by Tracy Deonn
* * *
The arena for the combat trial is not far from the silver Chapel in the woods. There’s a single drawn circle in the densely padded dirt about the size of the middle ring inside the training room. Chairs and stools surround the circle where our audience will sit. Owen and Gill are posted at opposite sides of the arena with a clear view of the center. I don’t know where Sel is, but I feel his gaze from above. A tree, maybe. It’s not quite dark yet.
The six competing Pages wear fitted pants for maximum mobility, and tunics in the color of our sponsor’s Line, adorned with their sigil in the center.
I am the only Page who wears the gold of the Line of Arthur.
Sel said I had too many reasons to be here. Fractured goals.
Tonight I have only one focus, and I fight for only one family: my own.
The matches are set up so that each Page goes in the ring three times, for a total of nine matches. When the first pair goes up, Nick makes eye contact with me and winks. He’s never seen me in the arena, and his easy confidence in my abilities triples my nerves.
Sydney easily beats Greer with the quarterstaff but loses to Blake when it comes to the longsword.
Whitty knocks Blake out of the ring with rapid stabs and swipes of his dagger. Then, to everyone’s surprise, manages to beat Vaughn into submission with the staff. Vaughn smacks Whitty’s staff away and leaves the ring, face as red as his tunic. It’s been obvious since warm-ups that he’d planned to get through the night three for three, winning each match with each weapon. He launches his staff against the trees, splitting it down the middle. Fitz walks over to his Page to pat his back encouragingly and murmur in the other boy’s ear. Even though Fitz doesn’t need a Squire—he’s got Evan—it seems he’s still invested in his Page’s success.
The other Pages, Squires, and Scions cheer or groan, and chat between rounds. Only Nick sits hunched over, silently watching the bouts with a neutral expression.
Each time Pages enter the ring with the hard, black practice swords, all eyes go to him. Everyone wants to know what the Scion of Arthur is thinking.
My first match is against Sydney, with the dagger.
Greer claps me on the back and nods when I go up. “You got this.”
Sydney, in an orange tunic, smiles back and struts to the ring. I’d never seen the Line of Bors’s sigil up close—three bands across a circle. She doesn’t seem to be at all concerned about the outcome of our fight. I shake my shoulders to loosen them up, and force the fingers of my right hand to stretch wide before grasping the handle of the rubber dagger. Sydney and I take our stances: balanced over bent knees, body and vital organs behind the knife, blade up and forward in a hammer grip.
Gillian signals the start.
We dance—Sydney attacking, me dodging—long enough for sweat to build on our brows. I manage to avoid every attack, but I only get in one of my own: a swipe that she blocks, with effort. She lunges underneath our elbows, and I leap back—only to hear a whistle.
“Out of bounds, Matthews. Round to Page Hall.” Gillian claps. Match over.
Damnit!
I’m angry about losing to a simple misstep, but the fury in Sydney’s eyes almost makes up for it. She’d never expected me to last even that long in a match and, from the looks on a few of the others’ faces—including Gillian’s—neither had anyone else.
When I take the bench, Nick and I lock eyes. He wiggles his shoulders as if to say, Shake it off.
I get one round to rest before my next match. Had Vaughn’s dagger been real, Greer would have been fully disemboweled.
When Gillian calls his name, Blake stands. He flexes his broad shoulders, pulling against his tunic, the dark yellow of Owain. Then she calls mine.
Right away Blake presses his advantages—strength and height—with a powerful overhead strike. I block, but it’s clear that if we stay on his terms, the win will be about sheer force more than speed or fancy footwork.
I’m faster than he is. I know I am.
I have to keep moving.
His arm and weapon rain down again and again, each crack echoing in my ears like a thunderclap. Every block sends a teeth-jarring reverberation into my elbows. Three minutes in, my thighs burn. Countering him takes every muscle in my body just to remain upright.
“Everyone leaves an opening. Find it, then throw everything into it.”
Blake pauses to pace around the ring. “Give up, Matthews.” I’ve been up close and personal to Sel’s snarl; Blake’s watered-down version would make me laugh if my lungs weren’t on fire. Our breaths come in hard, labored pants. “You can’t block forever.”
He lunges.
I snap my staff up longways to block his two-handed midbody strike, but it takes everything I have to keep the weapon in my shaking hands. My fingers spasm around the wood, barely keeping it in a grip.
He retreats.
His brown hair is black under a river of sweat. He’s running out of steam too, and catching his breath.
Blake swings high to my left, and it’s like he’s moving in slow motion. My eyes track each shift of his muscles, every movement from his shoulder to his arm.
I have plenty of time to duck, so I do. I keep my eyes on Blake’s broad chest—there!
I launch myself forward, ramming the end of my staff into his solar plexus. For a moment, he seems to hang in the air. His staff flies out of his hand and over my right shoulder.
Time accelerates.
Blake’s back hits the mat.
Gillian’s whistle splits the air.
“Weapon out of bounds. Match to Matthews.” She sounds just as surprised as I am.
Applause reaches me, but I barely register it. Blake rolls over with a groan and pushes to all fours before standing. His face is a blistering red grimace. I stand stunned in the middle of the ring until Gillian steps in front of me and waves a hand. A small smile plays over the older woman’s face. “Earth to Matthews.”
“Matty,” I correct. “Earth to Matty.” Alice would be proud.
I head to the benches, but not before I see Sel. Up in the trees, he tips his head in a silent salute that fills me with an embarrassing amount of pride. Great, overflowing buckets of the stuff.
Whitty offers a fist bump before he and Greer go to the ring together. Thanks to their fencing experience, Greer handily defeats Whitty with the sword. I’m gently massaging my sore shoulders when I hear my name again.
I should have known that my last match would be with Vaughn.
Vaughn leaps off the bench without hesitation. He throws a towel from his shoulders and struts to the rack, pulling his black, heavy polypropylene practice sword.
A few of the Scions murmur to one another. Apparently news of our rivalry has spread.
Greer and Whitty say something encouraging to me, but I don’t hear it over the sound of the blood pounding in my ears. Nick sits up as I pass the viewing area to pick my own sword. I look away from his worried expression before it becomes all I can think about.
Vaughn prowls back and forth in the center of the ring, waiting for me.
When I step onto the mat, Gillian calls for a clean match. She looks at me. “Match is over when one opponent yields or steps—or loses a weapon—outside the ring.” She looks at Vaughn. “No headshots.”
A short, high whistle signals the start.
Vaughn sways in a wide opening stance, tossing his blade from hand to hand. Every time he catches the hilt under the crossguard, the hard muscles on his shoulders and biceps roll and flex. His mouth parts in a taunting grin. “No shame in yielding now, Matthews.”
“Don’t listen to him, Bree!” Greer cheers.
I don’t want to listen to him, but I can’t help but hear his low, mocking laugh. Can’t help but notice his eyes meandering up my body, starting at my legs and lingering over my hips and chest. “Fine, stay.” He mutters, so that only I can hear him, “I don’t mind the view.”
Anger floods me, but I won’t give him the satisfact
ion of an emotional, undisciplined attack. He shrugs as if to say, Have it your way—and lunges.
He strikes so quickly, the black blade whistles when it swings. I parry, catching the broad side of his sword against the hardest part of my own—the forte—and leap back.
Vaughn spins his sword once with a smile, as if to remind me what his weapon can do. The Order’s practice swords aren’t steel, but they’re plenty heavy and wide. Strong enough to break a bone with a well-aimed hit.
He surges forward. Brings his blade down in an overhead strike. I raise my sword to block it, but he stalls—then leans back and kicks me hard in the stomach.
I stumble, my midsection a dizzying cocktail of nausea and pain.
Vaughn sweeps in—I just barely turn my sword to meet the low hack at my legs.
Then he charges again, swinging, and it’s a basic drill, just a twist of my wrist to deflect.
Too easy.
I cough, and blood—iron rich and salty—fills my mouth. Feral humor glitters in Vaughn’s eyes. Understanding dawns.
That kick was well aimed. Strategic.
Every movement, every twist and stretch and pivot, is ten times harder with internal bleeding.
He’s toying with me.
Everything—Vaughn’s face, the trees, the ring—blurs under the veil of white-hot fury.
I shift my grip, preparing for a two-handed blow to his ribs, when Sel’s last lesson echoes in my ears.
“Typical anger can hinder or help. But the kind that burns in your gut? That’s fury. And fury is meant to be used.”
I strafe, twisting left, then pivot. The flat of my blade smacks his fingers hard, breaking his grip. Both swords drop to the ground.
Vaughn looks up, shock crossing his features, and lunges for me, but I’m already in the air.
His momentum carries him forward—right into my flying knee.
His head snaps back.
His spine hits the mat, and blood streams across his nose and mouth.
For a second, the woods are completely silent.
Then Russ jumps to his feet and whoops, triggering a wave of shouts and applause.
Vaughn rocks slightly, his hands covering his face. But he doesn’t get up.
“Match to Matthews!” Gillian calls, an astonished smile lighting her face.
At some point, Nick had gotten up from his chair and approached the outer ring. He stands there, feet just touching the red paint, wearing the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. I take a stumbling step forward. Triumph fizzes in my chest; I could burst with it.
Nick’s gaze locks into mine, his eyes widening and smile falling. He roars my name.
Vaughn’s blade swings down in my peripheral vision.
I hear the deep crack in my collarbone before I feel it.
When the pain comes, darkness follows. There’s shouting, then silence.
36
I WAKE UP once before William’s done healing me. I must have done something I shouldn’t—tried to sit up, tried to talk—because firm hands hold me down.
I slide back into a murky, aether-induced sleep.
* * *
When I open my eyes again, I’m in an empty, windowless room lit only by a small lamp. The digital clock on the wall reads 10:17 p.m.
My left fingers fly to my right collarbone, where there’s a steady, pulsing ache. Stiff paper crinkles when I touch it. I pull it away, expecting a bandage but instead find two yellow sticky notes.
Clean, oblique fracture to the r. clavicle. Hit you hard with swyns.
Will heal in a few days.
Wear the sling.
Min. healing time w/o aether? = 8 wks, + physical therapy.
You’re welcome.
William
P.S. Mod. intra-abdominal bleeding.
Healed, but STAY PUT.
P.P.S. Nick wanted to stay.
I told him to go on to the airport
since you’d just be sleeping.
GO BACK TO SLEEP!
“Sorry, William,” I whisper. “Got a boy to see.”
It’s only after I’m in the elevator that I realize I’m going to have to walk down the very public upstairs hallway of the second floor of the Lodge in order to get to Nick’s room. This realization takes me so off guard that I accidentally get off on the first floor and run right into Sarah.
“Bree!” A wide grin spans her face and she bounces on her heels under her skirt. “What are you still doing here? Do you need a ride home? I could drive you back to your dorm, no problem, easy peasy!”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you talking faster than normal?”
She flushes pink and bites her lip. “I think so?”
Realization hits me then. Everything about Sarah is brighter, and I swear I can actually see her vibrating. “You’re bonded to Tor now. You have Tristan’s speed.”
She tilts her head back and forth. “Technically, I have Tor’s speed. She has Tristan’s speed. But yes! Wait.” She frowns, and the cogs in her mind turn faster than ever. Her eyes grow wide. “You’re waiting for Nick, aren’t you?”
Voices reach us from the dining room and the living room. “What if I am?”
“Oh, I think you two are a cute couple. Do you want something to drink while you wait?” She’s already walking down the hall under the staircase toward the kitchen, so I follow.
The Lodge’s bright chef’s kitchen is empty when we walk in. I’ve never actually been in here before, since most of the meals are catered in, and very few of the Legendborn seem to cook for themselves. It’s a large, square room with white cabinets, two stainless steel fridges, a gas stove on a center island, and gleaming gray-and-white quartz countertops. Sarah pulls out two glasses and fills them with water while she talks.
“People are such gossips around here, but honestly, it’s not a big deal that you’re hooking up with Nick. There are some Pages who might be jealous. Ainsley, for one. Sydney. Spencer too.”
I settle into a bar stool, cradling my shoulder in its sling. “Wonderful.”
“Nick lost it on Vaughn, by the way. Kicked him out of the tournament. Said there’s no place for vengeance at the Table.” She shakes her head. “Vaughn thought that being the best combatant made him the best Squire for Nick, but it doesn’t work like that. It’s not just the fighting. It’s the match.”
The way she says that last word, the emphasis she puts on it, reminds me that she’s got more than Tor’s speed now. She has access to her emotions. She’ll always know when she’s in danger. They’re in sync now and forever.
And her life span has just been capped. I can’t think of a polite way to ask how she feels about the Abatement, so I ask another question instead.
“What does it feel like? To be bonded?”
She considers my question. “Tor and I were already bonded in a way. We’re in love, so I thought this would feel like more of the same, but it’s not. It’s deeper. More intimate. I don’t know how it feels to other people. Maybe it depends on how long they’ve been bonded or how well they already knew each other.”
“How long have you and Tor been together?”
“Couple of years. Before that she was with Sel, and I was still in high school.”
I hadn’t forgotten William’s revelation, but now that it’s out in the open… “About that… I’m having a little trouble imagining it.”
Sarah laughs. “Yeah, that was Tor’s rebellious phase. I think she did it just to piss her parents off.”
“Dating Sel pissed her parents off?”
“Dating a Merlin would piss any Legendborn parent off.” She rolls her eyes and tips her glass back.
That surprises me. Sure, Sel is a jerk, but does that mean all Merlins are? “Why?”
Her nose wrinkles. “It’s just not done.”
“But—”
Boom! A thunderous sound reaches us from the woods behind the Lodge. I’m on my feet in a second.
“Speaking of…” She doesn’t even budge from her chai
r, just rolls her eyes and finishes her glass of water. “You want a refill?”
“What was that?” I gape at her nonchalance, then jolt again when a large crack echoes in the forest, followed by the sound of a flock of nearby birds fleeing into the night sky.
“That”—Sarah raises an unimpressed brow—“is Selwyn, aether-drunk from our Oath,” she says as if that explains everything. “Except he’s been pissed off all week, so it’s worse than normal.” She takes my glass and brings both over to the dishwasher. “I wouldn’t go in the woods tonight, if I were you. He’ll be out there for a while throwing a tantrum. When he cools off, he’ll come back in, slam a bunch of doors, and hole himself up in his tower for the rest of the night. It’s a whole thing.”
Sarah walks me back to the elevator, spilling gossip at a rapid-fire pace. I can barely keep up with her new speed, and right now I’m only half listening. I wait until she takes the elevator to her and Tor’s room on the third floor, then move as quietly as I can to the stairwell and out the back exit.
* * *
The sounds of destruction grow louder as soon as I step into the woods.
Using my phone as a flashlight, I take the path Nick guided me down the first night—I know it must be the same because it’s the only one I see. This close to Selwyn’s epicenter, each crash and boom and crack sends reverberations through the ground beneath my feet. Whatever he’s doing, it’s violent. I must be the only living thing in a mile radius that hasn’t taken shelter from his rage.
I don’t quite know why I’m walking into the storm instead of waiting it out like Sarah suggested. I could be upstairs in Nick’s shower, using the much-stronger water pressure in the Lodge to release the tension from my back and arm muscles. Then, rooting around in his drawers for pajamas that smell like him.
But I’m not.
Maybe I’m seeking Sel out tonight because last night he stayed behind to help me. Nick told him to stay away. Sarah told me to stay away. And yet there he was, and here I am. We keep crossing paths in all the wrong ways.