by Tracy Deonn
“Thank you.”
“No more of that.” He pats my knee and watches my face with attentive eyes. “Our world is… a lot.”
I inhale shakily. “Yes.”
He tilts his head. “And you’re sure you want to be in it?”
William’s question takes me by surprise. Am I sure? After tonight, am I truly sure? I think of my father and our conversation on the library steps. I can hear his voice even now. “… This thing that’s happening to us… I feel it too. I know it feels real bad.” He feels this pain, and yet he goes to work every day. Lives in our house with the echo of my mother every day, when I could barely stand it. I think of my mother and the stubbornness—no, the weakness—that kept me from speaking to her after a foolish fight.
Our Brave Bree.
I inhale again, stronger this time. “Yes. I’m sure.”
“Okay,” he says, standing up. “If you’re dead set on being here, then you definitely need that Legendborn crash course. But first, you need tea.”
* * *
William wasn’t kidding about the tea.
He makes me wait outside the bathroom for a few minutes while he goes down the hall to a kitchenette. When he comes back, he presses a steaming mug of lemon-ginger tea in between my palms and orders me to nurse it while we talk.
I’m beginning to understand why Sel didn’t fight William’s will. He’s imperious without being arrogant, and has an uncanny knack for being right.
Plus, the tea is delicious.
He sweeps in front of me and leads us down the hall to a navy door at the far end, opposite the elevator. “How many basements does the Lodge have?” I ask.
“Two. The infirmary and training rooms are on the one above, plus some recovery rooms for seriously injured patients. Down here is all the other secret stuff we can’t risk anyone seeing by accident. Artifacts and member documents”—he jerks a thumb at a door we’ve just passed—“are in a cold storage room where we have more control over the temperature and lighting conditions. Fortunately, the oldest items have been so infused with aether by Merlins over the years that we don’t have to worry about them crumbling to pieces.” He reaches the door and punches in another code on the keypad near the handle. “But this is what you really need to see.”
I squeeze the mug between my hands. My heart gives a rowdy thump so loud I worry he can hear it. “No demons, right? You’re not throwing me into a medieval fun house of horrors as some sort of hazing thing, are you?”
He laughs, loud and light. “No”—he opens the door and leans in, searching the interior wall for a light switch—“but ‘Medieval Fun House of Horrors’ would make a great band name.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m grateful for his humor. Another sip of tea, and my stomach is almost calm.
He finds the light switch, illuminating not another room but the landing at the top of a wide spiral staircase.
We take the stairs down two more levels, and he talks as we walk. “Legendborn parents explain the Order and Lines to their children when we’re young. Vassals know enough to be dangerous, but with new Pages like you, the sponsors are usually the ones who fill in all the juicy details.”
“Nick didn’t really have the time,” I mutter as I traipse down the stairs behind him. I didn’t really give him the time, is what I think.
William remains unfazed. “I figured. That’s all right—I kind of like doing the honors.”
We reach a large, damp-smelling room that is empty save an old rug and a few sitting chairs. After he hits another set of overhead lights, he heads to the back. At the very far end is a wall covered by a black curtain that stretches as wide as the room. “After a Vassal swears to the Code of Secrecy and pledges to the Order, someone from their assigned Line explains the origin of the Order and its mission. If they want their kid to Page and have a chance of becoming a Squire, that child is sworn to the Code as well.”
“And that works?”
“Yep.” He unwraps a thick golden rope and grunts, drawing it down from a pulley. “Vassals don’t expose us; most families have been aligned with the Order for centuries, and they have too much to gain socially and financially, even if their kids don’t Squire in the end. Besides”—William grins—“rich people love secrets.”
As he pulls, the curtain draws upward, revealing the entirety of the wall, or what I’d thought was a wall.
Taking up the whole of my vision is the largest single slab of silver I’ve ever seen. Even bigger than the Chapel. It must be three stories tall, reaching all the way up to the far wall of the first floor. Running down the slab are thousands of meticulously carved lines. Every few inches, the lines break for sparkling stars made of gems, then start again below them. The slab is so tall that I have to step back to see it in its entirety.
He crosses his arms and gazes up, up, up. “This is the Wall of Ages. The thirteen bloodlines of the Round Table, and their Scions.”
At the very top of the Wall, embedded in silver, are thirteen fist-size stones. In the center is a white diamond, but the other gems glimmer in various shades of red and green and blue and yellow. Engraved in elegant script above the stones is one phrase: Y LLINACH YW’R DDEDDF.
“The Line is Law,” William translates. “The Order and Vassal colonizers were a blended bunch: Welsh, English, Scots, Scotch-Irish, Germans. But sixth-century Wales is Arthur’s birthplace, so Welsh was the Order’s first language. Some of the old incantations are still in Welsh, like the swyns I use in the infirmary.”
Alice would love this, I think. The history, the Wall, everything. Then I feel a pang of guilt for wishing she was with me. I’d never want her to get hurt, and right now bodily injury seems like the price of admission.
“Potential Scion children are told the lore early and often. First by our parents, then by the Lieges—retired Scions and Squires—then by our parents again when we turn sixteen. That’s the first year our knights may Call on us.” His eyes lose focus as he returns to a story he’s clearly heard many, many times. “At the Round Table’s peak, Arthur had over one hundred and fifty knights at his command. But over time, the Shadowborn Wars, our fight with the Cysgodanedig, cut that number down until only the thirteen strongest knights remained. Merlin and Arthur feared what the world would become should the Table fall, and so Merlin devised the Spell of Eternity: a powerful casting to magnify the remaining knights’ abilities and bind their spirits to their bloodline so that their heirs could forever stand against the darkness. So that the Table would live on, immortal.” William’s voice has dipped low with reverence, or perhaps he’s echoing the reverence of those who told the story before. “When our knights Awaken, their spirit lives again. This is why we call those outside the Lines Unanedig. ‘Onceborn.’ And why we call ourselves Chwedlanedig. ‘Legendborn.’ ”
To be able to trace one’s family back that far is something I have never fathomed. My family only knows back to the generation after Emancipation. Suddenly, it’s hard to stand here and take in the magnificence of the Wall and not feel an undeniable sense of ignorance and inadequacy. Then, a rush of frustration because someone probably wanted to record it all, but who could have written down my family’s history as far back as this? Who would have been able to, been taught to, been allowed to? Where is our Wall? A Wall that doesn’t make me feel lost, but found. A Wall that towers over anyone who lays eyes on it.
Instead of awe, I feel… cheated.
I take a deep breath and turn to William, my voice harsh. “You said sixth century? Wouldn’t each knight’s bloodline include thousands of living descendants by now?”
“Yes, but a Scion is more than a descendant—they’re an heir. The knight’s inheritance, their enhanced abilities and affinity for aether, lives in one person at a time. And that inheritance is only transmitted by an Awakened Scion, one who was Called to power like Felicity was tonight. Think the British monarchy and the line of succession: not every child is heir to the throne, only the eldest of the sovereign. If the h
eir apparent cannot take the throne, then it goes to their child, or their child’s child, et cetera. If the heir has no child, power flows to their sibling, then their sibling’s kids. And even then, whoever is in line must be eligible.”
I frown. “You said something about being sixteen?”
He raises a brow. “You’re quick. Good. A Scion must be between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two. I have to give it to Merlin, the Spell keeps things tidy. Here.”
He places a finger onto a line second from last on the right. As soon as his fingertip touches stone, a rush of light streaks along the lineage lines flowing like blood in veins. Once the light reaches the top, a unique glowing engraving appears above each stone, while a larger symbol shines above them all.
Colors. Coins. Sigils.
I pull on Nick’s necklace until the chain spills out of my shirt onto my palm—and see something I missed earlier. The coin is two-sided. On one side is the unifying symbol of the order, the circle with an embellished diamond in the center. On the other, a dragon rampant.
The Pendragon.
William steps closer, speaking with his back to me. “The Wall is enchanted to hide names in case an outsider finds their way to this room. The last sixty generations of Scion names are recorded here, all the way down to present day. The Order used to keep all the records in books. Still do, for convenience, of course, but the Southern Chapter founders started transferring records to the Wall once they decided to build the school.”
My eyes widen. “The Order built Carolina?”
He winks. “Absolutely. The Shadowborn spread from Europe to the Americas, maybe looking for fresh hunting grounds, and grew in number alongside the colonies. By the 1700s there was a high concentration of Gates on the East Coast. The founders opened the first Round Table chapter, built the Lodge, then added the school around it. Hell, Carolina was partially built as an excuse to gather and train eligible Scions. Early College was manufactured fairly recently to bring sixteen-year-old Scions to campus as early as possible, so they can live and train near the Gates with the chapter. The Lines are spread out along several historic schools, but our chapter’s the oldest.
“The Lines follow the original Round Table’s chain of command, and that rank determines the order in which we are Awakened.” He points to a bloodline that descends from a green stone and ends in a small star. “This one is me. I’m the Scion of the Line of Sir Gawain, twelfth-ranked. In addition to enhanced healing, the Spell gave Gawain preternatural strength at midday and midnight.” I gape and he shrugs. “Gawain was an odd guy, what can I say.”
He shifts his finger to the next line on the Wall, one that descends from an orange stone: “Fitz is the Scion of Sir Bors, eleventh-ranked. In combat, he has agility like you’ve never seen. When we take a Squire, we’re choosing a battle partner to join us in the Warrior’s Oath. Someone who will share our bloodline’s power. Fitz chose Evan as his Squire last year.”
He moves over a handful to the line below a dark yellow gem: “Pete is new to us this year, a freshman. The Scion of Sir Owain, ranked seventh. Owain’s Scions can call upon his lion familiar to join them in battle. Pete needs a Squire this year, just like I do.”
Over a few, the red stone: “Felicity is the Scion of Lamorak’s bloodline. Ranked fourth, as you know. She chose Russ as her Squire in last year’s tournament. After tonight, she’ll be strong enough to punch through a boulder—and when Sel Oaths them, so will Russ.”
Over one, blue. “Victoria is the Scion of the Line of Tristan, third-ranked, with Sarah as her Squire. When she Awakens, her name will go here. Marksmanship and speed.”
He points to a final line, right down the center. “And this star is for Nick.”
I look up. Arthur’s pure white diamond leads down, down, down to a single shining star engraved in the wall at the same height as my hip.
My fingers reach out to touch it without my permission, and I yank them back. William’s mouth quirks in a knowing smile.
“Under normal circumstances the Order operates just fine without an Awakened king. That’s what the Regents are for. Shadowborn cross into our world to feed and terrorize, we kill them, and the peace is kept, relatively speaking. Low-ranked Scions like myself are Awakened frequently, and we’re generally strong enough to keep the demons at bay. If you age out or expire, the next eligible Scion can be Called in your place, and the cycle continues.”
“Expire? If you die, you mean?” I ask, horrified.
“The Scion in each bloodline and the nine potentially eligible descendants in the line of succession behind them begin training as soon as they can walk.” He turns to me, his eyes assessing my expression. “We know the risks and prepare for them as best we can.”
I remember what Fitz said earlier—and the orders Lord Davis had given to send the Awakened to the front lines against the hellhounds. “But if the lower-ranked Scions are Called all the time, then your Lines are—infantry. You’re bearing the brunt of the war. The higher-ranked Scions—”
William cuts me off with a raised finger. “No, little Page, don’t go down that road.” He sighs. “Fitz’s way—his entire family’s way—is… dishonorable. We are Called first because fifteen hundred years ago, our knights were first to the field. It’s like Lord Davis says, to serve is to elevate oneself. It is ennobling. Some carry the burden with resentment, but the truth is, none of us have a choice. Immortality has a price. In the end, there is evil in the world, and we are the ones equipped to fight it.”
“Under normal circumstances, the Order is fine without an Awakened Arthur… but we’re not ‘under normal circumstances,’ are we?”
“No, it seems not.” William sighs heavily. “Nick was correct. A Scion ranked higher than sixth hasn’t been Called in a very long time. And Sel was right too. Demons—isels especially—don’t work together like they did tonight. And an uchel sighting is beyond rare.” He studies me. “But why don’t you ask the question that’s really on your mind?”
“Just the one?” I quip.
His mouth twitches. “The big one.”
“What is Camlann?”
He leads me over to a pair of sitting chairs, perfectly positioned for contemplating the Wall, or the Order’s history and legacy, or both.
“It’s written in the books that the magic holding Merlin’s spell together—the engine behind the entire system—is preserved in the spirit of Arthur. As long as the king’s spirit remains dormant, the spell is safe. This is why Arthur, the first knight, calls on his Scion last, and only when ‘the demon scourge’ becomes so powerful and so rampant, that the Round Table must be reunited under his leadership to fight it back. The threat must be great indeed, for Arthur to Awaken and enter the field, putting all of the Lines at risk.”
William pauses, then recites the next words from memory: “ ‘When thirteen Scions have Awakened and claimed Squires, the Scion of Arthur will lead the Round Table against the demon plague in a deadly battle.’ This war is called Camlann, so named because, in legend, Camlann is where many of the final knights were killed. Camlann is the battlefield where Arthur fell. Camlann is where the original Round Table was broken—forever. If a fully Awakened Arthur is struck down by Shadowborn blood, the Legendborn Lines will be broken forever too.”
I whisper, “And the humans, the Unanedig, will have no defenders.”
“ ‘And the Shadowborn will rule the earth.’ ”
The room falls into a tense silence. Somewhere behind the silver wall, I hear a dripping sound.
I remember Nick’s warm smile on the walk through campus, then the terror branded on his face tonight in the woods. I brought that sequence of expressions to his face. Even if no one can control their knight’s Call, I brought Nick closer to something he’d never wanted. Guilt settles heavy in my belly.
I look back up at Nick’s star and think of him fighting, graceful like a dancer, feet light, body twisting. Swinging his sword with confidence and determination. Driving his blade thr
ough the hellhound. I can’t think of him falling in battle. My brain can’t imagine it.
“When was the last time Arthur Called his Scion?”
William cocks his head to the side. “Almost two hundred and fifty years ago? 1775, I think?”
“What? That’s—”
“The Revolutionary War.” One side of his mouth draws down in a tight frown. “Depends on who you ask, but in my opinion, that war would have happened anyway. And war is war, whether the Shadowborn incite it, prolong it, or use it as a feeding ground. People died by tens of thousands. Who cares what it’s called.”
I agree. My eyes are drawn to Nick’s star again.
And I notice something beside it that I hadn’t seen before. I stand and walk closer—yes, there’s something there, connected to Nick’s star by a shimmering dash.
“What is it?” William reaches my side, searching for what’s grabbed my attention.
I point to the small, dark marble stuck in the slab directly beside Nick’s name. It’s so black it seems to absorb light. “That marble. What is that?”
“Ah.” For the first time, he hesitates before he speaks. “Only the most powerful Merlin child in a generation is Selected to take the Kingsmage Oath. The child is taken from their family and bound here, in a formal ceremony before the chapter, to a child Scion of Arthur. For the rest of that Merlin’s life, they are the Scion’s sworn protector until death.”
My stomach twists. Taken from their family. A child—and a childhood—sacrificed to protect another. “No child could possibly comprehend what it means to make an Oath like that.”
“Like I said,” he murmurs, “none of us have a choice.”
My heart aches for both of them. Even for Sel, who is magically bound forever to a Scion who has never wanted his title. I may not like him and he sure seems to hate me, but I feel compelled to examine Sel’s marble and read the script beside it:
Selwyn Emrys Kane.
William hums thoughtfully. “Ready to go back? I need to check on my patients.”