Quests for Glory (The School for Good and Evil: The Camelot Years #1)

“What kind of school did you go to?” Tedros prodded.

“An ordinary one, Your Highness. The Foxwood Boys School for Conservative Education,” the guard answered. “No magic or wizardry or fingerglows for us. No princess or king will ever ask our names. Storian won’t write ’em in a storybook. Unless we stumble into one. My mate from school almost got his name in The Tale of Sophie and Agatha—served breakfast at his inn to the League of Thirteen before the war against the School Master. But most of us go on to be blacksmiths and bricklayers, far away from any real adventure. I was a lucky one. Kingdoms come to the schools looking for the toughest boys for their royal guards. Had to undergo a whole lot of tests to prove my loyalty to Good. In the end, Camelot and Foxwood both wanted me. Foxwood’s home, but I couldn’t turn down a chance to serve King Arthur’s kingdom.”

His expression changed. “Foxwood’s been under attack by a band of trolls, though. Dad’s a footman for the king; troll set fire to his carriage and snapped his arm in two. Can’t work anymore, so I’ve been sending my wages home so he can feed my mum and sisters. No one knows who these trolls work for. Mum wrote, asking if Camelot was going to intervene. Lots of kingdoms asking the same question, she says.” He glanced hopefully at the young king.

Tedros stood straighter. “I’m calling a summit.”

The guard stared at him. “A summit?”

“Get all our allies together and build an army,” Tedros said authoritatively. “That’s what kings do.”

“Oh.” The hope went out of the guard’s eyes. “And here I grew up with legends that your dad stormed into battle bare-chested and slayed villains himself,” he said. “Made-up stories, I bet. He must have called summits too. Can’t always trust a pen to tell the truth, can you?”

Tedros looked at him. But they were at the end of the stairway now. The guard pointed down a long dark hall. “Prison’s this way, Your Highness.”

“I’ll go on my own,” said Tedros.

“But I should take you—”

“My meeting with the prisoners is a private one, guard,” said Tedros, eager to be alone again. “You may return to your post.”

The guard hesitated. “Are you sur—”

“Go,” said Tedros sharply. “Close the door behind you. That’s an order.”

The guard didn’t flinch. “As you wish.”

Tedros watched him go—

“Guard?”

The man turned.

“What’s your name?” Tedros asked.

The guard looked surprised. “It’s Kei, Your Highness.”

Tedros gazed right at him. “I promise to make your home safe again, Kei.”

Kei smiled. “I’ll tell my mum, Your Highness. Kings don’t often make promises they can’t keep.”

Tedros watched him hustle back upstairs. He waited until he heard the echo of a heavy door closing and the thud of stone.

Then the young king stepped off the staircase and moved into the hall, the glint of his crown fading into darkness.

Tedros thought the advisors might be dead.

Moving through the stale dungeon, he’d cast his gold fingerglow on empty cell after empty cell, seeing nothing but mold-speckled walls, desiccated roaches, and rows of thick iron bars. Rulers didn’t make a habit of trapping criminals inside the bowels of their own castles, but in most kingdoms, Good or Evil, town jails were overcrowded, unsecured, and rife with corruption. (Indeed, the one and only time the Sheriff of Nottingham caught Robin Hood, the rogue escaped the Sheriff’s prison.) Kings and queens had learned to house their most significant enemies under their own roofs. But as Tedros approached the last cell, he couldn’t hear a peep from the advisors, not a word or a breath or a snore. Had something happened to— “Long live the So-Called King,” sang a low, smoky voice.

“Long live the Cowardly Lion,” sang a high, jingly voice.

“Long live the Worthless Son,” sang a hissy third.

Tedros took a deep breath, pausing in front of the pitch-dark cell.

Not dead after all.

He lifted his glow, lighting up the inside.

Three old women leered back at him, each an identical replica of the other. Bristly salt-and-pepper hair hung down to their waists, their stick-thin legs jutting out of tattered gray tunics. Their skin was shriveled and coppery, their necks and faces elongated with high foreheads, slim noses, match-thin lips, and almond-shaped eyes. Tedros thought they looked like pale versions of the mandrill monkeys that defiled his coronation.

“A few more wrinkles since the last time you saw us,” said the low-voiced one. “Alpa, especially.”

“If anyone’s lost their looks, it’s you, Bethna,” said the high-voiced one. “Besides, we didn’t see much of the young prince before he went off to school. Avoided us like poison once we became his father’s advisors. Omeida, especially.”

“Maybe because I’m the prettiest,” said the hissy one. “Our little Tedros doesn’t like pretty girls. Just look at his princess. Got a good peek at her when she came to the castle.”

“We all did,” said Bethna.

“Before we were illegally jailed by that hideous knight,” Alpa scorned.

“Proof Tedros is his mother’s son, at least,” rasped Omeida. “They share poor taste in mates.”

The three hags cackled.

Tedros kept his cool. He’d had experience with covens trying to rile him up.

“Reason I avoided you when I was younger is because I didn’t trust you,” he said glacially. “For years, you’d been standing on stoops in Camelot’s square, preaching against my father. You called him Merlin’s puppet. You called my mother a two-faced tramp. You demanded Excalibur be returned to the stone and a new test held to find the ‘one true king.’ The king so strong and powerful he would reign forever. The king who would make Camelot great again.” Heat seared Tedros’ cheeks. “No one listened to you. Everyone knew Camelot was already great because of its king. Because of my father. No one thought of the three Mistral Sisters as anything other than demented, delusional freaks.”

Bethna gripped the bars, gnashing uneven teeth. “Then why did your father bring us here?”

“Because after my mother and Merlin left him, he became a paranoid drunk,” Tedros retorted. “He started to trust the Royal Rot. And you. He fired all his old counselors, thinking they were spies for my mother. And he brought you into his castle as his advisors because some of the things you’d preached on your stoop had come true. He began to think that you could help him become that one true king you’d spoken of. A king of infinite power who could live forever. But instead, you used him and his kingdom and watched both die. Well, now it’s my turn to watch you do the same.”

Alpa exhaled, looking bored. “Just like his mother, isn’t he?”

“Only sees what he wants to see,” said Bethna.

“Never sees the whole picture,” said Omeida.

“If only he’d listened more closely to our stoop talks,” said Alpa.

“Like his father did,” said Bethna.

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