by Tracy Deonn
Nick’s voice echoes around the Chapel, louder and clearer than the others who went before him. “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?”
The cool tide of the Oath has wound itself between my fingers. It streams down my back like a waterfall until I’m covered with it. I squirm, shifting my weight from my right knee to my left. Someone hisses, and Davis raises his hand to stop them.
“I do.”
This isn’t going to work. The Oath will know that I’m lying. They’re all going to know—
Suddenly, pain lances through my arm. It’s Nick, digging his fingers into my flesh deep enough to leave marks. I meet his eyes and he nods imperceptibly, urging me to focus on the blunt pressure of his nails. I chase the sensation down like a rabbit in the woods—and the ancient promise loosens its grip on my body.
Nick’s quick thinking saved me. Maybe saved us both.
Across the altar, Nick’s pulse leaps against his throat. It takes him two attempts to begin speaking.
“I, Nicholas Martin Davis…” Nick releases a harsh breath, as if drawing on a deep well for strength. “I…”
When he meets my gaze again, the look in his eyes fills my stomach with dread. There’s pain, anger. Then, resignation.
When Nick’s voice resonates through the Chapel, the Legendborn hold their breath.
“I, Nicholas Martin Davis, Scion and heir of King Arthur Pendragon of Britain, the son of Uther Pendragon, wielder of Caledfwlch, the blade Excalibur, and first-ranked of the Round Table in the Shadowborn holy war, accept your Oath on behalf of our ancient Order.”
* * *
Nick watches the shock travel through me with sad, weary eyes.
I barely feel the aether Sel sends pulsing through Nick’s hand and into mine. Our gazes are still locked, but everything else has changed.
King Arthur Pendragon of Britain.
Scion and heir.
“I welcome you to service. I grant you Sight, so that you may see the world illuminated for as long as your heart be true.”
Why didn’t you tell me? I send the question through my eyes. He flinches.
His words sit on my tongue while the flames swirl up my arms like silver-blue snakes. The mage flame washes over me without soaking into my skin.
You said you don’t lie.
He sees the accusation on my face. Withdraws his hand. Stands, turning so his face is hidden in shadow.
Davis claps for attention. “Rise, siblings, as Oathed Pages of the Order of the Round Table and sworn servants of the Round Table!”
The night’s sober tone finally breaks, and we are teenagers and students once again. There are whoops and cheers from the Pages behind us, and whistles from the Legendborn before us. I push to my feet on legs that are half-asleep, my stomach pulled into a knot.
No one notices that the Oath of Fealty didn’t take or give me Sight. No one notices me at all.
Sel still kneels at the end of the altar, head bent over the stone, palms pressed to the surface. For a moment, I think he’s been injured or overexerted by the Oath, but then those thoughts disappear.
Sel doesn’t look pained—he looks intoxicated: eyes half-lidded, and unfocused, cheeks flushed, mouth parted and panting. He drags his tongue over his lower lip—and looks up to find me staring. I stiffen and turn away.
Whitty slaps a hand on my back in celebration, and I return his smile because I don’t know what else to do.
Sel calling Nick the prodigal son. Felicity, staring speechless like he was the second coming. The shock on Sarah’s face when I said his name. I’d been so focused on how I would uncover the Order’s secrets that I hadn’t stopped to really think about what all of those responses to Nick meant. I’d thought about what Nick represents to me but not what Nick represents to everyone else.
I look up to find Nick staring at me with a guarded expression, like he’s waiting for me to arrive at the truth in my own way.
I suppose I have.…
He is King Arthur’s descendant.
Davis calls us to order. “Let us close with the solemn pledge of our eternal Order.”
The new Pages glance at one another. We don’t know the pledge, but it seems we’re expected to learn by example.
The chapter chants as one, and even though I can’t hear his voice in the chorus, Nick joins them.
“When the shadows rise, so will the light, when blood is shed, blood will Call. By the King’s Table, for the Order’s might, by our eternal Oaths, the Line is Law.”
Davis turns to the stars in benediction. “By heaven’s holy hand, the Line is—”
A bloodcurdling scream splits the night, and everyone freezes. The cry echoes against the trees, bounces off the stone beneath our feet. I pivot, searching for its source, and then the sound comes again, a shriek of pain that lifts the hair on the back of my neck.
At the back of the group, Felicity is on her knees with both hands clutching her temples. The crowd steps away just as Russ dashes to her side.
“Flick? Flick, answer me!” She screams again, the sound choking off on a sob. “Felicity?”
“What the hell?” Whitty breathes beside me. “What’s happening to her?”
“Kingsmage!” Davis calls over his shoulder. “She needs aid.”
“Felicity!” Russ cries again.
“Squire Copeland.” Sel appears at his shoulder. Russ turns, his face a mixture of fear and worry. “It’s her time. Step back.”
Russ shakes his head. “No, no, it can’t be—”
“Squire Copeland,” Davis insists. Russ looks between the two of them desperately, then allows Sel to draw him away from the agonized girl on the ground.
Craig McMahon stands beside me. “This isn’t possible. It’s too soon.”
“What isn’t possible?” I ask.
In the center of the group, Felicity moans long and loud. Her head drops back, eyes blank, and a voice—deep, masculine, not hers—emerges from her throat.
“Though I may fall, I will not die, but call on blood to live.”
She collapses forward in a crumpled heap.
Russ picks Felicity up and stands with her draped across his arms. “I’ll get her back to the Lodge. She needs to rest.”
Sel stops him. “I’m faster and stronger. Let me take her.”
Russ hesitates for a moment, his jaw clenched. Then he nods once and gently passes Felicity’s limp form to Sel, who lifts her easily. Without another word, Sel jogs through the trees and is gone.
As soon as he disappears, the crowd erupts—or at least the Pages do. The Legendborn wear stony expressions, exchange worried glances. One of the third-years shakes her head, muttering, “She’s fourth-ranked. This isn’t right.” One phrase rises above the chatter. “This is too soon.”
Davis calls for calm, but it’s his son’s voice that quiets the Chapel.
“Why did he call her?”
The crowd parts around Nick.
Davis blinks in surprise. “You know as well as I do, Nicholas, that we don’t control the Awakening of our knights. We are but instruments. They call us when there is need.”
“When there is need, and in command order,” Nick adds. “The first- through fifth-ranked knights haven’t Called their Scions in decades. Felicity is fourth-ranked, which means the fifth must be Awake. When was the Scion of Kay Called?”
Murmurs from the others now. A nod of heads.
If Alice were here, she’d say it’s too late. Now that I know the Scions are the descendants of the Round Table, called to power—violently—by their knights’ spirits…
What have I done?
Renewed authority threads through Davis’s voice. “This is not a chapter meeting. We should discuss these matters when we return to the Lodge.”
“No.” Nick raises his chin. “We should discuss it here. Why did Lamorak Call her, Dad? Why now?”
Davis
’s nostrils flare, but before he can respond, a low growl from the darkness answers Nick’s question.
For a split second, no one moves. Frozen in disbelief, I think. A Shadowborn, here?
Another growl, this time followed by a high, nightmarish howl, one I’m now very familiar with.
Hellhound.
13
WHILE EVERYONE SPRINGS into action, I’m frozen, trembling. I thought they were rare. Thought, for some reason, that I wouldn’t see another one. Not when I was with the Legendborn like this. Not while just looking for information. I thought this was a ritual. Initiation. Hazing, at best, not—
Davis fires off orders in rapid succession, and it’s like a bomb goes off in the crowd. “Awakened Scions and Squires to the front! The rest in formation behind them. Pages, back to the Lodge!” Stillness explodes into action, and bodies scatter in several directions at once. Soldiers rushing to battle positions.
The next moments seem to pass in slow motion.
The Legendborn toss their robes off without hesitation and move with practiced, military precision into two defensive rows. Five stand at the back, pulling out weapons from harnesses, scabbards, and hidden straps: daggers, extendable quarterstaffs, and swords. Sarah and Tor string identical bows. Only three unarmed kids move to the front: the gentle-faced boy who saluted Nick in the foyer; Fitz; and a tall boy with red hair. I squint, trying to make out the red-haired boy’s face, because something about him is familiar. When he turns his head, I realize it’s because I know him. He’s Evan Cooper, Charlotte’s boyfriend.
The primitive part of my brain pleads with me to run to the Lodge with the others as fast as I can, but I can’t look away from the three Legendborn boldly facing the darkness, empty hands thrust out at their sides. What are they thinking? Where are their weapons?
With the whooshing sound of a backdraft, mage flame appears in each of the three boys’ palms. It circles in a smoky whirlpool, then climbs up their arms like iridescent snakes. In between one second and the next, the aether solidifies into weapons in their hands. Fitz and Evan hold identical shining swords. The gentle-faced boy holds two glowing daggers the length of my forearms. But the mage flame climbing their bodies isn’t done. I watch, breathless, as it flows over their shoulders and legs, solidifying into gleaming plates of silver. Aether crawls up their throats and falls across their sternums until it becomes chainmail. On their arms, the smoke hardens into terrifying gauntlets.
Armor. Aether armor.
From the opposite direction, another howl rises. My blood runs cold. Not just one hellhound, but two?
“Split formation!” Davis yells. The boy with the daggers dashes to the other side of the Chapel, calling for three other Legendborn to follow.
“Bree!” Nick steps into my vision, blocking the armored boys from sight. “What are you still doing here? Get back to the Lodge! Now!” I pivot away from the clearing, but the other Pages have disappeared into the woods. I should have followed them. I have no idea how to get back. No idea which direction to run. Nick realizes this at the same time that I do and points his sword behind me. “That way. Run. Don’t stop.”
I sprint full speed into the forest, adrenaline shooting through my veins. I can barely see, but I keep going. I crash through brush. Briars scrape at my face and arms. I stumble.
Shouts echo behind me as the Legendborn take on the hounds.
Another howl.
Silence.
I turn. Did they kill the demons? Is it over?
Suddenly, the stench of mold and warm, stagnant water overtakes me. It clings to the back of my throat. The smell of rotten wood and dying things. Things that haven’t seen light in a long, long time. I cover my mouth.
A sound comes from my left, like a log breaking.
When I turn, two bottomless red orbs appear in the darkness a foot from my face. Glowing lanterns made of blood. One blinks, then the other.
Not lanterns.
Eyes.
I scream and stumble backward. Then, a voice. The nauseating sound of bones cracking, deep and sharp.
“You will help us.”
Terror condenses to a sharp point. I pivot, but the eyes appear in front of me. A ten-foot-tall, hulking shape steps through the trees.
At first I think the shape is an enormous human, but the movements are all wrong. Their joints bend in the wrong places. In the sliver of light from above, I see a broad chest and thick limbs covered with moss. An iridescent, shiny green liquid pours out of open gashes on mottled skin. A face stretches across a bulbous, swollen head. Two long strips of rotting flesh connect gaping jaws. Their tongue lashes back and forth like a snake tasting the air. The demon hums in satisfaction. “Yes. You will help us.”
I lunge to the side, but the demon moves too. Faster than I can track, so that they face me from the new angle, their held tilted to the side as if waiting for my response.
I think fast, heart hammering inside my chest. I can’t outrun this demon, that much is clear. Which way would I go if I could? Wherever I am, I’m closer to the Legendborn than I am the Lodge. This demon doesn’t seem to want to eat me like the hellhound did—yet.
I take a sliding step in the direction of the clearing but keep my eyes on the creature. “Help you? Are you—you sure I’m the best person for that?”
Lips pull back in a hungry smile, exposing two rows of black teeth that curl backward like scythes.
“Yes,” they state, and lunge before I can make a sound.
The demon slings me over their shoulder like a sack of yams, jerking my body around so much my head spins. A squishy, hot arm wraps around the back of my knees, holding me in place. A scream builds in my throat, but I gag on the putrid stench steaming from their body.
There’s a blur, then an abrupt stop that sends my chin crashing into the demon’s wet spine. I gag again. Mildewed slop clings to my face.
Before I can orient myself, the demon pulls me down and around until I’m hanging like a doll, feet swinging off the ground. I struggle, but they only pull tighter, cutting off my breath in one sharp motion. I can’t get enough air.
We’re back at the Chapel, where the eight Legendborn and Lord Davis have cornered the second hellhound. Fitz and Nick have just speared it through when the demon holding me emits a hellish scream. “Pendragon!”
Everyone turns at once.
Nick’s father shoots his son a silencing glare, and steps forward. Davis fingers the grip of a longsword in a scabbard at his side, a weapon that he’d hidden beneath his robe. “Why have you come, uchel?”
“Which of you is the Pendragon?”
Davis keeps his voice easy, calm. A Southern gentleman simply greeting a newcomer. “I am who you seek.” His eyes flick to me. “You have one of our Pages. Let the girl go and we’ll talk. Just you and me.”
The demon’s teeth clack against one another in a chittering pattern, like they are displeased. Clackclackclack. “She will be easy to take apart, deceiver.” Razor-sharp nails drag a burning path down my cheek, slicing my skin open. I scream.
“Stop!” Nick shouts, already moving forward.
The hand at Davis’s side clenches into a fist. It must be a signal, because the other Legendborn move in tight around Nick, locking him into place. Guarding him. Rage blooms across his face.
The demon points at Nick with one dripping claw. “He is who we seek.”
“We?” Davis says, curious concern crossing his expression.
“Give him to us, Legendborn.” The demon’s hand tightens slowly around my chest, and black pain threatens to take over my vision. One of my ribs is bending, bending…
“I don’t think so.” Davis darts forward, pulling his blade as he runs, but he’s nowhere near fast enough. There’s another blur, and then the demon has the older man by the throat with one large hand, while still gripping me with the other. Davis’s sword drops to the stone with a loud clatter.
“No!” Nick yells, pushing against Russ and Fitz both. His elbow flies
into Fitz’s nose, knocking the other boy down, but Evan takes Fitz’s place before Nick can break out of the circle. Blood from an injury streams down Evan’s forehead, but he stands firm.
The demon lifts Davis high in the air. Nick’s father scrabbles at the demon’s grip with both hands, wheezing for breath, eyes bulging. The color in his face goes red, redder.
“I will kill both of them while you watch, Pendragon,” the demon snarls, squeezing Davis so much the man turns purple, “and then I will take you.”
“You talk far too much.”
I never thought I’d be happy to hear that voice. Sel drops onto the demon’s back, wrapping his opponent in a headlock. The demon roars, dropping me to the ground and flinging Davis across the clearing. Nick’s father hits a tree with a stomach-turning crunch and falls to the stone surface in a loose pile of limbs.
I scramble backward, just missing the stomp of one enormous foot. The demon grabs at Sel’s back and hair, trying to dislodge him, but Sel hangs on tight, his face tucked away from their claws.
A pair of strong arms loop under my armpits and haul me up and away from the fray.
To my surprise, it’s Sarah, the pixie girl. “Stay back,” she urges once we’re far enough. Then she runs over to where half of the group, Nick included, have gathered at Davis’s side. Nick’s father is not moving. Oh God.
The demon and Sel brawl in a blur of black and green. No one else dares to enter the fight, and why would they? No one else could keep up. When the two opponents lunge for each other, the force of their collision makes the earth shake. They twist and roll on the ground, fists connecting in deep thuds. After a few minutes, Sel’s shirt is torn and darkened with slime and sweat.
The demon kicks at Sel’s chest, and the Merlin goes flying.
Sel hits the ground with both feet in a sliding crouch. A feral grin crosses his face. He launches himself back at the creature like a bullet.
The sight turns my stomach. Nick’s father could be dead, and Sel’s enjoying himself.
“Hold him steady!”
Back at the tree, the boy who had daggers presses his hands over Davis’s chest. A light film of silver liquid covers his fingers. As I watch, the liquid spreads down onto the man’s shirt. A heartbeat later, Davis gasps awake. “Steady,” the boy orders. “Not done…”