A Crystal of Time. Soman Chainani

killed at Rhian and Sophie’s—

      Impossible. They couldn’t kill King Arthur’s son at a royal wedding. It could never happen. Sophie would never let it happen. Sophie would protect Tedros . . . She’d plot against Rhian from inside the castle . . . She’d never marry that monster!

      Agatha tensed. Or now that Sophie was about to be Queen of Camelot, worshipped by the entire Woods, would she suddenly turn back into—

      Don’t be stupid, Agatha scoffed. She’d seen Sophie’s face when Rhian had trapped her at swordpoint. This wasn’t the old Sophie, who’d betrayed her best friends for love. This time, they were all on the same team against a fake king.

      A fake king who was planning to kill the real one.

      Agatha expected to feel a rush of panic—

      But instead a sense of calm came over her.

      If she didn’t find a way to get to Tedros, he would die in the worst possible way.

      There was no time for helplessness.

      Her prince needed her.

      She slipped out from behind the stall, past the distracted vendors, and deftly stole a hooded shirt with Rhian’s face on it as the crowd jostled for Lion merchandise. Pulling the hood low over her head, she wove her way through the wall of shoppers, the bag with Dovey’s ball tight against her shoulder as she headed towards the blinking stall in the distance.

      She passed more booths thronged with people buying phony Agatha hunting gear, while she hustled past, puffing out Rhian’s face on her chest, pretending she was his biggest fan. She was approaching Gilly’s now, the barker’s voice growing louder: “Step right up! Best tickets in tow—”

      Something collided with her.

      Agatha looked up to see two hulking green hobgoblins in Agatha-Vision goggles, toting full bags of Lion souvenirs. They gaped at her through their goggles . . . then slowly lowered them.

      “Gaboo Agatha gabber,” said the first goblin.

      “Gaboo shamima Agatha gabber,” said the second goblin.

      “No no Agatha gabber,” Agatha said, pointing in the other direction. “Gaboo went that way.”

      The goblins narrowed their eyes.

      Agatha pointed at Rhian on her shirt. “See. King. Ooooh.”

      The goblins looked at each other.

      “Poot,” said the first.

      “Mah poot,” said the second.

      They dropped their bags and charged at her.

      Facing five hundred pounds of rabid slime, Agatha plunged into the mob and shoved people in the goblins’ way like shields but the goblins rammed past them, the two creatures reaching out with stubby arms and grabbing on to Dovey’s bag—

      Agatha spun around and overturned a vendor’s cart of fake crystal balls in their path, the rubber balls parroting “I see Agatha! I see Agatha!” in off-synch yelps and tripping up the goblins and half the crowd. Panting in relief, Agatha slid behind a newsstand, watching the goblins flop all over the slippery balls, while a female vendor beat them mercilessly with her shoe.

      Suddenly, Agatha noticed the headlines of the Gillikin Gazette, clipped to the front of the stall:

       LION SETS EXECUTION FOR “KING” TEDROS; WEDDING FESTIVITIES BEGIN TOMORROW

      Agatha leaned closer, reading the article’s details about how Sophie handpicked the axe and executioner for Tedros’ beheading (a lie, thought Agatha) . . . about King Rhian’s new pen, Lionsmane, that was more trustworthy than the Storian . . .

      An even bigger lie, Agatha scorned, remembering the cheap gold pens people were snapping up in the booth. The Storian told stories the Woods needed. The Storian kept the Woods alive. But if people were suddenly doubting the enchanted pen and favoring a fake one . . . then she wasn’t just fighting Rhian. She was fighting the countless minds he’d corrupted too. How was she supposed to do that?

      Only there was more in this Gillikin article, Agatha realized, reading on . . . this time about Rhian’s brother, who’d supposedly been named the liege of the king . . .

      Agatha studied a painting of this liege, included on the front page. Japeth, it said his name was—

      Her eyes bulged.

      Not just Rhian’s brother.

      Rhian’s twin.

      She thought back to the Lady of the Lake’s drawing.

      Now she understood everything.

      It wasn’t Rhian in the Snake’s mask who the Lady had kissed. It was Japeth.

      There were two of them all along.

      One the Lion, one the Snake.

      That’s how they tricked both the Lady and Excalibur. They shared the same blood.

      And yet, both the Lady and Excalibur believed that blood to be the blood of Arthur’s heir.

      But even if they were twins, wouldn’t one of them have been born first? Agatha wondered. Meaning only one of them is the true heir—

      Agatha shook her head. What am I saying? Those two monsters can’t possibly be Arthur’s sons. They can’t be Tedros’ brothers.

      She could feel herself holding her breath . . .

       Can they?

      A shadow swept over her.

      Agatha swiveled and saw the two goblins glowering at her, their bodies covered in welts.

      The female vendor who’d beaten them was with the goblins too, staring at Agatha.

      So were a hundred other people behind them, who clearly knew who she was.

      “Oh. Hullo,” Agatha said.

      She dashed for her life, hurtling through the crowd, but more and more people ahead were hearing the cries of the people pursuing her and started chasing her too. Trapped on the yellow road between booths, there was nowhere for her to go—

      Then she saw the stall next to her.

       TAMIMA’S TADPOLES!

       Best Frog Breeder in the Everlands

      Tadpoles. She knew a spell about tadpoles. She’d learned it at school, reading Sophie’s Evil textbooks . . .

      Instantly, she veered towards the booth, diving under the fabric skirting the bottom of it and accosting the vendor, who was stewing a vat of the squiggling critters. Before the vendor could grasp what was happening, Agatha shoved her out of the way, snatched the tub of tadpoles with both hands, felt her fingerglow burn gold—

      “Pustula morphica!” she gasped.

      She dunked her face in.

      When the goblins and other bounty hunters came rushing by, they couldn’t find Agatha in the crowd—only a soggy girl covered in red boils, stumbling away from a tadpole booth.

      A few moments later, itching at her red, oozing sores, this boil-covered girl shambled up to Gilly’s Ticket Hub and its handsome young barker.

      “Flight to Beauty and the Feast, please,” she said.

      The man jerked back in disgust.

      “Forty silver pieces,” he groused, reflexively touching his smooth cheek. “Or rather, forty silver pieces your pestilent fingers haven’t touched.”