Storybound (18 page)

Chapter 26

U
na was sharing a desk with Peter while they waited for all of their classmates to arrive. They had made it through the Talekeepers’ headquarters without any trouble, and now they had a few minutes before their practical examination. The classroom entrance to the Tale station loomed behind Professor Edenberry’s withered frame.

“Professor Thornhill has been unavoidably detained,” he said in a serious voice. “I will administer your practical today.” A low murmur went around the room, but Edenberry had nothing else to say about Thornhill’s absence. Una wondered if Thornhill knew she had taken Alethia’s book yet. If she suspected, surely the Villainy teacher would be here now to confront Una about it. She patted her satchel reassuringly. Nothing would make her give up that book.

“Move closer,” Una whispered. Soon Professor Edenberry would start grouping students together and sending them into the exam. She and Peter spread
The Last Confession of Archimago Mores
out on their laps and tried to look inconspicuous. She skimmed the first paragraph and found the spot where Archimago’s testimony began.

Of those who know what happened, three have lied, seven are bound, and the others are dead. I am one who lied. And, before they come for me, I record here for all time the way I’ve served the Enemy of Story. Fidelus was the Muse who Wrote me here.

Una pointed at the line. “Archimago was a WI! Peter, what do you know about Fidelus? Or this Enemy?”

“Nothing,” Peter said. “I’ve never heard of the Enemy before. Keep reading.”

Fidelus trained me and taught me all he knew of Story. He told me he purposed me to lead the characters into a new era. And I believed him. But that was before he became the Enemy.

Who was I to question him? His words seemed good to me, and I had no reason to doubt him. Fidelus taught me to fight. He wrote me adventures. And I became a Hero. Because of Fidelus, I became famous. Because of him, I won Story’s trust. Soon, I was the Hero the others came to with their troubles. When Fidelus told me the King would only enslave us when he returned, I believed him.

“The King!” Una whispered. “I knew he was real! Why do you think he left Story?”

“How should I know?” Peter sounded irritated. “Let’s just keep reading, okay?”

I didn’t know then that he was a great deceiver.

I became his servant, spewing his lies to all of Story. Fidelus started wars across Story, and I blamed the Muses. He brought famine and suffering, and I laid it at their feet. Fidelus broke every oath he had taken, and I said it was all of them together. I said that the fault of everything that happened in those dark days belonged to the Muses, that their oath breaking led to the loss of so many character lives, when all the while every other Muse was fighting against Fidelus’s evil. I turned the characters of Story against the other Muses, the only ones who could save them.

Una’s scalp prickled. Archimago’s testimony was no fairy tale with some happily-ever-after ending. And Peter had been right to be afraid of at least one of the Muses. No wonder Archimago called Fidelus the Enemy of Story.

I will not write of Fidelus’s great betrayal. What happened there is to me as a dream, but one thing I can never forget. That night I saw what it was to anger a Muse. And I saw Fidelus for what he was. His face twisted ugly as he spewed his hate. How could I have suspected such a heroic frame to hide such a villainous heart? He boasted of his great evil. Of those he had killed. Of the others he had imprisoned. Of his lies.

Students were filing into the classroom now. She hunched lower over the paper and continued reading.

And his lies were his undoing. His oath bound him as surely as he himself was locked in a prison of his own making. Fidelus was lost to Story, and I thought his evil had come to an end. Though Story’s Enemy was bound, the terror and confusion he had wrought lived on. The Muses had disappeared, and no one mourned their absence. I had done my job well, for all of Story hated the Muses.

My readers must know that I meant only good for Story. The land was in chaos. It needed a Hero. And who was better positioned to lead than I? The Red Enchantress came to me then. She claimed to want to rebuild Story, to undo the lies and evil we had done as the Enemy’s servants. Fool that I am! I should have known that she was an evil Enchantress. That her voice could fell the strongest warrior.

First, she told me to gather all the old Tales. What good would it do for Story to know the truth of the Muses? She said that Story needed a fresh beginning, one unencumbered by the past. Her words seemed to me wisdom, and I did not know that her heart was filled with the Enemy’s lies. Together, we locked up the old Tales. I swear to you, I didn’t think it possible that she still worked the Enemy’s will.

Next, she told me to find the Muse books. We both knew that the Enemy had scattered them far and wide throughout Story. Hadn’t I built one of the stone cairns myself? “To give the Muses peace,” Fidelus had said then. “To make sure meddlesome characters bother them no more.” The other Muses didn’t know Fidelus had hidden their books. Alethia. Charis. Spero. Clementia. Sophia. Virtus. They couldn’t guess that this was why no characters visited them anymore. I found Virtus’s first, for that was the cairn I had built. The Red Enchantress came with me, and had I known then what I know now, I swear to you I wouldn’t have done it. Virtus was surprised to see us, eager for news of Story, lonely and a prisoner of his own house. I knew why no one visited him, for I had hidden his own book myself, but I do not know why he couldn’t leave.

The Red Enchantress took him then. She fought him, and the magic of the Enchantress overpowered the Muse. Never have I seen the like in Story. After that I knew the Red Enchantress for what she was. She never intended to help the land of Story. Always, she was seeking her lost Fidelus. She told me the truth after that. She said there was a way to free Fidelus. If she could but find all the other Muses, the spell imprisoning him would be broken and she could bring Fidelus back to rule Story. And that is what she seeks to do.

The characters of Story already hated the Muses, thanks to Fidelus. It was a small thing for the Red Enchantress to grow their fear, to hide any trace of the Muses’ goodness, and to make sure her Tale Master was in control. And, one by one, she hunts the Muses. Not because they are Oathbreakers, but because they are Story’s protectors.

Perhaps I should have done things differently. Perhaps I could have told Story the truth. Perhaps we could have overpowered the magic that felled the Muses. Perhaps the Red Enchantress would have let me live. Perhaps death would have been better than this lifetime of lies. I don’t know.

But I am done with that now. My death draws near, and the burden of my life weighs me down. And here is my confession: We have wronged the Muses. All our hatred and bitterness falls on those who swore to protect us. And, one by one, our protectors vanish. Soon, they will be gone, and Story will be laid bare to the will of a very great and terrible Enemy.

I am finished. I know she is coming for me. Perhaps I could have done more once upon a time. But this is what I am doing now and for those who come ever after. May they be braver than me. I write this, dear people of Story, because I am ashamed of what I have done. I am not the Hero you thought. I never was.

I was there when he rebelled. I was there when he was bound. I will not be there when he returns. Here ends my confession.

Una stared at the paper. While she had been reading, Professor Edenberry had been busy grouping students for the examination.

“Peter.” She couldn’t make her mouth form the words. She licked her lips and tried again. “Peter. I think we know why Red wants the Muse books.”

Peter froze in the middle of rolling up the scroll. “You think Red is . . .”

“I do,” Una whispered fiercely. “If she’s the Red Enchantress from Archimago’s confession, it all fits. The way everyone hates the Muses. Why the Talekeepers have censored all the books so no one can read what the Muses were really like. Peter”—she swallowed hard—“I don’t know whether Story has a King or not. But it sure does have an Enemy.”

“. . . and Una Fairchild. That will make three.” Edenberry’s voice broke off any further conversation.

Una stood on shaky legs. “Come on, Peter. Let’s go.”

Peter didn’t move. “I’m not in your group.” He set the scroll down on his lap. “I’m not in your group,” he said again, as though this was a completely unforeseen turn of events.

“Una Fairchild?” Professor Edenberry called, louder this time, and looked up from his clipboard.

Peter nudged her. “Go on,” he whispered. “You’ll do just fine. I know you will.”

Perhaps it was the leftover effects from her encounter with Thornhill. Or the discovery that nearly everything Story thought about the Muses was a lie. Maybe it was just the result of going on only an hour of sleep. Or the paralyzing knowledge that there was an Enemy out there somewhere. Whatever the reason, Una thought she might dissolve into tears on the spot.

Peter gave her another little shove, and she propelled herself up to the front. There, standing next to Professor Edenberry with a pleased sneer on his greasy face, was Horace Wotton. She blinked hard. Horace mustn’t see her cry. Then, it got worse. Their third and final group member came up behind Horace. And it was none other than Endeavor Truepenny.

Professor Edenberry handed them a packet of papers and pointed at the far door. His white puff of hair bobbed up and down as Una’s group headed over. He patted her gently on the shoulder. “Good luck, Una.” Una wasn’t sure, because she was almost out the door, but she could have sworn he added under his breath, “You’ll need it.”

With a crash, the back of the wagon bounced down. Canvas fabric closed tight over Snow’s head, and rough hands dragged her body out into the cold. The air felt wet, like it might start to rain at any moment. Snow gagged. Something smelled like milk left out too long in the sun. Whoever was carrying her tossed her up over a shoulder and set off at a steady pace.

“Get the other one.” Muffled thumps followed this command. Snow wondered if her mother was awake. She strained her ears, hoping that they would at least be taken to the same place, but all she could hear was the panting breath of her captor. She thought of Perrault. Had they been missed yet?
Will anyone care if I don’t show up for the practical?
Thump, thump went her aching head against the sharp shoulder of the person carrying her. With every thump, the pounding in her skull got worse.
Did Una escape? Is she all right?

Snow thought she heard something. She tried to listen closely. It was hard to focus with the throbbing in her temple. “I have taken . . . ,” someone was saying. His voice sounded familiar.

Just then, Snow’s captor deposited her in a crumpled heap on the wet earth. A hand ripped off the canvas sack, and cold, damp air flooded in. The morning sky was cloudy, but after the dark wagon ride, Snow squinted in the gray dawn.

“I have taken the woman, Milady Duessa.”

Snow snapped her head up and saw Elton’s stout form bowed low before a red-cloaked figure.

“And the girl?” Duessa’s voice sounded like steam when water is thrown on a fire.

Elton bobbed his head up and down. “Her daughter. She was with her. I could not leave her free.” Then there was silence.

“Very well,” Duessa said, drawing the hood of her cloak farther over her face with one hand. Snow caught a glimpse of a huge red ring on one of her pale fingers. The Lady continued talking. “We are very close now. You may go. Stand ready for my command.”

Although she wasn’t sure why, Snow hoped Mr. Elton would stay. It was clear he had betrayed her and her mother, but maybe some tiny part of him would pity them. With every passing moment, the knot in her stomach was growing bigger. She struggled against her bonds, and a booted foot knocked her to the ground.

“Better to stay still,” Elton’s voice ordered, “Ms. Wotton.” The pressure of his foot lifted, but Snow kept her face pressed into the wet earth. She wished she knew some horrible curses. The sounds of Elton’s departure were soon overcome by heavy footfalls, which grew louder as they approached Snow. When they stopped, her mother’s form crumpled to the ground. She, too, had the canvas sack over her head pulled off, but her head hung at an awkward angle, and her eyes were closed.

“Wake her,” Duessa said, and someone poured a flaskful of water over Snow’s mother. With a sputtering gasp, she opened her eyes. Snow expected to see the usual calm indifference in her mother’s green eyes. Instead she saw fear.

“Where is Alethia’s book?”

A hand pulled Snow’s mother to her knees.

“Answer the Lady,” a voice from behind commanded. Snow watched her mother draw herself up, squaring her shoulders and leveling out her chin. She looked queenly, somehow, even with her bound wrists and twisted cloak.

“I cannot say,” she said in a clear, even voice. At this, Duessa really did hiss, her breath coming out in a rush.

“I do not have time for games,” she said. She tipped a finger at the figure behind her mother. “Make her talk. Bring them to me when you finish.” Her cloaked form disappeared into the growing light. Snow didn’t see what happened next, since the bag was roughly pushed back over her head, and she was lifted once more onto someone’s back.

“All right,” her captor said over his shoulder. “Have your fun. But keep her alive.”

Snow heard a low, coarse chuckle in response. Then her mother began to scream.

Chapter 27

T
he Exam Room was much as Una remembered. The space glowed with the same faint light, and the stone circular dais took up most of the room. She stood between Horace and Endeavor in front of a tiny pedestal. That first meeting with Peter seemed a lifetime ago.
If only Peter were here now.
A small pamphlet, stapled together carelessly, sat on the pedestal. “Exam A” was written in large block letters on the cover. Underneath that, a much-smudged list read:

Endeavor Truepenny: Villain

Una Fairchild: Lady

Horace Wotton: Sidekick

“Oh, that’s rich,” Horace said to Endeavor. “
You’re
the Villain?”

Below the smudges, a small note instructed, “Enter when ready.”

Endeavor looked at the others. “Well? Maybe we should talk about strategy. What did you guys bring?” He upended a standard-issue knapsack on the floor, and Una bent down to see the pile of items: a piece of flint, a small pot for cooking, a change of clothes, a leather pouch, a travel lantern, and a compass. He also had a long sword strapped to his back.

Una shifted her satchel from one shoulder to the other. She hadn’t planned on being in Elton’s office all night. What did she have in her bag—besides the books? She knew her dagger was in there. She thought her flint might be somewhere in the bottom, along with her slate.
Not helpful.
Endeavor was looking at her expectantly.

“Um,” she said. She didn’t think they would be pleased to see a satchel full of books. Not the least because they were perfectly useless for the practical. “I’d rather not. If you don’t mind, Endeavor. Personal reasons.”

Endeavor grimaced. “Call me Indy,” he said.

Horace crossed his arms over his chest. “If she’s not showing hers, I’m not showing mine.” He gave Una a dirty look.

This was going to be a long two days.

“Fine then,” Indy said, and tucked his goods back into his bag. “Looks like we’re off to an excellent start.” His tone was thick with sarcasm. He took the pamphlet from the pedestal and led the way back to the stone dais. “Sidekick Horace. Lady Una,” he called. “Come along now.”

She turned to go, but Horace pushed in front of her. “Ladies last,” he said.

She took the toe of her boot and knocked the outside of his left foot in toward the right. It was just enough to throw him off balance, and he stumbled to the side. “But then, I’m not much of a Lady,” she said as she pushed ahead of him.