Oathbound (The Legendborn Cycle #3)

Chapter 9

9

TWO WEEKS

AFTER SELWYN KANE APPEARED

Natasia

AUDIO LOG—ENTRY #2

Selwyn woke up twelve days ago.

I have been a poor scientist. In an ideal world, for both Selwyn’s records and my own, I would have documented the moment of his awakening and the days since then with several audio log entries and observations, but there are intentions and there is reality… and it seems I am forever caught between the two. And so, with regret, this is only audio log number two.

I am recording this second entry a mile or so away from the cabin so as to save Selwyn from the understandably awkward experience of hearing himself being described by his mother. I think he’s showering now, and will be for at least the next ten minutes, so I will make this quick.

That first moment of seeing him stir froze the breath in my lungs. The time spent waiting for him to open his eyes was… interminable. [Quiet laugh.] My heartbeat thrummed in my chest, nearly as fast as a human being’s. No doubt that my appearance would have been alarming had someone else been there to see me. When my demon rises, my eyes turn a deep red. The tips of my ears grow to points. My fangs drop. My emotions, briefly, feel out of my control.

My son is in front of me, and soon he will wake, and we will speak to each other once again, I thought. I was thrilled near to tears.

Then, his eyes fluttered open—and the golden gaze I had last seen years ago was gone, replaced by a deep heart-blood crimson. He blurred to a crouch on the bed, snarling, fingers curled to call for aether, ready for a fight.

I did not flinch or move from my seat at his bedside; I know from experience that Selwyn’s predator senses are especially attuned to the behaviors and movements of prey, and such movement on my part would have encouraged him to strike.

I believe his demonia-heightened senses detected that I was not a foe before his conscious mind did, buried as it was, because his eyes quickly left me to scan the room for other threats. His nose raised to the air, taking in information about the home, the building. His fingers twitched at his sides.

I held my breath and held still, and waited for his eyes to return to me. A moment passed, and then they did.

When Selwyn truly saw me for the first time, his snarl faded. His eyes widened.

I knew the exact moment he recognized me as his mother, because when he did, confusion and hurt mingled on his features until they settled into disgust… and then fury.

I cannot blame him for this cocktail of emotions. I have, unfortunately, earned them.

His jaw tightened to iron, and he remained in his crouch. Still alert. Still on edge. I gave him a moment. To speak. To ask me questions. To do anything. I would give this boy, my son, anything at all. Anything.

But instead… he said nothing. He stared at me. Taking in, I assume, what thirteen years has done to my features. His eyes lingered on the gray at my temples, just beginning its trek down my long black hair.

I kept my voice low. Remained still. “The gray started a few years ago. Seems to be gaining speed these days.”

His eyes, sharp and narrowed, flicked to mine. He seemed to understand me.

“I probably have a few more lines on my face than the last time you saw me too.”

I didn’t move my body but let my gaze fall to my own hands—silver rings, long fingers. “My wounds don’t heal quite as quickly as they used to, so I have a few more scars here and there.” When I looked up, his eyes were on my hands, cataloging the thin twin slashes that twist from my knuckles, around my wrist, and down my forearm. “Hellsnake fangs,” I explained, and held my hand up slowly—but not slowly enough. His lips pulled back and a low growl began in his chest. I assured him quickly, “I won’t hurt you.”

His snarl remained.

I lowered my hand again, and his face relaxed.

“I’d never hurt you, Selwyn,” I said.

One of his thick brows rose. Disbelief?

“Not physically, ever,” I said. “I… I know I’ve hurt you in other ways.…”

He seemed to ignore my gesture, my bid. Instead, his eyes dropped back down to my hand, expression turned curious.

Okay, I thought. He wants to know about my injuries, not my feelings. We can do that.

“I found a clutch of hellsnake eggs in South Dakota one winter,” I explained. “Their mother had been attacking local residents at night, and the Merlin assigned to that region had already been called in to eliminate her. But they were young. Didn’t know enough to go searching for her nest.”

He blew out a quick breath. Annoyance?

“Agreed,” I said. “A lot of the younger Merlins aren’t trained the way I was. The way I trained you.”

When I looked back up, the curiosity in his eyes was gone. They had turned cold. Unfeeling. Hostile.

“I’d like to explain—” I started, and he looked down at his own hands, as if seeing them for the first time. I didn’t get insulted; instead, I followed his attention.

I know, after all, what it feels like to witness your body become something you yourself do not recognize.

I watched Selwyn study his open hands where they rested, palms facing down on his lap: the elongated, darkened nails. The black veins lining his fingers, running up the back of his knuckles, past his wrists to his forearms.

I attempted to offer him some information. Empathy. “You’ll find that when you—”

He rolled his wrists over so that his palms faced up—and tiny sparks of green aether erupted along his palms. He hissed.

“You’ll find that when you call aether now, it will manifest as green mage flame. Your constructs will also be green. I know this is alarming to see—”

Selwyn’s low growl interrupted me as he twisted his hands back, quieting the aether in them until the room was dark again.

I waited. I was not sure if his warning growl was for me and for what I was saying when he’d rather have not been distracted, or for what his body and magic had become.

He repeated the movement. Rolling his wrists, tucking his fists inward, then spreading his fingers up and out. Bright silver-green aether erupted at his palms again, but this time, he curled his hands in as if to harness the flames and make them his.

“ Selwyn—” I tried again, but he only snarled.

After several more minutes of this, he seemed satisfied. Then, he placed his palms in his lap and closed his eyes.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so dismissed.

[Long sigh.]

And it’s been like that every day for the past twelve days. He has not spoken to me once, even though I try a different tactic each day to encourage him to do so. Demonia does not affect language centers, so I have ruled out that he cannot speak and have had to accept that he… simply chooses not to. Based on his visceral and clear responses to my attempts at reconciliation—his facial reactions are very expressive, as they have always been—I can safely guess that not only is he choosing not to speak; he’s choosing specifically not to speak to me.

Our history is… complicated. Unfortunate. And entirely my fault.

In these days of one-sided silence between us, I have made sure to bring back new clothing in his size, supply him with toiletries, and prepare a variety of foods. His body is still mostly human, so he must eat to sustain himself—even if demonia will soon surface other hungers. Thankfully, I am not the worst cook: I’ve been feeding him, and he’s been eating. He explores my home. Rests. Observes. He doesn’t leave the house. Often doesn’t leave his room. I think he is waiting to decide how to proceed, or perhaps he senses that I am waiting to decide when to proceed to the next steps of his recovery, if he is agreeable to them.

Selwyn does not experiment with his new green aether abilities beyond testing them quietly in his palm. He does not call much more than a handful of flames. He does not forge constructs. He simply twists his wrists around to call the green aether, as if familiarizing himself with his newfound power.

Alone in my prison cell at the Shadowhold, I did much the same when my called aether turned the green color of a true Shadowborn. I tested my abilities. I tested myself. I sought the boundaries between my Merlin selfhood, my humanity, and my suddenly strong inner demon.

I had no one to speak to in those early weeks. I had always thought that if I had been able to share that time with someone else, a friendly face, my transformation might not have felt as bad. I wanted to speak to someone who did not judge me for a descent that was not my fault or for a crime I did not commit. Someone like Faye, who I did not get to say goodbye to before the Regents locked me away.

Faye would not have judged me or scorned me. Faye would have met me where I was and done everything in her power to see if she could help.

Perhaps I could not record another entry in this log because these days have been so hard on me, and in so many ways. As a fellow Merlin, as a mother, and as someone who has also been made to suffer at the hands of the Order.

I find myself thinking again and again of my dear friend and what she would do.

It is painfully easy to remember Faye’s face—to see her wide smile and too-clever brown eyes—but doing so gives rise to my grief once more.

It has been months since her death, and I cannot seem to shake the despair I feel from failing her. At not being there to stop the car and stop the inevitable.

Faye never seemed to fear her own death. She spoke about it as if it were a force coming for her, even as a young girl in her late teens. In those days, I felt invincible. I didn’t understand how much time she spent thinking of her own absence. How so often, when a strange silence fell upon her, it was death that consumed her thoughts.

I never thought that I would share a similar fate as my son.

I am eternally relieved that the same won’t be true for Faye and her daughter.

I wonder what Bree is facing now. I hope she is home safe with her father and that they are able to offer comfort to each other. Whatever grief I feel is likely a hundredfold worse for Faye’s daughter and widower.

I am grateful, once again, for Faye’s wisdom in testing Bree for Rootcraft early and confirming that her abilities had skipped her daughter.

This world of Legendborn and Shadowborn, of ancient wars and betrayals, of the Round Table and the Shadow Court, is no place for a child. Not my own and certainly not Faye’s.

In all of this, I can at least find some solace in knowing that Bree Matthews will be free to live her life without the chaos we call the Order.