Legendborn

by Tracy Deonn

  “Is it possible?”

  He blows out a puff of air. “It’s not impossible. And you’re sure you don’t remember anything else that the cop may have erased?”

  I chew on my lip. I’ve tried to remember more from that night dozens of times, but no other details ever appear. I don’t even remember the officer’s face, not really. Just the shape of his mouth, his eyes, and the sound of his casting. Nick and I discussed the possibility that I’m missing more than I know, but we just can’t be sure. So far, I’ve recalled everything Sel tried to mesmer away.

  “No. Nothing. How would I know if they were Merlin or Morgaine?”

  “You wouldn’t. We know they have the same abilities as Merlins, but when they stopped administering Oaths—” He stops short, starts again. “Without Oaths, the Order falls apart. Only a Merlin would be able to tell you whether that officer was a Morgaine or a Merlin, and even then they’d have to have been there. I’d say we could ask Sel, but—”

  “He loathes me,” I mutter, and think of Vaughn. “Along with everyone else on Team Anti-Bree.”

  Nick’s fingers flex around my arms. “Someone bothering you?”

  I think about whether I can stomach sharing what happened at dinner with Nick right now. If I could process his response and mine, go there again so soon. In the end, I say, “Nothing I can’t handle. People think I’m gunning to be your Squire and, I guess, using my feminine wiles to try and convince you to select me.”

  Silence again.

  “Nick?”

  “Sorry, my brain shut down at ‘feminine wiles.’ ”

  “Nick!” I stop, which is a bad idea, because he runs right into me, and I can feel the press of him against my back, his shoulders shaking with laughter. He steps away after a second and I swat at where I think he is in the darkness—my hand hits air, hits air, then lands on his chest with a hard thwack. He’s still laughing, but he traps my fingers between his and, before I can say a word, drops a soft kiss on my knuckles.

  That kiss steals my breath. I don’t think he even notices.

  “First of all, are you saying you’re not gunning to be my Squire? Insulted. And second—nope, sorry, this hand is mine now—I hate that other Pages are targeting you because of me. And third, I don’t know what your feminine wiles are, but I’d be willing to assess them. To see if they could, indeed, seduce me enough to make me bond myself to you forever.”

  I freeze with my hand on his chest, clasped between his fingers, while my mind stumbles and trips over all that he’s just uttered.

  “Bree? I was just kid—”

  “Do you… want me to try for your Squire?”

  Nick squeezes my fingers and sighs. After a moment, his lips brush over my knuckles again, but this time his mouth lingers, moving against my skin as he speaks. “You need to decide that on your own.” And then he releases me. When he speaks again, his voice is hoarse and low. “I’m gonna go check to see if they’re ready for the Pages at the trial site. Be right back.”

  Then he’s gone through the brush, each rhythmic footstep like a heartbeat in my sensitive ears until they fade away entirely.

  I’m standing there alone in the woods for five minutes, maybe more, rubbing my fingers over the places that Nick’s mouth touched, when I feel his eyes on my skin.

  “I know you’re there.”

  Sel’s coat flaps in the night air, but I don’t hear him land.

  “Sense me, did you? Common trait of the Shadowborn to detect other aether users.” His deep, smooth voice bounces around me. On my left, my right, ahead. “Nicholas’s interest in you keeps you safe for now. However, you would do well to remember that getting closer to Nicholas also brings me closer to you. You’ll either slip and expose yourself, or I will expose you.”

  I can smell his aether signature, whiskey sharp and a hint of burnt cinnamon that sends a shudder down my spine. He notices my response and chuckles from somewhere above me. I hate that I don’t know how long he’d been nearby. Did he watch me and Nick? Listen to our conversation? Suddenly, I’m furious. First the racist shit at the Lodge and now this Merlin bully?

  Words escape me in an angry stream. “You keep threatening me, but in the end you don’t do jack. You can’t touch me because I’m your king’s Page, but you taunt me anyway because it makes you feel important. I can’t imagine the beating your ego’s taken, being ignored by the very Scion you swore your life to!”

  Shocked silence. From both of us.

  Then his voice is at my ear. “There it is. The self-righteous rage of demonkind. Pathetic.”

  “Not as pathetic as you.”

  “Mmm?”

  I pause, just in case he tries to rush me or something, but he doesn’t. I can’t even tell if I’m still facing in the right direction. Undaunted, I keep going. “Let’s say you go over Nick’s head and report me to Lord Davis or the Regents. They’ll put me on one of your trials. Ask you for proof of whatever it is you think I am, and that’s the thing, Merlin. You have none.”

  Silence. Then, “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, that’s so.” I’m bold now, and running with it. “My dad had a dog like you once, when he was little. His family lived out in the sticks and that dog raised hell over cars driving down the road, howled at every stray cat. Made it a useless guard dog, so his father gave it away. If you run your uchel hunch up the chain without evidence, the Regents will question your ability to do your job. And that’s a risk you can’t afford. You don’t want to be that ole country dog, do you, Kingsmage?”

  Silence. Then a low, slow laugh in the darkness.

  “You have a silver tongue, mystery girl.” A pause. “I feel a sudden urge to tear it out.”

  My pulse leaps in my throat.

  “Lucky for you, I’m used to being baited.” A whoosh of air, and then his voice finds me from overhead. “Maybe another time.”

  The moment he leaves, a fine tremor starts at my fingers. By the time Nick jogs back to me through the woods, both hands are shaking, my chest tight with fear.

  “Okay, I think they’re ready for you in the arena.”

  I nod, swallowing around a gigantic lump—and the tongue I’m still thankful to own.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  I give a wobbly smile. “Your Kingsmage stopped by for a little pre-game inspiration. He still thinks I’m a demon and threatened to out me, but this time I told him off. Now he wants to rip my tongue out of my head.”

  Nick makes a frustrated sound. “That’s why I didn’t feel him.”

  “You can feel Sel?”

  “Lifelong perk of the Kingsmage Oath. He can feel when I’m in mortal danger, and I can feel his murderous intent. It’s how I knew he was close before he attacked you last night.”

  I shiver, remembering the sensation of Sel gripping my ankle in the darkness. “Should I be relieved that you didn’t feel his desire to murder me?”

  An awkward pause. “Yes…?”

  “Wow.”

  “Yep.” He takes my hand and tugs me forward.

  “Wait, did you say arena?”

  * * *

  It’s abundantly clear that Sydney despises me. As soon as Tor paired us together, she’d shot me a glare searing enough to cause third-degree burns.

  Sydney doesn’t seem to care much for Vaughn, so that’s not it. To her credit, she’d turned to me, point-blank, and told me exactly why she doesn’t like me: “I’m here to win this thing and I don’t trust anyone here.” Fair and direct. Can’t fault her.

  Unfortunately for her, she’s going to have to trust me tonight. Because the only way either of us moves forward to the second trial is if we do it as a team.

  If I fail tonight, so does she, and then she’s out. Eliminated. We both are.

  Which is why I’m not going to fail.

  Sydney immediately took point at the top of the small ridge and ordered me to stay down in the ditch of our base, standing guard over our three Onceborn “victims.”

  “Any
signal?” I whisper.

  “Nothing yet,” she bites out without looking at me, annoyed before anything has even happened.

  I test the weight of the midsize stuffed mannequin. It must be 150 pounds at least. I pull it up over my shoulders, balancing on my heels, and stand up in a squat the way my father taught me. My knees shake and I get the mannequin up in the air without dropping it.

  But could I run with it?

  The “arena” is a flat strip of land that cuts through the forest behind the Lodge. At some point it’d been cleared to make way for those huge transmission power lines, but now it’s just a grassy, open highway between two dense woods. A football field from one side to the other. There are Pages like us stationed fifty feet apart on either side, hidden by trees and bushes, tucked into ditches. And somewhere on a high ridge sit nine Scions and Squires with a clear view of the trial to come.

  Lanterns give us just enough light to navigate the arena, illuminating the starting points for each team and, across the field, where we need to end up if we want to win.

  Sydney taps her thigh nervously with one of her daggers. The shiny blade is as long as my forearm and razor-sharp. She’d come prepared tonight with two holsters already strapped to her thighs, so she hadn’t needed to collect a weapon from the pile Russ and Evan had deposited in front of the twelve Pages. As soon as they’d given us our options, they’d left to join the rest of the Legendborn observing the trial. We’d been given free rein to choose from swords, daggers, long quarterstaffs, flails, even a bullwhip—but no hints as to which item would serve us best. I’m no weakling—I’m decently strong and have good stamina from Bentonville High track and field, but I’d never handled a weapon in my life. I was half-scared of chopping my own arm off, so I’d chosen the short, heavy wooden staff—what Whitty called a “cudgel”—and strapped it to my back with its leather harness.

  We weren’t given armor of any kind.

  “There.”

  I let the stuffed mannequin fall to the ground with a heavy thud and crawl to Sydney. “Where?”

  “Still mesmered, Matthews? Use your eyes! The Kingsmage is right there.” She jabs a finger at one end of the arena. Selwyn, in all black, blends into the navy skyline, but I can just make him out by starlight, standing in the middle of the arena.

  Without warning, Selwyn throws his arms out wide to either side of his body. His fingers curl up against the air, pulling aether out of the night sky in heavy, rhythmic waves. A small silver-blue mage flame tornado forms in one palm, then the other. They grow taller and taller until the open mouths of the funnels stretch ten feet over his head. We shield our eyes against the pulsing brightness. I look back just in time to watch him thrust both palms toward the other end of the arena, sending all that aether roaring straight down the middle. The sharp smell of charred cinnamon reaches my nose, enough to make me cough.

  I knew Sel was strong, but nothing I’ve seen him do prepared me for this.

  Flames snake through the air. Twist. Melt. Flow into six broad, snarling shapes. Shapes that grow short, stubby legs. Translucent fur rises up in a long ridge—spines. Aether solidifies into dark blue beady eyes. Extends into short snouts. Sharpens to crystalline points at the end of long, deadly tusks.

  “Hellboars?” I whisper in horror.

  “Hellboars the size of goddamn bison,” Sydney mutters, her eyes narrowing on the glowing creature across from us. It kicks at the dirt, but unlike Sel, its hooves make tearing sounds, ripping up grass in great chunks.

  Two Pages per team. Three teams run at a time. One goal: make it to the other side with all bodies—living and fake—in one piece.

  In ten minutes or less.

  “But they’re not real.”

  “They’ll gouge us just as badly as if they were. Us”—she twists around to assess our three rescue victims—“and them.” I look at our weighted cargo and their stitched burlap skin with fresh anxiety. We’re assigned to the second group of three, so maybe we can watch for strategies. And mistakes.

  A whistle splits the air—and nothing happens.

  A breeze snakes through the trees. My heartbeat hammers against my ribs.

  The arena is still.

  Vaughn and Spencer leap from their base—and take off like rockets. Each boy carries a sword in one hand and a mannequin over a shoulder. Their hellboars squeal and thunder after them.

  Whitty and Blake run next. Blake leads, twirling his quarterstaff with deadly precision. The spinning distracts both boars—and Whitty makes for the other side, mannequin in tow.

  Down the field, Carson twirls a long-handled flail, keeping both boars at bay. Greer follows, the two lightest mannequins slung in a fireman’s carry.

  Sounds pierce the night: rotating weapons, whirring. Shouts. Squeals. Grunts. Each the sign of a potential victory or injury.

  Vaughn and Spencer are closest—and I’d love nothing more than to watch Vaughn lose—so I study their attempt more than the others’.

  The boars are still hot on their heels—until the boys zag sharply in opposite directions, nearly slipping in the wet grass. The constructs split up too, pivoting to follow—but their hooves slide in the dirt, kicking up mud and soil. They hit the ground hard and screaming.

  The boars get to their feet. As if on cue, the boys heave their “Onceborn victims” off their shoulders. The mannequins hit the ground with a heavy splat.

  At first, I think they’ve planned to fight the boars while their victims are out of harm’s way, but Spencer doesn’t draw his sword. Instead, he sprints back toward the base, his boar on his heels, and slides into the ditch to safety. Leaving Vaughn to face both boars alone.

  “Coward!” Sydney hisses with disgust.

  Spencer’s boar reaches the lantern boundary, then turns back. It can’t go any farther. It moves toward Vaughn, who has already used his sword to leave two gaping slashes in the sides of its companion. It’s only when Spencer’s boar has almost reached Vaughn that the boys’ true strategy is revealed:

  Spencer’s head pops out of the bushes. He emerges carrying the smallest mannequin in a fireman’s hold, then sprints straight across the arena.

  “Not a coward,” I whisper. “He’s their runner.”

  I have to admit, it’s smart: use Vaughn, the stronger fighter, to distract the two boars while Spencer, the faster of the two, completes the first third of the task.

  Back on the field, Vaughn’s slowing down. The boars have him pinned on both sides. He gets in quick slashes—one! two!—before darting back, barely escaping a snapping jaw.

  Spencer’s quick. He drops his mannequin in the far base without stopping, then runs back the way he’d come. He scoops up one of the heavier abandoned victims at the halfway mark, pivots to run it to the other side—

  Vaughn shouts for help. Spencer’s victim drops again. He runs to his partner’s aid, grabbing his blade on the way.

  Spencer leaps high, sword pulled back for a thrust. On the descent, he sinks his blade deep into one boar’s spine. He yanks it free and jumps back in one motion.

  The boar’s guttural scream echoes up the ridge, crosses the field, makes my teeth grind.

  Aether steams from its wound and turns to dust, like silver embers over a bonfire. The dying construct drops to its knees. Spencer charges again, this time spearing the beast between the eyes.

  As Spencer runs to his partner, the boar melts into a silver puddle, then explodes into a sea of sparkling ashes.

  Spencer and Vaughn make quick work of the remaining hellboar. In two minutes, it’s on all four knees, keening pitifully. In unison, the boys spear it through the skull.

  Cheers echo down the ridge as they gather the remaining two victims and run them to safety.

  A whistle echoes from above. The first team has finished.

  “Three minutes!” someone shouts. A warning to the others.

  Greer and Carson are almost done. One boar is down. Greer has deposited both mannequins. They draw two daggers as they r
un back onto the field. Carson’s flail twirls so fast all I can see are the spiked ends of the maces over the top of their final boar’s head.

  But Whitty and Blake are struggling. Somewhere between dropping off their first mannequin and their second, Whitty lost a dagger. They’re surrounded, standing back to back. Blake’s staff arcs up. Connects with the boar’s skull. Sends it to its knees. It’s a heavy blow, but not a killing one.

  A chilling scream rips through the night, and I search for the source, panic fluttering in my chest. I fear the worst for my friend, but it’s not Greer who’s in trouble.

  One of the boars has Carson pinned beneath it. He kicks and punches with all that he has, but his weapon is yards away.

  Greer runs, leaps, and hovers in the air. They land on the second boar’s back, spread their arms wide like a bird—and plunge a dagger into each lung. Carson scrambles backward just as the construct explodes and bright dust sprays his face. Some of it lands in his gasping mouth.

  When I turn back, Blake and Whitty are just finishing off their second boar.

  All three teams bring their final victim to safety. The first round is over.

  And we’re up next.

  23

  AINSLEY AND TUCKER are the first team that takes to the field holding only their weapons. They dart out before the rest of us, determination clear on their faces, and swords held high; they plan to take out both hellboars first, while unimpeded by mannequins.

  It’s a mistake.

  There’s a reason everyone else’s strategy included distraction: the boars are big, heavy, easily confused beasts. They’re unable to make quick pivots or turns.

  But at a straight charge, they’re nearly unstoppable.

  We watch helplessly as the Pages go down in under sixty seconds.

  At the last moment before impact, Ainsley shifts left. The weight of the sword takes her off-balance; she trips. She scramble to her feet—and the boar knocks her to the ground. She chokes out a bloodcurdling scream—am I going to watch her be devoured? Gouged to death?—and the boar explodes on top of her.