by Tracy Deonn
Greer shakes their head. “If Nick isn’t the Scion of Arthur, then why did they take him?” They’ve been mostly silent on the couch all morning, eyes red-rimmed with tears for Whitty and Russ. Their grief is the voice-stealing kind. The kind that lives in your throat like slivers of glass.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Sel sneers. “To keep the Table from gathering! If they hold him hostage while Camlann has come, the Regents will do everything in their power to get the Awakened Scion of Lancelot back. Give Davis whatever he wants. If they don’t, the Table will never be at its full strength and it will fall to the Shadowborn. And to the Line of Morgaine—who are now in league with demons, if what the goruchel said is true.”
“That’s exactly why we need to understand the Scion we do have!” William says, sitting down on the couch. “Bree is something new. Something powerful. We need to understand the situation she’s in, and by extension, the situation we’re in.” He turns to me. “Now, Bree, my theory is that Arthur will inhabit you in ways we’ve never seen. Not just his abilities, but his spirit, his emotions, memories, possibly.”
William’s grief has sent him diving into work. He’s eager to dig into all that Arthur’s possession entails, but I have no desire to revisit it. Not when I can still feel him in the back of mind. I hold William’s gaze for a long moment, then look away.
Tor excuses herself just as Sarah walks in with a carafe of coffee and a tray of mugs.
While we’ve been talking, Greer has been spreading stacks of William’s yellowed documents and heavy, leather-bound records across the coffee table. “I still don’t get it. How is Nick Lancelot’s Scion and Bree Arthur’s?”
William rests his hand on my knee. “Bree, this is where we need you to fill in the gaps. Last night when Sel carried you upstairs, you were mumbling about Vera and a baby.” He shakes his head. “Who is Vera?”
All eyes turn to me, just as I knew they would.
“My ancestor,” I say quietly. “She was enslaved on a Scion of Arthur’s plantation.”
Greer and Sarah shift uncomfortably on the couch. Sel sucks in a breath between his teeth.
I tell them what I saw, remembering it all myself as the words spill forth. I tell them about everything except the woman at the hospital. When I stop, Sel looks at me closely. He knows I’m holding something back. I shake my head imperceptibly. Later. He narrows his eyes, but nods.
“Say the names again,” William says, riffling through a large, musty-smelling brown book. “The men’s names.”
I take a shuddering breath. “Davis. And Reynolds.”
William stops on a page, trails his finger down, until, “And there it is.”
“There what is?” Sarah says. We all lean in over the table.
William points to a yellow page with columns of names, dates, and locations. “This is Nick’s family. The Davis line. In the early 1800s Samuel Davis was the Scion of Arthur. Samuel”—William grimaces—“was a slave owner. He owned a plantation maybe twenty-five miles from town.”
The room falls silent around me.
“Davis knew if Vera had his child, that child would be a Scion,” Sel says. “If there was even a sliver of a chance she was carrying his child, he’d hunt her down.”
“But because she survived, she gave birth to a Scion,” William says thoughtfully. He turns to me. “Which means that you and your whole family are a splinter in the Line. The blood of Arthur has been running in your veins for generations.”
“And what about Davis’s wife?” I ask faintly. “The blond woman in my vision? She was sleeping with Reynolds.”
“Her name was Lorraine.” William flips to another page in the same book and blows out a breath. He taps a row of notes and names. “Reynolds is the surname of the Line of Lancelot. And Paul Michael Reynolds lived near here around the same time.”
“Like Guinevere,” Sarah whispers, eyes growing wide. “It’s just like the legend. Lancelot is Arthur’s most trusted knight, until he sleeps with his king’s wife. Lorraine sleeps with Reynolds and passes the baby off as Davis’s. Maybe he was even in on it, since he never found Vera or her child.”
William nods, staring down at the book on his table. “Samuel Martin Davis, Jr., born the same year. Their only child on record, and Nick’s ancestor eight generations back. Reynolds, on the other hand, isn’t recorded as having any children until later. He had three sons and a daughter. The Order has all of their records here.”
Sel stands up, pacing the room. “Which means Lord Davis and Nick are not Davises at all, from a bloodline perspective. They’re Reynoldses. And the Reynolds at the Northern Chapter right now is from the Line of Lancelot, but he’s not the eligible Scion.”
“Nick is,” I whisper, and all eyes turn to me. “His face last night… I’ve never seen him look so broken.”
When I look up, I catch William’s worried expression. The glance of concern he shares with Sel.
I’m worried too. I think about my connection to Nick. Our trust and affection. Now I wonder how much of that was me and Nick and how much was Arthur and Lancelot. Call and response. A king to his first knight, tied together by the deep bonds of loyalty and betrayal both.
“What will we tell the Regents?” Sarah asks.
Tor strides back into the room. “Not sure, but I just called their emissary. They’re on their way.”
“You did what?” Sel roars incredulously.
“I had to!” Tor yells. “I’m in charge now, Merlin, and I say we have two dead Squires, a dead Scion, a goruchel who murdered a Squire and infiltrated us—for months! You heard that thing, there are others embedded in the Order. What do you think will happen if we try to hide all of that?”
“That was not your call to make,” Sel says between his teeth. “And you are not in charge. Bree is—”
“Bree is what?” Tor demands. “Our king? By accident? This is a mistake!”
“Accident?” I growl. “Mistake?!”
Alice is on her feet already, fists clenched. “Is that what you’re calling chattel slavery? Three hundred years of accidents?”
Tor’s face turns red. “You know what I mean.”
“I don’t think I do!” I spit. A flash behind my eyes of Vera’s face as she spilled her own blood into the earth. My fingers curl, nails cutting deep into my palm. William’s eyes—and Sel’s—stare down to my fist and the strength that lives there now. “What that man did was not an accident. He knew exactly what he was doing. He liked owning her life. Her body. And he wasn’t the only one. She wasn’t the only one.” Suddenly, I want nothing more than to launch myself at Tor. Would the Legendborn stop me? I wonder. Could Sel even stop me?
Tor catches sight of my growing anger and takes a step back, but she won’t shut up. “People gave their lives for the cause last night, and you what? Just showed up at the last minute?”
I take a step forward, and Sel’s arm shoots across my chest. “Tor!” he booms. “Bree is your king!”
“Not my king.” Tor shakes her head, staring at me accusingly. “Not when she doesn’t even want to be.”
“I—” The memory of Whitty’s and Fitz’s and Russ’s bodies rises up before me, blood spraying into pools so red it was black. “I…”
Alice steps in front of me, arms crossed. “Scion of Tristan, right? Bree doesn’t have a choice in any of this, as far as I can tell.” She looks Tor up and down. “And neither do you, third-ranked.”
Tor lunges so quickly that only Sarah can catch her around the waist. And only Sel is fast enough to move in front of Alice.
Alice doesn’t even flinch. She’s catching on fast, all right. She’d been up early learning all she could from William.
But William’s had enough. “Everyone, calm down!” he yells. “Tor, back off!”
Tor’s heaving in her girlfriend’s arms. She pulls away, glares at me and Alice both, and speeds out of the room in a gust of wind.
In the ensuing silence, William orders, “Take a breath, all of yo
u! Before I sedate you myself!”
I do, but it doesn’t keep the world from tilting. I wonder if I’ll ever see it tilt back in the right direction or if I need to learn a new way to move through it. A way without Nick. A way where I’m in charge of all of… this.
Does a king imagine strangling her own knight?
The events in the ogof showed me answers, even if those answers are hard and ugly. Those same events only gave Nick questions. And we didn’t get a chance to talk about them and what they’d mean for us, for the Table, for everything we both have known.
Soon, Sarah’s, William’s, and Sel’s predictions and plans swirl around me, peppered with occasional references to my new title and rank. Alice holds her own, interjecting with logical questions and demanding answers on my behalf.
Sel is adamant that we stand our ground against the Regents and start the search for Nick ourselves, but even he doesn’t sound so sure of our success without outside assistance; the Order’s network can cover more ground than we can, and they’re better equipped for a manhunt. Sarah wants to wait for the Regents’ instructions, but Sel says they’ll waste time debriefing all of us about what happened here, me especially. I will have to share Vera’s story again. The Mage Seneschals will want to know about my other abilities, maybe even run tests on me. Sel won’t allow it. He thinks I need to select a Squire as soon as possible, before I take the throne. William argues I need to recover before taking the Warrior’s Oath. In the meantime, the Regents will need to confirm Arthur’s presence before they transfer power to me and alert the whole Order that Camlann has come. He says that, as king, the Regents will expect me to promote calm among Order members instead of panic. Then I can gather the Table and designate members of the search committee myself. The discussion goes on and on… and right now I don’t want any part of it.
“What if the Line of Morgaine and the Shadowborn working with them get to Nick first?” My own voice floats up and around me like mist over a pond. I didn’t realize I’d possessed the question until it had made itself known. For a fleeting moment, it makes me a little worried that the question didn’t come from me at all. “What will they do to him?”
Silence. Anxious glances.
No one knows what to make of the Morgaine-Shadowborn alliance that we now know exists.
I squeeze Alice’s hand and stand. “I need some air.”
She lets me go, and no one else stops me, because I am their king.
* * *
I know without looking that it’s Sel who eases the door to the balcony open and then closes it behind him. Even before I felt the prickle of his gaze on my back, I knew he’d be the one to come to me. Aside from Alice, he’s the only one who looks at me like I’m still just Bree.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is quiet, cautious.
I nod and grip the wooden railing until it creaks in protest under my fingers. Arthur’s strength is terrifying.
“Are you going to ask what I’m apologizing for?”
“No.”
The evergreens stand like the last hope of life in the crowded wood, pines like needles and blades against the sky. I envy their readiness. Soon, the Regents will arrive with questions that I can’t answer and some that I don’t want to.
His approach is silent, as always, and then he’s beside me, leaning forearms on the railing. “I don’t know how much time we have, but the Regents and their Mage Seneschals will be here soon. We need their resources and intel to find Nick.”
“I know.”
“We will find him, Bree. I swear it.” Sel turns toward me, pulling my attention from the trees to his golden eyes. My gaze travels across his dark hawkish brows, the aquiline curve of his nose, and the inky-black hair that curls like feathers over his ears.
I nod. “We will.” My chest clenches. “What they did to his mother, his father’s abuse… all of it was for a lie, Sel.”
He regards me with solemn eyes. His sacrifices were based on a lie too.
“Your mother…”
He sharpens, tenses. “What about my mother?”
I tell him then—my small lie of omission from inside the Lodge. I tell him that I’d seen his mother in my memory walk, that she and my mother had been friends, and that she’d been there that night at the hospital—in mourning. That she’d posed as the Merlin assigned to my mother’s case, if that Merlin had even existed. That his mother watched over my family for who knows how many years to ensure that we were safe from the Order. Our mothers were friends. Allies. Like Nick, our bloodlines are connected in ways we’d never imagined.
When I finish speaking, his mouth has fallen open in silent shock.
“Sel?”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you. It’s just—” He shakes his head, recovers. “Even if she escaped their prison, overpowered and mesmered her Merlin guards as Isaac did to me… how could she have survived? At her age and power level? Away from the Order, she’d have succumbed to her blood years ago.”
“But at the hospital,” I begin carefully, “your mother was lucid, focused. Mourning, but in complete control of her abilities.”
His eyelids flutter. “That’s… impossible.”
“It is,” I whisper, “if what the Order told you is true.”
His dark eyebrows wing upward in shock. “Bree…”
“What if Merlins don’t have to succumb to their blood? Just—just what if?”
He blows out a long, slow sigh. “That would change everything we’re taught about how our powers progress, how our blood works, why we’re Oathed in the first place, why they lock us away…” His eyes narrow in warning. “If that were true, this would be dangerous knowledge to possess. Or share. Even for you.”
“I figured.” I nod, picking at the wood beneath my fingers. “It’s why I waited until we were alone.”
We stand in silence for a long moment, considering how much our worlds have already changed, and how much change is still to come.
I feel Sel’s attention on my cheeks—and wonder when the sparks in his eyes had become a comforting heat.
“What?” I murmur, looking up at him.
“You are my king now, cariad.” His low voice carries all the intimacy of a caress, and his eyes are a melted gold. I turn away, overwhelmed at the meaning in both.
I don’t ask him what “cariad” means, because, in my heart, I’m scared of his answer. Scared to be torn in two once more when my reality has been a slow shatter all morning.
Sel touches my chin, guides my face back to his. “Camlann has come. We are at war. Against the Shadowborn and the Morgaines both. Against enemies that can hide in plain sight.” A pause while he searches my features. “You need—”
“You are Oathed to Nick,” I cut him off, my voice thin.
Sel studies me, sees my twisting heart. Releases me with a quiet sigh. Unspoken words hang heavy between us, but he lets them go until they dissipate in the air to wait for another day.
I know he’s right. I need a Kingsmage. I am the most important player on the board now. My life is tied to the Lines, and now that I’m Awakened, the Shadowborn will come for me. But…
‘We will face the shadows. We always have.’ Arthur’s baritone is resonant inside my chest. A bell rung too close. Sel lifts an eyebrow but says nothing at the mage flame that leaks from my skin.
Vera hums from within. Even now, I can feel the strength she holds. Enough to hold Arthur, and his Call, back with ease—until I agreed to hear it. ‘There is a cost to being a legend, daughter. But fear not, you will not bear it alone.’
If I concentrate, I can almost feel three heartbeats behind my ribs. Different rhythms. Different origins. All me.
I shudder. “Can we get out of here?”
His mouth quirks into a smile.
58
WE WALK SLOWLY side by side through the open yawn of the field beside the Quarry.
Sel’s silence is a balm against the harsh flurry of voices at the Lodge. His hands in his pockets, th
e clean line of his profile in the sun, the relaxed set of his shoulders as he paces—they ease the harsh edges of my anxiety so I can finally breathe, and finally think.
These are the facts:
Nick helped me find more truths than I’d known to look for, and now he is the one who’s lost.
Even though his heritage crumbled beneath the weight of my truths, if it were me in Isaac’s clutches and at risk of being hunted by the Morgaines, Nick would fight to bring me home. And so I will fight to rescue him.
I don’t know if it’s our inheritances or our bloodlines or what we’ve forged together all on our own, but I can feel Nick’s absence like an open wound in my chest.
I love him.
Nick is in my heart, and I am in his. This is irrefutable, no matter how it happened or when or why. And I won’t lose someone that I love again. Not when I have the power to save them.
Unspeakable evil gave me Arthur, Vera’s resistance gave me power, but I earned my will.
The Order is my court now, whether I want it to be or not. The Table will look to me to lead.
I’m scared, but like Vera said, I’m not alone.
As I bend to untie my shoelaces, my companion leans against an oak tree, and our eyes meet. A light prickling pressure passes from him to me like a blessing: the exact opposite of what he offered the last time we were here together.
Sel doesn’t ask why we’re here. He doesn’t ask why I discard my sneakers. He doesn’t ask why I bundle my socks and stuff them into the mouth of each shoe. His gaze stays warm on my back as he watches me walk barefoot past him and deeper into the woods the way we’d come. Satisfied with the distance, I crouch in the dirt and look to the sky. I dig fingers into cool earth, and it sends whispers up into my arms. I push toes into the buried memories of bodies gone past, bodies running away, and bodies bearing through.
This is why I’m here. I need one wild horizon—one sharp moment that belongs only to me—before I return to battle.