Oathbound (The Legendborn Cycle #3)

Chapter 19

19

“LOOK ALIVE, brIANA!”

One of the three aether foxes Erebus has forged yowls from its low position in front of me, another paws at the earthen floor to my left, and the third hisses from my right.

I take a deep belly breath and exhale my furnace open, feel the flames roll beneath the surface of my skin, and expand into my limbs and fingers. Pressing against the limits of my body, ready to be released.

My right foot slides back once, then again, to create space between me and the living constructs. Each fox has paws the size of my face. Each has scales lining its massive back. And each is made of crystalline aether, but their aether is not the same.

Because the Shadow King commands not one form of power but three.

The first fox construct shines in silver-blue like a Merlin’s construct.

The second is green-yellow, like the aether of an isel or goruchel.

The third is barely a fox shape at all—made of the nearly formless obsidian-black smoke that is unique to its caster.

The silver-blue hellfox tenses, preparing to leap—

Defend.

A deep purple crystal shield springs into place just as the fox swipes the air in front of my nose. Its nails scrape down the hardened root, dragging sparks in their wake.

I jump back, taking the shield with me—and the fox screeches in failure.

The other two foxes, one on my left and one on my right, make low, chittering sounds. They tense together—

I release the shield. Raise both hands with fingers wide.

Protect. A round dome, sized to fit me, shining and solid.

The foxes crash into my barrier, paws and limbs meeting its walls.

Their bodies crumple. Slide.

“Very good, Briana. Your barrier holds.”

The three foxes recover. Grow still.

“For now.”

That is my only warning. The foxes spring—

With a snap of his fingers, Erebus transforms the creatures in midair from foxes into towering bears with beady eyes and dripping fangs—and much more power behind their attacks.

Their heavy paws strike—and my dome dents.

I send more power surging into my construct—but the bears’ paws are too heavy, and the walls crush inward. “They’re going to break it!” I shout.

“Then stop them,” Erebus replies calmly.

“I can’t attack and defend at once!”

“Then learn,” he insists.

I grit my teeth and draw up even more power from within my chest, sending it through my arms, down my elbows, into my wrists, and out from my fingertips. The rush of root flows into layers behind the first barrier, flexing and adjusting behind the dents to reinforce them.

The bears circle me on the ground, roaring as they search for weak spots in my sphere.

“Good,” Erebus calls. “A second layer working beneath the first. Repairing it.” I can just make out his dark figure as he watches from the shadows. “Now, how long can you keep that up?”

“What?” I exclaim.

He is already turning from me and pacing toward the entrance to the warehouse.

“I’ve given a bit of my own will to the constructs. A sliver of independence so that they can function without my supervision. They will keep going until they reach you—or until I return.” He taps his watch. “Merlins aged eight or nine can last as long as an hour. Kingsmages, when pushed, can hold a simple protective construct like this in place for up to six hours before they break.”

He looks up at me before he exits.

“Let’s see where you fall, Briana Matthews.”

Then, he’s gone, leaving the heavy doors to bang shut behind him.

“Erebus!” I call over the sound of the roaring constructs. “Wait!”

My dome has been up for a few minutes at most now, but it’s already straining me. There’s sweat at the back of my neck, in between my shoulder blades, running down the Pendragon necklace.

I try to tune out the animals’ sounds, the dull thuds of heavy, padded paws striking against the structure around me. I close my eyes and focus on the furnace in my chest, drawing another round of flame out the way one might scoop out fresh, hot coals to deliver them to an empty hearth. I send a fresh wave of flames down my limbs to my hands, plenty to apply another layer to the construct—but at my fingertips, the magic stutters and sparks out.

Not from a loss of power, but from a loss of focus.

From broken attention.

From Erebus, upsetting me on purpose and rattling me before we even entered the barn.

For so long, I had no command over my root. Now, I can control it, but my mind and heart interrupt that control.

Erebus’s creatures seem to sense my desperation, my thinning application of root, and growl more fiercely.

I don’t know how long I keep drawing more from a well that is so deep that I cannot sense its end.

Time loses meaning—I can only follow the rhythm of protection.

Draw root up, breathe it out. Send it to reinforce the layers.

Draw root up, squeeze it out. Flood it into the claw marks.

Draw root up, force it out. Harden it into the gouges.

In the end, I become a ball on the floor, the dome small and tight around my heels and shoulders, barely covering my head.

The roaring has gotten closer—the constructs bellowing as they near their prey.

My teeth clatter a rapid tattoo, rattling my jaw. I curl tighter, a fine tremor working its way up my spine, growing, until I begin to convulse on the floor.

There is one more well I can draw from, and I do it just before my root shield collapses—Arthur’s armor. A fixed construct that draws from the ambient aether in the air rather than the furnace inside me, and one I can call on with ease now. His armor snaps into place around me, helm and all, just as the bears’ blows break through the shield and onto my body.

But even the armor has a time limit.

I feel it fading, denting, and crumbling.

I smell the bears’ hot and hungry breaths as they heave and roar—

They’re going to shred me to pieces.

I’ve been gouged open before. My wet muscles split wide to the forest air, parts of me exposed that should never be.

The first bear’s strike rips my forearm open—and I scream.

The second set of claws tears my hand down to the bone—and I whimper.

The third bear digs two claws into the tops of my thighs—and drags them to my knees.

This is not how I’m supposed to die, alone in a warehouse at the mercy of creatures that aren’t even real—

Then, they stop.

And the pain disappears.

My heart thunders, a train of blood in my ears—until I hear a quiet sound.

A slow, steady clap of hands.

I take two shuddering breaths and open my eyes a sliver—to see a pair of shiny dress shoes about a foot in front of my face. I drag my eyes up to find Erebus standing over me with a pleased expression on his face, one hand holding a bronze stopwatch.

“Take a guess at how long your constructs lasted.”

“I…” I gaze down at my body, still curled in a ball, and find that I am not lying in a pool of my own blood, and the bears are nowhere to be found. I am uninjured, entirely. “What… what happened?”

“How long, Briana?”

I struggle to follow his words, reconciling them with what I’d just experienced. How long had I lasted? “I don’t know. I don’t—”

He shows me the digital screen of the bronze stopwatch. “Four hours and twenty-seven minutes.”

“What?” As I push myself to my elbows, I feel the echoes of the attacking bear claws all over my body. The cognitive dissonance of feeling wounded but not seeing any wounds.

“Not as long as a Kingsmage, but that’s to be expected. This is still a very, very impressive time for a first effort.”

I can barely keep up with what he’s saying. I blink once, then twice, staring at my forearms and fingers, my thighs, where I’m sure deep gashes should sit. They are phantom wounds, but… “It felt so real.”

“A mesmer,” Erebus explains, waving a hand. “An illusion. One I implanted into the creatures to activate upon your failing reserves. You believed it was happening, and your brain supplied the rest of the experience.”

“They were slicing me open.…”

“An illusion,” he repeats. He does not offer his hand to help me stand, so I am left to make it to my feet without him. “You will always think it’s real, no matter how many times we do this, because the human brain has a survival instinct gained from believing that the hidden thing in the dark is truly there. It benefits you to believe that you are being attacked.”

“It benefits me?” I gasp.

“Yes. You are well on your way to becoming unstoppable.” He steps back and snaps his fingers, this time bringing three wolves to life. “Again.”

Becoming unstoppable. One of the goals I stated on my first day with him. It sounds right. Sounds good. But… my throat constricts. Can I do this again?

Before me, the wolves await their creator’s command, tails swaying softly in anticipation. There is no ire to them. No bite or rage.

And yet just looking at the creatures sparks a tremor in my hands.

Erebus moves on to his next inquiry, fine-tuning his lesson as he manipulates his constructs. “You only drew on Arthur’s power at the very end. Why?”

“I don’t need Arthur,” I say, voice cracking. The floor swims before me, rippling even though my feet are still. “Don’t want him.”

“Understandable, given your history. But perhaps you should call on your other ancestors directly this round,” he says as he feeds power into the wolves. “The ones who tapped into your power could—”

“I can’t,” I say quietly.

He straightens and drops his hands. “Why not?”

Realization hits me a moment too late. My mouth opens—and I shut it tight.

His eyes narrow in suspicion.

“You do not speak of your maternal ancestors. I thought that perhaps you had been weakened after your possession by Arthur at Volition, but now I see something in your eyes. A secrecy that I do not like.” He steps closer. “Call on them. Now.”

“No,” I say, and look away.

“Now, Briana. You are a powerful Medium, if untrained.” He casts and forges a small knife in an instant and tosses it my way. I catch it in the air. “Use your blood and call on them.”

“I can’t.”

He goes still. “Can’t… or won’t, Briana?”

“Can’t,” I answer, finally glaring at him. “I… burned my ancestral stream.”

The warehouse is silent around us. My heart pounds in my chest.

His stillness should scare me, but I only feel numb. “When?”

“Right before I used my power to call to you at the Northern Chapter.”

His eyes flare red. “And that means…?”

“That I can’t speak to Vera or Arthur or anyone, even if I wanted to. I can’t blood walk through their memories. I can’t ask for help. And they can’t possess me or demand things of me that I cannot give.”

The blade dissolves in my hand.

“Which means you cannot search Arthur’s, or indeed any of the previous Scions of Arthur’s, memories, can you?” he asks, his voice deadly quiet. “You cannot invite a possession?”

“No,” I say. “Why would I want to? You saw what happened with Arthur. He took me over completely. I couldn’t fight him on my own. If I try again, he might never let me go!”

“Silence!” he snarls.

My mouth snaps shut, but my trembling fingers curl into fists.

“Why would I want you to be possessed again? The answer is simple.” He leans close. “Because the Morgaines stole my crown and hid it and themselves for centuries, but one of your Scion ancestors could be the key to finding the crown and a Morgaine who can unlock it at long last.”

“You wanted me to ask one of Arthur’s other descendants to tell you about the Morgaines?” I shake my head in confusion. “There’s no guarantee they’d help me—”

“They will if I threaten the end of their bloodline,” Erebus growls.

Dread spirals in my belly.

“But only a descendant vessel and Medium with full control over her abilities can resist the possession of an ancient spirit. You were not yet powerful enough to do this at Volition, and even though you have shown much progress with me, you still cannot control the spirits you would call. You need more training to make it possible, more time. But because you, in your childish tantrum , burned away your ability to commune with any spirits at all … then it sounds like we shall never find out what type of Medium you could become.”

“I…” I find I can’t say I am sorry, exactly. “I didn’t know.”

He stares at me for a long, long moment.

Then, he walks away, flicking his wrist at the wolves. “Again.”

“No.”

He twists back to me in a blur. “What did you say?”

“I said, no ,” I repeat quietly. I point back with a shaking hand to where I’d lain curled on the training floor, weathering his siege. “That was… awful. It was… torture .” My eyes burn at the corners. “I never want to do that again. Never.”

His red, burning eyes turn cold. “Are you defying me, Briana?”

I swallow hard. “If the illusion is so consuming that I can’t convince myself I’m safe, then I’m not safe. And I can’t trust you to end the attack, because ending the attack isn’t what you want.”

His jaw clenches. “Are you quitting? Running?”

“I guess I am,” I say.

“You are made of tougher mettle than this,” he insists.

“Maybe I’m not!” I shout. In the ensuing silence, a new thought chills me. “Will you force me to keep going? Threaten me with the debt I owe you?”

A pause.

“No. Not yet.”

I know better than to let myself feel relieved. “Not yet” still means “someday.” He grows so still, he becomes a shadow himself. When he speaks, it’s not Erebus’s voice that reaches me, but the King’s. “Shadows are birthed from both light and darkness, Briana Matthews.”

“I’m not a shadow.” I shake my head. “Take me back.”

After a long moment, the King waves the wolves away and steps closer, black threads already pulling toward us both. “If you prefer.”