Legendborn

by Tracy Deonn

The second boar is a foot from goring Tucker through the middle—then it explodes mid-chase.

  The arena freezes. The only sound is Ainsley crying on the ground as shiny particles rain down on her body.

  “Page Edwards needs medical assistance,” Sel says coolly. “She and Page Johnson are disqualified.” Then, he turns to the rest of us and shouts: “The clock is still ticking!”

  Sydney and I explode out of our ditch, and so do the other Pages, Celeste and Mina. How much time do we have? Eight minutes, maybe? Eight and a half?

  I have to focus.

  I have the heaviest mannequin over my shoulders, tucked against my weapon. My only thought is my agreed-upon goal—delivery. Behind me, one of Sydney’s daggers whistles through the air. A deep thunk. The boar chasing me hits the ground. The earth shakes.

  I don’t look back; she planned to kill it in one strike, and I have no doubt she did.

  The mannequin is heavy, but once I get momentum, I almost forget about it. And suddenly, I’m on the other side, heaving it up and over my head like a sack of potatoes.

  I run wide back to our base, hoping to stay out of the other boar’s sight. I know Sydney is saving her other dagger. We can’t afford to make her use it on me.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see her dancing and weaving away from the monster. No, can’t look. One goal: delivery.

  I skid into our base and hoist the next-smallest mannequin, just like we’d planned.

  Move the heaviest first, while I’m fresh. Save the lightest for last, when I’m spent.

  I’m halfway across the field when I trip over Sydney’s first dagger, abandoned in the grass. The mannequin and I go flying. It lands three feet in front of me—with a loud thud that draws our boar’s attention.

  Sydney’s quick. She yells. Waves. Jumps to distract it, but—of course—our remaining boar has a scrap of focus.

  Its beady eyes find me, and it charges.

  I flash through my options: too far from the other side of the arena, can’t stand my ground, can’t use the mannequin in defense, can’t carry it and outrun the boar.

  I grab Sydney’s knife and shoot to my feet, shouting at her, “Get it to safety!” I hope she knows what I mean.

  I sprint back to our base, but arc wide so that the boar after me will curve too—and avoid trampling the lifeless mannequin on the ground.

  Behind me, thundering hooves pound the earth. My thighs and lungs are on fire. Still, I push harder. I can hear its breathing—heavy grunts through a wet snout.

  I veer left again to buy myself time, but the change in direction is too sharp, too fast. Something pulls painfully in my left knee. I keep running and fling myself into the ditch. My shoulder clips a pine tree, bark digs into my arm, but the frustrated squeal behind me lets me know I’ve made it. I’m safe.

  When I twist back on my knees and look up, the boar is pawing at the ground and snorting in my direction. I hold my breath and watch as its heavy head begins swinging back and forth. Searching.

  I’m less than six feet away, why is it—

  It can’t see me. Its eyes are weak.

  A twig snaps beneath my right foot, and its ears flick forward, its snout lifting in a slow, searching pattern.

  But it can hear me. It has a good sense of smell. Great.

  Did Sydney do what I asked? Did she grab the mannequin and get it to the other side? I don’t bother looking behind me; I know the smallest mannequin is there, still waiting to be rescued. How much time is left?

  I hear shouting and pounding feet to my left. Celeste and Mina are still in the arena, still working.

  My boar is pacing now, stubbornly waiting for me to come out so it can gore me. I’ve got to do something.

  Okay. Think.

  I have Sydney’s dagger, but I don’t have her throwing skills or aim. I have my cudgel still strapped to my back, but at this angle I don’t have enough power for more than a hard poke to the chin. I look around, to my side—then up.

  I shove Sydney’s dagger handle into my mouth and start climbing the oak tree beside me before I decide whether it’s a good idea or not. All I know is that I know trees. I’ve climbed them since I was a kid. Trees are good.

  I step up onto the large burl overgrowths on either side of the oak, gripping their bulbous shapes as well as I can with sneakers, and wrap my hands around to find the next burl—hoist myself up. The boar’s head lifts to follow me, but I’m gambling that it can’t see me very well and just knows that I’m moving. The limbs are too far up to do me any good, but I stop about ten feet up with one arm in a death grip around the trunk, precariously balanced on a burl just wider than my shoe.

  The boar has backed up now, just a few feet from the tree line. It’s hard work getting the cudgel and its leather strap off with one hand, but I manage it quickly and hold the still-buckled weapon away from me and the tree, waving it a bit to get the boar’s attention. It stops moving. Its beady eyes follow the motion eagerly.

  This is a bad idea.

  One. Two. Three!

  I toss the cudgel off to my right and grab the dagger with my free hand while the creature does just what I hoped: it shifts its bulk toward the falling cudgel, away from me, its head dips down to inspect the staff—and I shove off from the tree, launching myself forward onto its back, dagger pointing down.

  Gravity drives the sharp blade into the creature’s shining neck, not me, but the blow works just the same.

  The animal squeals and bucks, tossing me in the air like a rag doll. I hit the ground with a jarring thud and curl into a ball, ready for the heavy stomp of hooves—but it never comes.

  My head pops up just in time to see the boar—my knife still lodged deep inside—crumble to the ground.

  “Run!” Sydney screams. She’s going for the mannequin. I scramble to my feet and sprint to the other side of the arena; we both have to get there in time.

  Sydney slides down the ditch right behind me, mannequin over her shoulder, just as the whistle goes off.

  * * *

  We’re the only team from our round to pass. Sometime during my flying squirrel impersonation, Celeste and Mina let two of their mannequins get gored.

  When we emerge from our side of the arena, the Legendborn cheer from their observation spots in the woods. I feel dazed but exhilarated. Sydney doesn’t smile at me, exactly, but she nods in my direction before she walks off to join Vaughn and Blake and the other four Pages who have passed. They stand together, congratulating one another.

  The four who didn’t are in varying levels of shock and devastation. Mina’s wiping tears from her face while Ainsley rubs her back in slow circles. Celeste and Tucker are in a heated argument; from the snippets I hear, they both blame their partners for their eliminations.

  I stand between them, unsure where I fit in.

  When I glance his way, Sel is looking up the hill where the Legendborn have begun stomping their way through the trees to meet us. His brows are knitted together in concentration, his head cocked to the side as if listening for something.

  “Nick! Nick!”

  When Victoria shouts, Sel is already moving toward the sound. He flashes by me so quickly that I hear the wind crack around his body before he disappears into the tree line in a shadowy blur.

  We’re all running to follow.

  The trees stand so thick up the slanted hill, it’s hard to see what’s happening, but we can hear it. Something is tumbling through the trees like an enormous bowling ball, cracking trunks in half like giant pins. That something is coming closer, the sounds are getting louder, and then it bursts through a pair of pine trees, sending bark and splinters in every direction, and spills out onto the arena floor, stopping us all short.

  It’s a massive, full-corp serpent, its scaled body as big and round as a tractor tire. It pulls half of its body up off the ground until it towers twenty feet above us, bloodred eyes the size of my fist blazing down on us. The glowing creature opens its jaws to release a shrill, nightmarish
hiss that scrapes against my eardrums.

  A hellsnake, my mind supplies. With a body wrapped tight in its glowing tail.

  “Nick!” I scream for him, but it’s no use. It only takes a second to see that he’s enveloped head to toe in a coil of muscle, only the pale hair at the top of his head visible in the hellsnake’s grip.

  The Awakened Legendborn gather aether as they run, forming glowing swords and daggers. I catch a glimpse of Felicity and Russ, casting armor on themselves as they dash forward, but the quick-shadow shape of Selwyn Kane speeds out of the trees and leaps onto the snake before anyone else has reached it.

  While the serpent writhes, Sel scrabbles up its body, using its scales as handholds. He mounts its head as the creature thrashes back and forth, its forked tongue flicking out like a glowing whip. Sel had no time to form a weapon, but his entire body is wrapped in thin, swirling clouds of silver-blue aether. He pulls back with a roar and thrusts both of his arms into the snake’s eyes, burying them into the sockets up to his elbow.

  The creature screams loud enough to shatter glass. Its big body spasms so hard anyone else would have been thrown, but Sel holds tight and only pushes his arms in farther. Viscous fluid erupts in his face. After a final shudder, the hellsnake goes stiff and falls forward, releasing a gasping Nick right as its head hits the ground.

  24

  I STAND IN front of Nick’s door for what feels like forever, but is probably only a few uncertain minutes.

  I don’t know why I’m hesitating. He could just be sleeping. He should just be sleeping. And if that’s the case, I’ll just go home and sleep too. See him in the morning.

  No, I know why I’m hesitating. It’s because it’s late, the Lodge is quiet, and he might not be sleeping—and being alone with him has started to feel… intense.

  I gaze hopefully down the hall as if someone might appear and rescue me from the Schrödinger’s Cat of Conscious Boys scenario I find myself in, but it’s empty and unhelpful. The only signs of life on the floor are the scattered few glowing lamps on some of the teak console tables between residents’ doors.

  On the other side of this door, Nick is recovering from yet another attack that could have killed him. That’s what I should focus on. That’s what I need to focus on.

  I take a slow, deep breath and open his door, slipping inside and easing it closed behind me.

  Nick is asleep on top of the comforter in loose clothing; flannel pants, a soft T-shirt. His arms lie straight down at his sides. The fine strands of his hair are partly matted on one side, partly strewn across the pillow like he’s just been blasted by a gust of wind. He’s flushed, too; each of his cheeks bears a slash of red.

  I walk closer, my arms clutched tight across my middle.

  He’s recovered from the broken ribs that William treated. His steady breaths say he’s out of danger and his lungs are fine, but the slight pull at the corners of his eyes says he could still be in pain. Did William give him something to make him sleep? I hope so.

  I start to turn, to let him rest, but jump when Nick whispers behind me.

  “Who’s creepy now?”

  I turn back to the bed, where Nick has started to push himself up his pillow. He winces but waves me off when I move to help him. “I’m okay, just stiff.”

  I look him over with a suspicious eye. “If I stay and talk to you, will William yell at me?”

  Nick laughs, but the sound is cut short when his breath catches in pain. “William will yell at us both, probably.” He rubs a hand over his chest and swallows thickly. Watching the motion sends my mind flying back to the arena.

  I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “I heard Sel say to the others that he thinks this attack was planned too. Not a coincidence. That the Shadowborn sent a creature that would be able to subdue you quickly and take you away.”

  His eyes go distant as he nods. “My father said the same in the infirmary. The Regents have called a meeting. My dad is going to take another day to recover, then fly up to the Northern Chapter to speak with them and the other Viceroys.” I watch him pick at the gold anchors embroidered on the comforter, almost like he needs to do something to keep his hands busy.

  “Sel’s in charge while he’s gone, William said.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  After Nick had been recovered alive, but injured, Sel took him straight to the Lodge. The long walk back through the woods had given me a lot of time to think about my “mission” here, and the danger it was putting both me and Nick in. With every step, guilt dropped into my body, one heavy brick at a time.

  Sel may be terrifying and cruel, but he’s the only reason the Shadowborn’s plan to kidnap Nick failed tonight. Sel’s role as Kingsmage is more critical than ever right now, and his suspicions of me are taking his attention from his job. It’s worse, too, because those suspicions are unfounded. He’s wasting energy on me when, after tonight, there’s no doubt that Nick’s life is in danger. The Order is an army, and the Legendborn are its soldiers. Could I really keep going in the tournament and become William’s or Pete’s or even Nick’s Squire if my only intention is to gain the title so that I can find out what happened to my mother?

  This afternoon with Patricia, finding the truth had felt like the most important thing in the world. Important enough to lie to my father, lie to Alice, and lie to everyone at the Lodge every time I showed my face. My mission still feels important and necessary, because how can I rest knowing that someone may have taken my mother away from me? That it might not have been an accident at all.

  But whether or not Camlann arrives, and whether or not someone in the Order killed my mother, Nick needs a real Squire, not a fraud.

  For the first time, I wonder if maybe Sel’s right and I am born of shadows. Or maybe those shadows aren’t who I am, but I keep finding my way to them anyway.

  Nick huffs. “Earth to Bree? You’re just standing there, zoning out. It’s making me anxious.” He pats his bed, and his eyes hold a hint of their old mirth. “You can sit down, you know. I won’t bite.”

  I stare at him then, really stare at him. Someone I care about is alive but hurt. Someone I like very much is right here in front of me, asking me to sit with him. It dawns on me that if I ignore that or forget how important that is, then I truly will make the shadows my home.

  I take a deep breath and step forward, pulling off my shoes and climbing onto his bed, and just like that, the nearness of Nick pulls all of my focus: his warmth; the bright scent of William’s aether mingling with the detergent smell of fresh clothes; his half-lidded eyes that follow me as I move toward him and watch me as I get settled. It’s too much all of a sudden, and my entire body knows it. I lean back a tiny fraction.

  Of course Nick notices. He presses his lips closed to fight a grin, and the expression somehow makes his already handsome face more endearing, more inviting. “You nervous, B?”

  “No,” I say, and raise my chin a fraction to feel—and appear—convincing. I’m not sure it works, because he makes a soft, curious sound.

  “Do I make you nervous?” He tilts his head to the side in query, but it causes his matted hair to flare up comically. I cringe and laugh.

  “You look like a rooster.” It takes everything in me not to stretch up and press it down.

  “A rooster?” He tilts his head the other way, sending his hair flopping again. I blow out a laugh, just like he wants me to, and he smiles.

  I can’t help it. I lean forward on my knees and smooth his hair down. Once the soft strands lay flat, I notice how carefully Nick watches me, how still he’s gone. His eyes are slate blue with dashes of gray, his lashes fine strokes of paint against his skin.

  I wonder if he’s holding his breath too.

  I start to pull back, but he catches my wrist with one hand and passes his thumb, calloused and warm, over the inside of my palm. The motion tingles and tickles, until his thumb presses down and sends an arrow of heat from my hand to my toes.

  My heart beats
so rapidly I’m sure he must see it, feel it through my palm.

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?” I ask. This close, Nick’s laundry-and-cedar scent is rich enough to make me dizzy. There are other smells that I pull in with a silent breath: green grass on a warm summer day, the slight bite of metal.

  His eyes travel an unhurried route over my face, from my brows to my nose. They flicker to my mouth and back up to my eyes and, just like that, my breath is gone again.

  “For still being here,” he says, his expression a mixture of wonder and gratitude. “Even after the hellhound, and the uchel, and Felicity being Called, and now a sarff uffern. I never thought we’d be this close to Camlann, but I’m glad you’re here with me.” His eyes lower; he shakes his head. “When we first met, some part of me trusted you. I don’t know why. I just did.”

  Despite my guilt, I think of how, in so many moments since I’ve met him, my own trust had risen inside to meet his, sure and steady.

  Call and response.

  Maybe Nick’s thinking of that too, because he caresses my palm once more and takes a ragged breath.

  “How about now?” he whispers, his voice rough.

  “Now?” I breathe.

  Something heady and dark pools in Nick’s eyes. “Does this make you nervous?”

  The last boy I kissed was Michael Gustin in ninth grade in the corner of the school dance. I remember being terrified and, after the too-wet, too-sloppy ick of it, disappointed. But that was ninth grade and Michael. This is now. And this is Nick.

  I don’t feel nervous. I feel desire batting against my ribs like a caged bird. I feel hesitation. I feel overwhelmed. Then, I feel mortification when I realize that Nick, with his sharp, perceptive eyes, has seen it all.

  He smiles, small and secret, and brings his free hand up to cradle my jaw, sweeping his thumb over it. His eyes follow the movement thoughtfully before they rise to claim my gaze again. He squeezes my wrist, then lets me go.

  I lurch backward on my knees, my cheeks heated, the ghosts of his hands on my skin.

  I’m grateful that he’s busy adjusting his pillows and not looking at me.