The Unchosen One

What happens when the Chosen One decides to go on strike?

Tassie has always dreamt of a life of adventure and exploration. Instead, she’s stuck in the Citadel under the care of the Chief Steward, well away from any form of danger. When the Wisest of the Wise Witches comes to visit and proclaims her the Chosen One, destined to save her people from death and destruction, Tassie realizes why she’s spent her life under lock and key—in order to fulfill a prophecy. Can she refuse the role and find an alternative? Along with her best friend, a griffin named Spin, she embarks on a hilarious epic quest through magical lands in a race against time.Sparkes’ writing is witty, her characters charming, and the Isles of Peryll are a swirl of bright color and rich texture. . . . Readers will be drawn in by the rich worldbuilding and the suspense as Tassie attempts to defy the Prophecy. An irreverent, laugh-out-loud love letter to fairy-tale adventures featuring an indomitable hero.
—Kirkus ReviewsAmy Sparkes is the author of the best-selling The House at the Edge of Magic, among other titles. Her books been short-listed for several prestigious awards, including the Roald Dahl Funny Prize and the BookTrust Best Book Award. She co-founded the Writing Magazine Picture Book Prize for aspiring picture book authors. Amy Sparkes lives in Devon, England, with her husband, six young children, and an overactive imagination.Tassie hurtled down the sloping path from the Chief Steward’s tower, trying very hard not to cause any trouble. This was easier said than done, and as she headed for the huge wooden gates of the citadel, she sent four chickens flying, narrowly missed a donkey, and knocked over a wheelbarrow of apples as she attempted to jump over a pile of dung.
“Tassalonia Monk!” chided the owner of the apples as she righted her wheelbarrow.
Tassie hastily skidded to a halt, scooped up the apples, and tossed them back into the wheelbarrow with a thump. “Sorry! But the plums will be here any moment!” Her legs sprang back into action. She darted through the bustling citadel, her eyes fixed on the gates set in the sandstone wall.
The sweet crimson plums arriving fresh from the larger Isle of Great Peryll were the highlight of Tassie’s week. Tassie knew little of the second of the three isles except that it grew the most delicious plums. Great Peryll was too far away to be clearly visible from her home island of Peryll, and she struggled to concentrate in geography lessons whenever the Chief Steward spoke of it.
She ran past the timber-framed houses lining the path from the tower to the gates and neared the whitewashed stone bakery. Would there be plum pies tomorrow? The bakery door flung open. Lottie the faun stood there in her tunic and flour-sprinkled apron, her curly white hair almost covering her horns. She trotted forward on her two goatlike legs, sweeping out a rat with a broom.
“Plums!” Tassie gasped, waving to the faun without stopping. “Pies!”
“Slow down, child, you’ll break your neck!” floated Lottie’s concerned voice.
Tassie’s feet pounded on down the road toward the sturdy tree a short distance from the gates. Carts and wagons rumbled past. She quickly glanced at each one. Nope, no sign of him yet. Good. Heart still thumping, she pulled herself up onto a low bough and clambered among the branches until she reached her Dreaming Perch. From the blanket-covered branch, she had a brilliant view of just beyond the high gates set beneath a stone archway, and she could watch all the comings and goings, dreaming of the world beyond the walls—
There it was! She could just make out the back of the cart on the far side of the gates, with its big wooden wheels and its crates of juicy, crimson plums. Fedi the dwarf was right on time. He was always on time, like everyone else in the citadel—well, everyone except for Tassie. Life here ran as smoothly as grains of sand in an hourglass. Tassie scrabbled down the branches eagerly, keeping half an eye on the gates.
The two red-cloaked guards standing there were not folks she recognized. A solemn, dark-skinned elf, and a particularly tall faun. For some reason, the Chief Steward had brought in many new guards over the last few days.
The gates swung inward just as Tassie reached the lowest bough and jumped to the ground, landing in a crouched position. She sprang up as the small cart rumbled in. It was pulled by a pony and driven by the dear old dwarf, whose bushy white beard was tucked into the belt around his dark-green tunic. Every Monday he stopped and snuck her a plum. Except . . . today he drove right past, as if he hadn’t seen her.
“Fedi! Wait!” she called. She waved enthusiastically and ran alongside the rolling cart. Her smile faded. His face was grim, and his brow furrowed. Beside him were sacks, little wooden chests and a rolled-up blanket, as if he were planning to stay awhile. “Fedi? What’s wrong?”
The dwarf startled. “Oh, Tassalonia. Forgive me, lass. My mind was elsewhere.” He smiled half-heartedly, then reached into the cart for a plum and tossed it to her.
“Thank you, Fedi.” Where was the dwarf’s usual banter?
Fedi gave a grim nod. “You take care,” he said as the cart rolled away.
Tassie frowned as her run slowed to a halt. How very strange. She bit eagerly into the perfectly ripe plum. Sweet and just a little tangy.
A clatter came from the small sandstone workshop on the far side of the square. Tassie looked over. A puff of pink smoke whooshed out of the chimney. What was Spin up to now?