Quests for Glory by Soman Chainani
“Mmm, he’d be pretty at least,” Dot mused. “Sophie does have good taste in men.”
Hester gave her a putrid look.
“What? It’s true,” Dot said. “She’s probably sneaking gorgeous Everboys into Evil as we speak.”
“Maybe the old Sophie would have,” Anadil countered. “But she’s Dean now. She’s the face of Evil.”
“Ani’s right. She has changed,” Hester admitted. “I mean we hated her as Dean those last months of school, but she really did seem happy without a boy.”
“For now,” said Dot.
“For now,” Anadil conceded.
“And from what Dovey’s told us, she’s getting worse,” said Dot. “Moving into the School Master’s tower . . . adding beach cabanas to Halfway Bay . . . turning the Doom Room into a dance club on Saturday nights . . . morphing the castle into a living memorial to herself . . . Sounds like she’s starting to ‘push boundaries,’ just like Pea-man said. I mean, how long before she decides she needs a date to Agatha’s wedding?”
Hester and Anadil goggled at her.
“Um, hellllloo, you don’t think Sophie would show up alone, do you? To her best friend’s wedding to a king?” Dot asked.
Hester looked at Anadil. “Every once in a while, she says something worth thinking about.”
“Not enough to keep her around,” said Anadil.
“Next time I’m eating all the lentil cakes,” Dot huffed.
Suddenly a tiny spray of white light appeared above them, as if the air had ripped open, giving them a peek into a new dimension. The light distended and wobbled like a sack of water before it slowly took the shape of a circle and Professor Dovey’s face appeared in the middle, blinking at them from inside a crystal ball.
“Girls, I have news,” she said breathlessly.
Immediately Hester noticed something was wrong. Dovey’s eyes were rimmed red, her hair frazzled and greasy, and the lines around her mouth rutted deep.
Her office was a mess, littered with newspapers and scrolls. The gold vial that Dovey had recently been wearing around her neck was now empty and there was a map floating in the air like a wandering balloon, covered in red lettering Hester couldn’t make out. There was even a food stain on the Dean’s green gown, which made Hester think the situation was dire indeed, since no one had ever seen Professor Dovey look anything but spotless.
“Uh, are you okay, Professor?” Hester asked, struggling to muster sympathy, an emotion she didn’t really have. Though she had zero respect for fairy godmothers (and Dovey had been Cinderella’s before becoming Good’s Dean), the fact Dovey trusted them with this mission had softened Hester’s opinion of her. She’d even begun to see Clarissa Dovey as a friend. “You look a little . . . um . . .”
“Girls, your quest is over for now,” Professor Dovey declared. “I need you to return to school.”
The witches gasped.
“You can’t do that—” Dot started.
“After all we’ve—” Anadil overlapped.
Hester cut them off. “Professor, I know we haven’t brought you a shortlist of candidates, but we’re working like dogs to find someone we believe in and trust me when I say, we’re all deeply grateful for this responsibility—”
“Hester,” said Professor Dovey.
“You can trust us to finish the job. Please don’t punish us by taking our quest away, not when we’re finally starting to figure out—”
“Hester,” Professor Dovey snapped. “This is not about punishing you. On the contrary, I have complete faith in your abilities. That’s why I need your help on an urgent matter. A matter that supersedes all else.”
Hester stared at her. “But what can be more urgent than finding a new School Mas—”
Behind Dovey, the door to her office swung open and Professor Emma Anemone peeked beneath the floating map, slathered in a green beauty mask. “Clarissa, do you mind if I attend Dean Sophie’s Dance this evening? Given how many of our students are going and with Princess Uma still on leave, surely someone from Good should be—”
“Not now, Emma!” the Dean barked.
Professor Anemone fled.
“Professor Dovey—” Hester started.
“I don’t have time for questions, Hester. I need you to return to the castle at once. The Peony line on the Flowerground is up and running from Eternal Springs and can get you back by nightfall.”
“Of course. Anything to help,” Hester said feebly, still upset their quest would be cut short. “But can I at least ask . . . Is this about Sophie?”
“And Everboys?” said Dot.
“Oh shut it, Dot,” Hester ripped.
“Girls, our troubles are far bigger than the antics of a fellow Dean,” Professor Dovey said, glancing up anxiously at the magic map. “But I will say this . . .”
She leaned in, glaring hard into the crystal ball. “I’m hoping you can take care of two birds with one stone.”
5
AGATHA
Intervention
“One two three, one two three . . . Buttocks in, child! And head up! You’re waltzing, not scouring the floor for lost coins!” Pollux barked at Agatha, his dog’s head attached to a fat sheep’s carcass. Wobbling around the Gold Tower ballroom, Pollux kept time with a willow stick as Agatha danced with the skeletal, red-haired altar boy who’d made a spectacle of himself at Tedros’ coronation. “Don’t rush, girl . . . one two three . . . and stop gripping Willam like he’s the last lifeboat out of Ooty! And smile, Agatha. This isn’t a devil’s haunt. Dance like this and you’ll be egged at your own wedding!”
“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 erased. As if this was the first time he’d ever seen her.
“You won’t learn the Empress of Putsi’s name by mooning into the rain,” a voice said.
Agatha turned to see Pollux and his sheep corpse lording over her. He glared down at her soggy album, a mess of runny colors.
“I know you’re not one for ceremony or celebration or nice things, Agatha. But this is your wedding,” said Pollux.
“And I thought it was a Leprechaun’s Ball,” she said.
“If you’re going to treat this as a joke, then maybe I should call Lady Gremlaine—”
“Run to mommy like you always do.”
“You are a sad little girl,” Pollux retorted.
“Says the dog puppeting a sheep.”
Pollux sighed. “I’m not here to torture you, Agatha. I’m here to help you get married. You have to care.”
“I care,” Agatha said quietly.
“You have to care because it’s a timeless tradition and because it’s the first time your people will see you as a queen—”
“I care,” Agatha repeated.
“You have to care because this is your legacy—”
“I care,” Agatha said.
“Do you?” said Pollux incredulously. “Based on what I see, you don’t. Tell me why I should believe you care about your wedding—”
Agatha looked at him. “Because I need to remind Tedros that we were happy once.”
Sorrow softened Pollux’s face.
Agatha turned back to the rain, hoping her prince was still there. . . .
But all she could see were two guards, wiping his blood off a sword.
Agatha ate dinner in the queen’s bathroom, where no one could bother her.
She still had her Wedding History lesson, but Pollux let her eat before it without alerting her chambermaids—a clear breach in protocol, since they had to know where the princess was at all hours.
Instead, Agatha had barreled into the kitchen herself, sending ten cooks into coronary shock.
“Princess Agatha,” Chef Silkima gasped, her rich brown skin flecked with flour. “What’s happened? . . . Is everything all r—”
“Can I get spaghetti with cheese for dinner?” said Agatha. “Lots of cheese. Tons. Like enough to ruin the dish.”
Chef Silkima and the cooks gaped down at their finished platters of cumin-spiced coconut soup, curried chicken in a green chili sauce, potato tikkis with peas and scallions, black-lentil salad with salmon crumbs, and a five-layer kulfi pistachio cake.
“Spaghetti with . . . cheese?” Chef Silkima croaked.
“To go, please,” said Agatha.
One of the cooks dropped his spoon.
Now, as she sat dangling bare feet into a bathtub of hot water, surrounded by mirrors and peeling gold wallpaper, Agatha twirled creamy-white spaghetti from a porcelain bowl into her mouth, savoring the melted mozzarella.
Everyone had their comfort in times of stress: Sophie had sea-salt facials, juice fasts, yoga poses, and deep-tissue massages; Tedros had dumbbells and climbing ropes and anything to work up a sweat. . . .
Agatha had food.
More precisely: so much food that it induced a warm, velvety coma that dulled her senses and made her unable to think beyond the gurgles of her stomach.
Reaper moseyed into the bathroom and sniffed at a scrap of cheese. He gave Agatha a curdled look, as if he thought she’d outgrown all this, and shuffled away.
Agatha and Tedros had certainly had fights before. Fights that made Agatha doubt whether he loved her or she loved him or whether they even belonged together. But this wasn’t a fight. She was sure Tedros loved her now—or at least as sure as she could be. . . .
Exc
Tedros had helped her peel off her mask in her years at school. He’d seen her at her most vulnerable and her absolute worst and loved her even more for it.
But now it was Tedros’ turn to do the same and he was acting like most boys do when asked to face their feelings. . . .
They run.
There was another thing that also made this rift different than the others, Agatha thought, spotting the pile of letters on her desk. She could see the latest one, which she’d read so many times, yet left unanswered.
Darling,
I know you’re not reading this. I know you’re not reading any of my letters. You’re in love and have a wedding to plan and have no time for silly old me, but if you do read this, just know that you are in my heart always. And living without you has been far harder than I could ever admit out loud. So let me say it here. I miss you.
Love,
Sophie
P.S. Did you know Hort has been getting love letters from a girl?
Agatha wiped her eyes. Back at school, she’d always had Sophie by her side, the third point in the triangle between her and Tedros.
A hollow loneliness overwhelmed her and for the first time she saw it wasn’t just her old, chivalrous prince she was yearning for, but her bold, beautiful best friend too. A best friend she’d been avoiding, just like Tedros had been avoiding her.
Now she was all alone.
Outside, she heard wind and rain batter the ships in the harbor. Glancing through a small window, she saw none of these ships could sail; they were broken, neglected, and falling apart, like the rest of Camelot. Well, not all the ships: there was one that looked sturdy, with brilliant blue-and-gold finishes and milky white sails. Along the bow, she read the ship’s name . . . IGRAINE.
“Agatha?” Pollux’s voice echoed outside. “Shall we resume our—”