimmed with horror. “RJ. Isn’t that what Dean Brunhilde called him? R for Rafal, J for Japeth . . . Rhian and Rafal . . . The names of twin School Masters, passed down from father to sons . . . That’s how he has wizard’s blood, isn’t it? . . . His eyes . . . they’re like his father’s . . . and that ice-cold touch . . . Oh, Aggie . . . The answers were there all along!”
“That’s why you could heal them. That’s why they had to marry you,” Agatha said. “Because your blood gave Rafal’s blood power. The same way it gives power to his sons’.”
“So they aren’t Arthur’s sons for sure?” Guinevere asked. “Then Arthur would have known Tedros was his only child. Why would he create a tournament giving an impostor a chance? Why would he risk his true heir?”
Agatha and Tedros glanced at each other, still without an answer to the question they’d asked themselves.
“Mer Mer knows story,” the wizard offered. “Rafal old . . . ooga booga . . . then young . . . still ooga booga! . . . kiss Not-the-Mama . . . hurt Mama and Tee Tee . . . then Rafal die . . . then not die”—he mimicked stiff-armed zombies—“then die again. Now small Rafal. With snakes.”
Tedros blinked at him.
“Yes, Merlin, small Rafal with snakes,” said Agatha, anxiously searching the sky. “Where is he, Tedros?”
“Sophie’s scream hurt him badly. Maybe he can’t last up here,” Tedros guessed.
Sophie was still mewling: “Once upon a time, I wanted to marry a prince. Now I’m the bride of Father Evil and his two sons!”
“You didn’t marry Rafal, you didn’t marry Rhian, and you haven’t married Japeth,” Agatha countered. “They all thought your blood was the one. But you’re not the one, because you’re here with us.”
“And how long will ‘us’ last?” Sophie asked fatally. “He’s made us the villains. He’s turned the Woods against us. With no consequence.”
“We are the consequence,” said Tedros. “The Storian believes in us. Our school believes in us. My father believed in us. That’s why I wear this ring. I’m his son. I’m the king. Not Rafal’s spawn. The only place scum like that can be king is in hell.”
“Welcome to hell, then,” came the reply.
Dread snaked up Agatha’s spine.
Slowly, she and Tedros turned.
Japeth waited on a cloud in the sky.
He wore his blue-and-gold king’s suit, his sword strapped to his belt. His face was flecked with blood, his skin frayed at the edges, like a mask about to fall.
Tedros shot a spell, severing Japeth’s sword strap, the blade plunging into darkness. Japeth looked up to see the prince bullrushing him across clouds, Tedros’ fists raised—
Japeth waved a hand, magically sweeping a cloud out from under him. The prince flailed, crashing to Sophie and Agatha’s cloud, knocking the two girls down.
Agatha lurched up, expecting the Snake to attack—
But Japeth hadn’t moved. “You cheat your way into my brother’s blood. You trespass into my secrets. You attack and hate, while I defend and fight for the one I love. So who’s Evil now? There is no limit to the wickedness you’ll do to win. Even raid my soul. Fitting, then, that you’ll all die inside it.” He paused. “But not quite yet.”
He sat down on a glowing green cloud.
“You have most of it right, whatever that cheap mirror revealed,” said Japeth. “Rhian always believed King Arthur was our father, but I knew the truth about our parents. Because it was I who found the pen my father spoke of. I know: ‘Which pen?’ Now I’ll show you.” He set his sights on Sophie. “After our mother’s death, the Mistral Sisters brought us that dress you’re wearing. My mother’s dress.”
Sophie’s white gown morphed to blue, birthing a thousand blue butterflies, matching the Dean’s signature gown. All at once, the butterflies flew off it, lighting up the Snake Sky with rich blue glow. They huddled like Wish Fish, their wings turning colors, the butterflies painting scenes in brilliant mosaic . . .
“The butterflies from Mother’s dress led us to the Garden of Good and Evil. An unmarked grave. There, the Mistrals said we would find Mother’s will.”
The butterflies painted a grave and two copper-haired twins digging into it—
“Instead, we found something quite unexpected . . .”
The grave opened, revealing dozens of metal slabs, long and thin, sharp at both ends, like knitting needles.
Agatha’s eyes widened.
Pens.
A grave full of them.
Identical to the Storian, but gold instead of silver. Each pen slightly different in size, shape, and carving.
“This is what our mother wanted us to have. Pens that once belonged to King Arthur, the Mistral Sisters explained. Mother and the Mistrals had become friends—the same sisters who came to advise King Arthur after Guinevere and Merlin left him. Arthur had turned to drink, his mind dulled and judgment soft. The Mistrals wormed into his court, telling him what he wanted to hear. That he wasn’t to blame for his queen leaving. That it was the Storian’s fault. That he was the fated One True King, born to take the Storian’s place . . . Overthrow the Pen, they urged. Claim its powers. Become the One True King. Then he could write destiny as he wanted it. Then he could bring Guinevere back to him! All he had to do was get the Woods behind a new pen. A rival Storian he would control. The King’s Pen. ‘Needs a better name,’ Arthur considered . . . ‘Lionsmane.’ Tedros might like that. And yet, when the Mistrals tried to bring ‘Lionsmane’ to life, Arthur rejected each pen made for him. Too thin. Too thick. Too pompous. Too humble. Looking for every excuse not to follow through.”
More and more pens heaped into the skylit grave, Lionsmanes discarded.
“No matter how much he loved your mother, he wasn’t willing to destroy the Storian to have her back. A weak king. An even weaker man,” said Japeth.
Tedros snarled: “You, who pretended to be his son.”
“For good reason,” said Japeth, unfazed. “After Arthur drank himself into the grave, Rhian and I learned of our own mother’s death. Our mother had planned to tell us we were King Arthur’s sons once we came of age. But in the case of her death, she’d trusted the Mistrals to find us and give us her dress. The butterflies would tell us what we needed to know. Butterflies that had my mother’s spirit.”