Page 22

21

TEN MINUTES LATER, we descend the stairs with a prickly sort of awareness bouncing between us. Yesterday we entered the great room in agreement, but we each had limited information about the nature of our situation. Twenty-four hours later, Nick’s world is heading to war, and I’m preparing to unravel my mother’s history. As our paths continue, will we still find common ground?

When we reach the foyer, the sounds of dinner reach us from the vast dining room around the corner. Clinking cutlery. Chairs scraping the floor. Voices.

I look back to find Nick watching me, my own uncertainty echoed on his face. “We good, B?”

I nod. “We’re good.”

His mouth quirks. “I don’t know why, but—”

Suddenly, the front doors open and humid, light rain sprays across the tiles. Outside, three women stand deep in conversation, shaking their umbrellas on the patio before entering. They’re dressed head to toe in country club–chic: blouses, cardigans, capris, spotless white tennis shoes. Their pale, perfectly contoured faces light up when they see Nick.

“As I live and breathe…” The woman on the left wears a neck scarf the deep yellow of the Line of Owain.

“Is that—?”

“Nick Davis.” The tallest woman, a brunette, speaks with a low rasp. The first woman elbows her, and she corrects herself. “Excuse me. Scion Davis.”

Nick inclines his head, addressing them all in turn. “Rose members Hood, Edwards, and Schaefer. What brings you to the Lodge tonight?” He steps back to let them in. “The tournament trials are closed, as you know…”

It takes a second, but I recognize their last names and facial features. These three are mothers of chapter members: Pete Hood, Scion of Owain; Ainsley Edwards, a second-year Page; and Vaughn Schaefer, from my Page class.

Rose member Schaefer’s eyes twinkle as she enters. She acknowledges me with a polite smile and a wave, then offers a sly glance to Nick. “We heard a rumor you returned.”

“Elena, please.” The Edwards woman waves a manicured hand adorned with nails the dark orange of Bors. “The Order of the Rose always supervises catering during the Trials.” Still addressing Nick, she extends her umbrella toward me, handle first. “Take this and dry it? Now, tonight’s meal—”

She stops speaking when I don’t follow her instructions, and turns, fully looking at me for the first time.

“Did you not hear me?”

Indignation and rage burn through me like a furnace. “I heard you just fine,” I mutter through clenched teeth.

She inhales sharply. “Where is your supervisor?”

“This is Briana Matthews, my Page.” Nick takes the umbrella himself, hard steel under his placid tone. “She is not a servant, Virginia, nor will you treat her as such. Not in my presence or otherwise.”

The other women detect Nick’s quiet anger and say nothing.

But Virginia Edwards is not done. Her nostrils flare at Nick’s admonishment. At a teenage boy’s use of her given name, and the reminder of his authority. “Your… Page ?” Her gaze darts from point to point as she processes this information: my face, hair, T-shirt, and jeans. How close I’m standing to Nick. “Scion Davis, I would expect you to select a Page from the Vassals to your Line, as is tradition .”

“I value Page Matthews’s abilities,” Nick says, his face impassive, “and your expectations belong to you.”

She stiffens. “What does your father think of this? Surely he must—”

“His father is thankful that he has returned.” We turn to see Lord Davis entering the room using a wheelchair. Nick makes as if to assist him, but Davis waves him away. “And pleased that the Order of the Rose is here once again to support this year’s tournament.”

“Lord Davis.” Vaughn’s mother dips her head, as do the others. “My son shared that you’d been injured in battle.”

“Don’t you worry. I’ll use braces by the weekend and walk without aid by Monday. Aether works fast, but we old folks just don’t heal as quickly as the youth. Children”—Lord Davis turns to us, and gives me a wink—“why don’t you join the chapter in the dining room. I’ll guide our guests to the kitchen, where our hired catering staff dropped off the meal.”

“The Order of the Rose?” I hiss as we walk, still fuming.

Nick grumbles, “A women’s auxiliary founded centuries ago when they couldn’t Page, Squire, or Scion. Mostly ceremonial now. A way for mothers or former Pages to support chapter events.”

All I see are obstacles. Women who want their children in my spot. White women who assume a Black girl in the Lodge is a servant, not a member. Certainly not someone who outranks them. If Virginia treats me like that, how does she treat the caterers? My skin crawls. Then, something strikes me.

“Did you say women couldn’t be Scions? I thought the Spell followed the bloodline, no matter who was eligible.”

“It does.” Nick’s jaw tightens. “But for a long time, men didn’t care what the Spell wanted. They’d eliminate daughters to force it to the next heir.”

I stop walking and stare at him, my stomach twisting in horror.

He pauses at the dining room entrance. “Fifteen hundred years is a long time to operate. The Order was never above the world’s brutality. It still isn’t.”

“That’s… disgusting.”

“That’s what happens when you lead with fear and greed.”

“Bree! Over here!” Greer waves me over, the Lamorak coin winking on their red bracelet. “Saved you a seat!”

Nick tilts his head. “That’s our cue.”

Still reeling from his revelation, I follow him into the room.

Nick makes his way to the Legendborn table where the Scions, Squires, and Sel sit. I slide into the open chair between Greer and Whitty at the Pages table, grateful to be between people I know.

Whitty digs into what looks like flank steak with fresh rosemary, while Greer passes me an enormous white stoneware dish of scalloped potatoes. “I was worried you dropped out.”

“Nope. Not a quitter.”

“A cheat, then?” Vaughn calls from across the table without looking up from his plate. As soon as the words leave his mouth, silence falls across the table.

The twist in my stomach tightens into a cold knot.

“Not a cheat, either.”

Vaughn stabs a particularly bloody piece of beef and only sits back to look at me after he shoves it in his mouth. His eyes are the same brown color as his mother’s, but where hers offered kindness, his deliver spite. “Then why’d you stay behind with the Legendborn last night even though we were given direct orders to return to the Lodge? What’d you think you’d do? Impress a Scion by showin’ off during a fight?”

“That’s not what happened, I…” Other Pages have fixed me with their own stares, some curious, some accusatory. “I froze. I tried to run back to the Lodge, but the uchel got to me first.”

“Right,” Vaughn sneers. “Then why are you spending time alone with the Scion of Arthur? Getting a pep talk? Giving him a helping hand ?”

I freeze, stunned at his implication. Blood rushes in my ears like an angry ocean, but not loud enough to block out the snickers of the veteran Pages beside him. Ones I don’t know, Ainsley, and the two third-year wrestling twins, Carson and Blake.

“You think I…” I can’t even say it, what he thinks I’m doing to buy Nick’s favor.

Vaughn points his knife at my chest. “I think you’ve let that coin around your neck go to your head.”

“Put your knife down, Schaefer.” Whitty’s usually slow drawl is low with warning. “Nick can spend time talkin’ to his Page. Ain’t no harm there.”

“His Page , not his Squire,” Vaughn spits. “He brought her forth, but that doesn’t mean she’s gonna make it through the Trials. And even if she does, that doesn’t mean she’ll be Selected.”

“I know that,” I grit out, fingers digging into my thighs.

“Good.” Vaughn gestures at the rest of the watching Pages as he speaks, his voice charged. “Because a lot of us here have waited and trained our whole lives to become a Legendborn Squire. And we’re not gonna let some affirmative action bullshit fuck up our chances.”

The table quiets as everyone waits for my response. Some of the Pages look away. Some stare me down. Others sit, jaws open and silent. Vaughn’s smug mouth is half-twisted in a snarl.

I want to smash the damn scalloped potatoes into his face. I want to scream that preferential treatment for Vassals and rich kids is exactly how they got in the door. But Nick said I should disappear. Stay off the Vassals’ radar. Keep my head down to make it through the tournament.

He was foolish to think that was ever possible. For bigots, it doesn’t matter how or why I’m truly here; the fact that I’m here at all is wrong enough.

I’m going to make it through the tournament. I’ll do what it takes to finish my mission.

But I’m not going to disappear. And I don’t want to keep my head down.

Instead, I’m going to give Vaughn a glimpse of who I really am—and show him exactly who I’m not.

With my heart thundering through my chest and my throat tight, I answer him—and anyone else sitting at this table who thinks as he does.

“You’re a bigot and a bully, Schaefer. You insult me because you think you know what I’m capable of, but you don’t. I must make you nervous, though, for you to expose your insecurities about your odds of success in the tournament.”

“My insecurities ?” Vaughn growls, halfway to his feet.

“Yes,” I bite out. “And your carelessness. You’ve just questioned, in public, the judgment of the Scion of Arthur himself by suggesting that he brought his Page forth without good reason.” I grin and look Vaughn directly in the eye. “Our future king does not owe you an explanation, and behaving as though he does displays insubordination, disloyalty, and fear. Not power. Not strength. In fact, I pity the Scion who chooses you as their Squire. That is, if you get chosen at all.”

A beat of silence—then Vaughn launches himself over the table. Carson catches him before he reaches me, just as I thought he would. Vaughn strains as Carson whispers in his ear. The curious gazes of his allies turn from me to him, as I’d hoped they would, and a dark flush consumes his features.

A heartbeat passes. Two. And Vaughn drops to his seat, violence in his eyes. “Not over, Matthews.”

No, it’s not. If Vaughn wasn’t my enemy before, he is now.

But right now, I just can’t bring myself to care.

Whitty breaks the silence, his voice casual as he asks, “Would ya pass the Brussels sprouts, Ainsley?”

Ainsley scowls and passes the bowl across my chest without saying “Excuse me.” Conversation resumes around us, and dinner starts up again, but underneath the table my hands are trembling.

A light smattering of sparks falls across the bridge of my nose and cheeks. Across the room, no one at the bustling, loud, laughing Scion table has noticed what just occurred on our side of the room. No one except Selwyn Kane. The Kingsmage sits with his chin in hand, gazing at me with a contemplative expression. Like he’d been watching—and listening—to the entire exchange with Vaughn. Could he have heard us through all of the chatter and clinking silverware?

Greer surprises me by grabbing the steak tongs, then my plate. “Do you eat beef?”

“Yes.” I nod, still dazed. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

They shrug. “If the world is simple, certain people will never be inconvenienced, never need to adapt. I disrupt those people, and you do too. You’ve been doing it since you walked in the door. I like disruptors and rhythm breakers. We should start a club.”

I spear a slice of steak. “Are there T-shirts for this club?”

They laugh. Beside me, Whitty leans forward, and I realize he’s still wearing that same comfortable, old-looking camo jacket. In a sea of button-downs and polos, he’s disrupting a few rhythms himself. “I think we should get matchin’ hats, y’all.”

Greer looks at my hair and then gestures to theirs. Tonight it’s thick double fishtail braids that extend from their crown to the bottom of each shoulder blade. “And cover up these gorgeous coifs? Get outta here with that trash idea, Whitlock.”

“You see how they treat me, Bree?” He tsks. “Rude.”

Just as people start drifting to the dessert table, Lord Davis enters the room. Nick stands at his father’s side. All eyes turn to them.

“Hello, everyone. Thank you for your well wishes. Our healer, Scion Sitterson, believes I will be fully recovered before the weekend.” All around me, members brush the pads of their fingers in circles for the shhshhshh of approval. “Unfortunately, it is premature for celebration. As I’m sure you all know by now, last night our fourth-ranked Scion, Felicity Caldwell, was Called to service by her knight, Sir Lamorak. And it is true that the fifth-ranked Scion of Kay was Called last week at our sister chapter in the North.”

“Last week?” Fitz shouts. “Why didn’t someone tell us?” Quiet nods of agreement.

“I understand your frustration,” Davis says. “The Regents wished to keep this Awakening quiet, since it has been more than fifty years since a fifth-ranked Scion was Called. The truth is, there have been increased Shadowborn attacks at all chapter campuses. More Gates opening and more partial-corp crossings. Last night’s fully corporeal uchel made it plain that the Shadowborn are gaining strength and may be coordinated. There is even talk of sightings of the Line of Morgaine.”

There are a few whispers around the room. Beside me, Greer clenches their fist. Meanwhile, I’m blinking in confusion. What the hell is the Line of Morgaine?

“We must prepare for the callings of Tristan, Lancelot, and Arthur.” He looks up at Nick, pride plain on his face. “?‘Yet some men say in many parts of England that King Arthur is not dead, but had by the will of our Lord Jesu into another place…’?” He gestures for Nick to finish the quote.

Nick’s brow knits at the performance, but he complies. “?‘And men say that he shall come again.’?”

“?‘And men say that he shall come again,’?” Davis repeats, the words like gospel. “ Le Morte d’Arthur . Malory. A man who knew our cycles of war. Who knew of Camlann.” He looks at the chapter and addresses us all once more. “The Regents have decided that in order to prepare the Round Table for the worst-case scenario, we need to accelerate this year’s tournaments at all chapters. We cannot wait months for Scions of any rank to select a Squire if they have not done so already. With that in mind, we will proceed with the first trial after tonight’s meal, and conclude the tournament with the Selection ceremony in six weeks’ time. As soon as possible, all Squires and Scions will be accounted for and bonded.”

A few chairs scoot on the hardwood, more nervous glances and low murmurs now. I make brief eye contact with Nick, who is already looking my way. Then I find William, leaning against the back wall. Pete, whom I don’t know, looks nervous beside Evan. Could I really Oath myself to any of them?

“The Warrior’s Oath is one of our most sacred vows, forever tying together Scion and Squire. Awakened pairs face death, be it on the battlefield or the Abatement. I tell you this, Pages, because this year’s tournament and this year’s Squire Selection are unlike any that this chapter has seen before.” He pauses, templing his fingers. “What may come to pass in the months ahead is something our Order has not witnessed in two hundred and fifty years. I must ask all Pages to think deeply, right now, on your commitments here and elsewhere. I, for one, will not blame you should you decide to serve the mission in other ways. And so, please stand if you would like to forfeit your place in this year’s tournament.”

Uneasy murmurs in the room now. Some of the third-year Pages and the one fourth-year, the ones who have been around the longest, share nervous glances. Finally, the fourth-year boy, Craig, stands, shame and fear on his face. A third-year girl wearing a Gawain green necklace stands and forfeits. So does the small first-year boy, Lewis.

The number of competing Pages drops from fifteen to twelve.

Once they depart, the room is heavy with a single thought.

Camlann is coming.