A Crystal of Time (The School for Good and Evil The Camelot Years #2) - Soman Chainani Page 0,126

Lion mementos worn by the people outside the Blessing, from kingdoms around the Woods. They must be selling this stuff everywhere, he thought.

“School just got out. Hurry!” said Nicola, pushing Hort past the tent. “We need to find Dean Brunhilde.”

A smatter of young schoolboys pooled in front of the palace gates, tossing candy crumbs at pigeons idling on gold-paved stone inside. A palace guard butted the boys aside with the hilt of his sword and they ran off, whimpering.

“Turn here,” said Nicola, hooking left at a corner.

But Hort’s eyes were still on the guard, manning the gates with a second one, the two of them in shiny new armor, swords at the ready.

“Nic, look at their armor,” Hort whispered.

Nicola peered at a familiar Lion crest carved into the guards’ steel breastplates. “Odd. Why would Foxwood guards be wearing Camelot armo—”

Hort yanked her behind a wall.

“What?” Nicola gasped. “What is it?”

Hort peeked an eye out and Nicola peeped over his shoulder at the two guards’ faces, sunlit through their open helmets.

Not guards.

Pirates.

And one of them was glaring right at the corner they’d just turned from.

“Ya see somethin’?” Aran asked, a pigeon pecking at his boot.

“Coulda sworn I saw one of ’em Tedros-lovin’ freaks. The weasel-face,” said Beeba. “But his hair’s gone yellow.”

“Mush fer brains, you got. Even that twit’s smarter than to show his face ’round ’ere with a bounty on his head,” Aran grouched. “I hate bein’ in the same place all day like a pile-a-bones. Can’t we go back to sackin’ kingdoms with Japeth?”

“Fancy King Foxwood melted his ring, so now we have to protect ’im,” said Beeba, yawning.

The pigeon pecked at Aran again. He stabbed it with his sword. “Protect ’im from what? We’re the ones who attack—”

“Shhh! Don’t ’cha remember what Japeth said? Everyone’s gotta think that Agatha ’n her mates are the ones tearin’ up kingdoms so their leaders’ll beg Camelot for protection. All they gotta do to get protection is burn their rings,” said Beeba. “That’s why Japeth sent men to sack Hamelin, Ginnymill, and Maidenvale—’cause their kings still wearin’ theirs. Wish we could be doin’ the sackin’. Love the feelin’ of an Ever’s face under my boot.” She glanced behind her. “King Melty-Ring’s comin’. Quick, act proper-like.”

She and Aran lowered their helmets, leaving only their eyes visible, as a procession of carriages topped with Foxwood flags rode up the driveway from the castle, stopping just inside the gates. The window of one of the carriages slid down and King Dutra of Foxwood appeared, his face still battered from the battle at Camelot.

“Duke of Hamelin sent a dove. His daughter was killed by masked rebels,” he said breathlessly. “Any sign of trouble?”

“No, and there won’t be, Your Highness,” Aran assured. “As long as we’re here, you’re safe.”

“Duke has since burned his ring and sworn loyalty to King Rhian. Should have done it sooner. Now he’s lost his daughter,” the king said, shaking his head. “How’s King Rhian?”

“Recovering, sire,” said Beeba, her vowels crisp. “His brother is at his side and helping with the kingdom’s business.”

The king nodded soberly. “Long live the Lion!”

“Long live the Lion!” the guards echoed.

They pulled opened the gates and the king’s convoy rode down the Rue du Palais and out of sight.

“They’re killing people, Hort. They’re killing princesses and blaming it on us,” Nicola breathed as Hort dragged her away from the palace and down Rue de l’École, weaving through groups of school children. “Rhian’s willing to murder innocent people to make rulers destroy their rings!”

“We need proof that Rhian isn’t who he says he is. And we need it now,” Hort fumed. “Proof we can show the people. Which means we’re not leaving this kingdom until we find it.”

He pulled Nicola along, trying to convince himself that they could succeed where Merlin had failed . . . that they could expose Rhian and take him down . . . that they could save this fairy tale from a very wrong end. . . .

But as the Foxwood School for Boys came into view, a gray stone cathedral draped in silhouette, Hort saw a tall woman in a turban blocking its doors, her arms crossed, the whites of her eyes glowing through the shadows, locking on the two strangers walking towards her . . .

And suddenly Hort didn’t feel very convinced at all.

UP CLOSE, THE woman in a rose-pink turban and robes had tan skin with deep lines around the mouth, chilly brown eyes, and brows so thin and arched it