Oathbound (The Legendborn Cycle #3)

Chapter 8

8

William

A FULL-CHESTED WAVE of immobilizing shame swamps me.

Did I ever name the forces that Bree faced? Did I ever call them what they were, full voiced in front of her? Or did I hope that she would understand that I knew them? Did I hope she would know my heart without seeing me declare it before others?

I drop my head. If I cannot recall the facts of my own words, then I cannot expect her to.

Have I ever even considered who Bree might be outside of the Order’s sins? Who she could become without our casual violence? I find I want to meet that girl and get to know her. But as long as I remain part of the Order as it exists now… I don’t think I ever will.

Aldrich sighs, sitting back. “Your comments have been noted.”

Nick’s expression turns thunderous. “That’s all you have to say, isn’t it?”

“Your words were very moving, I’m sure”—Aldrich waves a hand—“to someone .”

“I can only hope,” replies Nick, shaking his head in disbelief. “Bree truly is better off with a demon. But at this point, I almost pity her captor.”

“And why is that?” Erebus asks in a bored tone.

“Because”—Nick gazes at the Seneschal with not a small amount of pleasure—“no one dead or alive can control Briana Matthews.”

“Is that so?” Erebus asks, brow arched.

“Woe betide the human or demon who tries. Briana belongs to no one but herself. I know that better than anyone. Now grant my quest.”

“We are aware of your romantic relationship.” Cestra rolls her eyes. “You know the rules of intimacy between Scions, Davis. The Lines cannot, must not—”

“I am aware of the activities that ‘cannot, must not’ take place between Scions, Regent Cestra,” Nick scoffs, shaking his head. “These questions are distractions. Delays to the inevitable outcome you are Oathbound to provide. I have told you my objectives. Grant me my quest now .”

Aldrich looks to his left, then to his right, waiting for other inquiries or protests.

Cestra raises her hand, and her eyes glitter as she speaks. “As I recall, a traditional quest allows for two companions. A second-in-command and an attendant guardian—”

“I won’t need any companions,” Nick replies shortly.

“But we must follow tradition,” Cestra retorts. “It’s only fair.”

My body moves again without my permission. Suddenly, I am standing with one hand raised. “I volunteer as quest second.”

Nick’s head whips to me. “I reject your aid—”

“I will join Scion Davis’s quest,” I say louder, without meeting his gaze.

“A team will only slow me down and make trouble with the Morgaines!” Nick turns back to the Regents. “Scion Sitterson is a healer needed by the rest of the Table—”

“Scion Sitterson’s request is approved, per tradition,” Cestra says with a smile. “Who will be your champion?”

“I volunteer as quest champion.” I recognize Larkin’s voice even before he steps forward. “I will protect Scion Davis in the field and report back to the Council as necessary. Confirm success when the Morgaine is eliminated.”

“I reject this,” Nick protests. “I did not request companions. Ava will never trust me with a Merlin in tow—and she is killing Merlins. You did catch that, right?”

“You drew on the old traditions first, Scion Davis,” Aldrich says sagely, his eyes sparkling. “You cannot abandon them now.” The Lord Regent nods to both me and Larkin. “As quest second and champion, you will aid Scion Davis in pursuing his quest objective to kill the Morgaine leader Ava. And in the meantime, you will monitor his progress to ensure that he remains active toward his goals. We will expect regular updates to that effect.”

Larkin nods, face a blank, obedient mask. “Of course, Lord Regent.”

“If you do not report back as commanded or it is discovered that you permitted Scion Davis to abandon his stated quest, then he will be considered a traitor and his quest will be void and forfeit,” Cestra says smugly, “along with all of your lives.”

Nick glares at me. Imploring me to step away. Pleading with me to withdraw my bid.

My throat constricts, but Larkin and I answer in unison. “We understand.”

“Then I am satisfied,” Cestra states primly.

“As am I,” Gabriel says.

“I am not !” Nick shouts.

“I am satisfied as well,” Aldrich says with a nod. “Scion Davis, your quest is granted.”

Nick looks as if he might protest but suppresses the urge to do so. It does not take a strategic genius to know that he is caught—he either takes his boon as it is offered, or they further delay the inevitable. Or question his motives entirely.

A final, silent exhale of acceptance rattles through him.

Good.

Nick’s fists close in their cuffs as he dips his head. “Thank you, Regents and Seneschals. Consider my curia concluded and my—”

“No!”

Whatever Nick may have said next is lost beneath the sudden roar of a single Mageguard—and the whistling sound of an aether dagger being thrown straight at Nick’s back.

“Nick!” I shout.

Nick whips around at my warning—and just barely catches the hilt between both palms, halting the flying blade point at his chest. A small circle of blood blooms at his sternum, staining the center of his blue shirt a deep grayish purple.

A fraction of a second later and he’d be dead.

Deeply pierced hearts are beyond even my abilities. Fortunately, this wound appears shallow—the blood spreads without spilling.

A heartbeat of silence passes—before the powder keg of the room finally erupts.

Flashes of silver-blue aether in the dimly lit space temporarily blind me as the Mageguard arm themselves at once. Angry Legendborn storm over pews and run toward the stage, shouting.

Onstage, Nick searches for his assailant as he flips the blade around in his chained hands, arming himself with the dagger that nearly killed him. Behind him, each of the three Seneschals has cast a two-person barrier over himself and his Regent.

I am running without thinking, in motion beside Greer, armor flowing up my elbows to my shoulders—

Out of the corner of my eye, movement.

In the deepest shadow to my right, tucked beneath a balcony, a cloaked figure sprints forward—a Mageguard?

They rush the stage in a streak of black and silver. Leap high over their fellow Guards—

And are in front of Nick in a blink, sure-footed and steady.

With a smack, the figure clasps their hands together. A shining, solid blue dome surrounds the stage—trapping a handcuffed Nick inside with a raging Merlin.

“Regents!” Gill’s voice roars from the balcony, barely audible over the din. “Stop this!”

The figure throws their hood and cloak onto the wooden floor, revealing a dark-haired Merlin in his mid-twenties with pale skin. Like the other guards, he is in dress grays, but his undercut lies disheveled across his brow, half falling into his deep orange eyes.

“Thompson, stand down!” Erebus shouts at his Guard, but the Merlin doesn’t respond. Instead, he extends a hand toward Nick to recall his blade from Nick’s right fist. Nick struggles to hold it—but the blade flies back to its forger, landing neatly in the newcomer’s hand.

“Thompson!” Erebus commands. “Now!”

Thompson turns the dagger in his fist over once. Twice. “I can’t let him walk, sir! Not after what he did!”

Nick slides a foot back for better balance. “I have no fight with you, Guard Thompson. And I am cuffed—this won’t be a fair battle.”

By now, all the Scions and Squires are on their feet at ground level, spread out around the dome, shouting for the barrier to come down.

“You don’t deserve a fair fight.” Aether swirls around both of Thompson’s wrists. “You killed Max.”

Nick eyes the magic growing at the Merlin’s sides. “I think we’ve already covered that.”

“Stop this!” Samira calls.

Instead of intervening, the Regents remain silent. Erebus is the only member of the Council who takes action. He steps outside of his own protective casting to hold a palm toward Thompson’s barrier, silently calling it to himself to dissolve it—but is arrested by a bolt of aether knocking his arm sideways.

At the far end of the dais, Serren lowers his hand. The two Seneschals glare at each other, a meeting of wills.

Understanding freezes my feet to the floor.

The Council can’t harm Nick now that they’ve granted his quest, but a Mageguard can—and the Oath of protection the guards take is sworn only to the king. If Thompson wants to kill Nick, he can, and no Oath will stop him.

Serren doesn’t seem to care if Nick dies—but Erebus Varelian, for all his faults, does .

Before the other Seneschal can react, Erebus raises one hand, twisting it in the air—and the void cuffs around Nick’s hands clatter to the floor.

Serren rolls his eyes but does not respond.

I step forward, moving toward the stage myself, to stop Thompson, to help Nick—and am halted by the steel grip of Gillian Hanover at my elbow.

My eyes widen in alarm. “Gill—”

“No.” Gillian’s sharp eyes dart between the Seneschals; the Mageguard that surround us, waiting for an order; the Regents, who are unmoved; and the circling figures of Nick and Thompson. “Too many variables.”

I shake her hand from my arm. “But Nick is injured—”

“Which is why he needs to focus,” Gill states.

Thompson’s roar draws our attention back to the stage.

“He was a good soldier!” He circles Nick. “A good man!”

“If you say so.” Nick carefully crosses one foot over the other while watching the aether surrounding Thompson’s arms. He does not forge the ball of aether in his palm; he simply holds it ready. “My father died on Zhao’s spear, so forgive me if I have my doubts.”

With another roar, Thompson darts forward. Forms a longsword as he moves.

Nick calls a blade to life in an instant—they meet in the middle, their swords sparking—

Nick and the Merlin backpedal at nearly the same pace.

A beat.

They flash together again in a blur of streaming aether, swords clanging as they cross. Both wield their blades in nearly the same manner, until Thompson shouts—and his blades melt into snakelike whips, curling around Nick’s weapon.

This time, when Thompson darts back, he takes Nick’s sword with him.

Nick releases his constructs—and his blade sparks to dust within the Merlin’s grasp.

Without Nick’s weapon in their writhing grasp, Thompson’s snake constructs begin to shift, change shape into something new—

But Nick is already moving—nearly a blur himself as he rushes across the stage.

He takes a flying leap at a shocked Thompson, swinging his right fist back—to land a hard, crunching blow to the Merlin’s nose.

No Merlin expects a fistfight—not with a slower, weaker human.

And while Nick is not as strong as a cambion, his Line of Lancelot speed gives him an advantage—and Thompson wasn’t ready.

The Merlin’s head snaps back—his face an explosion of blood—as Nick lands, rolling out of range.

Nick springs to his feet. Thompson groans, both hands coming to his face.

Merlins are extremely durable, and they heal quickly—but a broken nose is a broken nose. A high-value hit against a more agile opponent.

Nick speeds back to the other side of the dome, his chest rising and falling beneath his bloodied shirt. He shakes out the hand that has a deep red bruise blossoming along its knuckles.

Thompson flashes bloodstained teeth and takes a new stance at the far side of the circle.

“Stand down!” Nick says.

“That punch was a lucky shot!” Thompson replies, voice angry and nasal.

“I’ve already admitted to murdering Zhao. I can’t take it back—”

“Max was following orders!” Thompson shouts. “He didn’t have a choice. And your father was a traitor!”

“I won’t argue that, but—” Nick’s eyes flicker in surprise, stopping him halfway through his sentence. “Oh. Oh .” His eyes widen. “This isn’t new anger; you’ve been nursing it.”

Thompson claps his now trembling hands together, growing another ferocious ball of swirling aether between his palms. “Shut up.”

“I see now.” Nick’s brows draw tight. “Max wasn’t just a ‘good’ man; he was your man.”

“Yes,” Thompson growls, forging a long, narrow weapon.

Nick watches the older man carefully, understanding growing in his eyes. “You loved him.”

Thompson’s face darkens. “And you killed him.”

“I did.” Nick forges a sword, the blade extending slow and steady until it shines. “I am sorry for my part in your loss. I wish I could change it, but I can’t. And I don’t blame you for wanting revenge.”

“I don’t give a damn what you’re sorry for, Scion!”

“We both paid a price that day, Guard Thompson,” Nick says solemnly. Sadness clouds his features as he raises his sword with both hands, leveling it at Thompson. “Take care that you do not pay another now, at the end of my blade. I am not here for you.”

“But I am here for you .” Thompson’s aether staff is heavy now, with solid round ends the size of my fist. Thud! He slams it on the floor of the stage, and sparks fly from the impact. “I’m ready, Scion.”

“This can end,” Nick says, circling again with his blade at the ready.

“You started this,” Thompson sneers, twirling the staff in one hand. As it circles, aether flames spill out from the ends, making a heavy whoosh-whoosh-whoosh sound that fills the meeting room.

Nick dips his chin. “I know.”

Thompson lunges forward, extending his arm, but Nick is already dodging. Nick drops his blade. Slides beneath the rotating staff—and sweeps Thompson’s legs out from beneath him.

The next seconds are a blur.

Thompson hits the stage back-first, already moving into a kip-up, pressing down to flip forward—but Nick is waiting.

He sends a roundhouse to Thompson’s face at breakneck speed—kicking the Merlin out of the air and back down to the floor before he ever gets the chance to land.

Thompson’s body skids across the wooden stage until he comes to a stop.

The Mageguard lies unconscious, splayed awkwardly. His weapon dissipates.

The room is silent once again.

I know Nick was taught by Gillian as a child and that he grew up sparring with Selwyn, but I sometimes forget what that combination of training looks like in a life-or-death battle. Lessons from an experienced Liege of Kay made Nick dangerous, but endless bouts with a young Kingsmage made him nearly unstoppable. Now, with Lancelot’s speed, Nick is truly deadly, even against an adult Merlin and trained Mageguard like Thompson.

Beside me, Gill’s eyes are bright with knowing pride because throughout the entire fight, she knew something that I didn’t:

Nick had been holding back.