by Tracy Deonn
When Nick disappears in the crowd, I feel the full force of Isaac’s gaze on my face. If Sel’s attention feels like sparks or embers, Isaac’s is a sweltering late July heat. His fathomless eyes bore into mine.
Even still, I don’t break our eye contact. I didn’t come here to cower.
‘Who is this man?’
When I jump at my grandmother’s voice, Isaac’s thin lips pull back in a horrid smile, revealing the longest canines I’ve ever seen. No, not canines. Fangs. “You’re the Unanedig girl.”
Someone bad, Grandma.
“I am.”
‘I don’t like his eyes.’
Neither do I, but I need to concentrate while I’m here with everyone. Can you— She fades, so fast and quiet I worry she may have gone for good. I close the door behind her for now, seal it tight.
Isaac’s gaze trails me up and down, and after a moment of inspection, he makes a small, amused sound. “Fascinating.” From anyone else, that word might be a compliment; from him, it twists my stomach like spoiled meat.
“Master Isaac.”
Sel appears at my elbow, hands in his pockets as if he’s just finished a casual stroll. He’s in black on black, of course; black suit, black shirt, and black tie. If Nick is a secret agent, Sel is the assassin fighting for the other side.
I’ll never be so thankful for an assassin.
Isaac’s eyes slide to Sel. “One of my favorite pupils.”
A lead weight drops in my stomach; this Merlin taught Sel?
Sel bends his head in a slight bow, but not before I catch the muscles working in his jaw. “I didn’t think I’d see you here tonight. I assumed any available Masters would be at the Northern Chapter. I hear they experienced another attack just last evening.”
“I go where the Regents direct me,” Isaac responds neutrally. “As you will, when you graduate from this post and continue on in service to the Order.”
“If only we could predict the future,” Sel says smoothly. “In the meantime”—he turns to me, eyes sparkling with mischief—“I’d like to speak with our Onceborn visitor.” He extends his right arm to me just as the band’s tempo slows down. It’s a clear dismissal of Isaac and one I’m eager to encourage, so I take his elbow.
The fine lines around the older man’s eyes go tight even as he smiles. “Enjoy the evening.” Isaac inclines his head to us both and turns to walk toward the antechamber door.
I let Sel lead us through the crowd of slow dancers in the opposite direction until we reach the backmost part of the floor. I’d assumed he’d only intervened to help me escape Isaac’s attentions, but when I go to pull my hand away, his fingers tighten around mine, sending a sharp zip up my elbow. Before I can protest, he slips his free hand around my waist and tugs me into his arms.
His eyes gleam, like he knows exactly what his skin contact just did to me and thinks it’s highly amusing. I roll my eyes and let him lead us into a slow, swaying dance. “A bit of advice. Never look a Master Merlin directly in the eye. At his age, Master Isaac’s mesmer is far more powerful than mine, and works much faster.”
“I thought you were the most powerful Merlin in a generation?”
“I am the most powerful Merlin of my generation.” He watches me for a moment, and I try not to squirm under his scrutiny. “After the way you left things, I’m surprised you came tonight.” A pause. A frown down at our legs. “Almost as surprised as I am that you’re letting me lead right now.”
I scowl and fix my gaze on something over his shoulder. “I wasn’t going to.”
“Come to the gala or let me lead?”
“Both.”
He laughs. “What changed your mind about the gala?”
“Disney movies,” I mutter.
“Ah yes. The unsubtle propaganda of ball gowns and charming princes.” The slight scorn in his voice draws my eyes back to his. He swallows it away, a small, resigned smile crossing his face, but he can’t hide his feelings about Nick. He never could. “When I saw you enter, I thought you’d come to say goodbye.”
“I did.”
“If that’s your wish.”
I tilt my head and examine his face for humor but find none. “You should be happy. You’ve spent every waking second here trying to get me to leave.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment. “Not every second.”
It’s suddenly hard to breathe. I look away. “I have a question.”
Sel dips me without warning, sending my stomach into my throat. “I’m listening,” he purrs, then pulls me back up with ease. Once I’m upright, I glare at him, but he just smirks.
“Can you use aether to manipulate existing objects?”
His dark eyebrows rise into his hairline. “Have a sudden interest in aether theory, do you?”
“Indulge me.”
“Ask nicely.”
I roll my eyes. “Please.”
He spins me once before he responds, mouth quirked while he makes me wait.
“Theoretically, one could attach an aether construct to an existing material object, or cover the object like a cloak with raw, unformed mage flame, but this would only last temporarily. As with my constructs in the scavenger hunt, the caster would need to maintain the attachment with ongoing attention.”
“And how long can a caster keep their attention on an object?”
“Anything more than five, maybe six hours results in a splitting headache, even for a Master. Would not recommend. Why?”
Six hours isn’t the answer I was looking for. I didn’t have the Sight before my mother died, so for all I know, the aether attached to her bracelet had always been there, hidden from me until her death gave me the ability to See it.
Sel squeezes my fingers to bring my attention back to him. “Why…?”
“What would you say if I told you I have something of my mother’s that has aether attached to it, and that that aether had been on that object or in it for… several months at least? Maybe longer. Maybe years. And when I touched that object, it unlocked a memory.”
Sel blinks. “I would say that’s impossible. That any Merlin sustaining a single casting for that long would die from the effort. To ‘lock’ a memory so that it requires an aether key to open…? That’s precision mesmerwork I’ve never heard of.” The warm pinprick of his gaze dances over my cheeks, mouth, throat. “But then… I would say that everything about you seems to defy reason as a matter of course.”
I nod absentmindedly. The charm bracelet has been in my thoughts since I found it. Manipulating objects with aether feels like the Order’s practice, and the vision had felt sort of like a mesmered memory surfacing from somewhere deep inside me. But the bracelet had been activated by touch, which feels more like Rootcraft, and the experience of it—being inside the memory as my current self and as my past self—felt like a memory walk. Is my mother’s bracelet a Rootcraft item or an Order one? And who was the woman with her?
“I know that look,” Sel says with a sigh. “Tell me, will you always be the mystery girl?”
I smile. “Probably.”
“May I assist with this quest?” Something harsh and tight in his voice makes me look up. “Or will Nicholas feel left out again?”
“That’s not fair.”
He shrugs. “It’s a limited-time offer.” His next words are strained and only whispered. “I may not be here much longer myself.”
I stiffen. “Are you really getting replaced? Is that still on the table?”
“It hasn’t been taken off the table.”
“But you’re not…” I struggle for the right word.
“A raging, feral demon?” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “After what we learned about my mother, it would be foolish to not keep an eye on myself.”
I look away so that he doesn’t see how much his last words pain me and because I don’t think he’d appreciate pity. I wish he didn’t have to carry the knowledge of his mother’s actions and worry that he’s capable of them too. I wish he didn’t hav
e to be scared of himself or live knowing that others were scared of what he’d become. I realize now that his drive to hunt me down must have, on some level, been about a desperate need to prove to the chapter that he was trustworthy. Now that I know his family history and what that could mean about his sanity and when he might lose it…
I look back up at him then, and our gazes lock. I put all of my faith into my eyes, so that he can receive it, hold it, remember it when I’m gone. I communicate it with a squeeze of my right hand to his left, and the press of my palm against his shoulder. I’m not scared of you. His golden eyes widen, and I think he understands. At least, I hope so.
Sel clears his throat and turns us again. He admires my hair, taking in the size and shape of it; then his eyes follow the line of my temple to my borrowed earrings, down my neck and shoulders. “You look stunning this evening, Briana.”
The material of my dress is so thin I can feel the searing heat of his hand against my waist. I imagine his fingertips leaving red imprints on my skin, and the image makes the fine hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end. “Thank you,” I say hoarsely.
“It’s the truth,” he says with a shrug. “You do. Even though you’re distraught.”
“I’m not distraught.”
He leans down so close that his lips brush against my ear when he whispers, “Liar.”
When he stands back up with a small smile, I get a whiff of something sharp and pungent, and a bit like sandalwood and vetiver. I wrinkle my nose and say the first thing that comes to mind. “Your magic smells much better than your cologne.”
His face blanks for a moment. “My… magic?”
It hits me a second too late that the conversation has taken a turn toward the intimate and that it’s all my fault. I fight the urge to run from his curious gaze by finding a speck of dust on his tie to stare at instead.
“You can smell my castings?”
That bit of dust is captivating. “Yes…?” He laughs, easy and loud. When I look up, he’s shaking his head. “What?”
His grin is completely unguarded, and filled with something like awe. “You are remarkable.”
“Thank you?”
His eyes dart over my shoulder toward the stage before he spins me in his arms, my back to his front. “And I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
At the front, the band is closing out the slow dance, and just off the side of the stage stands a group of Legendborn, with Nick, Pete, and William in a line at the end. Nick’s eyes are glued to us, to Sel’s body draped around mine—and the anger on his face burns bright as a firework, even halfway across the room.
I pull away, but Sel’s fingers hold fast at my hip, keeping me close. He murmurs low, just for my ears, “Oh, the scene he’d make if he could.”
I twist to glare up at him. “Are you doing this just to make him jealous?”
His eyes flash. “No. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it.”
He lets me go, but there’s nowhere to move, so the most I can do is avoid eye contact while he chuckles beside me.
Finally the band brings the song to an end and the ting-ting-ting of a knife against glass breaks up the murmuring crowd.
Lord Davis steps forward to speak into a microphone on a stand. “If I could have your attention, please.” He’s in a dark black suit with a deep gold regalia sash that drapes over both shoulders and comes to a point in the center of his chest. A gold star pendant hangs down from the pointed end, and in its center, a white diamond winks in the chandelier light.
The ballroom quiets into a restless silence. On the edges of the room, I notice the waitstaff being ushered out of the side doors by people who look like bouncers. Gillian’s there, and Owen too. Lieges, escorting outsiders out of earshot. Once the band members leave too, the doors are locked.
“Thank you, everyone, for coming to the annual Selection Gala of the Southern Chapter!” The crowd applauds until Lord Davis waves them down. “Unfortunately, this year’s gala comes at a time of strain for our Order. As you all know, increased crossings have been seen up and down the East Coast at all chapters, including our own here in the South.”
Beside me, a woman reaches for her husband’s hand. Sel’s shoulders stiffen.
“The last uprising of demons was over two hundred years ago.” Davis raises his chin. “And while none of us were living in that time, we know from the records that this”—he thrusts his finger down toward the floor, his voice rising as he speaks—“is how Camlann begins. This is how it starts. And we know, as in centuries past, that our ancestors prepared us for such a time and equipped us with the birthright to beat the hordes back!”
Applause from the crowd rises to meet his fervor, and the Tristans pump their fists. Out of the side of my eye, I see Fitz, cracking his knuckles like a prized fighter about to go in the ring.
“And as in centuries past…” Davis pauses, tipping his head back to the sky and holding his hand over his chest in reverence. “Let us recommit ourselves to the mission and one another by joining in our sacred pledge.”
Around me, the voices speak the pledge in unison.
“When the shadows rise, so will the light, when blood is shed, blood will Call. By the King’s Table, for the Order’s might, by our eternal Oaths, the Line is Law.”
Sel’s eyes, swirling with emotion, fall to mine.
Davis fixes the room with a steady stare. “My fellow descendants, let us waste no time in our preparation for what we know comes next.” He gestures for Nick and the others to step forward alongside him.
Down on the floor below the stage, the five remaining Pages stand in a line, facing the stage and the three Scions. Sydney, Greer, Blake, Vaughn, and Whitty.
A week ago, I’d have been there too.
“Scion Sitterson, please step forward and announce your choice for Squire.”
When William steps to the microphone, I can’t help but grin at my friend. His tux is a deep green with near-black aubergine lapels, and tailored to perfection. “I, William Jeffrey Sitterson, Scion of Sir Gawain, twelfth-ranked, select Page Whitlock as my Squire.” He raises a long green ribbon with a single silver coin before him, and I know without seeing it that it bears the sigil of Gawain. A token for his Squire to wear. “With his agreement, we will be bonded. For this war and beyond.”
A cheer rises up at the Page table before Lord Davis calls the room to order. “Page Whitlock, do you accept?”
Even from behind, I can see Whitty tugging nervously at his tie. It takes him three attempts to get the words out. “I do. I accept Scion Sitterson’s offer.”
The older crowd—the Vassals and Legendborn parents and Lieges—applauds while wild cheers rise up from the Legendborn table, and from the Pages’ tables too. I join their crows and whoops, delighted for my friend, while Whitty walks forward and accepts William’s colors and sigil. He gives an awkward wave to the room and sits down as fast as possible.
Lord Davis calls the room to order, then beckons Pete forward. Pete looks scared out of his mind, but duty sends him to the mic. “I, Peter Herbert Hood, Scion of Sir Owain, seventh-ranked, select Page Taylor as my Squire. With their agreement, we will be bonded. For this war and beyond.”
A hushed murmur travels through the room. Lord Davis leans down beside Pete. “Page Taylor? Do you accept?”
Behind Greer, the crowd shifts. I track the wary eyes, the hesitation, and the curiosity of some of the parents and Lieges in the room. And some outright sneers. People who don’t want to be inconvenienced. Don’t want to adapt. People who don’t want to get better or learn more, just like Greer said.
I smile for my friend. Time to break their rhythm.
Greer’s shoulders draw back, and when they speak, their voice is strong and clear. “I do. I accept Scion Hood’s offer.”
More applause this time, but it’s so raucous I’m not sure if it’s for Pete and Greer, or for the announcement that’s coming next.
“The moment we’ve been waiting for has
arrived.” Lord Davis uses both hands to quiet the room. “My son, Nicholas Davis, Scion of Arthur, will announce his Squire.”
Nick steps forward beside his father, flinching almost imperceptibly when Davis claps him on the back. I knew this moment was coming, but I wasn’t prepared for Nick’s face, so solemn and so serious as he surveys the room. When he approaches, the room falls silent, as if the whole of the Order even outside these walls is holding their breath, waiting for their future king to announce his first decision on the path toward the throne.
Beside me, Sel tilts his head in my direction, as if his ears are antennae. His eyes flick down to my chest and back up; the corner of his mouth twitches. Oh. My heart is a beating drum in my chest—so loud he can hear it.
Nick takes the mic, and the room takes a breath. He looks down at the three remaining Pages, eyeing them one by one. I wait for him to pick Sydney. Try to be happy for him to pick Sydney. She is a better choice than Vaughn or Blake. She will serve him well.
He holds the gold ribbon of Arthur up and the coin glints in the light.
“I, Nicholas Martin Davis, Scion of King Arthur Pendragon, first-ranked…”
Oh God. I turn away. I can’t look. I don’t want to hear.
“… select Page Matthews as my Squire. With her agreement, we will be bonded. For this war and beyond.”
46
THE ROOM ERUPTS.
Sel hisses, a sharp intake of breath beside me.
I feel hundreds of eyes search the ballroom for the Onceborn girl who would be Squire to the king, but I can’t move. Can’t think.
Davis tries to calm the crowd. I hear him say something about “respecting the king’s decision.”
The mic squeals. “Page Matthews?” Nick calls, and everyone in the room turns back to him. “Do you accept?” When Nick’s eyes find me again, his new subjects follow his gaze. Everyone turns toward me. “Do you accept my offer?” Nick repeats, and I can hear the uncertainty in his voice mixed with the hope.
Suddenly, all I can think is that tonight was supposed to be an apology and a goodbye, but if I become Nick’s Squire and Arthur Calls him, I’ll never be able to leave.