by Tracy Deonn
I whisper, “Nick?”
He releases my hand. I feel him step in front of me. Overhead, towering pines creak in the wind. Nick’s feet shift on the ground, like he’s pivoting in the darkness, searching. My heart begins to race. I tongue at the still-healing bite in my cheek.
“Wha—”
“Hush.” Indignation sparks, then dies when I hear the sound of his sword, extending. I imagine his face: brows tight, eyes and ears intent, weapon drawn. A swell of rustling leaves. A single branch snaps up high and to the right.
The barest whisper of movement—and a palm strikes my chest so hard the air leaves my lungs in a whoosh.
I hit the ground back-first, and pain shoots across my spine.
A low growl from above—the harsh clang of metal on metal.
The high-pitched whine of weapons grinding against each other.
“What are you doing?” Nick shouts, his voice strained.
“You bring a Shadowborn onto our grounds, to our sacred ceremony, and you ask what I am doing?”
Sel!
Adrenaline rushes through my veins, along with Nick’s voice and Rule Three: “Never let Selwyn Kane get you alone. He can’t find out what you can do.”
I skitter backward in a frantic crabwalk, hands scraping dirt and gravel.
A burning-hot hand seizes my ankle.
A thud, a grunt. The fingers release.
Impossibly strong fingers dig into my bicep. Pain like daggers. I scream.
The hard smack of flesh hitting flesh. A punch?
Sel’s fingers let go.
Labored breathing above me. Nick, between us. My heart thunders with panic. How much do I trust him now that I know what Sel can do?
“She’s not Shadowborn!”
“Three nights in a row of Order interference is not coincidence. I mesmered her twice myself and yet she stands here. An uchel—”
“Jesus, Sel,” Nick groans. “An uchel?”
What is that? Another demon? They say the new word with a short “i” sound at the beginning, then the throaty “ch” from “loch.”
“I decided to bring Bree forth today. She is my Page. Mine. You swore an Oath to serve—”
“And I am keeping my Oath.” The wind picks up just as Sel’s casting reaches my nose. There’s a tight, rhythmic sound like a small cyclone spinning to life.
“Sel…,” Nick cautions.
“It has enthralled you,” Sel growls. Electricity arcs across my nose and cheeks. The wind picks up, and something crackles. Ozone enters the air.
“Don’t do it—”
“SELWYN!” A man’s voice slices through the woods, and the cyclone dies immediately.
Footsteps approach behind me on the path. The steps are low and measured, but the older man’s heavy drawl holds barely contained fury. “You wouldn’t be callin’ aether against my son, now would ya, Kingsmage?”
Another pause. Even in the darkness of Sel’s mesmer, the tension in the air raises the hair on my arms.
“No, my lord.”
My lord?
Dr. Martin Davis—Nick’s father—steps close, and his cologne falls over me like a rich, heavy cape. “Well, that’s good. Because if you were, I’d expect that Oath o’ yours to be burnin’ a hole through your throat right about now.” It’s part observation, part warning. Sel hears it too; in the following silence, I hear his teeth grind together.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Nicholas.” The breathless way Dr. Davis says Nick’s name makes me wonder how often he sees his son.
“Dad.”
“ ‘And there be those who deem him more than man, and dream he dropt from heaven.’ ”
“Tennyson,” Nick says, his voice tight.
“Indeed.”
The strain of distance in their voices makes me wonder what happened to their family. What shattered them?
Beside me, the man’s body weight shifts in the dirt. “Mercy! And who is this lovely lady?” I’m still half-frozen on the ground, adrenaline thrumming through my body. Light fingers land on my shoulder. “May I help you up?” I nod, and he slips his hand under my elbow, pulling gently until I stand.
Another pair of hands around my other elbow. Dr. Davis lets his son pull me to his side. “This is Briana Matthews, my Page.”
Davis inhales sharply. “Your Page?” Hope runs through his voice like a quiet current. “Does this mean—are you—”
“Last-minute decision.” A clicking sound and the whine of Nick’s retracting sword.
“Ah.” I get the feeling Nick’s father is weighing what words to use next, like the wrong phrase might send his son running into the woods. Finally, he says, “I’m sure you know how much this means to me. And to the greater Order.”
“Yeah.” The resignation in Nick’s voice catches me off guard, and my stomach twists. I’m the one who pushed him here. Am I the reason his voice is that heavy?
Pride and awe mingle in the older man’s voice. “My son claiming his title and bringing forth a Page, all in one night. That is… somethin’ else.” His next words are directed at me. “I don’t know how or if you’re responsible for my son’s change of heart, but if y’are, consider me eternally grateful. I’m in your debt, Briana. Welcome.”
A pause. Am I supposed to respond?
I mumble a quiet, “Thank you.”
Davis clears his throat. “Now, I’d like an explanation as to why the two of you were fighting.”
Nick doesn’t hesitate. “Sel thought he sensed a Shadowborn here in the woods, but he was mistaken. Our Merlin remains vigilant, as always.”
I hold my breath, waiting for Sel’s outburst and correction, but it never comes.
Davis is shocked. “Here? The Shadowborn have never been bold enough to open a Gate on our land, not with so many Legendborn under one roof. Selwyn, is this true?”
Silence. I wonder why Sel isn’t speaking up. Just a few minutes ago he had been so certain, so full of determined rage.
“We rely on your senses, son.” Davis makes a thoughtful sound. “Are your abilities becomin’ unpredictable, Kingsmage?”
A pause. Sel’s terse response comes through clenched teeth. “There is always that risk, Lord Davis.”
“You look unhappy, boy. As the Gospel of Luke instructs, let us celebrate and be glad of Nicholas’s return, for ‘he was lost and is found.’ ” Another pause in which Sel could counter Nick’s explanation, but doesn’t. “Bree, I must apologize for both my son and Selwyn here. Oil and water, these two, ever since they were children.” I nod. Satisfied, Davis moves down the path. “Let us proceed to the Chapel. Don’t want to keep the others waitin’. Not on a night such as this.”
Nick guides me forward. I don’t hear Sel say or do anything else. In fact, the only footsteps I hear are Nick’s and his father’s.
12
WHEN SEL’S MESMER lifts, my sight returns all at once. Lights off, lights on. It’s so disorienting that beside me Greer falls forward on both hands. All five of us—the first-year Pages—blink the world back into existence while on our knees, integrating sound with sight: the sound of water streaming over rocks nearby—from a creek maybe—deeper in the forest to our right. The waning moon sending light down on us from overhead, turning leaves from green to silver. We kneel before a low, curved altar that protrudes up the slab itself, our faces lit by flickering candlelight.
Eight Legendborn stand before us, arranged along the far arc of the stone circle, their hoods drawn low. Five new figures in robes of gray—the veteran Pages, I’d wager—flank them on either side. In the middle is a single man in a deep crimson robe edged in gold, his cowl pulled back just enough to see his face. Dr.—no, Lord—Martin Davis. He looks almost exactly like his portrait.
Davis steps forward, his arms hidden in the deep sleeves. When he speaks, his voice is sonorous and steady. “My name is Lord Martin Davis, and I am the Viceroy of the Southern Chapter and its territories. Each of you has been invited by a Legendborn member who deems y
ou worthy of initiation as a Page. The five of you kneel before us because you have the spark of eternal potential.”
The “Chapel” is a circular slate-colored stone slab flecked with shiny bits of silver in the middle of a clearing. The slab feels old, worn, and heavy, like a coin dropped by a giant long ago. Pine trees stretch up in a thick ring around the clearing, closing us in on all sides with no marked path in or out. I have no idea where we are or in which direction the Lodge lies. We’re isolated here, on a round surface with no end, and at their mercy to get out.
Every instinct I possess yells at me to run. Just a couple of miles and I could be back in the real world, where there are no ritual slabs and robes and magical Oaths. But it isn’t the real world, is it? It’s the surface the Order works to maintain while they operate below, on its edges, and in the shadows. I can’t run. Staying here and playing this role is the only way I’ll find out the truth.
“Tonight, in our Chapel, you will pledge yourselves to our Order and its mission by taking the Oath of Fealty. Our work goes unseen and unrewarded by the very lives we protect, therefore no other commitment is more sacred. But first, an introduction.”
It’s only because we’re looking up at Lord Davis that I catch the movement over his shoulder. Thirty feet up and tucked in the trees, darkness bleeds into a shape. Without a single creak of a branch, a black-robed figure descends in a long, smooth arc. Selwyn lands in a crouch, and the other Pages jerk back in alarm. Beside me, Whitty makes a near-noiseless sound of surprise.
Nick said the other new Pages have known about the Order most of their lives, but only in the abstract. Only in stories. They’ve trained for battles they’ve yet to encounter, learned about aether they’ve never seen, but knowledge is not the same thing as experience. I don’t blame them for startling. That jump would have broken a normal person’s legs, and none of us had detected his presence. I would startle, too, if this was the first time I’d encountered Selwyn Kane.
The Merlin rises in one motion, silent as a panther and eyes just as bright. Candlelight turns the silver thread at the edges of his robe into a living thing: a thin line of white frames his face, a whip of electricity around his wrists. Under the hood, his hair is so black I can barely make it out against the fabric. He belongs to the night as a predator does. And like a predator, he takes our measure. When his glittering golden eyes find me, a line from childhood comes to mind unbidden: All the better to see you with, my dear.
Now that I know what the Merlins truly are, all I can see is Sel’s arrogance, and through him, the arrogance of the Merlin before him. I see the man who stole my memories. The soldier who may have taken my mother from me.
I should follow Nick’s rules. I should be afraid. Instead, I lift my chin from where I kneel. Let defiance shine from my eyes. Even these tiny gestures are blood in the water, but I don’t care.
Sel cares. A muscle ticks in his jaw and aether flares at his fingertips—but when Lord Davis frowns his way, Sel douses the flames inside tightly curled fists. His lips curl at my satisfied smirk.
“The Southern Chapter is fortunate to call Selwyn Kane our Kingsmage. Merlins are the first of many revelations only privy to Oathed members of the Order.”
On cue, Sel stalks to the far end of the altar and stands at parade rest.
Davis’s legato voice flows over us like a preacher leading his congregation. “Tonight you will echo the ancient vows sworn by warriors of the medieval. In those days, men committed themselves to higher powers and greater missions, and left behind the petty concerns of earthly pursuits. Likewise, our Order is fashioned after the body politic.
“Our Vassal friends and their contemporary fiefdoms are the Order’s lower limbs. Without them, we would not have walked through fifteen centuries of this war, would not have advanced from the Middle Ages to modernity. Pages are the left hand: once Oathed, you will be granted Sight in order to hold the shield while we fight in the shadows. Merlins are the right hand, the sword and fists of the Order. Our guardians and weapons against the darkness. The Legendborn Scions and Squires are the heart. The holy text of their Lines has fueled our mission from the beginning. The Regents are the spine, directing our eyes and energies to the urgent matters at hand.”
Davis pauses, letting the image of his metaphor settle in our minds.
“And, when he is Awakened, our king is the head and the crown itself, leading us to victory by divine right.”
A whisper rises in the night. Shh-shh-shh-shh. The sound comes from the other Pages and the Legendborn standing behind Davis. They’ve raised their hands to chest level, all of them, and are brushing their thumbs over their fingers in steady rhythmic circles. Approval.
When Davis raises a hand, the sound stops.
“Be proud of your invitation, but know that there is so much more yet possible. Tonight, many of you wear the color and sigil of the Line served by your family, and as Pages, you always will. But at Selection, those who earn the title of Squire will take the colors and sigil of their Scion. And this Line, you will serve by choice.” A pause. “You have no title, but you do have your names. We must know who you are and know the blood you bring to service.”
“State your name and family.” Sel’s voice catches me off guard.
This is the first time any of us have been asked to speak in over an hour. Vaughn doesn’t hesitate. “Vaughn Ledford Schaefer the Fourth, son of Vaughn Ledford Schaefer the Third, Vassal to the Line of Bors.”
Lewis speaks up next: “Lewis Wallace Dunbar, son of Richard Calvin Dunbar, Vassal to the Line of Owain.”
Greer follows quickly: “Greer Leighton Taylor, child of Holton Fletcher Taylor, Vassal to the Line of Lamorak.”
My mind spins while Whitty speaks beside me. What do I say? Not my mother’s name, right? No, my father’s!
When it’s my turn, I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
The harsh sound of hissing cuts through the night and lashes against me, sends my pulse racing. Disapproval. My ears burn hot. Pressure begins behind my eyes and—No! Wall up! Now is not the time for After-Bree’s anger.
Davis raises a hand, and the sound ceases.
“Your name,” Sel repeats, his voice low.
This time, I speak. “Briana Irene Matthews, daughter of Edwin Simmons Matthews.”
The Chapel is silent, waiting for the final words that they already know I can’t claim. No Vassalage. No Line. Someone in the Legendborn row hisses. Vaughn stifles a snicker.
Davis’s voice slices across the quiet, stiff with warning. “Do not fall prey to hubris. Affiliation with this Order is not equivalent to sworn fealty. Indeed, Tennyson said, ‘Man’s word is God in man.’ Tonight you sever all other promises but these and serve the Order not as individuals but as one.”
My chest unclenches. I say a silent “thanks” to Nick’s father, whose imperious glare has cowed even Vaughn.
“Who brings Vaughn Schaefer forward to make the Oath of Fealty?”
A Legendborn figure steps forward, drawing his hood back. “I do.” It’s the boy from the study, Fitz. He kneels opposite Vaughn and extends one forearm across the stone, palm up, and the other next to it and palm down. Sel takes a knee at the end of the altar and rests long fingers on the silver speckled surface. A ripple of mage flame from his fingertips flows down the altar in a wave, from Vaughn to me.
“Tonight, you make an Oath to us and, through your Legendborn sponsor, the Order makes one to you.” Davis nods to Vaughn.
Vaughn grasps Fitz’s upturned arm with his left hand and raises his right. When he speaks, a nagging itch crawls up and over my skin. I can feel the aether infused in these words, even if I’m not the one saying them. “I, Vaughn Ledford Schaefer the Fourth, offer my service to the Order in the name of our king. I swear to be the shield of the Southern Chapter, the eyes and ears of its territory. I swear to aid in its battles and arm its warriors. I swear to guard its secrets and secure all that I see and hear henceforth.”
Fitz cl
ears his throat. “The penalty for breaking this vow is total mesmer and excommunication to the darkness of unknowing, never to return to the light. Do you bind yourself still?”
“I do.”
Down the altar, Sel nods, giving Fitz the go-ahead of some kind. “I, Fitzsimmons Solomon Baldwin, Scion of the Line of Bors, accept your Oath on behalf of our ancient Order and welcome you to service. We grant you Sight so that you may see the world illuminated for as long as your heart be true.”
A bright flare of silver-blue mage flame rushes up the hand Fitz has placed on the altar. He tenses, and then the flame surges down his other arm and into his Page. It loops around Vaughn’s wrists and curves up his shoulders. Now with Sight, Vaughn stares as the Oath disappears into his skin.
Lewis goes next, with Felicity. Then Greer, with Russ. With each Oath, a new thread of doubt winds through my chest, because I know I have no intention of keeping this promise. Nick said Oaths are like mesmer, but how much like mesmer? I’ve never resisted Sel’s mesmer in real time, only after the fact. By the time Whitty starts his Oath, my heart is pounding. I can’t help but glance down the altar at Sel, who stares back with narrowed eyes as if he can hear the fear in my chest.
Davis interrupts my thoughts. “Who here brings Briana Matthews forward to make the Oath of Fealty?”
“I do.”
A tall figure steps out of the circle. Nick pulls his hood back as he walks to the altar, eyes solemn. He settles across from me, and I clamp my hand around his forearm almost as soon as he lowers it, desperate for something familiar, something I can trust in all of this. His eyes find mine, his fingers pulsing reassuringly around my elbow.
I take a shaky breath, raise my right hand, and begin. “I, Briana Irene Matthews, offer my service to the Order in the name of our king.”
I pause, gasping. I can feel the words slip down into my body and coil around my ribs. Nick’s eyes urge me on.
“I swear to be the shield of the Southern Chapter, the eyes and ears of its territory. I swear to aid in its battles and arm its warriors. I swear to guard its secrets and secure all that I see and hear henceforth.”