Peter listened to the dancing blades, barely able to conceive of what was before him. “I assure you, it’s something to behold,” the man said, reading his nephew’s expression. “I fashioned it myself. Every inch, deadly.” He flexed his gauntlet, admiring the blades whirring and slicing all along his arm.
Peter had been a fool to think he could taunt this murderer into a fair fight. He scrambled under the eating table to put some distance between himself and the king’s armor. Incarnadine followed after him, walking straight into the table. The moment his suit touched the wood, the gears grabbed hold, chewing and slicing and crushing it into a million splinters. Adults and children shielded themselves as wooden shrapnel exploded in all directions.
Peter ignored the sounds and kept running until he came against the clock tower wall. He rattled the maintenance door but found it had been sealed shut with some kind of mortar. His only other option was a staircase jutting out from the facade—he had no idea where it might lead, but at least it would buy him some time. He clambered up the stone steps, zigzagging higher and higher above the hall.
The king watched him, somewhat amused. “A dead end,” he called. “Too perfect!”
Peter discovered too late what his uncle meant: the stairs ended at a platform fifty feet above the courtyard floor. He searched in vain for a hatch or ladder but could find nothing that would help him escape.
Now that Peter was so thoroughly trapped, Incarnadine took his time moving up the steps. He gloated as he climbed. “Before me, no man in this kingdom had ever guessed at the clockwork wonders that lie beyond our seas. I alone sailed out to learn these dark magics . . . only to discover that they were not magic at all. They were figments, little nothings—a mere string of letters and numerals. And unlike magic, this ‘science’ could be mastered and harnessed.” He let his arm graze the wall. Sparks shot out as the spinning blades whetted against the stone. People below cheered this dazzling display.
“Listen to them,” he said to Peter. “They’re powerless in the face of such tricks. I have transformed unthinking beasts into servants, and servants into unthinking beasts.” His voice was thick with disdain.
Peter remained still, listening not to the man’s words but to the sound of his approaching blades. Incarnadine stepped closer, lowering his voice to a venomous whisper. “But even better, dear nephew, was how this ‘magic’ helped me fly back to the palace, slip undetected into this very hall, and cut the still-beating heart from my brother’s noble chest.”
“Monster!” Peter hurled the fishhook like a lance. The point grazed Incarnadine’s face, and the man staggered backward, nearly losing his balance. There was a murmur of horror when citizens saw blood flowing from their Great Ruler’s cheek. Peter listened as his weapon clattered down the steps and splashed onto the ground below—so much for destiny.
Incarnadine erupted with rage. “You little worm!” He charged up the remaining steps. “Thought you’d avenge your precious parents? Thought you could steal the throne from me?!” He swiped his arm, catching Peter’s shoulder with a dozen tiny blades. The boy collapsed, crippled with pain. “Stand up!” Incarnadine snatched him by the neck and lifted him clear off the ledge. Peter’s feet kicked wildly in the air.
“You were never a prince.” The king tightened his grip. “You’re nothing but a pathetic! wretched! THIEF!”
As Peter fought to breathe, that one word rang in his head:
“THIEF!”
The insult echoed louder and louder until it was all he could hear.
“THIEF!”
It was true. Even if he had by some miracle won the fight, what did he know about ruling? He was a criminal. He was the impostor.
But then the boy recalled another, steadier voice—the professor giving his final benediction. Remember your nature above all things. All through the journey, Peter had assumed he had meant that somewhere inside him lived a noble warrior. But maybe he was saying the opposite? That Peter wasn’t a warrior, but a dirty, sneaky thief . . . the greatest thief who ever lived. And why couldn’t a thief be a hero? He suddenly understood how all the trials of his life—abandonment, Mr. Seamus, the Just Deserts—had prepared him for this moment. He gasped for breath, and his heart swelled with a new desire to fight. This time, though, he would fight the way he knew best.
He started with the Rascal’s Questions.
Where was he?
Dangling fifty feet above ground, choking to death.
Were there friends nearby?
He could hear his sister struggling by the stairs, but she was too far away to help.
Were there weapons nearby?
His fishhook was lying useless on the ground below, leaving him only his hands.
But his were no ordinary hands.
Peter knew that the king’s mechanical suit was no different from any of the locks he had spent his life mastering. All he had to do was find a way in. He focused his every sense on the ticktock of clockwork before him. He could hear every gear and piston running together toward a narrow gap just below the king’s heart: that was his keyhole.
This realization, of course, happened in an instant. From Incarnadine’s perspective, there was no difference between the boy he had raised above the platform and the boy he was staring at now—no difference but the faintest trace of a smile. “Farewell, dear nephew,” the king said as he drew back his sword. “Say hello to my brother for m—!”
Peter plunged his hand straight into the armor. He screamed as clockwork chewed through skin and fingernail and bone and the pain of a thousand hot pokers ripped through him. He slipped from the king’s grip and collapsed at the edge of the platform.
With all Peter’s screaming, it took Incarnadine a moment to realize that he hadn’t succeeded in running his nephew through. In fact, his arm was still raised over his head, just as it had been. The gears had stopped whirring, and within seconds every joint of his terrible armor was locked in place, rendering him completely immobile. “What manner of curse is this?” He strained against the frozen suit. “What have you done to me?”
Peter was hunched at his feet, overcome with pain, but still alive. “What I was born to do,” he said with a triumphant gasp. He raised his trembling, bloody hand to reveal a tiny brass pin—no bigger than a bodkin.
“Impossible!” The king jerked his head about. “You’re just a child!”
“There’s no such thing as just a child,” a voice spoke from behind. The king craned his neck and saw Peg limping up the steps. She placed a hand on his body and gave a mighty shove.
Incarnadine tumbled off the ledge and crashed onto the ground below, piercing his throat on the silver fishhook. There he lay broken and bleeding, unable to wriggle free from the armor he had constructed. With a final gurgle, he went limp. And thus, King Incarnadine died just as the Back-Stabber’s Blight had predicted: like a miserable worm.
A silence came over the Eating Hall. The adults were terrified beyond words. Never in their wildest imaginings did they think that their mighty ruler could be killed.
“Those monsters murdered our king!” one woman cried, covering her mouth. Panic swelled through the crowd as people started for the exits.
Peg helped her brother to his feet and stood beside him. She took a deep breath and shouted with all her might, “ORDER, SUBJECTS!!!”
For once, Peg’s words got through; every man, woman, and child instantly stopped what they were doing and stared up at her. The princess composed herself and went on. “The man you worshipped as king was an impostor. Ten years ago, he seized this land from its true ruler, King Hazelgood.” She took Peter’s good hand in her own. “Today, we, his heirs, have returned to avenge his death and claim what is rightfully ours.”
The adults’ faces were flushed with confusion.
Peter squeezed his sister’s hand, urging her to go on.
The girl took a breath. “Everything the king told you was a lie. Your homes were prisons. Your feasts, poison. The ‘monsters’ he c
ommanded you to kill were not monsters but your own children.” There were a few shocked gasps as people struggled with this horrifying idea. Peg pointed to where Lillian stood with protective arms around her son. “That woman is one of you. Her real name is Lillian. The boy standing beside her is her child. Her very own.” Lillian drew her precious Timothy closer, and the two hugged as if they might crush the world between them.
“Somewhere in this room is your own child.” Peg said, voice trembling. “It’s time you met each other.”
Many a historian will tell you that a great performance is just as much a matter of timing as it is material. After missing their supper and breakfast doses of Devil’s Dram, the grown-ups were no longer affected by the king’s drug. When the princess spoke the truth to them, they studied the dirty-faced slaves standing before them and—as if waking from slumber—staggered backward, overcome by the truth about their “perfect” lives. Spears clattered to the ground as the adults remembered how they had been made to forget the Cursed Birthday. How they had lived as prisoners for all these years. And how they had very nearly just murdered their own children.
At that very moment, LongClaw and his horde charged into the Eating Hall, weapons high. They had been expecting to join forces with the king’s army, gobble whatever children remained, and then crush the ravens once and for all. But upon entering, they were greeted by a different sight altogether. The adults’ weapons were strewn across the floor. Still more alarming, King Incarnadine was nowhere to be found. LongClaw scanned the scene with some confusion. “Where is he?” he snarled at the frightened people. “Where’s your ruler?!”
“Up here,” a small voice called out. LongClaw looked to see two children, almost identical, standing at the top of the clock tower stairs. The one with the bandage across his eyes stepped forward. “My sister and I have reclaimed what was rightfully ours. Your king is no more.”
“You two?” The ape was now grinning. For years he had fantasized about seizing the palace for his own—stopped short only by his fear of the king’s deadly armor. But now it seemed his moment had arrived. Even with ravens perched against the walls, the apes enjoyed a distinct advantage. “Well, Your Majesties,” he said, stepping closer. “Way I count it, you’re outnumbered.”
“Not quite!” The girl stepped to her brother’s side. “Subjects,” she called out, turning her brilliant gaze once more upon them. “These are the jailers who kept your children as slaves. They tormented us for ten long years. And now they threaten us once more. How will you answer them?”
As one, every man, woman, and child seized a weapon from the ground and turned to face the horde.
The princess raised a spear above her head. “Then let us put an end to this cursed battle at last!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE BLESSED REUNION
The Night Patrol was polished off in a matter of minutes. Their cannons and catapults were trampled to bits by the massive wave of human soldiers, leaving the beasts defenseless against the ravens. Captain Simon and his troops finished off the apes with swift justice. Every toenail and tuft of hair was collected and dumped into the sea.
With the battle finally over, the adults rushed to find their long-lost children. The reunion that followed was perhaps the happiest moment in the history of the world; tears of joy ran so freely that the bloody streets were soon washed completely clean. Peter wandered among the restored families, searching for his own lost companion. The knight, however, was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t until the afternoon that Peter’s ears caught the familiar clip-clop of miniature hooves. “Sir Tode!” he exclaimed, rushing to meet his friend. He would have swept him up in a hug were it not for his right arm being bound in a sling. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”
“I was, in a manner,” Sir Tode said sheepishly. “I didn’t want to see you until I made things right.” He pushed something across the stones to Peter’s feet.
The boy reached down to find the Haberdasher’s mysterious box. He opened the lid. Inside sat three pairs of eyes—one gold, one black, and one bright emerald-green.
“It’s a miracle they weren’t destroyed in the battle,” Sir Tode said. “By my third pass around the palace, I had begun to lose hope. I finally spotted them tucked in a gutter, safe as could be. Don’t worry, I rinsed them off.”
Peter took the green eyes in his hand. Every atom within him confirmed that the moment had come: at last he would wear the eyes of Hazelgood. He imagined what sort of incredible powers they might convey, powers fit for a prince. He pulled the bandage from his head, slipped the eyes into his sockets, and blinked—
All at once the boy was struck down by a bolt of brilliant light. He screamed out as he fell to the ground.
“Peter!” Sir Tode ran closer. “What’s wrong?!”
The pain was unlike anything Peter had ever felt in his life. He didn’t care what these Fantastic Eyes were supposed to do—he just wanted it to stop. The blaze sliced through his pupils and went straight into his brain. He could hear it. Taste it. Feel it. Smell it. Thrusting a hand into his uncle’s armor was nothing compared to the agony he was now experiencing. He had expected the Fantastic Eyes to change his body in some amazing way—make him stronger or able to fly—but all they did was hurt.
His cries had attracted the attention of Simon, Peg, and a few others. They crowded around him, watching as the boy moaned in agony. The princess knelt beside him, terrified. “What’s happening to you?”
Peter tried to speak, but could only manage a whimper. “I can’t . . . stop it . . .” He curled into a ball and clenched his eyelids tight. Only then did the torture slowly subside, dulling to a faint throb. After a moment, he took a deep breath and cracked his lids once more. The light came back, shocking him from ear to ankle. This time, however, he forced himself to endure it. His heart was racing out of control. His legs were weak. His skin was pale.
And that’s when it hit him.
“My skin,” he said, gasping. “It’s . . . pale.”
“Good heavens, you’re not turning invisible?” Sir Tode said.
“N-n-no . . .” Peter brought his hand closer to his face. “I can see it.” The light was still excruciating, but now he could discern the shape of a palm and five long fingers. His fingers. Slowly, things were becoming clearer. He could see stones on the ground. He could see the crowd around him. “They’re just normal eyes.” He blinked, welling up with tears. “My very own pair of eyes.”
Of course, there was nothing the least bit ordinary about these eyes, for they shone with a brilliance that would have shamed the sun. The people nearby saw his transformed face and bowed in reverence. Peter was more awed than any of them. He studied his elbows, his legs, the bottoms of his bare feet. Everything was beautiful and wondrous. He saw Sir Tode, understanding for the first time just how ridiculous the cat-man-horse creature was. He saw the sky, marveling at how it melted from blue to red to gold. “Is the sky always like that?” he said. “That dark part is my favorite color,” then, “I have a favorite color!”
Peter had spent his entire life trapped in darkness—and now he was finally free. He rose to his feet, somewhat unsteadily, and looked straight into Peg’s emerald eyes. “It’s good to see you,” he said.
She smiled back and took his hand. “It’s good to see you, too.” The people who witnessed this moment swore that, like Peter, the kingdom itself took a truer form. The ten years of captivity and oppression seemed to vanish all at once, leaving only a powerful hope in the world to come.
At long last, the royal birthday that had been cut short so many years ago was concluded. There was celebration and dancing throughout the whole palace. Peter and Peg were crowned the king and queen of HazelPort. Captain Simon and his ravens were reinstated as the Royal Guard, and each bird was given a pair of golden spurs to commemorate their valor. To Good Ol’ Frederick and his friends, the young rulers offered safe harbor for as long as they should like it. The ancient turtles—who
had searched many years for a quiet home—gratefully accepted. They floated in a circle around the shores, creating six island moons, which protected the kingdom for the rest of its days.
Sir Tode was appointed to the position of Royal Storyteller. As you know, there is no nobler profession in the world, and the old knight enjoyed his post immensely. He regaled children and their parents with tales of derring-do. Among his favorites was the story of how he and Captain Simon single-handedly freed the Royal Guard from the army of thieves.
Peter’s right hand, which had been damaged beyond repair in his fight against the king, had to be severed from his wrist. At his insistence, the surgeons and blacksmith replaced it with the barb of the giant’s fishhook that had served him so well in battle. Peter Nimble’s silver hand would prove a loyal companion for many adventures to come.
After a few months, HazelPort received its first visitor from the outside world. King Peter and Queen Peg were practicing their alphabets in Mrs. Lillian’s grammar class when they heard a voice cry, “Ahoy, there!” from the harbor. The voice was a familiar one, and the moment Peter heard it he jumped from his desk and sprinted across the palace as fast as his royal feet would carry him.
“Mr. Pound!” he shouted, attacking the man in a great hug.
“Hello, Your Majesty.” Mr. Pound clapped the boy on the shoulders, looking him over. “Why, I think you’ve grown a foot since I last saw you!” He led the boy toward the boat behind them. Its deck was piled high with stacks upon stacks of newly bound books. “The professor thought HazelPort could do with a good library. And he brought something else.” He ran aboard and returned a moment later with a pair of winged zebras in tow. He carefully led them down the narrow gangplank. One of the creatures nickered, gently pressing its nose into Peter’s cupped hand. The boy recognized it as the beast he had saved in the alley so long ago. “Hello again,” he said softly.