The Boy Who Conspired with a King: Fairendale, #18

By L.R. Patton

Combining the imaginative powers of ABC's Once with the whimsical humor and irony of Adam Gidwitz's A Tale Dark and Grimm, Fairendale is an epic middle grade fantasy series that follows fairy tale villains, unexpected heroes, and the magical world that unites them all.

 

The woods are full of unspeakable terrors.

 

Tom Thumb has been battling those terrors for more than a moon. After a Vanishing spell sent him from Fairendale to the snowy White Woods of White Wind, he encounters bees, scorpions, and dung beetles, narrowly escaping them all thanks to tiny hiding places, his needle sword, and sheer luck. All he really wants to do is return to Fairendale and resume his predictable, scheduled life. But after a fairy saves him from becoming the dinner of a terrifying Lionant, the fairy demands a favor: Steal an enchanted shield from a faraway king.

 

Perturbed by the schedule interruption (bedtime is calling), Tom Thumb embarks on the adventure and meets the foreign king, who is much kinder—especially about Tom's thievery—than he expected. And when the two discover some seven league boots in exactly Tom's size, Tom's dream of returning home seems all but assured. But magic is working against him, and the question becomes not can he return but will he return before dark forces gather against him?

 

The Boy Who Conspired with a King is the eighteenth book in the Fairendale series, an epic fantasy middle grade series that explores both familiar and unfamiliar fairy tales, legends, myths, and folk tales. The world of Fairendale revolves around villains and heroes—all on a quest for what they believe is right. Throughout the series, the story of the royal family of Fairendale is woven into the story of fairy tale children fleeing for their lives—children who become what we know as fairy tale villains (according to traditional stories), for one good reason or another.

 

One cannot always know, at first glance, who is the villain and who is the hero.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Batlee Press
• Release date: Aug 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201371227

Book preview

Discoveries

In the Whispering Woods outside the village of Rosehaven lives the Great Tree of Helomoth, the tree that sees and knows everything, the tree that holds all light and dark and life and death in perfect balance in the realm of Fairendale, the tree with the sacred ability to restore all that has been broken. The Grim Reaper, ruler of death and the underworld, stands in front of the tree, peering at it through squinty eyes that sink into the pale stony bones of his face.

The Grim Reaper knows that somewhere on the trunk of the Great Tree of Helomoth is an eye. It is said, in the folklore of the land, that when this eye is opened, all the broken pieces are restored. Unjust death, the spoils of dark magic, every curse imaginable, set right again.

The Grim Reaper does not want this reparation; he would like to maintain his significant progress toward becoming more substantial and breaking the boundary between life and death. Only then will he rule over both realms: the underworld and the overland. Only then will he have power enough to exact revenge on all who have bested him, including the Old Man and the Graces and Queen Marion. In fact, his plans, if successful, will make him the most powerful person in the world, and that is all he has ever wanted. To be known. To be revered. To be, if not loved, at least feared.

It was not always this way. The Grim Reaper, sadly, lost himself somewhere between life and death. He forgot who he was.

The Grim Reaper knows that ruling over both the underworld and the overland is only possible if he destroys this tree’s eye. No one told him this; he knows it in the petrified bones of his body. Without the eye, the people of the overland have no hope. No protection. No way to set right what has turned wrong.

The problem is, in an entire morning of searching, the Grim Reaper has found no eye.

Perhaps the eye does not exist at all. Perhaps the stories are only stories. But the Grim Reaper knows most stories still have a thread of truth running through them. The story about the Great Tree’s eye—that when a sorcerer of the purest heart chants the incantation while standing under the bow of the Great Tree’s limbs the world will right itself again—must contain something that is true.

Which means there must be something the Grim Reaper can destroy.

It may be necessary to change his tactic; perhaps instead of searching for an eye he should search for a sorcerer or sorceress with the purest of hearts.

Where would he begin? The children?

The Grim Reaper smiles his bony, cold, terrifying smile. Of course. That is where everything begins: with children.

He stands at the far edge of the tree’s bowing branches. He looks at the leaves, the trunk, the glistening canopy for a long time. Then he waves his scythe, and he turns into a foaming black cloud that begins to move, like a plume of smoke, above the trees and out and around.

If anyone were watching the Great Tree of Helomoth at exactly this time, they might see that as the Grim Reaper glides farther away from it, something flutters up from the ground around the tree, a swirl of butterflies, it looks like, all bright colors and heart-shaped wings. But these are no ordinary butterflies, they are butterflies with skeletal bodies and sharp claws on the ends of their six legs.

These butterflies are from the underworld. They scatter like particles of dust, out into the distant lands.

While the wings of insects and birds have a calm and natural cadence to them, the wings of these creatures emit a disturbing sound, a soft scraping, like nails raking down a smooth stone.

It sounds like danger.

MANY miles to the southwest of Lincastle, though grouped into the kingdom on all the ancient maps, lies a jagged land of rocks and barren beaches and trees that grow out the sides of mountains and lush green valleys. In this land live the black dragons of Daron Valley.

Among these black dragons is a queen dragon. A very angry queen dragon. Many days ago, one of her eggs was stolen, and not one member of her dragon guard has located it. She would like very much to see that stolen egg returned, safe under her tail beside the second of the queen’s eggs.

Two days ago, Bryce, this dragon queen, decided that, rather than rely on her clearly incompetent dragon’s guard, she would search for the egg herself. An egg is very important in the life of a dragon mother (as a child is important in the life of his human mother) not only because she reproduces only once every hundred or so years but also because, when a dragon mother is also a queen, a whelp provides legitimacy: the reign will continue.

Today Bryce places her remaining egg in her mouth—she does not trust her dragon guard to guard it as she might—and takes to the sky. She follows the scent of her lost egg, and it leads her to Rosehaven, to a clearing where the Enchantress and the Huntsman, who search for the lost children of Fairendale, are enjoying an early supper, unaware of the doom that is about to befall them.

Earlier this afternoon, the Enchantress battled an unknown sorceress and drained much of her energy, after expending volumes of magic in the contest. The Huntsman only woke her so that she could eat something, perhaps gain a little more strength. Or so he says.

He watches her, as though looking for something. He must think the Enchantress does not notice. Finally, annoyed with the furtive glances and the strange look in his eyes, she says, What is it, Huntsman?

Perhaps her voice is a little too sharp. He drops his eyes to the cart, where he has spread out her greens on a plate he keeps in his pack. He shakes his head, as though to say, Nothing. But he does not speak.

She knows something is bothering him, but she decides not to press. He is, after all, taking on the bulk of this quest, now that she is too tired to walk. She decides to change the subject. Do you know where we go next? She has not checked her looking ball. She assumes he did, while she slept. This still alarms her somewhat; she has a scar on her left foot that might reveal her identity to any who knew her before. But he is not from her homeland, is he?

She is not entirely sure; have they ever spoken about homelands? She almost asks him when he says, I did check. The ball did not show me. He lifts his eyes to hers. I assume that means it would like us to rest for a time.

We do not have time, the Enchantress says. You saw the danger that girl was in. What about the others?

She is speaking of the latest lost child of Fairendale they recovered: a girl named Aurora, who was kept in a cage for who knows how long. When the Enchantress and the Huntsman found her, she was about to become the victim of a rogue sorceress from some faraway land.

The Enchantress and the Huntsman did not know that rogue sorceresses from faraway lands even existed.

The Huntsman does not look at her when he says, Perhaps the ball knows what it is doing.

The Enchantress can feel her jaw drop. Her skin tingles. You trust the looking ball now? She still does not. But his trust feels like a betrayal of sorts.

Not entirely, the Huntsman says. But... He shrugs. As you once said, it has not led us astray.

The Enchantress pushes herself up straighter. She is reclining in the cart pulled by a white mare; the Huntsman perches on the end of it.  It is the only way they can dine. The Enchantress is so weak she must remain where she is, until her strength returns.

If ever it does.

She shoves the doubt away. She focuses on the words of the Huntsman—the foolish words that speed her heart and send fire through her body. She gestures to the space between two cages, where an oval cream-colored ball is wedged tightly so it does not roll around. What about the egg?

The Huntsman’s face does not change, except for a momentary squinting of his eyes. He rubs his jaw and says nothing, only shrugs again.

The Enchantress shakes her head. It is not just any egg. It is a dragon egg. It cannot be a child; it is impossible. She says into the stillness, And what about the missing child?

This is a sore spot with the Huntsman. The very first child they recovered disappeared from the cart while the Enchantress and the Huntsman were incapacitated after a foul encounter with a Bonnacon, a creature that emits toxic fumes from its...well.

She does not miss the flash of sadness that marks the Huntsman’s eyes. All he says is, We will find him. But for now we must rest. He lifts his eyes to hers, and this time the look is so loaded with unspoken words and questions that the Enchantress’s throat pulls tight. What is it there, in those blue depths? Sadness, wonder, curiosity, hope, uncertainty, all rolled up into one. She knows those eyes. Where has she seen them?

The Enchantress does not know why she says the next words; they seem to crawl out of her with little thought or consideration. "You mean it is time for me to rest, she says. But what about you?"

The Huntsman meets her gaze. I am strong enough for now.

And how long will that last? The Enchantress gazes around the clearing, the thoughts that should remain inside becoming thoughts that flutter into the world now. She is weary of carrying them. We have recovered only ten children. Will we be done with this quest before we both fall into a heap of uselessness?

You are not useless, the Huntsman says, and his gentle words make the Enchantress’s nose and eyes sting. You will regain your strength. It is the way magic works.

This magic is different. Her voice is so small she can hardly hear it herself.

He places one of his hands over hers, and again his face shifts, merges with another from her past. She gasps and pulls her hand away. He takes a breath and lets it out, then stands from the back of the cart. We cannot stay here tonight, he says to the forest. She can see his profile, can see the slightly upturned nose, the sandy hair pulled back in a tail, the eyelashes that frame those familiar blue eyes. He glances at her only once. You stay in the cart. I will lead the horse until I find a safe place for us to camp.

The Huntsman does not even get a chance to move away before a crash explodes into the clearing. The Enchantress sees, first, the look of surprise and horror on the Huntsman’s face, which moves her gaze to the direction in which he stares, open-mouthed. In the clearing, which is now much larger than it was, stands a massive dragon so black her scales appear purple. They shimmer in the sun like jewels. It is one of the most beautiful things the Enchantress has ever seen.

The trees beneath the dragon’s feet crunch and snap as she takes one step forward, then two. The Enchantress flinches at every crack.

You have my egg, the dragon says, in a language the Enchantress is surprised to know she understands.

The Enchantress and the Huntsman do not say a word, so overcome are they by the fact that they stand in the presence of a majestic dragon. It happens in slow motion: the Huntsman looks back at her with wide eyes, the next blink he is at her side, the next blink he is flinging her toward the woods, shouting, Run! And though she is more weary than she has ever been, she stands and runs. It is not until she turns to look behind her that she realizes the Huntsman did not run with her.

The children. He stayed to defend the children. A sickening cold blooms in her stomach. How foolish she was to run!

Huntsman? the Enchantress shouts into the forest. She turns around and around and around, but she cannot make sense from where the crashes and shouts come. She hears the Huntsman yell, a cry of pain.

That is all the Enchantress needs; seconds later, she races back the way she came, her energy unexplainably restored for at least this moment in time.

The cart and the white horse take shape among the trees, and the Enchantress breaks into the clearing with a shout of panic. Where is the Huntsman? She searches frantically, then sees his boot, still on a foot, jutting out from beneath the cart. She is on the ground in an instant, pulling him out, gathering him in her arms. He has a gash on his forehead but looks otherwise unharmed. His head rolls, and she steadies it. She closes her eyes, presses her hands to the gash, and murmurs the Healing enchantment. It swirls green around both of them, and the skin on the Huntsman’s forehead stitches itself together.

The dragon is gone.

So, too, is the egg.

TOM Thumb does not recognize the cold, snow-dusted land to which he was transported by way of the child sorceress Hazel’s miraculous Vanishing spell that saved the lost children of Fairendale from capture by King Willis, the reigning king of the land (who has since, in an ironic turn of events, decided that it was wrong of him to pursue the children, which led to said king penning a decree to all the lands stating that they do not have to turn over the children of their kingdom, a number that could possibly include the children of Fairendale, and should instead protect those children; sadly, this decree never made it to the neighboring lands, and their people are all still under the impression that the king of their realm wishes a speedy and efficient capture of all children, everywhere. It has, you might imagine, caused considerable mayhem). This land where Tom Thumb has landed has a glittering ground and pointed icicles hanging from the trees: a winter wonderland, it would seem.

And yet the creatures he has seen, and the freeze he has felt...

It is no wonderland.

Tom’s parents used to tell him stories of all the creatures that lived in the woods, but they were the same stories told to all children of Fairendale. He, like most children, thought the stories were simply tales, invented and elaborated by parents who wished to keep their children from the Weeping Woods, the mermaid tributaries, and the Sleeping Fields on the northern edge of the village. Tom never quite believed his mother and went adventuring any time adventuring called to him.

And, besides, Tom was only an inch tall; creatures rarely noticed him. It is the small creatures of the world that could be a nuisance to him, not the monsters that populated stories.

Those small creatures represent more than a nuisance—they represent danger. And there were no books in Fairendale about the monsters of the miniature realm: eight-legged