“A ton.” The features of his face are caught halfway between the loose, charismatic boy I’d met last night and the stern, noble Nick whose eyebrows are drawn tight with some emotion I can’t identify. “Why are you helping me?”
His mouth quirks. “I like helping people, if I can.” The light in his eyes dims. “And I know how it feels to watch your family shatter right in front of you and not be able to stop it.”
Before I can ask another question, he turns away—and then I’m struck silent by the massive living room in front of me. Brown leather couches sit clustered in front of a large fireplace on one far end. The fireplace itself is Biltmore House–big; the marble hearth could hold a horse standing upright. I glimpse a bright chef’s kitchen through a swinging door to the right, but most stunning are the twelve-foot-high floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the entire back wall and give an expansive view of the forest. The Lodge is high enough on its hill that the darkening horizon is visible through the earthen browns and evergreens.
Nick has paused beside me while I take everything in. Once I’m done, I notice that, again, half of the eyes in the room are glued to Nick and the other half have found me. A few of the more nicely dressed people from the foyer trail curious eyes up my boots to my jeans and T-shirt. Some stare openly at Nick’s coin around my neck, and heat rises up my ears. Nick leads me over to a display of beverages in a corner. When the eyes follow us, I find my irritation shifting from the gawkers to Nick.
The moment the voices around us return to idle chatter, I move closer to him and whisper, “Everyone’s staring.”
His back to the room, he passes a glass of cucumber water to me and keeps his voice low. “As far as they know, I haven’t walked into this house since I was twelve years old. Then I show up out of the blue to reclaim my title and sponsor a Page no one’s seen before. And…”
“And?”
Nick presses his lips into a thin line and pours a water for himself. “And, traditionally, new Pages come from the Vassal families who pledged themselves to the Order decades or even generations ago, so…”
I groan inwardly. “So it looks like I skipped the line.”
He chuckles. “You could say that.”
Nick explained Vassals in the salon: Onceborn outsiders who are sworn to the Code and the Order at large, but pledged in service to one of the original thirteen Legendborn bloodlines that founded the Order in the medieval ages. The Vassals know about aether and Shadowborn, but they don’t fight in the war. Instead, their network shores up any gaps in their assigned family’s needs and resources. In exchange, the Order grants them favors. Most Vassals start out with power or money and use the Order to gain more. Climbers. Like Deputy Norris, probably. Vassalage creates CEOs, elected officials, cabinet members, even presidents.
I scan the room, hear the buzz again, then mutter into my drink. “And then there’s the fact that no one else here looks like me.”
Nick follows my gaze, sees what I see—a room full of white kids, not a person of color in sight—and grimaces. His jaw sets in a hard line. “If someone says something to you, anything, let me know. I’ll put a stop to it.”
I look at Nick’s face. He is so certain that he understands what I’m facing. Then I think of Norris, the dean, and how some things, some people, don’t want to just… stop. I think of what it might cost me to infiltrate the Order. To succeed in an institution founded by men who could have legally owned me, and wanted to.
“Sure you will.”
I hear my cynicism, and Nick does too. He frowns and starts to reply, but gets cut off by a new voice at my shoulder.
“Hey, Davis!”
We turn to see a pair of students looking at us with bright, curious eyes.
“Whitty!” Nick smiles and slaps hands with one of them. “Man, is it good to see you. It’s been what, two years since the rafting trip?”
Whitty grins. “Not our finest hour.” He has a stocky build with wild, pale curly hair, and he’s wearing a worn camo jacket and jeans. While the other kids are dressed for classes or the formality of the Lodge, Whitty’d look equally at home on a tractor or up a hunting blind. His casual indifference appeals to me immediately, but then I remember he’s probably a Vassal kid, and my guard goes up.
Nick had been disdainful about Vassal families whose sole focus is positioning one of their children to join the Order: “The Order’s mission is fighting Shadowborn and protecting humans. It’s safer on the outside, but for some the benefits of membership outweigh the risks. Even Pages and their families get privileges Vassals don’t. Only Legendborn can recruit new members, so these climbers will do anything to curry favor with their assigned bloodline in hopes that their child will get tapped,” he’d scoffed. “But those Vassals don’t want to help people, they want the status. And they put their kid in harm’s way to get it.”
Hence, Rule Two: “Keep your head down. Disappear. Make them forget you, so they don’t consider you competition.”
But Nick seems genuinely happy to see the other boy, so maybe Whitty’s not the “sport and glory” variety?
“The Upper Nantahala’s class three and four rapids, though. We did all right.” Nick nods in my direction. “This is Bree Matthews. Bree, this is James Whitlock, also known as Whitty. The Whitlocks are Vassals to the Line of Tristan, and they own most of the pig farms out in Clinton.”
“We prefer the term ‘hog barons.’ ” Whitty gives me a conspiratorial wink. He offers his hand; his grip is firm and warm. The faded blue cuff around his wrist is held together by a rubber band. “Nice to meet you, Bree. Nick here your sponsor?” I nod, and he whistles low. “Well, all right then.”
“I’m Sarah’s Page.” Whitty jerks a thumb at his companion. “And this is Greer Taylor. They’re Russ’s.”
“Hey, y’all.” Greer gives a short wave. They’re basketball-player tall and lean, with long, muscled arms and legs. Their dirty-blond hair lies in a single braid over their shoulder, while a few shorter strands fall out the front of their slouchy gray knit cap. An unbuttoned, expensive-looking, slate-colored suit vest over an untucked denim shirt and cuffed jeans puts their look somewhere between designer and hipster. They’re also wringing their hands in front of their belt buckle in a nervous gesture that reminds me painfully of Alice.
“Thought we’d come over and introduce ourselves,” Whitty says with a sidelong glance at the rest of the room. “Plenty o’ time to be at each other’s throats later, if the tournament stories are true.”
Nick starts to reply—to assuage our fears or to counter Whitty’s casual prediction of violence?—but stops when a tall boy with brown curly hair appears at his elbow.
“Sorry to interrupt, but are you Nick Davis?” When Nick nods, the boy’s brows shoot up. He offers his hand. “I’m Craig McMahon, fourth-year Page.”
The year of study doesn’t affect when a student can be tapped, so someone who joins as a senior will only ever be a first-year Page—and will only get one chance to be Selected as a Legendborn Squire. If Craig’s a fourth-year, then he was tapped as a freshman.