Chapter 20
TWENTY
KAI
“I have no words.”
Luther loves to do the supervillain thing. Make you stand in front of him while he sits at the desk.
“Well, that makes two of us,” I mutter. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”
Tuesday morning and I’ve been summoned to chambers.
Informed by a slip of paper in my Camlann mailbox that my foster father needs to see me, since he’s now apparently back from escorting our robed overlords to Boston harbor and wishing them bon voyage.
So now I’m here, my least favorite place on Planet Earth: Luther Pendragon’s campus office surrounded by Kingston’s precious childhood fencing trophies and crusty-ass oil paintings.
I only wish I’d woken up early enough to get drunk beforehand.
“Don’t play dumb, Kai,” Luther says, eerily cool. “You know exactly why I needed to see you.”
Do I? I stuff my hands in my pockets and look up at the distant ceiling of his office, pondering.
“What did I do this time?” I say, snapping my gaze back down to Earth. “Was it the Lord’s name in vain? Or, no”—I snap my fingers—“the impure thoughts.” I let out a low whistle. “Listen, I’ve been trying with those, but—”
“Quiet.” The cool facade cracks a bit before Luther composes himself.
Yeah, yeah, I think. More injuries in golf, more fatalities in horseback riding. I’ve been hearing the same spiel since my Y-8 days in the rec center. “What’s your point?”
“You embarrassed yourself. Us. Gravely.”
I shrug. “What else is new? Hardly baby’s first black card.
Remember that one Summer Nationals?” I sure fucking do.
Fourteen years old, mid-growth-spurt, and just barely two weeks out from my bio mom finding a new dealer—through, I shit you not, her her NA sponsor—and dying with a needle full of fentanyl in her arm.
What are the fucking odds, right?
So yeah, I fenced terribly, I drop-kicked my mask, I got black carded—no shit I got black carded—and stricken off the roster for the tournament.
I would’ve medaled silver.
But that wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part, the most fucked up part, was how I was worried about what Luther thought. That he’d…I don’t know, return me or something, even though at that point there was no one to return me to.
“Enough!” Luther roars. Do you have any idea what you've done?"
I blink. Okay, so he's actually mad. Not just performatively pissed.
"Second place," Luther continues, voice like ice. “Second. Do you understand what that means?"
After first, before third? “We still made the final—" I start.
"On St. Ignaty's home turf!” Luther slams his hand on the desk.
“Because of your failure, we travel to their territory.
Where they will have every advantage. Where the Russians can sabotage us at will.
You have put this entire quest—centuries of work—in jeopardy, because you couldn't control yourself for five minutes.”
I swallow hard.
"The Brothers came here to observe us," Luther goes on, each word precise and cutting. "To assess whether we—whether you—are worthy to continue this quest. And what did they see?"
He doesn't wait for an answer.
"Laxity. Weakness. A knight who cannot control his temper even when deliberately tested."
The fuck? I think. “Tested?"
Luther's eye narrows. "You think your weapon malfunction was an accident?”
Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck.
“The Prior At Arms wanted to see if you had the discipline to maintain composure even under provocation.
Even when cheated." Luther leans forward.
"And you failed, Kai. Spectacularly. The Consistory was present and you consciously—willfully—lashed out on the piste. As if your honor meant nothing. As if your vows meant nothing.”
And don’t they? I want to shoot back. But I don’t—because Jesus Christ, he even speaks like a supervillain too.
There’s a knock at the door, and for a split second I freeze. Did he bring one of them in? Keep the prior at arms a few extra days?
But no.
“You wanted to see me?”
It’s Kingston.
Seeing me, Kingston frowns, opens his mouth for a question, but Luther cuts him off.
“Yes. Come here.” He beckons Kingston forward.
A cold sweat breaks out at the back of my neck.
The prior at arms would be bad news.
This is…worse.
Something’s off.
As Kingston approaches, Luther retrieves something from behind the desk—a leather case, almost long enough to hold a blade or two—and sets it on the desk before them, but doesn’t open it.
Instead, he looks back at me.
“On your knees.”
“What?” I spread my palms in the air, take a half-retreat. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hang the fuck on.”
“Language, Kai,” Luther barks. Next to him, Kingston blank-faced, motionless.
But I can see the panic dancing in his eyes, too.
He has no idea what’s going on either.
“You admit you’ve done wrong, and now you will face the consequences,” Luther goes on. “This is your punishment.”
“Father—” Kingston interrupts.
“Quiet.” Luther takes two sharp, swift steps towards me, close enough to lock eyes. “On. Your. Knees.”
Impulse wins. I spit in his face.
Luther grabs my throat with one hand.
Behind us, Kingston startles. “Father!”
“Get back, Kingston.”
Whether King does or not, I don’t see. Spots are speckling my vision. My head feels like it’s swelling. But then Luther drops me, practically throws me, and I land on my knees.
Fuck you, I think, my throat seizing as I try to suck back in some air. Fuck. You.
“What are you going to do?” I rasp, looking up at him.
“Kill me? And then? You’re a man down without me.
And I’m not exactly easy to replace. You really going to waste all that time trawling through the shitholes of the world and hope you’ll somehow come across another poor kid with a sword who’s willing to call you daddy?
Good fucking luck.” I choke in an inhale, reconsider.
“You know what? No. You don’t even have the balls to kill—”
I try to get back up, but Luther shoves me down by the shoulder.
“Don’t be stupid,” he snarls. “I’m not going to kill you. I don’t need to kill you.” He laughs. “Where would you go? Where would you go, Kai? Please, tell me. Who would have you? Who would take you in?”
I grit my teeth and stare into the swirls of his stupid fucking Oriental rug.
“I’d manage,” I say.
Not that Luther hears me. I hear his steps retreating, and when I look up, he’s back at his desk, Kingston behind him.
Kingston’s face is unreadable.
“You have no family, Kai,” Luther goes on. “And do you know why that is?”
A thousand smartass replies burn the back of my throat. Bad genes. Bad drugs. Failed social safety nets. Capitalism’s indifference to human suffering. Take your fucking pick, Pendragon.
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me,” I mutter.
“Because this world is not kind to the weak, Kai. To the ill-formed.” Luther pulls the leather case towards him and Kingston, smiling like a daycare teacher explaining that it’s time to use the big-boy potty now. “To the…easily tempted. You’ve seen this truth for yourself since you were young.”
At that, I snap my head up, seething, too fucking angry to stand. “Oh, so it was the world that shot my mom full of dope? Is that what you’re saying? Because I’m sorry, but I’m pretty sure that was all just shitty luck and a bad timing.”
Luther rests his gaze—his steady, snake-eyed, smug gaze—on me.
“Hardly.”
A chill runs down my spine.
No. I can’t form the word.
No. But…
“The world is a trial by fire through which is forged the eternal soul,” Luther goes on, flicking up the clasps on the leather case. “The body is its crucible.”
Beside him, Kingston seems to have caught sight of whatever the mystery prize is, and whatever it is makes his throat visibly tighten with disgust.
Something about the tiny gesture makes my heart plummet into my ass.
“Father,” King tries again.
“Silence!” Luther roars. Then composes himself. “The body is its crucible,” he repeats, “and pain is its fire.”
At first, I can’t tell what the fuck he’s got in his hand—a bunch of ropes?—but then he flicks his wrist and I get the full picture.
“A disciplina,” he says, smiling slightly. “A gift from the White Brothers.”
It’s a fucking whip.
And he puts it in Kingston’s hand.
“Twelve strikes,” Luther says.
“You can’t be serious,” I say. I want to get up, but now I can’t get up, because I’m not sure my legs will hold me.
There is nothing behind Luther’s eyes now. “Remove your shirt, Kai.”
My head rocks back and forth in a slow shake, because no way, no fucking way, and my heart’s in my stomach now, pulsing like I swallowed something slimy and alive, and I don’t move—
But Kingston does.
“Father,” he starts. “This isn’t—”
“Father, Father.” Luther whirls on Kingston, who retreats—automatic, a fencer’s reflex. “I shouldn’t have to spoon feed this to you. The same way I shouldn’t have had to constantly tighten the leash on your brother.”
Brother. In any other context, I’d make something of that word.
As it is…
“Twelve.” The command is unyielding.
And still, King doesn’t move. I watch his fist tense around the handle. “Kai’s learned his lesson,” he says. “This isn’t necessary.”
Luther just shakes his head. There’s a shunk sound behind me I recognize as his automatic door lock.
“Take all the time you need,” Luther says. “But neither of you will leave until it is done.”
I swallow hard. And when I look up at King again, I realize.
This isn’t just my punishment.
You’re better than this.
Fuck.
He is. He is better than this.
This isn’t fair.
Quickly, so I don’t lose my nerve, I reach for the buttons on my shirt, tensing my hands so they don’t shake.
I shrug out of the button-down, then pull the T-shirt over my head one-handed, and get a little grimace from Luther when he sees all the ink and metal adorning my body—what, a guy can’t mortify his own flesh? , I think humorlessly.
Then, with a hard exhale, I lean over and dig my fingers into the rug. Assume the fucking position.
“No,” I hear Kingston say. “Kai, I—”
“Do it,” I grit out.
“Kai—”
“Do it!” I cry. “Just get it over with.”
I’ve had my ass beat before. Belts, wooden spoons, the odd sandal now and again if someone was feeling spicy. And good old fashioned fists and hands.
But this shit.
There’s no other reason this thing exists but to cause pain.
The first blow lands like a lash of fire. Rams the air out of my ribs and stings across my skin all at once.
Crack.
I clutch hard at the rug, biting my cheek and tasting copper. Bracing for another blow that doesn’t come.
“That all you’ve got?” I manage. Little dribbles of blood patter onto Luther’s carpet when I speak.
King hits me again.
Crack.
But not as hard.
Crack. Crack.
Never as hard.
Crack.
My arms shake. Maybe I’ll pass out.
I don’t.
Crack.
Finally, no more comes.
I rock back onto my heels, breathing slowly, vision swimming and ears ringing as Luther gets in last words I can’t hear and disappears. So does Kingston, I think.
Me, I just slump to the rug.
It hurts. It all hurts.
When I open my eyes, they’re wet. Tears.
Cute. Reflex, I guess—reaction to the pain. Or maybe I truly am the pussy. I reach to rub my eyes clear and fuck, that’s a mistake, like goddamn lightning down my back muscles as I move my arm—
“Steady,” says a voice. “Here.”
Kingston. Hand on my shoulder so I don’t fall. He lifts me up—first to my knees, then to stand, bracing my body with his.
“Kai,” he says. “Kai, I’m—”
“Save it,” I hiss. I wish I weren’t fucking crying. But at least it’s over. “You did what you had to.”
“No,” King insists. “You don’t—I saw your saber afterwards, Kai. I saw what he did. I should have—”
His voice cracks. I look at his face, and he’s…
He’s crying, too.
A fresh bolt of rage snaps through me.
I fling out my arm, my flesh screaming in pain so sharp I almost lose my balance, and manage to grab him by the shoulder. Pull him in so he can hear me.
“Listen to me,” I say. “Listen to me. You? You’re better than this. You’re better than this too, okay, King? You are. And don’t let them make you think you’re fucking not.”
Then, with my last ounce of strength, I spit blood on Luther’s carpet.