“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.