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?