Authors: Marissa Burt
The leaders of the group slowed. It must be nearing the time when they would hand out the potion, and Snow was about to ask Peter how they planned to find the kitchens inside, when there was a great cheer from the group next to them. The characters were circling around a woman’s form. Snow reached out for Peter’s sleeve. She wanted to tell him that his plan had a fatal flaw. Who cared about how long the potion lasted? They needed it now. She fumbled for his arm. Where was the stoppered bottle? But it was too late. The Red Enchantress pushed back the hood of her cloak, smiled directly at them, and opened her mouth to speak.
P
eter sat back in his golden chair and sighed. Wonderful thing had followed wonderful thing ever since they had arrived at the castle. As soon as Peter had heard Duessa’s voice, he had known that everything would be all right. In fact, now he wondered what it was he had been so worried about. He was seated with his friends in the middle of a ballroom lit with torchlight. Musicians were grouped near the front of the room, and the notes of their pleasant music filled the air. More tables than he could count crowded the large space, and the place settings sparkled with gem-encrusted goblets and polished silver. He looked across the table at his companions, who all seemed vaguely familiar, although he couldn’t place them. The woman with the reddish hair piled on top of her head—her name was on the tip of Peter’s tongue—and the man with the glasses and serious voice; surely Peter knew him?
But soon his thoughts were distracted by the brilliance of the ballroom. Vases sprouting with blood-red roses towered over every table. Peter had never seen so many candles in his life. The room sparkled with the light of a million flames, like some enchanted fairy feast. Wide windows opened to the gardens of blooming flowers. Peter shifted in his seat, slowly rubbing the aching spot in his side. Why was he sore anyway? His memory felt patchy, like fabric worn thin in spots. He had been looking for someone. No, that wasn’t right. He had wanted to do something. But what?
A platter of food appeared at Peter’s elbow. Figs, grapes, and half-moons of melon surrounded a slice of flatbread stuffed with pale cheese. A beautiful servant girl circled the table, pouring mugs of hot tea. The aromatic blend of cinnamon and clove melted away his muscle aches. Peter sighed. He had been hoping for tea.
More characters than Peter had ever seen filled the ballroom. Characters from every district of Story. The woman next to the man with glasses tickled his memory. He knew her from Perrault. Was she Peter’s teacher? Peter set his tea down. Something was wrong. His memory was gone. Vague images flickered through his mind, but he couldn’t solidify any of them. His head pounded when he tried to remember something new, something about Perrault or his father’s voice or the feel of the wind against his face.
There was a flicker of movement off to his left. A striped cat crouched near his feet, eyes dilated wide. Peter felt a jolt of affection. But that wasn’t right. He hated cats. All of Story hated cats. Peter leaned down and held out his hand. If he could trap it, the servant girl could take it away and drown it. The cat’s mouth was working strangely, as though it was trying to talk.
How absurd.
Peter made coaxing noises, but the cat still worked its mouth. Maybe it was rabid. Peter wasn’t sure how he knew, but he thought that cats could go wrong like that. He snatched his hand back and drew his dagger. The cat looked frantic now, panicked sounds coming from its mouth.
Definitely rabid.
Best to slice off its head rather than count on the drowning to work. Peter raised his hand, and the cat darted off, skirting the next table, and disappearing out a side window.
Peter moved to follow, but his head was throbbing now, an explosion of pain that made it hard to sort through his thoughts. The music stopped. The musicians were on their feet, bowing toward a balcony that protruded above them. A red carpet hung from the balcony’s edge, and a man who Peter recognized stood there. The Tale Master of Story. Elton brought his hands together in front of his chest and proclaimed in a loud voice.
“People of Story, may I present to you King Fidelus, the master of Story, and his Queen Duessa.” The next moment, the sound of trumpets split the air, and there, waving down at them all, stood the rulers of Story.
The Queen was the most beautiful woman Peter had ever seen. Her long dark hair fell in glossy waves, and her red cloak cascaded behind her. The man next to her was a towering pillar. Clad in warrior’s armor, the King greeted his people with outstretched arms.
When the cheering had died down, Fidelus spoke: “Welcome to my castle.” He bowed his head. “And welcome to my table.”
Peter felt a tiny tug on his ankle. The cat was back, and Peter kicked sharply with his boot. The cat was fast and smooth as water, and it darted out of the way. Irritation flared within Peter. Cats were nothing but trouble.
“Eat and be merry,” Fidelus was saying. “For tonight we bid farewell to the old Story and welcome a new era.”
The old Story.
A pulse of pain. Something flashed in the corner of Peter’s vision, a burst of bright light that shot out a rainbow of colors. But when he turned to look in that direction, there was nothing out of the ordinary.
“Some of you fear The End,” Fidelus said, and the Dystopians at the next table stirred. “But the End of Story is only a new beginning. You will see.”
Peter rubbed his temples. He had a parched and stinky feeling in his mouth. He tried to focus on his slippery memories. Two boys, pestering him with questions. His brothers? Why couldn’t he recall the faces of his family? A spark of light roused him. Why had he been thinking about his family? He should be listening to the King.
Another flash. This one filled the whole room with colors.
“Did you see that?” Peter asked the man next to him. “That light there?”
“The throne?” The man polished his glasses. “Pretty amazing, isn’t it? It’s about time there was a King in Story.”
The Tale Master was placing a ruby-encrusted crown on King Fidelus’s head. The red gems glistened wetly in the candlelight. King Fidelus then reached for a silver tiara and situated it on Queen Duessa’s glossy mass of hair. Peter felt something prickling at the back of his memory. Something about the King of Story and a feast and the coronation. But he brushed away the feeling. Things would be all right now. Now that Story had a King.
The air above the throne was shimmering oddly. . . . Now it looked like ordinary silver, but when Peter looked away, it wavered and expanded, rising upward to touch the ceiling. He shook his head. Maybe he was ill. When he looked back at the throne, there it was, stretched like taffy. No ordinary person could sit on that weightless, narrow seat. He glanced back at his companions, but they were already eating. King Fidelus and Queen Duessa were gesturing for the musicians to resume their music, and they were disappearing into the seclusion of the balcony. The Tale Master was following them, escorting a girl by the elbow.
Bright flashes flickered around the girl. Like Duessa, she was wearing a long red robe.
But her face
. Peter knew that face. Violet eyes. A long black braid. She took her place between the King and the Queen, her mouth set in a brilliant smile. Peter wanted to go talk to her. Wanted to make her laugh. But he couldn’t very well go up to the King’s private balcony just to talk to a girl. He shook his head. He was being ridiculous. He grabbed his cup and drank the liquid in one long gulp. The aching in his head subsided. The pleasant music calmed him. He filled his goblet from the pitcher on the table and held it up in front of his companions.
“To the End of Story!” he said.
U
na stood stiffly between her parents, the muscles in her face aching from her forced smile. They had done it. Her mother and father stood across from her, crowned the King and Queen of Story. And all the characters! The hall below them was full of people feasting merrily, not in the least bit concerned that the End of Story was coming upon them.
In fact, the table nearest the balcony was toasting that very thing. Una felt her smile slip.
Peter?
And Professor Thornhill sitting next to him, grinning like a schoolgirl. Una sucked in her breath. Across from her friends sat the Merriweathers. Una’s heart sank. And there were Edenberry and Griselda. And the other Resistance members.
It can’t be.
They all were under the Enemy’s enchantment.
Peter was staring up at her with a dull, glassy look that confirmed her fears.
He doesn’t recognize me.
Peter pressed a hand to his temple and set the goblet he was holding back on the table. Una felt like throwing up. She didn’t know what her parents were serving their guests, but even from a distance, Una could see the flies buzzing around the rotting food. She looked at the faces of her smiling friends. None of them were aware of what was really happening.
“At last,” Duessa said to Fidelus, as she escorted them to the privacy of their own table. “Story is finally ours.”
“Soon, my love,” Fidelus said. “Once that fool delivers the Scroll.”
Una felt a quickening in her chest. The Enemy didn’t have the final Element. Maybe it wasn’t too late.
Duessa’s lips curved into a lazy smile. “If you say so.” She spread her hands over the crowded hall. “But isn’t this enough for you? Look. They all adore you. The only ones who can stop you are asleep in the tower.” She gave a wicked laugh. “Why go through all the trouble of rewriting Story?”
Una’s father’s voice was hard as ice when he answered Duessa. “Don’t be a fool, woman.” His gaze held none of the warmth that had been there a moment earlier. “An enchanted kingdom is no kingdom. All of this”—he waved a hand across the crowded hall—“is nothing. Except a captive audience when I unwrite my enemies.” He scooped up a forkful of food and slid it into his mouth, his teeth scraping the fork. “And an invitation.”
The corners of Duessa’s mouth turned down. “Invitation?”
It seemed to Una like her father was working on that one bite forever. The music across the hall drifted over, the clinking of flatware on china, the low murmur of conversation. But she watched him chewing, working the piece of meat until it must have been ground down to nothing. He swallowed.
“For the King. When I use the Elements, he will come.” He smiled. “And he will be the first one unwritten.” Fidelus stood and stretched, moving over to the balcony and receiving the resulting cheers that came from the ballroom.
Duessa dragged her fork around the edge of her plate. “The King,” she said in a very soft voice. She looked over at Una, as if she only just then remembered Una was at the table with them. “Eat, my dear. This is a feast, you know.”
Una nodded, and mechanically began shoveling food into her mouth. Anything to keep playing the part of the enchanted daughter. “It’s lovely,” she managed. “So thrilling.”
“I told you to eat,” her mother said in a cold voice. “Not yammer away as if you have something important to say.” Una felt the ring burning on her finger and knew Duessa must be heightening the enchantment.
Elton appeared at her mother’s elbow. “Archimago is here,” he said. “And he wishes to see you, milady.”
“You mean, ‘my queen,’” Duessa said sharply. “Bring him to me.”
Una sneaked a peek at Elton’s face. His eyes were dry, and there was no sign of the broken man she had seen earlier.
Elton gestured toward the doorway behind them, and the next moment a man was seated with them at the table. He was very old. His hair hung in stringy masses from his wrinkled scalp. There was a feverish light in his eyes.
“Archimago.” Duessa held out both hands to the thin man. “You have impeccable timing.”
The thin man grabbed one of Duessa’s hands and planted a kiss on her knuckles. “My queen.” With a flourish, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a wrapped bundle. The air around Una was filled with a sudden heat.
“The Scroll of Fire,” Duessa breathed.
Una pretended to be scooping the last of her potatoes onto her fork and eyed Archimago. This was it. This was when the Enemy got the last Element. Archimago removed the layer of cloth, and there it was. A thin roll of parchment that glowed like a dying ember. Duessa reached for the Scroll.
Una darted a hand out to snatch it herself, but she wasn’t fast enough. Archimago swept it out of reach, and Una switched course so that it looked like she was desperate for her water goblet.
“The last Element.” Archimago twirled it in his fingers. “I will give it to you,” he said with a cunning look. “On one condition.”
Duessa arched an eyebrow. “And what is that?”
“You promised me.” Archimago dropped down on one knee. “So long ago, you said you would be mine if I did all you asked.” He shot a hateful glare beyond Duessa to where Fidelus stood. “Leave him. You know I’ve always loved you.”
Una couldn’t read her mother’s face. It remained smooth as she looked evenly at the former Tale Master. Una almost felt bad for him.
“We can figure out a way to wield the Elements. We can defeat him and rule Story together,” Archimago said, and raised his head. “You belong to me.”
“Archimago—” her mother began.
“Deny me”—Archimago’s voice was poison—“and I will destroy him on my own. One way or the other, you will be mine.”
Her mother let her lips curve into a slow smile. She reached out a slender hand and drew him to his feet.
Archimago blinked his eyes wide, as if he could hardly believe what he was seeing. Duessa leaned in toward him. “Archimago, there’s something I must tell you.” Archimago tilted his chin up, as though he might kiss her on the lips. When their faces were so close that they were almost touching, Duessa whispered. “I—”
And with the speed of a viper, her hand darted up and thrust a dagger into his chest.
Una stifled a gasp, but Archimago’s groan drowned out the sound.
He dropped to his knees, one hand fumbling at the red dagger protruding from his torso. Duessa leaned forward and slipped the Scroll from his grasp.