Quests for Glory

  As Tedros swept through the White Tower, veering into dead ends and going round in circles, he kept passing the same square-jawed guard, smirking in his blue-and-gold uniform, daring him to ask for directions.

  Tedros insisted to Lancelot he could meet the advisors without Lance taking him there. The knight demanded to come along, wary of a king treading into the dungeons on his own, but Tedros shoved past him, ordering him to stay behind. First of all, the advisors had made it clear they wanted to see him alone. Second, he didn’t want to admit he hadn’t a clue where the prison was after a lifetime of living in Camelot and six months of ruling it. And third, he was done passing the buck to others. On his first night in the castle, when the advisors had refused to see him, he’d let Lancelot throw them in jail instead of doing it himself.

  But tonight he’d right that wrong. When it came to these advisors, this coming meeting felt personal.

  He’d been roaming the White Tower for nearly an hour now, but the reddish torchlight made every hall look the same. Any time he opened a door it went wrong: a storage space filled with broken weapons . . . a steward undressing in his quarters . . . a laundry maid in the midst of ironing, so spooked at the sight of him she burnt through his shirt. . . . It was futile guesswork: the only part of White Tower that Tedros knew was the strange guest room his father had built on the second floor, which he kept returning to every few minutes like a rat restarting a maze.

  Reaper could have shown me the way, Tedros thought, aware he was longing for a creature he’d often imagined falling into a lit fireplace. The cat seemed to know every nook and cranny of this castle. But after he’d kicked him in the guest room this morning, Reaper had vanished, no longer compelled to protect the king.

  “Lost, Your Highness?” said the square-jawed guard as he passed.

  “If I was, I’d ask,” said Tedros. “Especially since guards don’t speak to kings unless they’re spoken to first.”

  The guard bolted to attention, spear to his chest.

  One day these guards will look at me the way they looked at my father, Tedros thought, prowling through the empty staff dining room into a carpeted corridor. One day no one will question my place as king—

  He tripped over a hole in a carpet and toppled through an open door, his crown flying off him, his body splaying onto a wet floor. He stood up gingerly, his chest and legs drenched. He lit his fingerglow and saw he was in a spacious bathroom, almost as big as his master bath in the Gold Tower. The floor was flooded an inch deep with water. Tedros scanned the bath with his glow until he found the source: a severed toilet hose that had dumped out the entire water tank. Tedros groaned and picked up his dripping crown, smushing it back on his head. He was about to trudge back into the hall and fetch one of the maids . . . but then something caught his eye.

  Farther in, the bathroom had two side doors across from each other, each leading into opposing rooms. Which meant this bathroom was shared between whoever occupied those two rooms.

  No wonder it’s so big, Tedros thought.

  Curious as to why neither of the rooms’ inhabitants had noticed the leak, Tedros opened one of the side doors and stepped through—

  He raised his brows.

  It was the strange guest room, with the brown-and-orange rug, bare beige walls, and lonely bed in the corner. The one his father used to hide in during his drunken hazes.

  But Tedros hadn’t used this door earlier today. He’d entered through the front door across the room, which still had his bloody handprint on it. And he’d used a key.

  He turned and examined the door he’d just come in, with no doorknob on the inside and deftly concealed within the pattern of the wallpaper. It’s why he hadn’t seen it when he was in here this morning.

  A secret door? To a guest room?

  It didn’t make sense. Then again, many things in this castle didn’t make sense. Especially in the middle of the night, when he could feel his brain deadening and his eyes starting to close. But then another thought struck him—

  Who shared the bathroom with this room?

  He stepped through the secret door back into the bathroom and waded across the wet floor to the opposite side door.

  He opened it—

  A blast of perfume hit him, smelling of powdered rose. The small room had lavender wallpaper, a dark purple carpet, and a crisply made bed. A plate of half-eaten biscuits and an empty glass were on the nightstand, a dried-out lemon on the glass’s rim. Next to the glass was a leather-bound notebook. Tedros peeled it open and saw pages filled with Lady Gremlaine’s clear, graceful handwriting: schedules, to-do lists, addresses, notes to self. . . .

  Tedros looked around the deserted room.

  Shouldn’t she be sleeping?

  There was nothing on the desk cabinets or mantel. He glanced back into the bathroom. There were no face creams or perfume bottles or even a toothbrush.

  Tedros’ chest tingled.

  He pulled the closet door. Empty. He yanked open the drawers and cabinets. Empty.

  He rushed through the room’s main door into the hall and saw the square-jawed guard, reappeared.

  Tedros frowned. “Weren’t you in the other . . . Never mind. Where’s Lady Gremlaine?”

  The guard didn’t look at him, his narrow, hooded brown eyes fixed ahead. “Gone, Your Highness.”

  “Yes, but gone where?”

  “Packed up before lunch. Took all of her belongings and left the castle,” the guard said. “Said she was no longer needed.”

  “What? Why would she—”

  Tedros’ eyes widened. When they were in the Hall of Kings, he’d promised to stand up for her. To vouch for her after she’d helped him these past six months. He’d given Lady Gremlaine his word. But instead, he’d forgotten all about her and let his mother dismiss her, just like his dad once had.

  “Like father, like son,” her words echoed.

  Tedros hadn’t just been selfish. He’d been cruel.

  The young king stiffened, heat coloring his cheeks.

  It was time to swallow his pride.

  Slowly he looked up at the guard.

  “I seem to be lost after all,” Tedros said.

  The dungeon wasn’t in the White Tower.

  It was in the Gold Tower and to get there, they had to go through King’s Cove. Turns out Tedros had been working out right over the prison every morning and he hadn’t a clue. He followed the guard through the Gymnasium, tensing up as they passed Excalibur’s empty case, then tightening even more as the guard spotted King Arthur’s statue inside King’s Cove, the eyes gouged out.

  “Your Highness,” he gasped, nostrils flaring, “someone has desecrated the—”

  “I am aware, guard.”

  “I’ll make sure to inform the other men—”

  “I’m handling it,” Tedros clipped. “It’s one o’clock. I’d like to sleep tonight. Where is the prison?”

  Still looking concerned, the guard stepped into the muggy grotto, the broad frame of his blue-and-gold uniform glowing in the pool’s ghostly light. The weak torches lit up the surface of the fungus-filled water and the slow, leaky cascade over the tall pile of rocks. The guard reached up to the statue of King Arthur holding Excalibur and twisted the sword’s hilt, the stone turning easily under his fingers.

  All of a sudden the waterfall stopped running and the rocks parted, revealing a white stone door.

  “I believe you have the key, Your Highness,” said the guard.

  “Key?” said Tedros.

  “Only you and Lady Gremlaine have keys to the door. Lady Gremlaine let us in each day to feed the prisoners. But if she didn’t leave her keys behind when she departed the castle, then only you can let us in now.”

  Tedros took out his key ring. “But I don’t have the key to—”

  He stopped. There was a coal-colored key scrunched between the many others on his ring—the one he always assumed opened a far-flung lockbox or weapons case. Skirting the edge of the pool, Tedros slipped
through the gap in the rocks to reach the door and fit the black key into the lock. He pushed the door open, revealing a steep staircase down into darkness.

  The guard lifted a torch off the wall and started descending the steps.

  “This way, Your Highness.”

  The young king followed quickly, trying not to breathe in the wet, fetid stench. Lancelot was right: the rest of the castle might be crumbling, but the real Royal Rot was hidden down beneath. Tedros was glad he hadn’t come alone.

  “Has the prison always been here?” he asked the guard.

  “Far as I know, Your Highness. Suppose the old kings enjoyed the thought of swimming idly while their prisoners festered below them. I’m not much older than you, so don’t take my word for it. Started my duties here only a few months after they packed you off to school.”

  “How does one even become a guard at Camelot?” Tedros asked, guilty that he didn’t know the answer. In fact, he hadn’t ever remembered talking to a guard before. Growing up, he’d treated them like wallpaper.

  “We go to school for it, Your Highness. Not all children get to attend the School for Good and Evil. Though I certainly wrote many a letter to the School Master, begging him to make me an Ever,” said the guard, starting to defrost.

  “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.”
br />   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.

  “Then he wouldn’t be in this predicament, would he?” said Omeida.

  Tedros had enough. “I’ve seen the ledgers. The ‘Camelot Beautiful’ funds are a fraud. You took all our gold and hid it somewhere.”

  “Check our pockets,” Alpa quipped.

  “Give us a good frisk,” Bethna said.

  “Tee hee,” Omeida giggled.

  Tedros felt his ears smoldering. “If you don’t tell me where you hid it, I’ll—”

  “Shouldn’t you be asking Lady Gremlaine?” Alpa mused. “She’s the one up there while we’ve been down here minding our own business. Ask her.”

  “If you can find her,” said Bethna.

  Her sisters snickered.

  Tedros furrowed. They knew his steward had left the castle? How? She’d only been gone a few hours—

  Unless . . .

  Kei had said Lady Gremlaine had the only other key to the prison. Had she been secretly in cahoots with these three this whole time? Had she deliberately been stonewalling Tedros meeting them? It was such an obvious idea—the advisors were the ones who’d brought her back to the castle—yet he’d never considered it until now. Lady Gremlaine had been so loyal to Camelot these past six months. Had his mother been right to mistrust Lady Gremlaine all this time? He had to find out what happened between his mother and his steward when his father was alive. . . .

  “See that, Bethna? He’s thinking,” Alpa said.

  “Like a candle without a flame,” Bethna piped.

  “Should stick to what he’s good at,” Omeida chipped in.

  “What’s that?” said Alpa quizzically.

  “Nothing,” said Omeida.

  The trio tittered.

  “Shut up,” Tedros barked. “You set up the Camelot Beautiful fund long before Lady Gremlaine returned to the castle. You gave the orders to hide Camelot’s money in that fund. And you know exactly where that money went.”