by Tracy Deonn
The year of study doesn’t affect when a student can be tapped, so someone who joins as a senior will only ever be a first-year Page—and will only get one chance to be Selected as a Legendborn Squire. If Craig’s a fourth-year, then he was tapped as a freshman.
Nick returns the boy’s handshake. “McMahons are Vassals to the Line of Bors, right? Fitz or Evan brought you in?”
“Yep.” Craig nods and raises his hand to show off a thin, dark orange leather band wrapped around his wrist with a silver coin at the center. “My family’s given five generations of outside service. I’m the first to Page.” His eyes dart to me, then back to Nick. “It’s true, then? You’re claiming your title?”
A slight flush creeps into Nick’s cheeks, but his chin tips up. “It’s true.”
Craig grins. “I’m a senior. Last opportunity to Squire. Didn’t think I’d ever meet you, but…” His eyes drift my way briefly, something sharp behind them. “I’d like to put my hat in your ring. Officially. Got a minute?”
Nick’s jaw clenches, and Whitty smiles into his drink. Craig pulls Nick into a conversation and they drift a few feet away. Greer sees the confusion on my face and leans in close. “You’re brand-new to all this, right?”
I have our agreed-upon story ready to go. “Nick and I met through Early College. He thought I’d be a good fit.”
“Only Nick could get away with plucking somebody outside Vassalage,” they say, and offer an encouraging smile. “He’s probably happy you’re not one of these.” They point their chin discreetly in Craig’s direction.
“One of what?”
“Legendborn acolyte. Fundamentalist Line worshippers. Craig there wants Nick to choose him before the Trials’ve even started. Want some gum? I chew when I’m nervous.” They reach into their bag to fish out a fresh pack. I notice their red ribbon choker and make an educated guess that Greer’s family serves whatever Line Felicity and Russ belong to. When I decline, they keep talking. “The acolytes are a special kinda believer, that’s for sure.”
“You say that like the Order’s a cult.”
“Not far off from one, some days,” Whitty interjects, watching a few more people wander in.
Greer shrugs. “All of it’s a leap of faith when you’re an outsider and don’t have the Sight yet. You seem to be taking it pretty well, Bree.” Greer assesses me with their brown eyes and kind smile before stuffing another piece of gum in their mouth. “How’d you react when Nick told you about Arthur?”
Arthur? Greer says the name without pause or inflection. Like King Arthur is some guy who could walk through the door at any moment. It takes me a few seconds to put together an answer that doesn’t betray the extent of my ignorance. “I was… stunned, of course.”
Nick and Craig make their way back over, with Felicity in tow. She bounces up to us with a clipboard and an infectious smile. She may have been surprised by Nick’s appearance, but now that her event is underway, she’s in her element. I’d bet good money that she’s in student government in the Onceborn world beyond these walls.
The Onceborn world where King Arthur is just a story, not a person. If Arthur is real, are his knights real? The Round Table? The Holy Grail?
When Nick sees my expression, concern ripples across his brow, but Felicity speaks up and draws our attention. “As this year’s recruitment coordinator, I have the pleasure of giving the initiates a tour of the Lodge before we begin. Shall we?” She inclines her head toward the foyer. Another pair of Pages is already waiting.
Whitty and Greer move to follow Felicity, but Nick touches my elbow. He walks me over to the window and out of earshot. “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s not too late—”
“King Arthur is a real person?”
Nick pales, blinks. Blinks again. “Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking.”
“What does that mean?” I nearly shout.
A few Pages across the room turn in our direction, their eyes darting between the two of us. Fitz looks like he’s considering clobbering me. Nick flashes a winning smile but speaks to me through gritted teeth. “Low. Profile.”
“Explain.”
His eyes canvas the room as he talks. “What you think you know of the legend, the versions you’ve read or heard? Almost all of them can be traced back to the Order. They had a hand in most of the stories about Arthur that spread beyond Wales and a pen in every text from Geoffrey of Monmouth to Tennyson. Vassal clerics, writers, archivists worked on misinformation campaigns to keep Onceborns from the truth. This is what I mean by ‘bad idea.’ The other sponsors have had way more than ten minutes to prep their Pages—”
“Stop.” I sway on my feet, still reeling from lies and truths. “This is happening. I don’t care if it’s all real.”
“Page Matthews!” Felicity calls from the doorway.
“Be right there!” I wave, a false smile on my lips.
I start in her direction, but Nick steps in my path. “Legends are dangerous, Bree. Don’t underestimate them.”
* * *
The group is already halfway up the curved staircase and finishing introductions by the time I reach them.
“There are common spaces and private residents’ rooms on the second floor,” Felicity is saying. Her red curls sway behind her as she walks backward up the stairs with ease. “We’ve also got a theater room with enough seating for twelve and a wet bar.” While Felicity leads us across the balcony and down the hall, I study the other initiates.
All told there are five new Pages: Greer, Whitty, me, and two other boys named Vaughn and Lewis. Vaughn, Fitz’s Page, is as tall as Nick, but so broad across the chest and biceps that the buttons of his pale blue dress shirt look liable to pop. Lewis, Felicity’s Page, is the opposite: small-framed, thin, and a little green around the gills.
When we reach the end of the hallway, Felicity shoves open a pair of heavy doors. “And here’s the library.”
Rows of bookshelves are filled with great tomes bound in worn browns and blues and green leather. Solemn, heavy crimson curtains drape windows that stretch up into a Gothic arch. One side of the room holds rectangular study tables with green-shaded banker’s lamps. On the other side, three leather couches face a fireplace and tall mantel.
I float against the back wall alongside Greer, half listening to Felicity, who is now listing the many perks that Order of the Round Table members receive on campus. She’s so bubbly and welcoming that I can’t quite imagine her hunting a demon. There are portraits here, too. A floor-length oil painting of a knight on horseback hangs between two windows. Green-and-black gore runs down the center of the blade he brandishes, and his bright, cyan-blue eyes glitter beneath a medieval helmet.
A waist-high glass display case sits on a table in the back corner. It holds tattered, delicate-looking journals and small artifacts made of stone and silver. Nothing seems particularly remarkable about the objects until I see— “What the hell are those?” I blurt. Beside me, Greer gasps.
Felicity and the others walk over to the case to examine what I’ve found: a chained pair of dented, silver bands resting on a black velvet stand. The info card beneath them reads: MERLIN JACKSON’S MANACLES. SALEM, MASSACHUSETTS. 1692.
“Oh,” Felicity says, her bright demeanor faltering. “Those are, er, handcuffs. That Merlins can enchant with aether to restrain individuals.”
“You mean aether users from outside the Order,” Vaughn says with a nonchalant shrug. “Witches, looks like. From the Trials.”
“Merlins use handcuffs?” Lewis breathes at the same time that I say, “The Salem Witch Trials?”
Vaughn rolls his eyes at us both. “Only weak Merlins need material tools and weapons. The powerful ones can make aether constructs that are hard as diamond.”
“It’s true,” Felicity adds, eager to change the subject. “I’ve never seen our Kingsmage use metal weapons. My father says Selwyn’s constructs are the strongest he’s ever seen, and he Squired at Northern in the seventies when Merlin Je
nkins held that post.”
While the others follow her to the door, I linger at the case, shaken by all that had been left unsaid: why the manacles were used initially, why they’re on display now, and, most disturbing, what they mean about Merlins and their missions.
Merlins don’t just hunt demons.
They hunt people.
11
BACK IN THE great room, only Pages remain—first through fourth years. Everyone is standing apart. I don’t know if the competition has already started and it’s every Page for themselves or if people are just nervous. Nick wouldn’t know that part. He didn’t have to do this step, and he never would.
Most of the crowd looks like sophomores and juniors. Almost all of them look like athletes. A handful are tall and muscled, like swimmers. Some look more like wrestlers, wide across the shoulders and hips. Sturdy tanks built for the mat. Two of those Pages look like particularly vicious Ralph Lauren models, with barrel chests that stretch their powder blue and salmon polo shirts at the seams.
Vaughn, the only Page leaning casually against a wall, catches me staring at him. The leer on his handsome, tanned face—and the wink he sends me—makes it hard to play the lost lamb, because all I want to do is scowl back, teeth bared. I look away.
There’s a girl about my build with short auburn hair, her body thrumming with tension. A few of the other girls remind me of Sarah: small, ballerina-like people who stand with both feet planted wide and turned out. Deceptively fast and strong, I bet.
If the Vassal families prepare their children like Nick says, then even a freshman would enter school with some weapons training, if not actual demon-hunting experience. I’ve seen two demon attacks, which gives me an advantage over someone who hasn’t seen one, but I can’t let on that I’ve seen any.
Nick doesn’t know about my wall and After-Bree, but he didn’t seem to think I’d have any trouble pretending to be ignorant. I did lie to Sarah to get into the Lodge.
I wonder what Alice would say.
I think she’d tell me I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, and that if I don’t get out now, I might not be able to when things turn for the worse.
Abruptly, the double doors open and Tor strides into the room. She’s wearing a ruched royal-blue dress that hugs her curves, and her hair cascades down her shoulders in sunflower waves.
“Welcome, everyone. I’m Victoria Morgan, the Legendborn Scion of the Line of Tristan, third-ranked.” She pauses for applause, and the Pages in the room actually give it to her. Instead of clapping, I notice her blue bracelet. It’s identical to Sarah’s. And if Sarah sponsored Whitty, Sarah is Legendborn.
“Tonight begins the annual initiation process for our hallowed Order.” Her cheery gaze pauses on me for a brief moment, like she’s trying to place me. Her eyes widen when she spots Nick’s sigil. “Pages, tonight you will take the Oath of Fealty. If the Oath finds you worthy, you will officially become a member of the Southern Chapter and be granted Sight, the ability to see aether. If you are not worthy, you will be mesmered and cast out. In the meantime, not a word until the ceremony, yes? Follow me.” Instead of turning the way she came, Victoria strides through the crowd toward the back of the room.
“Tor?” Craig speaks up.
“Yes, Page McMahon?” She answers without looking, already opening the sliding balcony door to let the night air in.
He glances at the rest of us, then back to her. “How many Squire spots are open this year?”
“Oh! So sorry!” Victoria pivots on a heel, pleasure bright on her face. “As I’m sure you’ve all noticed, Nick Davis has returned.” Murmurs, eager nods from the crowd. “Thanks to Nick, tonight our chapter makes history in more ways than one. This year will be remembered as the year he claims his Scion title, the year Pages compete for a record three Squire positions, and”—to my surprise, she openly gestures in my direction, a pleased smile on her face—“the year our chapter welcomes its most diverse Page class.”
Victoria leads her own applause, and half of the room joins her.
Heat curls around my neck and ears. Diverse. Like an award she’d given herself. A gold star. Diverse.
We follow Victoria across the balcony and tramp single file down wooden stairs to reach the Lodge’s backyard. Here the humid, dark evening swallows us whole, save for the light from a few tall torches around the yard’s perimeter. She tells us to line up in the grass and wait, then disappears down a path around the side of the building.
I’m grateful for the poor lighting because Victoria’s words are still churning in my stomach, and I can’t control my face.
Its most diverse Page class? Ever? And as if that’s why Nick chose me?
Norris. McKinnon. Tor. Three comments, three assumptions, three people who’ve singled me out because of how I look and what they’ve decided I represent. In forty-eight hours.
I close my eyes against a rush of emotions: anger, hot and burning against my cheeks. Disgust at the self-congratulatory expression on her face. Then the deep fatigue my father calls “death by a thousand cuts.”
How many cuts am I going to have to endure? I wish Alice were here.
Greer nudges me with their elbow, and I open my eyes. “That’s messed up, what she said.”
I blink, startled to hear it from someone else this time. “Thanks.”
Someone shushes us from down the line. Greer leans in. “People say shit about me, too. But my parents are major donors. I come from six generations of Vassal service and three generations of Pages, and I’m white, so they get strategic about when and where. Some folks just don’t care to get better or learn more, and it shows.”
“Yeah.” I take a shaky breath. “Yeah.”
“Just remember, you don’t have to be the best. To be eligible for Selection, all we have to do is make it to the end of the tournament without losing or forfeiting. It’s good there are three open Squire spots instead of two. Better odds, you know?”
“Wouldn’t say that.” Whitty is on my right. “The higher-ranked the Line, the more folks’ll be gunning for its title.” Greer nods, their face solemn.
This is gonna be a long few months.
The air pressure changes, setting off a small pop! in my ears. In the next heartbeat, the dark trees in front of us smear and twist into a black-and-green knot, then unfurl with a snap into an identical scene that now includes a line of eight hooded, robed figures. While the Pages beside me gasp in surprise, I scent the air, on edge.
Where is that damn Merlin?
But the smell of Sel’s casting never comes, likely carried away by the warm wind flowing across our faces. The figures take a single, unified step forward, their robes dragging in the grass. Shadows deepen between the folds of the heavy material, and the cowls are so full that nothing of their faces remains visible. I’m certain they’re all Legendborn, but it’s impossible to tell who is who. Beside me, Greer sucks in a breath.
Together, the figures say, “One at a time,” and everything goes dark.
Complete, endless black. Before the cinnamon-smoke scent even reaches my nose, I know that Sel’s mesmer has taken our sight.
My heart lurches against my ribs. Someone yelps, the sound breaking against the trees.
“Quiet!” Vaughn snaps.
Movement, ahead of me. The soft whisper of one pair of feet moving over dry grass. Closer. Greer’s breath, coming in short pants. A sharp gasp far to my left. A pause. Louder steps, shuffling, the sound moving farther away. Two pairs of feet, maybe. Where are they taking us?
One at a time.
The same cycle again, this time to my right. I hear Whitty grunt before he and his escort walk forward. Greer goes next. Then one more. Legendborn sponsors taking their Pages?
Measured paces approaching me now. I hope that it’s Nick. Closer. My heart leaps into my throat. I don’t want to be touched in the dark. My breath rattles in my ears. A hand wraps around my elbow, holding the joint in a loose grip. That subtle warning is all I get before s
omeone pulls me forward.
They guide me from behind by the shoulders. Twigs snap under feet walking maybe twenty feet ahead of us. The ground transitions from soft grass to soil to pounded dirt. A path. My nose tingles with the scent of tree sap and fresh pine needles. The sounds of nature grow closer, tighter. A barred owl hoots above us. Crickets swell in a high-pitched chorus. We’re in the woods.
Two pairs of steps not far ahead of us, shuffling and regular. Another guide, another Page. We walk straight for a few minutes, then turn. Turn again. After a while, I lose track of time. Maybe it’s because I’m under, but the smell of Sel’s mesmer and the disorienting path make me dizzy. We walk for ten minutes. Or twenty. I think we even double back at one point, but I can’t be sure. There’s a hundred acres of wooded land behind the Lodge. We could be anywhere.
Suddenly, my guide halts me. They press my shoulders until I lower into a squat; then warm fingers move my hand to a smooth, cool stone surface that drops off after a foot. A step. Stairs. They stand me up and come around to my front, take both hands. We walk down the stairs one careful step at a time. By the time we reach the bottom, there’s a river of sweat down my spine. We’re back on pounded dirt when the hand on my right shoulder drops down to my wrist and fingers brush across my knuckles.
“It’s me.”
I release the breath I’d been holding. Nick flips my hand and squeezes my fingers, then steps close. I can feel the heat of his chest against my shoulders, and when he leans in, the stale-smelling cowl brushes my ear. “Squeeze once for yes, twice for no. Can you see?” I squeeze twice. “Keep it that way.”
In other words, Let Sel’s mesmer take you. Don’t resist it.
“Listen, Oaths are living bonds sealed by speech. Their words pull aether from the air so that the commitment becomes a part of you. The Oath of Fealty will know if and when you intend to break it, but it works like mesmer, so—” He stops, his words lost to the night.