Oathbound (The Legendborn Cycle #3)

Chapter 6

6

SEVENTY-TWO HOURS

AFTER brIANA MATTHEWS DISAPPEARED

William

“WHAT’S THAT KID thinking, calling a curia?” Gillian groans.

The meeting hall at the Keep is set apart from the main residential building by a long outdoor walkway. Gillian met me at my temporary room at dawn, and our journey to the hall has taken us past a covered koi pond, an empty gazebo sitting on stone pavers on the left, and an herb garden beneath iron arbors on the right. We take several more steps together, our dress shoes clacking on the path beneath our feet, before I reply.

“I have asked myself this several times,” I say. “The curia allows him to be granted a single boon from the Regents. They have made it clear they will kill him to move on to the next eligible Scion of Lancelot. Maybe he’ll ask them to withdraw the assassination Order they’ve given the Mageguard?”

“That seems too obvious,” Gill says.

I sigh. “I thought the same. He would still be under suspicion. He would still be watched closely—and they still would not trust him. He renounced his title once; he could do so again. Especially after his father’s betrayals.”

“What else could it be?”

“A search for Bree or Sel?” I suggest.

“Also obvious,” Gill replies. “And he’d have to choose one or the other. Those are two requests, not one.”

I fear she’s right. We walk silently for a moment before I raise another thought I’ve had in the days since Nick’s self-requested imprisonment. “Did you know that when Bree first entered the Squires’ tournament, it was because Nick told her that if she became Legendborn, she could call a curia?”

Gill stops walking and turns to me, eyes wide. An early morning breeze caught between the buildings lifts her dark hair. “He didn’t .”

I raise my hands. “Unconfirmed by Nick, but I think I’m right. I remember Bree telling me she infiltrated the Order to find out what happened to her mother. She wanted to know if the Regents were behind it. If they had answers.” I cast my gaze ahead at our destination in the distance—the meeting hall that will hold all former and current Legendborn still on-site. “I think even then, Nick had the idea of a curia in his mind, but as a strategy to help Bree, not himself.”

“So he’s had this loophole in his back pocket for a long time, then.” Gill curses beneath her breath and starts walking, and I follow. “Still, calling one for himself is a gambit right now. It forces the Regents into a corner, and they don’t like being cornered.”

A voice calls to us from the grass beside us. “It depends on what he asks for, doesn’t it?”

I smile at Samira’s approach and nod as she joins us on the path. Like us, she’s wearing more formal attire today; she’s in a dark blue pantsuit with the one-winged falcon sigil of Bedivere set in a silver clasp at the top of a bolo tie of purple cord. Gillian’s Line of Kay umber necktie is held in place by a clip in the crossed keys of the Line’s sigil, and it rests over her dark gray sports jacket and slacks.

“Whatever he demands,” Samira adds, “the Regents must grant his request.”

“A fact that they truly appreciate, I’m sure,” Gillian says dryly. She turns to Samira abruptly, then glances back at me. “Everything okay with our sleeping Vassal?”

“She’s well over state lines by now,” I answer. A smile tugs at my mouth. “Sleeping Vassal” isn’t a bad code for Alice. I had mocked up paperwork to make her a Vassal of the Line of Gawain, after all. “The handoff went as well as can be expected.”

Samira stuffs her hands in her pockets. “Got an earful from Lucille about Larkin’s surprise appearance.”

“It was handled,” I say slowly.

Samira sniffs. “Larkin was furious, you mean.”

“Yes.” I pull at my tie. “But watching them take her was a worthwhile relief.”

We reach the outer door of the round meeting hall building. When the three of us approach, the two Mageguard standing on either side of internal double oak doors straighten. They are in the usual Mageguard uniform: black pants and combat boots, a black sweater and a heavy black cloak and cowl with fingerless leather gloves. One looks to be young, fifteen at most. Her deep yellow eyes widen as she takes in our group’s colors and sigils.

“Scion Sitterson,” the young Guard says, dipping her head in acknowledgment to greet me first. “Lieges Hanover and Miller.” When we greet her in return, her eyes widen like saucers.

Abruptly, the young Mageguard’s companion, an older Merlin, clears his throat. The young Guard snaps to attention before they both open the doors behind them and allow us to pass.

The rotunda behind those large doors feels sacred. It’s certainly big enough and grand enough to appear like a historic church. A cathedral complete with stained-glass windows that send splintered rainbows of light onto its worn wooden floor. When I was a small child, I thought what we did, the fighting and the hunting, was a religious calling. An objective good in service to the Shadowborn holy war. But now…

The double doors close behind us, muffling the sound of chirping birds outside and enclosing us in solemn silence. We walk down the long, empty aisle, past rows and rows of empty pews. Beneath our feet, the hewn stone path slopes gently downward, as if to reach the center of the room is to descend to some great and terrible core.

“The Merlin at the door is too young to be a Guard,” Samira says quietly, eyes scanning the empty rafters, the pews, the brightly lit platform at the end of the room. “Takes at least three years of solo fieldwork and two recommendations from Master Merlins before the Mageguard will even consider adding a new Merlin to their units.”

“Times have changed.” Gill’s voice is somber, distracted.

“Have they?” Samira muses.

“What’re you thinkin’, Sam?” Gill asks warily.

A beat passes between them. Then—“G’on ahead, William,” Samira says with a smile that barely turns her lips. “We’re gonna take a seat in the upper level. Gill and I will see you after the ceremony.”

While we were always going to part ways to find separate seating in the rotunda, Samira’s comments feel abrupt. As former Legendborn, Lieges are allowed to attend the curia, but they can only observe the proceedings and are not allowed to participate.

Gill doesn’t address her fellow Liege’s odd redirection and simply turns to me with a wry grin. “See you later, Will.”

They know something—or at least suspect it—but aren’t sharing.

Lieges keep their own counsel, so there’s no pressing them for more. Especially not here and now. Instead, I salute them both. Together, they turn to walk down an empty pew until they disappear into the candlelit darkness toward the balcony stairs. As I stare after them, though, a small bubble of dread builds behind my sternum.

I gaze up at the balcony and see the silhouettes of more Lieges, scattered in groups around the upper level of the rotunda. I can’t see their faces or bodies, but I know what I would see if I could: premature silver streaks and salt-and-pepper hair, missing digits or limbs aided by prosthetics like Gillian’s, scars from wounds that healed the long way. The Lieges’ bodies bear the physical costs of their longevity, their successes, their failures. And today, they will be hidden from the eyes of the three human Regents who lead the Council. Their injuries and disabilities will be tucked away and their voices silenced from impacting any of the proceedings.

The sudden anger that slices through me is enough to take my breath away—and enough to take me back to the dying words of Jonas, a Liege who violated his Oaths and who was willing to sacrifice his life to end the cycle.

I watched her die, felt her anger, her fear.… The Legendborn cycle saves human lives while destroying them in the same breath.

How many Lieges have witnessed the Order’s corruption and, like Gill and Samira, chosen the path of resistance… and how many have seen the evil up close and, like Jonas, chosen the side of the monsters?

“William?” Greer’s voice is at my elbow.

I turn away from the balcony of Lieges, the ghosts and shadowed faces. “Hey, Greer.”

Greer has also been gifted a tie, this one with a golden clip. On a dark gray suit, the tawny yellow of the Line of Owain is a bright slash down their chest. Their blond hair has been combed down and left in a loose, low ponytail at the nape of their neck. They jerk a thumb over their shoulder at the section of pews closest to the round stage. “We’re over here.”

A curia conventus is a closed ritual. Not quite a trial, but a hearing of sorts between the Order’s highest-ranked parties. Only the Legendborn, Lieges, and the Council will be admitted today—along with a limited number of Mageguard for the Council’s protection.

We pass the small section designated for the Lines of the Western chapter and dip our chins in acknowledgment. Out of us all, they keep mostly to themselves unless the need is dire.

As I walk with Greer to the Southern Chapter’s section of the pews, I wave to our friends. Greer’s Scion, Pete, has saved a seat for them. Next to Pete is Beau, our fallen Scion of Bors’s younger sibling and replacement. Felicity, our Scion of Lamorak, pats the empty wooden space beside her with a smile.

As I take my seat, I find myself seeking out the auburn undercut and amber gaze of someone who is not yet here.

The seating in the circular meeting hall is arranged to represent the cardinal directions and chapters. Northern, Southern, and Western each have their own sections, and in the east is a large, empty dais with six seats prepared for the Council’s three Regents and paired Mage Seneschals. When the time comes, Nick will take the stage at the center of the room.

Already seated is the Western Chapter, whose four Scions I identify by color. The aquamarine of the Line of Erec, the currant wine red of the Line of Caradoc, the midnight black of the Line of Mordred, and the stone gray of the Line of Geraint.

The doors at the top of the hall creak open to admit the Northern Chapter Scions of Kay and Bedivere, a younger cousin of Gill’s named Alex, a girl named Hannah—and the former and mistaken Scion of Lancelot, Donovan Reynolds.

Donovan’s lazy smirk is permanently sprawled across his mouth. His broad shoulders pull at the black sweater he wears over a pair of gray slacks, and his shiny shoes click loudly over the stone floor. He is built like an athlete, he walks like a wealthy prince, and he wields the type of openly handsome face that one hopes belongs to an equally kind heart.

Unfortunately, that hope would be mistaken.

Donovan and I met a decade ago, when we were both nine years old, at one of the training courses for eligible Scions. He’d been devastatingly good with one sword. With two, he was exemplary. In all things, he was brutal and cruel.

He would have made a terrifying Scion of Lancelot.

“What is he doing here?” A quiet voice at my shoulder interrupts my thoughts. I turn to face Felicity, who is dressed similarly to me: gray slacks, a dress shirt. On her right arm, she wears two matching red leather cuffs bearing the griffin of Lamorak. Her cuff and the cuff of her fallen Squire, Russ.

“I don’t know,” I reply. “Now that Nick’s true lineage has been revealed, we know Donovan was never the Scion of Lancelot or Legendborn. His title should be stripped, and he shouldn’t be admitted to the curia.”

She groans and pushes her wavy curls back behind her shoulders. “ Some people can still bend the rules however they like.”

A grumble of agreement from the others of our chapter flows down the pew in a wave. I don’t speak aloud my own worry about Donovan’s presence: that it serves as a reminder that none of our titles, our powers, are truly safe. That the Regents could kill any one of us to replace us with a more agreeable Scion who will behave in their image, just as they are threatening to do with Nick.

“Just making sure I’m following: We have no clue how Nick is gonna play this thing?” Greer asks.

“Correct,” I say, and they grimace. “My best guesses are demands that would understandably save his own life. Possibly permission to search for Bree or Sel, maybe a request for resources to pursue them. Maybe a preemptive request to drop any charges for killing Maxwell Zhao. Zhao was a highly ranked Mageguard and one of Erebus’s favorite soldiers. Loyal, strong, and valuable as a Merlin who had grown in power but not yet showed signs of demonia.”

Pete nods. “Zhao was well-known, but if what I’m hearing is true, the Regents ordered him to murder Nick in cold blood. Even after Nick’s father got caught in the line of fire, Erebus still didn’t call Zhao off. Nick killed Zhao in self-defense!”

I don’t disagree. I catch another bit of movement at the back doors. Tor and Sarah enter, standing together but not quite as close as in times past. They take a seat two rows up from us in the Southern section, pointedly not looking or speaking to each other.

“Trouble in paradise,” Greer murmurs. “Wonder how Tor is holding up—not that I give a damn.”

“Who cares,” Felicity says, her English accent elevating her vowels as her eyes darken. “Tor plotted with the Regents against Bree, lied about where William and Bree were when they were being held captive , and when the Morgaines reached out to give the Legendborn information we needed, she ratted us all out. As far as I’m concerned, you’re either with us or against us, and Victoria chose her side, so she can rot in it.”

“Felicity…,” I say warningly, wondering how we’ll ever gather the Table when the grudges run so deep. When Bree is gone and we’re so very fractured.

She challenges me with a single lifted brow. “Yes?”

I don’t have a proper chastisement for her. I find I don’t feel like keeping the peace as I might have done a year ago. “Nevermind.”

Suddenly, our ears pop. The other Scions and Squires stop speaking and moving; they feel it too.

An aether barrier is being forged nearby.

“The Mageguard?” Greer asks.

I nod. I glance up at the exposed trusses and the ceiling cast in shadows, shivering at the sensation of aether overhead. Of the remaining Southern Legendborn, my aether sense is the sharpest. Has to be, to track aether’s path through an injured body. “They’re casting a barrier ward to protect the building while the Regents are here.”

Without preamble, a door behind the stage opens, and Erebus Varelian walks through the closed curtain in a plain black suit. I can’t help but shudder as his red eyes cast over the room. When they land on the Southern Chapter, his lips purse, but he says nothing.

A small group of Mageguard in formal black cloaks enter behind him, fanning out and down to stand guard around the stage, facing the audience.

Somewhere in that group might be Larkin. We have not spoken since he found me and the Rootcrafters in the woods and discovered my plan to send Alice away.

I hope he’s not expecting an apology.

The other Regents enter in a steady stream. First, Erebus’s own Regent of Shadows, Cestra. The Mage Seneschal of Mesmer, Tacitus, and his assigned Regent of Light, Gabriel, arrive next. Then Serren, the oft-silent Mage Seneschal of Constructs, and the High Regent himself, Lord Regent Aldrich, enter last, both in slacks and button-down shirts. All but the Lord Regent take their seats.

I have never seen the Regents dressed quite so informally. Perhaps the confrontation with the Morgaines and Legendborn has altered their pomp and circumstance. Or perhaps they have realized that there is no formal attire that can assuage the distrust they’ve sown between our two groups.

“Well,” Lord Regent Aldrich says as he paces to the edge of the stage with one hand in his pocket. “I call to order this so-called curia conventus .” His mouth cuts against and around the words as if he despises them. “We are all here on the demanded day, summoned per the requirements of the ritual.” Aldrich spreads his hands wide. “Where is our guest?”

“Perhaps Davis used the delay of this meeting to configure an escape plan from his tower prison,” Regent Gabriel drawls from his chair.

“Escape is impossible,” Erebus calls out. “I trained Merlin Takada myself. Her affective wards are enough to incapacitate even a Mage Seneschal. Nicholas Davis could not make it past her wards without his brain turning to mush.”

“And yet only a Davis would be arrogant enough to try,” Cestra says with a snide laugh.

I lose track of their words, their voices. Suddenly, all I can see and hear is their cruelty. These two—Regent Cestra and her Seneschal—held both me and Bree captive for days. Forced me to do things I never thought myself capable of. Forced me to become a person who would hurt my friend when the choice was either harm or something worse.

I am the Awakened Scion of Gawain, and they threw my training—and my calling—back in my face.

“But Nicholas isn’t a Davis, not in truth.” The words are out of my mouth before I can call them back. Beside me, my friends’ heads whip in my direction. Greer grins, delighted by my impudence even as I am vaguely shocked by it. Shocked even more when I keep speaking. “He’s a Reynolds, as we now all know. As you all know. More importantly, he is your Scion of Lancelot—and you will treat his curia with respect.”

Lord Regent Aldrich begins to respond, but Cestra beats him to it. “Have something to say, Scion Sitterson?”

“I have much to say.” I stand before I can convince myself not to. My hands rest atop the back of the pew before me, and I notice that my fingers are trembling. It seems even my own body can’t square my behavior with my instincts. Or maybe it is the brainwashing of the Order, its last veil crumbling to ash as I face my former captors.

Whatever this force is that keeps me talking, it reminds me of Bree. Sharply, desperately, and wholly of Bree . Her bravery, always laced with her fear. If Bree can stand against them, then I must stand too.

“I have much to say,” I repeat. “For now I would simply like the record to reflect the facts before we begin.” I drag my gaze purposefully to Donovan Reynolds and his permanent, unearned smirk. “Nicholas Davis is a Reynolds by blood, and the Awakened and rightful Scion of Lancelot. Whatever ‘arrogance’ he possesses is made of the same material as the Line of Lancelot’s famous stubborn streak and swift ingenuity.”

I trace the sneer on Cestra’s face with my eyes. Her long, shiny nails and smooth cuticles. The hands in her lap, resting gently without the hard-earned calluses of a warrior.

Cestra’s expression darkens. “Your point, Scion Sitterson?”

“My point is that as a child of Tristan, even you were taught to revere these traits—though you were never Called to battle to witness their necessity.” Her eyes widen at my words, but I can’t stop them. “My point is that you mock the very values that keep you relevant—and you should hold your tongue in gratitude.”