against the truth. And without truth, our world is nothing.”
The rulers of the Woods are quiet. The tension in their faces dissolves, as if Sophie’s words have reminded them why they’ve traded their rings for a king.
“Now I know she’s truly on my side,” Rhian says, gazing at his princess. “Because she’s willing to sacrifice her old loyalties for what’s right. She’s willing to let go of the past and be the queen the Woods needs.” He raises her hand and kisses it.
Sophie meekly meets his eyes, then steps to the side of the stage.
Glaring at her, Tedros is foaming at the mouth. He believes every word Rhian has said about Sophie. So do the other captives, judging from their expressions. They believe Sophie would trade our lives to save her own. I almost do too.
Almost.
Tedros looks at me once more, seeking a mirror for his rage, but his guard is dragging him forward now.
“Bring me the impostor king,” Rhian declares.
Tedros is thrown to his knees, the prince’s neck slammed over the wooden block, hands still bound, as Thiago tears off his metal collar. It happens so fast Tedros can’t resist. Breath flies out of me. Time is slipping away. And I’m still frozen, like those sheep in the crowd.
Rhian bends down to Tedros.
“Coward. Traitor. Fraud. Any other king would kill you with pride,” he says. “But I am not any other king. Which means I’ll give you one chance, Tedros of Camelot.”
Rhian lifts Tedros’ chin.
“Swear your loyalty to me and I’ll spare you,” he says. “You and your friends can live out your days rotting in my dungeons. Speak your words of surrender and Lionsmane will write them for all to see.”
Tedros searches Rhian’s face.
The offer is real.
A humbled enemy is worth more to Rhian than a dead one. Sparing Tedros makes Rhian a merciful king. A Good king. Sparing Tedros makes Rhian a Lion instead of a Snake.
King and prince lock eyes.
Tedros spits on Rhian’s shoe. “I’d rather give you my head.”
Good boy.
The king goes a dark shade of red. He stands.
“Kill him,” he says.
The executioner skulks forward, both fists on the axe handle, the leather flaps of his vest slapping against his hairy belly. I try to think harder, to will a plan into being, but I’m distracted by a young maid, shoving a basket beneath Tedros’ head, before stepping back into line next to Guinevere and the other maids.
Tedros raises his eyes to his mother, who hardly looks at him, her gaze hollow. But the veins in her neck are pulsing, her body stiff as stone.
The executioner looms over Tedros, while Rhian speaks—
“Tedros of Camelot, you are hereby charged with the crimes of treason, usurpation, embezzlement of royal funds, conspiracy with the enemy, and impersonating a king.”
“Those are your crimes,” Tedros hisses.
Rhian kicks him in the mouth, crushing Tedros’ cheek against the block.
“Each of these crimes carries a penalty of death,” says the king. “Losing your head is only a fraction of what you deserve.”
The leather-hooded man runs his fat fingers along Tedros’ neck, pulling down his collar and exposing his flesh to the sun. He touches his axe blade to the prince’s skin as if to measure his stroke, all the while maintaining a lustful smile.
That’s when Tedros looks back at me, petrified, realizing that I’ve lied. That there isn’t a greater power within that can save him. That he’s going to die.
My heart swoops like a diving hawk. I’ve failed him. I’ve failed us all.
The executioner leans back and swings the blade high over his shoulder. It comes crashing down towards Tedros’ neck—
A crow skims his head, knocking him off-balance.
Screams rip through the crowd.
The executioner swivels, as does Rhian, but a demon’s coming too fast, slamming through the crowd like a bullet, blasting leaders aside, before it bashes into Rhian’s face, throwing the king off the stage and wrestling him downhill.
Time slows to a dream. As if Tedros is dead and my mind is masking it. I must be imagining this, because not only is a red-skinned demon biting and smacking Rhian like a rabid bat, but there’s also a magic carpet floating down over the stage—less a carpet and more a sack, its billowing sides stitched up—with two figures standing atop, like marauding pirates. . . .
The Sheriff of Nottingham.
And . . . Robin Hood?
Together?
I see Robin grin down at me: the same bumptious grin he flashed when he wanted to avoid punishment at school. Then he raises his bow and lets an