A Crystal of Time (The School for Good and Evil The Camelot Years #2) - Soman Chainani Page 0,86

too, obviously,” Dot pipped.

“And even if Hester and I could go, Rhian would see us coming on his map,” said Anadil.

“Not if we switch swan emblems,” said Bossam, pointing at the glittering silver crest on his black uniform. “If you guys wear these, the Map will think you’re us and won’t track you.”

“Our emblems don’t come off, you three-eyed monkey. Castor told us at the Welcoming. Look,” Bodhi snapped, unbuttoning his shirt and disrobing, only to see the swan crest magically move and tattoo on his tan chest. “It’s on our bodies at all times. That’s the point of it. Right, Priyanka?” He flexed his muscles and Priyanka blushed.

“I could get it off if I tried,” Bossam puled, giving Priyanka a wounded look.

“Just like you said you could find Priyanka during the Glass Coffin challenge, when Yuba turned all the girls into identical princesses?” Bodhi jeered. “Guess who found her instead.”

“Lucky guess,” Bossam sniffed. “And I’m not a monkey.”

“No one’s switching emblems and no one’s leaving on their own,” said Princess Uma firmly. “We have to stick together. The way lions do when they’re attacked. No one left behind. That’s our only chance to beat the pirates and save Tedros.”

“There’s more than two hundred of us,” Hort pointed out helplessly. “Is there a spell to hide that many people? Maybe teachers can’t interfere, but that doesn’t mean you can’t give us ideas.”

“Invisibility can only be conferred by snakeskin,” said Yuba, turning to Bodhi and Laithan. “Where’s Sophie’s cape? That won’t cover more than a few of you, but the right few might be able to save Tedros and the rest.”

Bodhi frowned at Laithan. His friend’s shoulders sagged. “Lost it on our flight back,” Laithan mumbled.

“What about Transmutation?” Priyanka asked. “The spell Yuba used to make all the girls look the same during the Glass Coffin challenge. We could transmute into pirates!”

“Highly advanced hex,” the gnome replied. “Even fourth years would struggle to perform it, let alone first years, and besides, the spell only lasts a minute.”

“We know weather spells, though,” Devan proposed, gesturing to his classmates. “We could conjure a tornado and sweep us all to Camelot?”

“And kill half the Woods in the process,” Professor Manley murmured, still convulsing slightly.

“What about the Flowerground train?” asked Beatrix.

“We’d have to get to the ground to call it,” said Anadil.

Agatha tried to stay engaged, but all she could think of was Tedros being dragged onto a wooden stage . . . thrashing against the guards . . . his head slammed on a block as the axe swung down. . . . Fear suffocated her like a hood. Her friends and teachers could flail for ideas all they wanted, but there was no way out of here. There were pirates occupying every corner of the school. And even if they could get past them, they’d never make it to Camelot in time. It was at least a day’s journey away and Tedros would die in hours—

“Agatha,” said Hester.

Maybe I should go, Agatha thought. Alone. Before anyone can stop me.

She’d turn into a dove and fly out of here without Rhian’s men spotting her. She could get to Camelot easily . . . though it wouldn’t solve the problem of Rhian tracking her. . . . Even so, she trusted herself when it counted. And she knew Camelot better than anyone here. Still, stopping Tedros’ execution on her own seemed like a fool’s game. Too many things could go wrong and the stakes were too high—

“Agatha,” Hester barked.

She raised her eyes and saw Hester looking at her. Along with everybody else.

No, not looking at her.

Looking past her.

She glanced down and saw the Storian paused over the storybook, its painting of the scene complete. The pen hadn’t added anything new to the scene since it drew Lionsmane’s message. But there was something different about the pen now. . . .

It was glowing.

An urgent orange-gold, the same color of Agatha’s fingerglow.

As she leaned in, though, she saw it wasn’t the whole pen that was glowing, but the carving along its side: an inscription in a deep, flowing script that ran unbroken from tip to tip. . . .

She didn’t know the language, but the pen pulsed brighter while Agatha gazed at it, as if it wanted her to know. Then, very deliberately, as if aware that it had Agatha’s attention, the Storian pointed at the storybook and a tiny circle of orange glow spooled from its tip like a smoke ring. Agatha stooped lower, watching the