Davis inhales sharply. “Your Page?” Hope runs through his voice like a quiet current. “Does this mean—are you—”
“Last-minute decision.” A clicking sound and the whine of Nick’s retracting sword.
“Ah.” I get the feeling Nick’s father is weighing what words to use next, like the wrong phrase might send his son running into the woods. Finally, he says, “I’m sure you know how much this means to me. And to the greater Order.”
“Yeah.” The resignation in Nick’s voice catches me off guard, and my stomach twists. I’m the one who pushed him here. Am I the reason his voice is that heavy?
Pride and awe mingle in the older man’s voice. “My son claiming his title and bringing forth a Page, all in one night. That is… somethin’ else.” His next words are directed at me. “I don’t know how or if you’re responsible for my son’s change of heart, but if y’are, consider me eternally grateful. I’m in your debt, Briana. Welcome.”
A pause. Am I supposed to respond?
I mumble a quiet, “Thank you.”
Davis clears his throat. “Now, I’d like an explanation as to why the two of you were fighting.”
Nick doesn’t hesitate. “Sel thought he sensed a Shadowborn here in the woods, but he was mistaken. Our Merlin remains vigilant, as always.”
I hold my breath, waiting for Sel’s outburst and correction, but it never comes.
Davis is shocked. “Here? The Shadowborn have never been bold enough to open a Gate on our land, not with so many Legendborn under one roof. Selwyn, is this true?”
Silence. I wonder why Sel isn’t speaking up. Just a few minutes ago he had been so certain, so full of determined rage.
“We rely on your senses, son.” Davis makes a thoughtful sound. “Are your abilities becomin’ unpredictable, Kingsmage?”
A pause. Sel’s terse response comes through clenched teeth. “There is always that risk, Lord Davis.”
“You look unhappy, boy. As the Gospel of Luke instructs, let us celebrate and be glad of Nicholas’s return, for ‘he was lost and is found.’ ” Another pause in which Sel could counter Nick’s explanation, but doesn’t. “Bree, I must apologize for both my son and Selwyn here. Oil and water, these two, ever since they were children.” I nod. Satisfied, Davis moves down the path. “Let us proceed to the Chapel. Don’t want to keep the others waitin’. Not on a night such as this.”
Nick guides me forward. I don’t hear Sel say or do anything else. In fact, the only footsteps I hear are Nick’s and his father’s.
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.