Page 13

12

WHEN SEL’S MESMER lifts, my sight returns all at once. Lights off, lights on. It’s so disorienting that beside me Greer falls forward on both hands. All five of us—the first-year Pages—blink the world back into existence while on our knees, integrating sound with sight: the sound of water streaming over rocks nearby—from a creek maybe—deeper in the forest to our right. The waning moon sending light down on us from overhead, turning leaves from green to silver. We kneel before a low, curved altar that protrudes up the slab itself, our faces lit by flickering candlelight.

Eight Legendborn stand before us, arranged along the far arc of the stone circle, their hoods drawn low. Five new figures in robes of gray—the veteran Pages, I’d wager—flank them on either side. In the middle is a single man in a deep crimson robe edged in gold, his cowl pulled back just enough to see his face. Dr.—no, Lord —Martin Davis. He looks almost exactly like his portrait.

Davis steps forward, his arms hidden in the deep sleeves. When he speaks, his voice is sonorous and steady. “My name is Lord Martin Davis, and I am the Viceroy of the Southern Chapter and its territories. Each of you has been invited by a Legendborn member who deems you worthy of initiation as a Page. The five of you kneel before us because you have the spark of eternal potential.”

The “Chapel” is a circular slate-colored stone slab flecked with shiny bits of silver in the middle of a clearing. The slab feels old, worn, and heavy, like a coin dropped by a giant long ago. Pine trees stretch up in a thick ring around the clearing, closing us in on all sides with no marked path in or out. I have no idea where we are or in which direction the Lodge lies. We’re isolated here, on a round surface with no end, and at their mercy to get out.

Every instinct I possess yells at me to run. Just a couple of miles and I could be back in the real world, where there are no ritual slabs and robes and magical Oaths. But it isn’t the real world, is it? It’s the surface the Order works to maintain while they operate below, on its edges, and in the shadows. I can’t run. Staying here and playing this role is the only way I’ll find out the truth.

“Tonight, in our Chapel, you will pledge yourselves to our Order and its mission by taking the Oath of Fealty. Our work goes unseen and unrewarded by the very lives we protect, therefore no other commitment is more sacred. But first, an introduction.”

It’s only because we’re looking up at Lord Davis that I catch the movement over his shoulder. Thirty feet up and tucked in the trees, darkness bleeds into a shape. Without a single creak of a branch, a black-robed figure descends in a long, smooth arc. Selwyn lands in a crouch, and the other Pages jerk back in alarm. Beside me, Whitty makes a near-noiseless sound of surprise.

Nick said the other new Pages have known about the Order most of their lives, but only in the abstract. Only in stories. They’ve trained for battles they’ve yet to encounter, learned about aether they’ve never seen, but knowledge is not the same thing as experience. I don’t blame them for startling. That jump would have broken a normal person’s legs, and none of us had detected his presence. I would startle, too, if this was the first time I’d encountered Selwyn Kane.

The Merlin rises in one motion, silent as a panther and eyes just as bright. Candlelight turns the silver thread at the edges of his robe into a living thing: a thin line of white frames his face, a whip of electricity around his wrists. Under the hood, his hair is so black I can barely make it out against the fabric. He belongs to the night as a predator does. And like a predator, he takes our measure. When his glittering golden eyes find me, a line from childhood comes to mind unbidden: All the better to see you with, my dear.

Now that I know what the Merlins truly are, all I can see is Sel’s arrogance, and through him, the arrogance of the Merlin before him. I see the man who stole my memories. The soldier who may have taken my mother from me.

I should follow Nick’s rules. I should be afraid . Instead, I lift my chin from where I kneel. Let defiance shine from my eyes. Even these tiny gestures are blood in the water, but I don’t care.

Sel cares. A muscle ticks in his jaw and aether flares at his fingertips—but when Lord Davis frowns his way, Sel douses the flames inside tightly curled fists. His lips curl at my satisfied smirk.

“The Southern Chapter is fortunate to call Selwyn Kane our Kingsmage. Merlins are the first of many revelations only privy to Oathed members of the Order.”

On cue, Sel stalks to the far end of the altar and stands at parade rest.

Davis’s legato voice flows over us like a preacher leading his congregation. “Tonight you will echo the ancient vows sworn by warriors of the medieval. In those days, men committed themselves to higher powers and greater missions, and left behind the petty concerns of earthly pursuits. Likewise, our Order is fashioned after the body politic.

“Our Vassal friends and their contemporary fiefdoms are the Order’s lower limbs. Without them, we would not have walked through fifteen centuries of this war, would not have advanced from the Middle Ages to modernity. Pages are the left hand: once Oathed, you will be granted Sight in order to hold the shield while we fight in the shadows. Merlins are the right hand, the sword and fists of the Order. Our guardians and weapons against the darkness. The Legendborn Scions and Squires are the heart. The holy text of their Lines has fueled our mission from the beginning. The Regents are the spine, directing our eyes and energies to the urgent matters at hand.”

Davis pauses, letting the image of his metaphor settle in our minds.

“And, when he is Awakened, our king is the head and the crown itself, leading us to victory by divine right.”

A whisper rises in the night. Shh-shh-shh-shh. The sound comes from the other Pages and the Legendborn standing behind Davis. They’ve raised their hands to chest level, all of them, and are brushing their thumbs over their fingers in steady rhythmic circles. Approval.

When Davis raises a hand, the sound stops.

“Be proud of your invitation, but know that there is so much more yet possible. Tonight, many of you wear the color and sigil of the Line served by your family, and as Pages, you always will. But at Selection, those who earn the title of Squire will take the colors and sigil of their Scion. And this Line, you will serve by choice.” A pause. “You have no title, but you do have your names. We must know who you are and know the blood you bring to service.”

“State your name and family.” Sel’s voice catches me off guard.

This is the first time any of us have been asked to speak in over an hour. Vaughn doesn’t hesitate. “Vaughn Ledford Schaefer the Fourth, son of Vaughn Ledford Schaefer the Third, Vassal to the Line of Bors.”

Lewis speaks up next: “Lewis Wallace Dunbar, son of Richard Calvin Dunbar, Vassal to the Line of Owain.”

Greer follows quickly: “Greer Leighton Taylor, child of Holton Fletcher Taylor, Vassal to the Line of Lamorak.”

My mind spins while Whitty speaks beside me. What do I say? Not my mother’s name, right? No, my father’s!

When it’s my turn, I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

The harsh sound of hissing cuts through the night and lashes against me, sends my pulse racing. Disapproval. My ears burn hot. Pressure begins behind my eyes and—No! Wall up! Now is not the time for After-Bree’s anger.

Davis raises a hand, and the sound ceases.

“Your name,” Sel repeats, his voice low.

This time, I speak. “Briana Irene Matthews, daughter of Edwin Simmons Matthews.”

The Chapel is silent, waiting for the final words that they already know I can’t claim. No Vassalage. No Line. Someone in the Legendborn row hisses. Vaughn stifles a snicker.

Davis’s voice slices across the quiet, stiff with warning. “Do not fall prey to hubris. Affiliation with this Order is not equivalent to sworn fealty. Indeed, Tennyson said, ‘Man’s word is God in man.’ Tonight you sever all other promises but these and serve the Order not as individuals but as one.”

My chest unclenches. I say a silent “thanks” to Nick’s father, whose imperious glare has cowed even Vaughn.

“Who brings Vaughn Schaefer forward to make the Oath of Fealty?”

A Legendborn figure steps forward, drawing his hood back. “I do.” It’s the boy from the study, Fitz. He kneels opposite Vaughn and extends one forearm across the stone, palm up, and the other next to it and palm down. Sel takes a knee at the end of the altar and rests long fingers on the silver speckled surface. A ripple of mage flame from his fingertips flows down the altar in a wave, from Vaughn to me.

“Tonight, you make an Oath to us and, through your Legendborn sponsor, the Order makes one to you.” Davis nods to Vaughn.

Vaughn grasps Fitz’s upturned arm with his left hand and raises his right. When he speaks, a nagging itch crawls up and over my skin. I can feel the aether infused in these words, even if I’m not the one saying them. “I, Vaughn Ledford Schaefer the Fourth, offer my service to the Order in the name of our king. I swear to be the shield of the Southern Chapter, the eyes and ears of its territory. I swear to aid in its battles and arm its warriors. I swear to guard its secrets and secure all that I see and hear henceforth.”

Fitz clears his throat. “The penalty for breaking this vow is total mesmer and excommunication to the darkness of unknowing, never to return to the light. Do you bind yourself still?”

“I do.”

Down the altar, Sel nods, giving Fitz the go-ahead of some kind. “I, Fitzsimmons Solomon Baldwin, Scion of the Line of Bors, accept your Oath on behalf of our ancient Order and welcome you to service. We grant you Sight so that you may see the world illuminated for as long as your heart be true.”

A bright flare of silver-blue mage flame rushes up the hand Fitz has placed on the altar. He tenses, and then the flame surges down his other arm and into his Page. It loops around Vaughn’s wrists and curves up his shoulders. Now with Sight, Vaughn stares as the Oath disappears into his skin.

Lewis goes next, with Felicity. Then Greer, with Russ. With each Oath, a new thread of doubt winds through my chest, because I know I have no intention of keeping this promise. Nick said Oaths are like mesmer, but how much like mesmer? I’ve never resisted Sel’s mesmer in real time, only after the fact. By the time Whitty starts his Oath, my heart is pounding. I can’t help but glance down the altar at Sel, who stares back with narrowed eyes as if he can hear the fear in my chest.

Davis interrupts my thoughts. “Who here brings Briana Matthews forward to make the Oath of Fealty?”

“I do.”

A tall figure steps out of the circle. Nick pulls his hood back as he walks to the altar, eyes solemn. He settles across from me, and I clamp my hand around his forearm almost as soon as he lowers it, desperate for something familiar, something I can trust in all of this. His eyes find mine, his fingers pulsing reassuringly around my elbow.

I take a shaky breath, raise my right hand, and begin. “I, Briana Irene Matthews, offer my service to the Order in the name of our king.”

I pause, gasping. I can feel the words slip down into my body and coil around my ribs. Nick’s eyes urge me on.

“I swear to be the shield of the Southern Chapter, the eyes and ears of its territory. I swear to aid in its battles and arm its warriors. I swear to guard its secrets and secure all that I see and hear henceforth.”

Nick’s voice echoes around the Chapel, louder and clearer than the others who went before him. “The penalty for breaking this vow is total mesmer and excommunication to the darkness of unknowing, never to return to the light. Do you bind yourself still?”

The cool tide of the Oath has wound itself between my fingers. It streams down my back like a waterfall until I’m covered with it. I squirm, shifting my weight from my right knee to my left. Someone hisses, and Davis raises his hand to stop them.

“I do.”

This isn’t going to work. The Oath will know that I’m lying. They’re all going to know—

Suddenly, pain lances through my arm. It’s Nick, digging his fingers into my flesh deep enough to leave marks. I meet his eyes and he nods imperceptibly, urging me to focus on the blunt pressure of his nails. I chase the sensation down like a rabbit in the woods—and the ancient promise loosens its grip on my body.

Nick’s quick thinking saved me. Maybe saved us both.

Across the altar, Nick’s pulse leaps against his throat. It takes him two attempts to begin speaking.

“I, Nicholas Martin Davis…” Nick releases a harsh breath, as if drawing on a deep well for strength. “I…”

When he meets my gaze again, the look in his eyes fills my stomach with dread. There’s pain, anger. Then, resignation.

When Nick’s voice resonates through the Chapel, the Legendborn hold their breath.

“I, Nicholas Martin Davis, Scion and heir of King Arthur Pendragon of Britain, the son of Uther Pendragon, wielder of Caledfwlch, the blade Excalibur, and first-ranked of the Round Table in the Shadowborn holy war, accept your Oath on behalf of our ancient Order.”

Nick watches the shock travel through me with sad, weary eyes.

I barely feel the aether Sel sends pulsing through Nick’s hand and into mine. Our gazes are still locked, but everything else has changed.

King Arthur Pendragon of Britain.

Scion and heir.

“I welcome you to service. I grant you Sight, so that you may see the world illuminated for as long as your heart be true.”

Why didn’t you tell me? I send the question through my eyes. He flinches.

His words sit on my tongue while the flames swirl up my arms like silver-blue snakes. The mage flame washes over me without soaking into my skin.

You said you don’t lie.

He sees the accusation on my face. Withdraws his hand. Stands, turning so his face is hidden in shadow.

Davis claps for attention. “Rise, siblings, as Oathed Pages of the Order of the Round Table and sworn servants of the Round Table!”

The night’s sober tone finally breaks, and we are teenagers and students once again. There are whoops and cheers from the Pages behind us, and whistles from the Legendborn before us. I push to my feet on legs that are half-asleep, my stomach pulled into a knot.

No one notices that the Oath of Fealty didn’t take or give me Sight. No one notices me at all.

Sel still kneels at the end of the altar, head bent over the stone, palms pressed to the surface. For a moment, I think he’s been injured or overexerted by the Oath, but then those thoughts disappear.

Sel doesn’t look pained—he looks intoxicated: eyes half-lidded, and unfocused, cheeks flushed, mouth parted and panting. He drags his tongue over his lower lip—and looks up to find me staring. I stiffen and turn away.

Whitty slaps a hand on my back in celebration, and I return his smile because I don’t know what else to do.

Sel calling Nick the prodigal son. Felicity, staring speechless like he was the second coming. The shock on Sarah’s face when I said his name. I’d been so focused on how I would uncover the Order’s secrets that I hadn’t stopped to really think about what all of those responses to Nick meant. I’d thought about what Nick represents to me but not what Nick represents to everyone else.

I look up to find Nick staring at me with a guarded expression, like he’s waiting for me to arrive at the truth in my own way.

I suppose I have.…

He is King Arthur’s descendant.

Davis calls us to order. “Let us close with the solemn pledge of our eternal Order.”

The new Pages glance at one another. We don’t know the pledge, but it seems we’re expected to learn by example.

The chapter chants as one, and even though I can’t hear his voice in the chorus, Nick joins them.

“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.”

Davis turns to the stars in benediction. “By heaven’s holy hand, the Line is—”

A bloodcurdling scream splits the night, and everyone freezes. The cry echoes against the trees, bounces off the stone beneath our feet. I pivot, searching for its source, and then the sound comes again, a shriek of pain that lifts the hair on the back of my neck.

At the back of the group, Felicity is on her knees with both hands clutching her temples. The crowd steps away just as Russ dashes to her side.

“Flick? Flick, answer me!” She screams again, the sound choking off on a sob. “Felicity?”

“What the hell?” Whitty breathes beside me. “What’s happening to her?”

“Kingsmage!” Davis calls over his shoulder. “She needs aid.”

“Felicity!” Russ cries again.

“Squire Copeland.” Sel appears at his shoulder. Russ turns, his face a mixture of fear and worry. “It’s her time. Step back.”

Russ shakes his head. “No, no, it can’t be—”

“Squire Copeland,” Davis insists. Russ looks between the two of them desperately, then allows Sel to draw him away from the agonized girl on the ground.

Craig McMahon stands beside me. “This isn’t possible. It’s too soon.”

“What isn’t possible?” I ask.

In the center of the group, Felicity moans long and loud. Her head drops back, eyes blank, and a voice—deep, masculine, not hers—emerges from her throat.

“Though I may fall, I will not die, but call on blood to live.”

She collapses forward in a crumpled heap.

Russ picks Felicity up and stands with her draped across his arms. “I’ll get her back to the Lodge. She needs to rest.”

Sel stops him. “I’m faster and stronger. Let me take her.”

Russ hesitates for a moment, his jaw clenched. Then he nods once and gently passes Felicity’s limp form to Sel, who lifts her easily. Without another word, Sel jogs through the trees and is gone.

As soon as he disappears, the crowd erupts—or at least the Pages do. The Legendborn wear stony expressions, exchange worried glances. One of the third-years shakes her head, muttering, “She’s fourth-ranked. This isn’t right.” One phrase rises above the chatter. “This is too soon.”

Davis calls for calm, but it’s his son’s voice that quiets the Chapel.

“Why did he call her?”

The crowd parts around Nick.

Davis blinks in surprise. “You know as well as I do, Nicholas, that we don’t control the Awakening of our knights. We are but instruments. They call us when there is need.”

“When there is need, and in command order ,” Nick adds. “The first- through fifth-ranked knights haven’t Called their Scions in decades. Felicity is fourth-ranked, which means the fifth must be Awake. When was the Scion of Kay Called?”

Murmurs from the others now. A nod of heads.

If Alice were here, she’d say it’s too late. Now that I know the Scions are the descendants of the Round Table, called to power—violently—by their knights’ spirits…

What have I done?

Renewed authority threads through Davis’s voice. “This is not a chapter meeting. We should discuss these matters when we return to the Lodge.”

“No.” Nick raises his chin. “We should discuss it here. Why did Lamorak Call her, Dad? Why now?”

Davis’s nostrils flare, but before he can respond, a low growl from the darkness answers Nick’s question.

For a split second, no one moves. Frozen in disbelief, I think. A Shadowborn, here?

Another growl, this time followed by a high, nightmarish howl, one I’m now very familiar with.

Hellhound.