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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Tor Teen Books by Mercedes Lackey and Rosemary Edghill
About the Authors
Copyright
PROLOGUE
The year Spirit White turned fifteen, she’d gone to the fair.
Well, to be accurate, her family had gone to the fair: Spirit and Mom and Dad and her baby sister Phoenix, who was just about to turn twelve. And it wasn’t a fair like a State Fair, with rides and a midway: it was a Crafts Fair—a juried Crafts Fair, Dad had said happily—and Mom had said a jury meant the accused would get a fair trial at least and Fee said Dad was just bringing her and Spirit to have slave labor and he’d laughed and twirled an imaginary moustache.
And they’d stayed at a friend’s house, because the show was two days and too far away for them to drive home overnight, and he’d won second prize in the “Decorative Arts” category, and Mom had bought food before they left and they stopped at a rest stop on the way back to have a picnic. It was nice, because it was June.
She couldn’t remember the rest of that day. She’d tried and tried until her head hurt and all she wanted to do was lie down and cry, but she couldn’t. The doctors had said it was normal. All she could remember was the end of it, almost midnight, when they were almost home and Dad was just making that hairpin turn over the ravine with Keller Creek at the bottom of it.
And then there’d been a flash of dark, all around the car.
That had been the first memory that came back to her after the operations, when she started probing the end of her world as if it were a sore tooth. Darkness darker than midnight. A thing squatting in the middle of the road. (Impossible thing. Monster.)
And it looked at them and Mom shouted and Dad yanked the wheel sideways.…
It was somewhere between Operation Number Two and Operation Number Three—when they’d stopped having to remind her that her parents and her little sister were dead in the crash—that a sheriffs’ deputy came to her hospital room and told her that there’d been another accident, that her parents’ empty house had caught fire and burned to the ground.
(She wondered, later, why Oakhurst had bothered to burn it down, but she’d never figured that one out.)
That was when the lawyer showed up, the lawyer from Oakhurst, the one who’d told her all the lies: that her parents had set up a “trust” for her; that the trust was administered by this “Oakhurst Foundation”; that when she was fully recovered Oakhurst would be sending for her, because she’d be living at “The Oakhurst Complex” until she was twenty-one. (Oakhurst did send for her, but it was still a lie, though it took her a long time—six months—to realize that.)
But she came to Oakhurst by limousine and private plane and private railway car (wondering all the time: why do they need to try to impress me? though later she knew), and there she met Doctor Ambrosius for the very first time. His hair was pure silvery white, combed straight back, and long enough to brush his shoulders. His beard was the same color, and his eyes were a pale blue, and he spoke with a faint English accent that Loch said, back in the beginning, was probably put on for the tourist trade.
That was in September, and by the beginning of October Spirit realized that Oakhurst was fanatical about competition: they pitted the kids against each other in the classroom and on the field. Heck, they turned them against each other; it had been weeks before Spirit realized how strange it was for her to have friends—Loch and Addie and Muirin and Burke—at Oakhurst.
The five of them were as different from one another as they could possibly be. Addie was wealthy and refined, the sole heir to Prester-Lake BioCo, a major pharmaceutical company worth, literally, billions. Burke was quiet and quietly devout; he’d been orphaned as an infant and grew up in foster care. Loch was the son of a businessman. Muirin’s father had owned a construction company—his second wife had sent her to Oakhurst. Cultured, quiet, clever, drop-dead trendy—and her—they were the unlikeliest of friends. But their strengths complemented each other.
That was about the time Spirit’s life and “normal” parted ways forever. It wasn’t bad enough knowing magic was real—or that all your friends had it—or that you were supposed to have it and didn’t—but then the five of them had to figure out how to battle a bunch of ghosts and elves and demons that someone inside Oakhurst was helping pass through the “protective wards” around the campus. And they’d won, and they’d even survived, and that was the point at which the credits were supposed to roll and the movie was over.
But the Wild Hunt hadn’t been the real problem—or not the only problem. For the last six months, she and her friends had uncovered enemy after enemy, conspiracy inside conspiracy. They’d destroyed the Wild Hunt that had been preying on the Oakhurst students for decades, only to realize that someone—or something—had Called it in the first place. And when the Shadow Knights descended on Oakhurst, they’d fought back. They’d all fought back.
* * *
Before the Shadow Knights could move, Dylan grabbed a piece of burning wood, and charged the nearest Knights with a bellow of fury. The Knights might have been ready to fight, but their horses weren’t ready to face a screeching maniac flailing at them with fire. They bolted. At that, almost the entire student body broke out into shouts of defiance and anger. Those who had combat magic used it. Those who didn’t picked up anything they could use as a weapon, and charged.
It was like being in the middle of that attack on the endurance riders, except the proverbial shoe was very much on the other foot. Fueled by energy frantic for any sort of outlet, the combat magicians of Oakhurst filled the air with spells. Spears of ice, gouts of fire, deadly little tornados and fierce blasts of derecho wind pummeled the Shadow Knights who’d been expecting to confront a huddle of terrified youngsters. Illusory copies of Dylan led the ones charging at the lines; kids who were throwing whatever came to hand found themselves with piles of perfectly round ice balls beside them. There were a couple of people who had Animal Telepathy and Animal Control because the mounted Knights found their horses practically turning themselves inside out to be rid of their riders.
The Knights managed to deflect the fireballs, but they did so at the expense of not deflecting ice shards and the objects being hurled like missiles. Spirit had the satisfaction of seeing one of her own ice balls make a direct hit inside the hood of the Knight nearest her, and seeing him go down. Silence from the Shadow Knights turned to cries of fury and pain.
* * *
That night they’d danced and partied until dawn, sure they’d won. They’d awakened the next day to find themselves in an armed camp. The attack of the Shadow Knights had been just the excuse that Mark Rider and Breakthrough had needed to really take over. Soon after the Shadow Knights had attacked Oakhurst for the first time,
Mark Rider, his wife, Madison, and his brother, Teddy, had arrived. Officially, he was here because Mark Rider was moving Breakthrough’s HQ to Radial. Unofficially, he was here to protect Oakhurst from the Shadow Knights.
Only he wasn’t, because he is a Shadow Knight. They all are. Everyone at Breakthrough.
Almost overnight, Breakthrough had taken over Oakhurst. Classes had gotten harder, the teachers more ruthless. Guards patrolled the campus openly, night and day. But if the regimen had been hard before the February Dance—and the student rebellion—it was brutal now. Academic classes had been slashed. But it didn’t matter how many classes had been axed—almost every waking moment was still filled with classes. Magic, folklore, military strategy, wilderness survival, and every kind of combat you could imagine. We’re being brainwashed into becoming good little foot soldiers. Paranoid foot soldiers. It started almost as soon as you got up, with a “motivational email” you had to read while you were getting dressed—and if you didn’t, they’d know, because the Breakthrough staff quizzed everybody on the contents. Every meal now included a “Motivational Lecture” about how they were in a war now—and you’d better show up for meals on the dot, because they closed and locked the doors, and if you weren’t there, you didn’t eat. Even Muirin didn’t dare sleep late any more.
Last year, before she got to Oakhurst, Spirit turned sixteen. The lawyer who came to her at the hospital said she’d be living at “The Oakhurst Complex” until she was twenty-one. That was a lie.
Because Spirit wasn’t sure she was going to live to be seventeen.
ONE
Guinevere, High Queen, sat like a statue on the bare back of one of the famous white horses that had been her dowry on the day she had wed Arthur. Only the knights of the Table had ever been permitted to ride them, for they were bred to carry kings.
But there were no more than a handful of Arthur’s knights left now.
When Arthur fell at Camlann—and it seemed to all as if the day were lost—it had been Guinevere who had taken command of his army—and they had been eager to have someone, anyone, lead them. That, Mordred had not expected—that she, of all people, would appear on the battlefield in borrowed armor at the head of a vast army. From the moment Arthur had sent her into exile, she had been preparing for this day. But she had come too late to save her husband and lord. Camelot had fallen.
She had given her dying husband into the care of the Lady of the Lake. She had taken his sword from his death-cold fingers.
And she had followed the fleeing Mordred and his army with all her host.
Mordred had broken Arthur’s army at Camlann, and the years of fighting that had preceded it had stripped Britain of knights and fighting men. But Guinevere’s army did not ride clad in mail and wearing steel. It was made up of Druids and monks, nuns and sorceresses—the Old Ways and the New Faith coming together to oppose an enemy who would destroy all that was. And beside Guinevere rode The Merlin.
Nimue had been the first of Mordred’s allies to desert him, and with the breaking of the spell she had put upon him, The Merlin was freed. When he had learned of Arthur’s death, his wrath had been terrible to see.
Across all of Britain the two armies rode, one pursuing, one fleeing. And slowly, one by one, Mordred’s allies and vassals deserted him. Arthur had died in the springtide. It was autumn when Mordred was brought to bay.
This was the end.
The trees were leafless, now, and the wind was cold. Behind Guinevere stood her husband’s army and her own, each man and woman waiting with a deadly implacable patience to witness the end of the man who had destroyed everything they had worked so long to build. Before her stood the ancient oak tree that Mordred had once meant to be The Merlin’s eternal tomb.
She would gladly have slain the black snake who destroyed her happiness and her husband’s kingdom, but Mordred was so imbued with the powers of Death Itself he could not die. No earthly weapon could slay him—but he could be bound, as he had intended The Merlin to be bound. And since his own magics had prepared the ancient oak, it was all the more fitting that the tree be the vessel to hold him.…
Guinevere heard muffled shouting and the clink of chains. She looked to her right. Here came the Bishop of England in his red and white robes, carrying a golden cross atop a long pole. Beside him walked the Archdruid of Eire, barefoot, with spirals of woad covering every inch of his skin, his only garment a tabard of white bull’s-hide. Behind them walked the White Horse Woman—whom Guinevere’s ancestors had worshipped—the Lady of Apples, priests and holy people of every faith Britain held.
Before them walked The Merlin.
And behind them came Mordred, dragged by the last of Arthur’s knights. His hands were bound with iron and silk and ivy, his mouth had been sewn shut, his body was weighted down with a hundredweight of silver chains, each link carved with runes of blessing and protection. But his eyes were unblinded, and they flashed with fury.
The Merlin began to chant.
The knights pushed Mordred toward the oak—not with their hands, but with stangs made of sacred oak.
And when his body touched it, Mordred began to sink into the tree as if its wood were softened wax. He struggled, eyes wild with anger and power. Still, the knights thrust him backward, and still The Merlin chanted. In a moment more it would be done.
Then to her horror, Guinevere saw that Mordred had torn loose the sinews that had sewn his mouth shut. He roared out a single terrible word. The knights pushing him forward fell to their knees, their screams drowned in those of the holy ones who had come to see justice done.
But The Merlin had not fallen—and he shouted three syllables she did not understand, and did not want to. There was a flash and a roar. Brightness. Darkness. Guinevere cried out, fighting to control her panicked mount.
When she could see again, the oak’s bark was seamless. The Merlin still stood before the oak, but his face was gray with terrible pain and weakness now, and he leaned heavily upon his staff for support. There was no sign of Mordred.
The Merlin staggered forward, summoning his failing strength. As he pointed at the oak, words of fire wrote themselves into the wood.
Oh Thou who wouldst meddle in the affairs of Light and Darkness, Touch Not the Sacred Oak sealed by Merlin’s Own Hand, for herein lies imprisoned the traitorous son of the Great Bear: Medraut Kinslayer the Accursed. Flee, lest his undying evil take you for its own!
The Merlin turned at last, to look at Guinevere. “It is finished,” he said, in a voice flat with exhaustion.
* * *
Spirit shivered in the chill of the Girls’ Locker Room, but as cold as it was, she still wasn’t in any hurry to get changed for class. I never thought I’d miss Mr. Gail and Mr. Wallis, she thought ruefully. But at least I guess I understood them. They might have been horrible, but they weren’t killers.
This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go.
She’d thought—oh she’d been so naïve!—that once the kids had routed the Shadow Knights at the Sadie Hawkins Day Dance, the trouble would be over. Whatever the Shadow Knights had wanted to do on February 2nd, they’d failed. Nobody had died. People had gotten hurt, but nobody had died. They’d proved they could win.
It hadn’t changed anything. And what was even scarier was, it was becoming more and more obvious that the Bad Guys weren’t the secret society within Oakhurst called the Gatekeepers. They weren’t a bunch of faceless Shadow Knights. They were the Oakhurst faculty.
At least the ones who were left. People kept vanishing here, and if you were smart you pretended you didn’t notice.
I’d better get moving, she thought, closing her locker reluctantly. At least she wasn’t the only one here trying to delay the inevitable. She turned to head for the gym.
“Hey, Spirit, ’scuze me—” Trinity Brown started to walk past her, then paused. “You know, when you got here you were, like, a waif. You do realize you’ve gotten all ripped, don’t you?” Trinity chuckled. “Wish I was. Gue
ss I was born to be a string.” She held up her hand in a half wave and walked on.
Spirit blinked in surprise, staring after Trinity. She hadn’t even realized Trinity—who was not a string, merely supermodel-lean—knew her name. It was kind of ironic … now that Oakhurst really was out to kill them, the kids were a lot kinder to each other than they had been when she had arrived in September. One of the first things she’d learned about Oakhurst was that friendships weren’t encouraged.
But I have friends. Good friends. I don’t know what would have happened to me without Loch and Burke and Addie …
And Muirin.
She just hoped Muirin was still her friend.
I’d better get going. She looked down at herself. Trinity was right: she was ripped. If I live to graduate, the only job I’d qualify for is superhero, she thought bitterly. Or maybe government assassin. I sure don’t know how to do anything else.
* * *
The class was Systema. It was a kind of Russian martial art that focused on controlling the joints of one’s opponent. What it meant in practice was that they were all supposed to try to kill each other. When Anastus Ovcharenko started teaching the course, they’d worked out on mats. Now they worked out on the bare wood floor. Spirit and Trinity stood at the back of the group of students (not that something like that would save you). Muirin should have been here, too, but these days Muirin didn’t spend a lot of time in her classes—and she saw plenty of Ovcharenko out of them.
He was already there, of course, smiling cheerfully as he waited for the last of them to arrive. Ovcharenko was always cheerful—especially when he was about to hurt somebody. He always picked someone to spar with while the rest of them paired off against each other. He said it was to demonstrate the proper techniques. Spirit was pretty sure it was more about punishment. Dylan Williams (the official ringleader of the rebellion back in February) had been his favorite chew-toy for weeks, but he’d managed to put Dylan in the infirmary yesterday, and Dylan wasn’t here.
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