by Tracy Deonn
William, I think. Their healer.
William continues to work on Davis, but the relief around him is palpable. Nick’s father is alive.
Everyone is so focused on Lord Davis that no one notices Nick until it’s too late.
He bears down on the brawl, his father’s sword in his hands.
Sel has the demon on the ground, one boot on the creature’s chest, an aether blade at their throat.
“You nearly killed my father!” Nick shouts, fury turning his voice to iron.
The demon chitters eagerly. “The boy approaches! Let him come, whelp! I—” A squelching, hissing sound from the press of Sel’s blade, and the creature is silenced.
“I have this, Nicholas.” Sel keeps his eyes on his captive. “Back off. Let me do my job.”
Nick ignores Sel’s warning and swings, his blade arcing toward the demon’s face—
With a sharp twist, the demon breaks Sel’s ankle. Shoves the Merlin aside.
Nick’s sword descends.
The demon meets it with one hand—the blade digging deep—and clenches Nick’s throat with the other.
Nick pulls at the creature’s fingers. Gurgling. Gasping.
The demon stands, snarling in a flash of triumph, lifting Nick high—then slams him into the silver stone. His body goes still.
I’m running.
I barrel into the demon just as Sel swings Nick’s sword.
Together, we send the body in one direction, and the head in another.
14
NICK, HIS FATHER, and Evan aren’t the only injured.
I stand in the corner of the Lodge’s basement infirmary and watch two second-year Pages dash back and forth between five metal tables.
Nick’s on the one closest to me. His father is next to him. Evan’s in the middle, and Victoria lies at the end. I didn’t even know that Tor had been hurt.
Her chest had been sliced open by a hound, and there’s blood splattered across her blue dress and over her pale cheeks.
Still, she’s in better shape than the Davis men. Lord Davis’s spine is broken in two places.
Nick’s skull is cracked.
I should have moved faster. Struggled harder against the uchel. Gotten to Nick before he went after the demon himself.
The infirmary is William’s domain. He strides between the tables, his hands coated in silver aether so thick it looks like mercury. The bright, citrus smell of his aether signature fills the room.
There’s a pattern. He starts with the life-threatening injuries first and spends a few minutes murmuring in a fluid, lyrical language that I don’t understand. He stands over their bodies while aether drips down onto their wounds and disappears into their skin. Then he walks away and closes his eyes, murmuring another incantation that pulls aether from the air again. It coats his fingers, and the cycle starts over.
I look down at my own hands. They haven’t stopped trembling.
When we returned to the Lodge, the group had dispersed. Most of the Pages were sent home. Russ went to check on Felicity. After confirming that she was still asleep—a common recovery from Awakening, I’m told—he came down to wait with me and offered me a sweatshirt. I put it on, because I didn’t know what else to do. He asked me if I’d like to go upstairs to take a shower. I don’t remember what I said, but he left me alone after that.
I look at the infirmary walls and wonder why they aren’t green, like the small room at the hospital. Then, because my defenses are down, I’m at the hospital again. The nurse is there. And the Merlin. And my mother is gone before I could say goodbye.… I squeeze my eyes shut and count to ten until it is three months later. Until I’m back in the infirmary at the Lodge.
“Where is he?” Sel bursts through the door like an unholy angel in a long black coat, his eyes blazing like twin suns. If he notices the two Pages slipping out behind him with fear written all over their faces, he doesn’t say anything.
William’s voice is even but firm. “He’s stable, but he’s not awake. Sel—Sel!”
Sel strides over to Nick—and there’s not even a hitch in his step. Did William heal his ankle already? Sel examines Nick where he lies. Nick’s shirt is cut open, exposing his chest and stomach. His usually handsome, open face is pale and pinched. He hasn’t opened his eyes since we arrived.
“You better not die, Davis,” Sel orders. “Not now.”
“Sel.” William steps toward Sel, his silver-coated hands raised up like a doctor’s. “Nick is stable,” he repeats. “He will recover. Lord Davis, on the other hand, is not stable yet. I need to keep treating them both, and everyone here, and you’re not helping with that.”
Sel glances over to Evan’s table, and the muscles in his jaw clench. “He can’t die either. None of the Squires or the Scions.”
“We know, Sel!” Russ runs his hand through his hair. “This is the ninth attack in what, two weeks?”
“And the first uchel spotted in years,” Fitz says from where he leans against the doorway beside Sarah.
“That pack didn’t come to feed or infuse themselves with aether. They came with a purpose,” Sel retorts. “They knew we’d be gathered tonight, knew we’d scatter, and knew the Scion of Arthur would be there. How?”
Russ scoffs. “Shadowborn don’t know anything. They’re too brainless to think, much less plan.”
“Did you not see the uchel, Copeland?” Sel sneers. The tips of his hair start to singe and smoke. “Only an uchel can command isel to work together, and that’s exactly what happened tonight. You underestimate the greater demons at your peril. And at the peril of your Scion, whose life you will soon be Oathed to protect.”
Russ winces and turns away.
Sel turns to go, but spots me and stops. When he speaks, his voice is precise. Dangerous. “What is she doing here?”
Sarah steps forward. “Bree was taken hostage by the uchel, Sel. She’s covered in slime, frightened half to death. Take it easy, will you?” I’m surprised by her defense of me, someone she doesn’t know. “She even tried to save Nick.”
Sel’s gaze hardens. “And we’re to assume it was just a coincidence that the uchel came back with her in their arms?”
“I tried to help.” I hate how small my voice sounds. Hate that it sounds like how I feel. “I tried to—”
“You tried to what, little girl?” Unlike everyone else’s shoes on the hard white tile, Sel’s feet make no sound as he advances on me. “Help? Help who? Nick or the uchel?”
I shake my head, though it does nothing but make me dizzy. “Nick. I—I—”
“Selwyn!” Sarah warns. “Leave her alone.”
But he’s already in front of me, standing so close his gaze rains down on my face like embers. The air between us starts to cook, forcing a gasp from my lips.
Fear flutters, collides with memories. I know this moment. I’ve been here before. Been in a hospital and wanted nothing else but to run away.
I didn’t do it then. And I won’t do it now.
Sel leans down until his mouth is by my ear. His breath billows against my cheeks, burnt cinnamon and smoke. “There’s a lie about you, Page Matthews. If I find out that you were a part of this…”
“I wasn’t,” I grit out.
He bares his teeth, then whirls away. “Where’s Pete?”
“Patrolling with third- and fourth-year Pages,” Russ answers. “Looking for more.”
“No,” Sel murmurs. “The Shadowborn have made their play tonight. There won’t be more. Stay put, Copeland. I’ll administer the Warrior’s Oath between you and Felicity as soon as she wakes up.” Sel pulls on the collar of his jacket with one hand and points at me with the other. “I want her gone. She doesn’t belong here.” He sweeps through the door and leaves the room in shaky silence.
“The worst part about that guy is that you’re never sure if it’s safe to talk shit about him behind his back,” Russ remarks with a frustrated sigh. Sarah smacks his arm. “What? It’s true!”
Sarah tu
rns to me, her eyes equal parts worry and apology. “Sorry about Sel. He’s… protective. You do belong here. You’re one of us now.”
I look away, because that’s just the thing. I’m not one of them.
She frowns and moves closer to examine my cheek. “You’ll get to Bree’s face, won’t you, William?”
“Of course,” William mutters, his head bent low over Evan’s forehead. “Let me triage, Squire Griffiths…” Even in chastisement, amusement colors the healer’s words.
William stands up to Sel, who somehow listens to him, and teases Sarah, who stands up for me. I decide I like them both. Too bad a pang of guilt follows: Sel is wrong about me working with the Shadowborn, but he’s not wrong about me lying.
Eager to get the attention off me, I change the subject. “What was that monster? I thought demons looked like animals, or—”
Sarah shakes her head. “If isels, the lesser demons, are strong enough to go full-corp, they look like animals or the creatures you see in the ancient texts. Imps with horns, tails. But the uchels are greater demons. Less mischief, more murder, and strong enough to go corp as soon as they cross over. They look”—she hesitates, shares a glance with William that I can’t decipher—“… more human.”
Russ leans against a wall and crosses his arms. “If you believe the old tales, the most powerful uchel, the goruchel, can even pass for human. Walk hidden among us and all that.”
A cold dagger of fear cuts through me. Sel had called me an uchel a few hours ago. He thinks I’m one of them, passing as human. Here to harm Nick and the rest of the chapter. Breath leaves my body in a silent exhale.
“Demons that pass for human.” Fitz rolls his eyes. “Scary stories to tell kids at night. Legend and lore.”
William tuts without looking up. “We are legend and lore, Scion Baldwin.” Fitz makes a rude gesture in response.
“Why did they want Nick?” I whisper.
William pauses with his hands over Evan. The four Legendborn look at me, then one another.
Russ stands up straight. “Because he’s our king, or he will be, formally. When he’s Awakened.”
“If he’s Awakened,” Sarah says.
Fitz scoffs, a red flush building at his collar. “You really think it’s an ‘if,’ Sar? We’re Called in order. Flick’s Line is fourth, which means the Scion of Kay up at Northern musta been Called recently too, and Lord Davis didn’t bother to tell us. Tor and the Line of Tristan’ll be next. Then the kid at Western and the Line of Lancelot. Then number one, Nick. And boom, Camlann.”
Russ shakes his head. “Come on, man, don’t exaggerate.”
“Exaggerate? You think I’m exaggerating?” Fitz’s eyes fill with scorn. “The Scion of the Line of Lamorak—your Scion—has Awakened. Welcome to our reality, Squire Copeland. You high-ranked kids get to play around and pretend we’re not actually at war, while the rest of us are Awakened and dying every other year.” Fury contorts his features. “Camlann is coming, whether you want to believe it or not!”
No one says anything for a long moment.
In the silence, I ask, “What is Camlann?”
Fitz whistles, shaking his head. “I don’t care if he is king, somebody’s gonna have to give Nick Davis a talking-to. Bringing a Page forward without telling her shit is how Pages get dead. Y’all have fun with Legendborn 101. I’m out.” His angry steps echo down the hallway.
“Nick’s told me things,” I say, barely keeping the defensiveness from my voice. I edge toward Nick’s table to watch his chest rise in shallow, short breaths. “Just not… everything.”
William’s aether dissolves into Evan’s forehead, and he stands with a sigh, speaking directly to me for the first time.
“Well, now is as good a time as any to catch you up.”
15
AFTER DECLARING THAT his four patients are now stable and infused with enough healing aether to fully recover, William orders Sarah and Russ to watch over the room while he and I step out. Russ starts to complain, but William silences him with a single raised brow.
At the door, he beckons me to follow. I tell myself that I need to go because learning more about the Order is part of my mission, but a small voice inside whispers that the only reason I agree is the touch of rosy color finally returning to Nick’s cheeks.
We step out into the long fluorescent-lit basement hallway and head toward the elevator. Staring at it brings back a brief, hazy memory of talking to Russ as he brought me down to the infirmary. “You have an elevator?” I’d asked.
He’d smiled wryly and replied with, “We’ve got a lot of things.”
Once we’re inside, William opens a panel in the wall that Russ hadn’t used. He enters a code into a numeric keypad, then presses a square button that turns from black to orange. When the elevator lurches into motion, my stomach threatens to upend itself.
William regards me with unreadable gray eyes. “How’re my arms?”
I blink, confused. “Your arms?”
He nods down at my forearms where I’ve wrapped them around my chest. “I usually like to follow up with my patients, but you were taken away before I got a chance to.”
Fear washes through me. Rule One means I can’t tell him what I remember. “I… I’m not sure…”
He smirks. “No need for subterfuge. I’m a healer by inheritance and by nature. I genuinely want to know how your wounds are doing.”
At a loss for words, I thrust both forearms out. He takes my wrists and traces one forefinger up the inner skin of one arm, then the other. “Good. You took aether well.”
The elevator comes to a jerking stop. When I swallow down bile, William’s shrewd eyes narrow minutely. The doors open onto an even lower level and a similar long hallway, but he punches the button to keep them open.
“May I?” He gestures at the sticky, aching spot on my right cheek. I nod. But instead of touching me again, he sticks one hand out into the hallway, then chuckles at the look on my face. “Aether is everywhere, but it’s a bit like a cell signal. Hard to find in a metal box.” He glances up at the elevator by way of explanation. I watch as mage flame swirls and gathers in his palm. It solidifies into a thick, silver sauce that bleeds out over his hand, coating his fingers and the green leather cuff around his wrist. He steps closer, making eye contact first, and hovers three shining fingers over my cheek. The bright citrus smell of his casting flows between us, filling my nose.
The aether is cold—and it reminds me a bit of the slop of the uchel on my skin. I flinch, and William hums. “Deep breaths.” The cold spreads, soothing where it touches. There’s an itchy sensation, a quiet hiss, and the ache disappears. “Done.” A flick of his wrist, and the aether dissolves. “How do you feel? Dizzy?”
I take stock of my head, tilt it back and forth. “No. Not like last time.”
“Acclimating fast for a Onceborn,” he says thoughtfully.
“Thank you?”
He inclines his head in response and gestures to the hall. “Shall we?”
I step through, gnawing on my lower lip. He knows I was at the Lodge last night, but what else does he know?
William indicates a door at the far end of the hall. After a few seconds he speaks up, his voice casual. It feels like he’s read my mind. “I know there’s more to you than what you’re sharing, Page Matthews.” I begin to interject, but he holds up a hand, a soft smile on his lips. “I’m not Sel, so don’t worry. I didn’t bring you here to corner you. I don’t know what you’re hiding, and frankly, I don’t need or want to.”
I stop, completely stunned. “But—but aren’t you worried that—”
“That you’re an uchel?” He stops, too, and rolls his eyes. “Hardly. Sel is an incredible detective, the most powerful Merlin in a generation, but he’s also…”
“An asshole?”
He suppresses a smile. “I was going to say volatile. I think he’s wrong to antagonize you.”
I shake my head, unable to believe even this tiny bit of gener
osity. “But—”
“I trust Nicholas. He is our king and, more than that, he is my friend. Whatever you two have decided is none of my business. And”—his eyes soften—“you brought him back to us. Something tells me he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”
My breath catches. Nick wouldn’t have been here tonight if it weren’t for me.
The world spins. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Sel was casting a mesmer, but this isn’t him. He didn’t do this.
Tonight was my choice, and it’s too much. Everything. All of it. Too much. I’d chosen a ruse to find the truth about my mother’s death. To find out the truth for myself. For my father. Maybe even to prove to Alice that I was right and she was wrong.
I didn’t choose the smell of decay still clinging to the back of my tongue, to the inside of my mouth. I didn’t choose the sound of Nick’s father’s spine shattering against an oak tree. The dull crack of Nick’s skull splitting open on stone.
My stomach turns again—and an arm wraps around my shoulders. “This way.” I stumble, and William pulls me tighter to his side as he pushes a door open. “Here we go.”
A stall door, a toilet. Then I’m on my knees heaving, retching, heaving again until it feels like everything I’ve ever eaten has exited my body.
When I’m done, I lean back on my heels. His hand rubs soothing circles around my back. A cool palm rests against my forehead. We sit in the quiet until my breath slows.
After a while, William hands me a lime-colored cloth handkerchief. I stare down at it, puzzled at the alarmingly bright fabric. I hear the smile in his voice. “It was my father’s. The Line of Gawain is what discerning people call ‘ostentatious.’ ” I hold the cloth, hesitant to use it, but he counters before I can say a word. “Please. I have an embarrassingly large amount in an embarrassingly green chest somewhere.”
I give a weak smile as I wipe my nose and mouth. When I’m done, he leads me to a cushioned bench near the bathroom’s sinks.