A Crystal of Time (The School for Good and Evil The Camelot Years #2) - Soman Chainani Page 0,92

I’d do it again. The King of Camelot will not die on my watch. Not just because he’s king, but because he is, and will always be, my student.

Too many of my young wards have lost their lives: Chaddick, Tristan, Millicent . . .

No more.

And yet, what’s my move now? I know there is one. I can feel my sixth sense burn even hotter. That familiar sting of hope and fear, telling me I can fix this fairy tale.

The fairy godmother’s call.

There is a way out of this.

I wait for the answer, my nerves shredding. . . .

Nothing comes.

Tedros grunts near me as he jostles in frustration against his guards. He’s realizing we’ve been beaten and there’s nothing standing between him and the axe.

The breeze gusts harder from multiple sides, the smell of morning dew thickening, and for a moment I think we’re outside the castle, death ever-near, only to realize there’s still marble beneath my feet. The others aren’t thinking clearly; I hear their panic—Willam’s whimpers turning to sobs, Valentina hissing and cursing, Tedros’ boots skidding, trying to stall—

Then it all stops.

My guard has let me go.

And from the silence around me, I know the others are free too.

I hear a sack pulled off someone’s head.

Then Tedros’ voice: “Huh?”

I whip the sack off myself, as do the others. We have the same dazed expressions, our hair laced with potato dust.

We are in the Blue Tower dining room, looking out over a veranda, the sky the color of amethysts, warning of dawn. The long dining table is made of glass mosaic, the shards of blue forming a Lion’s head in the center. Laid out around it is a magnificent feast. Seared venison cut into pink hearts atop green broad beans. Marinated rabbit kidneys with emerald parsley. Hen’s eggs perched on buttermilk biscuits. Chilled cucumber soup with sungold tomatoes. White caviar, sprinkled with chive blossoms. Chocolate mousse swimming in vanilla foam. A bloodred grapefruit consommé.

There are seven place settings at the table, each labeled with one of our names.

We stare at one another like we’ve detoured into a different story.

The guards are mostly gone too. Only a pair in full armor remain, one blocking each door.

Then like a kick to the gut, I understand.

So does Nicola.

“It’s our last meal,” she says, gazing over the balcony’s stone rail.

We gather behind her, looking down at the execution stage atop a hill, burnished in the moonlight. There’s a dark wooden block in the middle of it.

Tedros’ throat bobs.

Two shadows suddenly glide overhead and Sophie passes on the catwalk above us. She’s walking with Rhian, speaking to him in a whisper. I only glimpse her face for a moment: she looks calm and engaged, as if she’s going with Rhian of her own accord. Her hand is on the king’s bicep. She doesn’t see us.

Then she’s gone.

The room falls silent. Tedros looks at me. Seeing Sophie strolling with Rhian so intimately has shaken him further. As it has me. My young charges sense my unease.

“Come,” I say, with a Dean’s authority, taking my place at the table.

Not out of hunger or a desire to eat; my body feels weak beyond the possibility of replenishment. But I need them to keep their wits. And I need time to think.

No one follows me to the table at first. But Tedros isn’t one to resist food and before he can help it, he’s dumped himself at Bogden’s place setting and is stuffing deer meat into his mouth, his eyes still brimming with fear.

Soon the rest are eating too, until their bellies are sated long enough for them to remember who served this meal and why.

“He’s mocking us, isn’t he?” Willam asks meekly.

“Fattening a pig before it’s slaughtered,” says Bogden.

“We can’t just stuff our faces like it’s a quinceañera and go die!” Valentina fumes.

“We have to do something,” Aja seconds.

They instinctively look at Tedros, who glances between the pirates at the doors, inscrutable through their helmets, both wielding swords. We have no weapons. To attack them would lead to a faster death than the one already scheduled. Yet, they’re listening to everything we say, as if Rhian’s not only taunting us with food, but the hope of escape. The gears in Tedros’ head are turning, knowing any plan he speaks out loud will be thwarted before it starts.

And then, as I’m looking at him, I feel it once more.

The sting of an answer.

Surfacing quickly . . . about to break through . . .

But again, nothing comes, like a