Quests for Glory. Soman Chainani

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      “How are you even here!” Agatha growled, exasperated by her clumsy feet, her hapless partner, and the return of a prissy, scant-furred, snub-nosed canine she thought she’d left behind at school. Pollux was one half of a two-headed Cerberus who taught at the School for Good and routinely lost the battle to use the body to his Evil brother Castor. Which meant that whenever the two siblings were apart, Pollux had to find dead animals to attach his own head to—in this case, a rotting ewe’s.

      “Clarissa Dovey and I had a falling out,” Pollux sniffed. “After Sophie was appointed Dean of Evil, I encouraged Clarissa to consider her own succession plan just as her friend Lady Lesso did before her untimely death. As I explained to Dean Dovey, not only is she ripe in age, but it’s time for Good to have a fresh face at the fore rather than one sagging past its prime. Of course I pointed this out in the most tactful manner, but Clarissa ignored my many missives. … Spine straight!” He swatted Willam with the stick and the boy yelped—

      “So, I circulated a petition advocating for a mandatory retirement age, which Dean Dovey is well past. Naturally, I also nominated myself to replace her, but the shrew caught wind of the plan and had me fired—” Pollux jabbed Agatha with his stick. Agatha snapped it in two and handed it back to him.

      “I see royal life has done nothing for your attitude,” Pollux glowered. “Do you want your wedding to be as pathetic as the coronation? Imagine the Royal Rot: ‘WORST BRIDE EVER!’ Is that what you want, Agatha? More embarrassment?”

      Agatha’s anger fizzled. “No.”

      “Good, because when Lady Gremlaine heard of my travails at school, she brought me here to help you,” said Pollux. “Specifically to teach dance, etiquette, and history in preparation for your wedding. She’s even planning to make me your permanent steward, given your need for constant supervision.”

      “Stewards are for kids,” Agatha frowned. “I won’t need a steward once I’m officially queen—”

      “Only you can’t be officially queen until Tedros is officially king and right now there’s a sword hanging over that prospect,” Pollux said, gazing through the ballroom window at Excalibur, sticking out from a Blue Tower balcony across the catwalk. Two royal guards stood on either side.

      Pollux met Agatha’s eyes. “So until your dear unofficial king finds a way to pull that sword and seal his coronation, he has Lady Gremlaine watching his every move and you have me.”

      Agatha nearly retched.

      Willam stepped hard on her toe.

      “Ow!” Agatha blared, knocking Willam into Pollux.

      “Who needs a wedding when you can have a circus?” Pollux scowled.

      After two more insufferable hours, Agatha moved to etiquette training, where she had to learn the names of 1,600 wedding guests from fat albums of portraits, with Pollux spraying her with stinging lemon juice every time she missed one.

      “For the last time, who is this?” Pollux crabbed, pointing at a hook-nosed face.

      “The Baron of Hajebaji,” Agatha said confidently.

      “Baroness! Baroness!” Pollux yelled.

      Agatha goggled at him. “That’s a woman?”

      By then she was dripping in lemon juice, still distracted by the sight of the sword in the balcony and unable to focus on anything else. Thankfully the dog was interrupted by a courier crow (with a message from Castor), which gave Agatha time to think.

      She’d always assumed that Tedros would pull Excalibur from the stone eventually.

      Sooner or later he’d jolt the blade free or he’d figure out it was a clue to another puzzle or riddle and then he’d solve it. She’d yet to consider that Tedros might never complete his father’s coronation test … that the sword might stubbornly hang in that balcony for the rest of their lives, an eternal reminder of his failure. In which case, Tedros would never feel like a true king. He’d be trapped in this cycle of shame and isolation, so different from the gallant, open-hearted boy who once looked to her as his partner.

      But what can I do to help him? Agatha thought, gazing out the window at the rain. This wasn’t like a Trial by Tale at school, where she could sneak in to save him. The sword was Tedros’ test and his alone.

      And yet, if she could help him somehow … wouldn’t that fix everything?

      Agatha watched the storm gust across the castle—

      Something caught her eye through the rain.

      Agatha leaned over the windowsill to get a closer look.

      Across the catwalk, a boy had emerged onto the Blue Tower balcony in beige breeches and a gray hooded shirt with the hood pulled over his head. He dismissed the guards and stood there all alone, drenched clothes clinging to his muscular frame. He peeked around to make sure no one was watching—Agatha ducked out of sight—before he began stretching each of his arms and shaking the tension out of his legs.

      Then, with a deep breath, he gripped Excalibur by the hilt and began to pull.

      The past six months, she’d watched Tedros do this every night: the same skulking onto the balcony, the same dismissing of the guards, the same diligent warm-up before he did battle with his father’s sword. In the beginning, there had been sword masters, blacksmiths, and ex-knights who coached him as he pulled, while Lady Gremlaine looked on with narrowed eyes. Back then, the kingdom had been on the verge of war, with half the people supporting Tedros as king and half calling for his deposal. Six months later, both sides had settled into a stagnant détente, the trapped sword a symbol of a king they were stuck with. Now there were no more coaches or watchful stewards, but still Tedros tried at the sword, again and again. This was the first time Agatha had ever seen him during the day, though, for he’d always waited until the sun was down, when no one beyond the castle would be able to spot him. Perhaps he thought the storm was camouflage enough or perhaps today he didn’t care who saw him as he heaved and sweated, ripping at the blade from every angle. …

      Excalibur didn’t budge.

      This too was part of the routine, and Tedros would react to defeat like he had every day these past six months: by getting up at dawn and working out even harder, as if it was his strength that was failing him and nothing else. Truth was Agatha had never seen him so strong, ripped muscles stretching his shirt, like he could shotput a ship out of the ocean. He tore at the hilt with this new strength, bright blood streaking his palms, dripping down steel, before he threw back his head and let out a single, futile cry—

      Agatha closed her eyes and exhaled.

      When she opened them, he was looking right at her.

      She could hardly make out his face through the lashes of rain, but he was frozen still, gazing at her from beneath his hood. It was a dead, empty look, as if their shared past had been СКАЧАТЬ