6 - IN WHICH A PLAN FORMS AND DRED HATES ON FAIRIES

After watching Qwon and Shallot fight through the spy hole in his door, Dred gathered up Smash and went to report to Morgaine.

He wound through the castle and came to his mum’s double doors. They were tall and curved at the top and had a fresh coat of bright-red paint. They had pewter knockers that were shaped like foxglove flowers. Dred stood still for a moment and then leaned forward, pressing an ear against one of the doors.

“Stop eavesdropping and come in!” Morgaine yelled, and the doors magically burst open.

How Dred wished she would teach him to do things like that. Despite all his pleas, she hadn’t taught him even the simplest conjuration. He would never forgive her for that.

Morgaine sat at her vanity wearing a light-green cloak. All kinds of bottles and vials were arranged in front of her. Dred knew that some contained makeup, others held elixirs, and a precious few were filled with very strong potions.

She kept her back to him as she dabbed on some eye cream.

“How did it go? Qwon didn’t see your face, did she?”

“It went okay. And no, she didn’t see my face.”

“Good. She mustn’t.”

“I know, Mum. They can’t see my face. You’ve told me that a thousand times.”

“Right. Now, tell me what happened.”

Dred told his mother most, but not all, of the prisoners’ meeting. He made sure to mention that Shallot had used her fairy scentlock ability to stun Qwon, but he intentionally left out the part about giving Qwon a staff, saying instead that Qwon had managed to break Shallot’s staff in two and fought her off with one end.

Morgaine sighed. “Pity neither was killed. How I wish I could find the will to kill them myself.” Dred said nothing as Morgaine wheeled around. Her cloak was clasped shut at the neck with a long pin shaped like a tree branch. A small fold of skin fell over the edge of the cloak. Dred thought this one small detail made her look so old. “Continue to watch them,” she said, “and keep me apprised of their condition. Do not give them anything other than that weevil-infested porridge. Understood?”

“Understood, Mum,” Dred said quietly.

“Now get out,” Morgaine said, “before I turn you into a newt!”

Dred turned silently and loped out of his mother’s chambers.

How he hated the person she’d become these last couple years. How he wished the old Morgaine would come back. Maybe when this whole thing was over—when Artie and Merlin were dead, and any open crossovers had been shuttered—she would go back to the way she used to be. Maybe.

Back in his bedroom he put Smash on a table and gave him a carrot. He moved to the door that led to the portico and slid open the little window that afforded a limited view of the courtyard. Qwon and Shallot were hunkered down in a patch of sunlight against the far wall. They talked casually, as if they were friends on a playground.

If he’d been within earshot, this is what Dred would have heard:

QWON: So Artie is king of the Otherworld?

SHALLOT: Not yet, but he’s getting closer.

QWON: Okay. But to become king he has to find these Seven Swords?

SHALLOT: Right. That’s what the Pretelling says.

QWON: Crazy. So to help him we have to get the swords that are here—Excalibur and yours, The Anguish—and escape. How are we going to do that?

SHALLOT: Not exactly sure. But I think you should start by hitting me.

QWON: What?

SHALLOT: Hit me. Hard. The boy who brought you here is watching us through that door. Don’t look.

QWON: Okay.

SHALLOT: In a few moments, act like I’ve insulted you—really insulted you. Then hit me.

QWON: What, then we fight again?

SHALLOT: No. Then I disappear. I can become nearly invisible. They won’t be surprised if they can’t see me—I’ve done it before. Meantime, you talk to Dred and try to get him to like you. Use the fact that he hates me as a conversation piece.

QWON: Why does he hate you?

SHALLOT: Fenlandians hate Leagonese, and vice versa. Also, I bit out a chunk of his ear when he captured me.

QWON: Oh.

SHALLOT: That’s probably why he gave you that staff. Anyway, convince him you hate me, try to bond with him over that, and maybe he’ll open that door again. When he does, we make a run for it.

QWON: I guess it’s as good a plan as any. . . .

SHALLOT: It is. Listen—after I go invisible, I may torment you a little, just to keep up appearances. All right?

QWON: Got it.

SHALLOT: Now hit me.

Dred strained as he watched the two captives conspire. How he hated the fairy! He hated the way she looked, the way she smelled, the way she disappeared for days at a time. He hated that she managed to survive.

And now he hated that these two seemed to be turning into friends.

But then! The odd-looking girl reared back and slapped the fairy across the cheek. The fairy was stunned. Clearly Qwon had been insulted. That wasn’t very surprising—fairies were insulting. What was surprising was that the fairy wasn’t striking back.

And then Qwon did something that made his heart leap! She reared back and slapped the fairy again—with the back of her hand! Man, did he wish he were the one knocking that creature around.

The fairy picked up her staff, and for a moment Dred’s heart sank, as he was certain that Shallot le Fey would crush the girl’s throat with it. But then the fairy sprayed her heady scentlock, and Qwon was thrown into frozen rapture. Shallot watched Qwon for a moment before tossing her long, pink hair and disappearing.

Dred had no idea how much time would pass before he saw her again. It could be hours. It could be weeks. He hated when she was invisible, and he figured Qwon wouldn’t like it either. His spirits lifted a little as it dawned on him that these two prisoners were not going to be friends. They had begun their relationship by fighting, after all. What he mistook for friendship a few moments ago he now knew had been a ruse on the fairy’s part. She probably wanted something from Qwon. She was probably trying to trick her in some way.

Fairies really were the worst.

Dred knew that Qwon would be stuck in her pungent dreamland for at least another half hour. He closed the spy hole and crossed his room. As he passed Smash, the animal leaped out of a running wheel and asked, “Dred play?”

“Not now, Smash,” Dred said. He plopped into the chair at his writing desk and looked at a picture of him and his mom from a few years back when they’d gone on vacation to see the Towering Dunes of Sec. He looked like a child, and his mom, though still incredibly old, looked like a much younger woman.

Dred sighed. He put his elbows on the desk and cupped his chin in his hands. He looked at the wall, which had a mirror in a simple square frame on it. His reflection stared back.

A reflection that was the spitting image of Artie Kingfisher.