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I don’t cry for my mother’s death. Or for myself. I cry because these strangers in the hospital—the nurse, the doctor, the police officer—don’t know my mother, and yet they were closest to her when she died.
I listen to these people I don’t know use the past tense about my mother, the person who brought me into this world and created my present. They are past-tensing my heart—my whole beating, bleeding, torn heart—right in front of me.
Forever: We’ll talk later is not the same as We’ll never talk again.
Each leap into nothingness, each hovering moment before the fall, calls to a spark of wild yearning inside my chest. I press that yearning down. Seal it closed. Board it up.
Some truths only tragedy can teach. The first one I learned is that when people acknowledge your pain, they want your pain to acknowledge them back. They need to witness it in real time, or else you’re not doing your part.
Our grief is for the same person, but our grief is not the same.
Death moves faster than brains do.
I’m sixteen. I pay attention. I listen to the stories from uncles, cousins—hell, my own father—about police run-ins and stops. I see the videos online. Sitting in this car and thinking about those images makes my heart pound. I don’t know if there’s a single Black person in this country who can say with 100 percent confidence that they feel safe with the police. Not after the past few years. Probably not ever. Maybe there are some, somewhere, but I sure as hell don’t know ’em.
Old money and good ol’ boys. Why am I not surprised? This is the South. Tight-knit groups, lots of loyalty, established networks, plenty of resources. Perfect for the Legendborn, I bet.
Growing up Black in the South, it’s pretty common to find yourself in old places that just… weren’t made for you. Maybe it’s a building, a historic district, or a street. Some space that was originally built for white people and white people only, and you just have to hold that knowledge while going about your business.
You gain an awareness. Learn to hear the low buzzing sound of exclusion. A sound that says, We didn’t build this for you. We built it for us. This is ours, not yours.
Onceborn outsiders who are sworn to the Code and the Order at large, but pledged in service to one of the original thirteen Legendborn bloodlines that founded the Order in the medieval ages. The Vassals
know about aether and Shadowborn, but they don’t fight in the war. Instead, their network shores up any gaps in their assigned family’s needs and resources. In exchange, the Order grants them favors. Most Vassals start out with power or money and use the Order to gain more. Climbers. Like Deputy Norris, probably. Vassalage creates CEOs, elected officials, cabinet members, even presidents.
“And then there’s the fact that no one else here looks like me.” Nick follows my gaze, sees what I see—a room full of white kids, not a person of color in sight—and grimaces. His jaw sets in a hard line. “If someone says something to you, anything, let me know. I’ll put a stop to it.” I look at Nick’s face. He is so certain that he understands what I’m facing. Then I think of Norris, the dean, and how some things, some people, don’t want to just… stop. I think of what it might cost me to in...
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The year of study doesn’t affect when a student can be tapped, so someone who joins as a senior will only ever be a first-year Page—and will only get one chance to be Selected as a Legendborn Squire. If Craig’s a fourth-year, then he was tapped as a freshman.
“Legendborn acolyte. Fundamentalist Line worshippers. Craig there wants Nick to choose him before the Trials’ve even started.
“What you think you know of the legend, the versions you’ve read or heard? Almost all of them can be traced back to the Order. They had a hand in most of the stories about Arthur that spread beyond Wales and a pen in every text from Geoffrey of Monmouth to Tennyson. Vassal clerics, writers, archivists worked on misinformation campaigns to keep Onceborns from the truth. This is what I mean by ‘bad idea.’ The other sponsors have had way more than ten minutes to prep their Pages—”
While the others follow her to the door, I linger at the case, shaken by all that had been left unsaid: why the manacles were used initially, why they’re on display now, and, most disturbing, what they mean about Merlins and their missions. Merlins don’t just hunt demons. They hunt people.
Heat curls around my neck and ears. Diverse. Like an award she’d given herself. A gold star. Diverse.
Its most diverse Page class? Ever? And as if that’s why Nick chose me? Norris. McKinnon. Tor. Three comments, three assumptions, three people who’ve singled me out because of how I look and what they’ve decided I represent. In forty-eight hours.
“I, Nicholas Martin Davis, Scion and heir of King Arthur Pendragon of Britain, the son of Uther Pendragon, wielder of Caledfwlch, the blade Excalibur, and first-ranked of the Round Table in the Shadowborn holy war, accept your Oath on behalf of our ancient Order.”
“These gardens are abundant with root energy. Are you not a Wildcrafter like your mother?”
“Wildcraft is shorthand for the branch of Rootcraft she practiced. The type of energy she could manipulate is found in growing things—plants, herbs, trees. As a student, she spent hours here in the gardens and—”
“Her people. Our people. We are the descendants of those who developed the craft, and we do not call the invisible energy of the world ‘aether.’ We call it ‘root.’ ”
Her face takes on a sly expression. “Why do you say his name like that?” “Say whose name like what?” The ends of her mouth lift. “Your voice got all funny when you said ‘Nick.’ It’s the same exact way you used to say Scott Finley’s name.” “I did not say Scott’s name in any particular way.” She did not have to do me like that. I was eleven when I had a crush on Scott Finley the baseball player. Best friends and their deep cuts.
Words stream from my lips before I think about them too carefully. “And he looks like a gladiator. Like those oddly hot dudes on the sides of pottery from ancient Greece? Tall and athletic and”—Nick, pointing me to safety with his sword, his eyes hardened with both fear and focus—“heroic.”
Nick doesn’t want me to suffer the consequences of bonding. Doesn’t want me to die before my time. The affection—and fear—on his face, all for me, makes my head swim.
All I see are obstacles. Women who want their children in my spot. White women who assume a Black girl in the Lodge is a servant, not a member. Certainly not someone who outranks them. If Virginia treats me like that, how does she treat the caterers? My skin crawls. Then, something strikes me.
And we’re not gonna let some affirmative action bullshit fuck up our chances.”
She should've knocked his ass out.
For bigots, it doesn’t matter how or why I’m truly here; the fact that I’m here at all is wrong enough.
“You’re not a damsel to me, Bree. You’re a warrior. You’re strong and you’re beautiful and you’re brilliant and brave.”
“Is this a good morning kiss or a good night kiss?” Russ calls, the sound of a grin all over his voice. “Are we coming or going?”
“Lots of Black folks in the States don’t know their people more than four, five generations back, don’t know names before the late 1800s—and why would they? We didn’t exactly inherit detailed family records when we were freed.” She keeps arranging her offerings, not looking in my direction as she does.
I don’t need to be reminded how alone I am. How lost.
Our people—Rootcrafters—borrow root temporarily, because we believe that energy is not for us to own.” She waves a hand over her stones and food. “We make offerings to our ancestors so that they will share root with us for a time. And then, after it’s returned, we thank them for being a bridge to its power. This is the unifying philosophy of our practice. Beyond that, families have their own variations, their own flavors, if you will. So it has always been, and so it is.”
“Everything has two histories. Especially in the South.”
Protection from those who would harm us, and, if they do, healing so that we can survive, resist, and thrive.”
“Colonizer magic. Magic that costs and takes. Many practitioners face demons. Many of us face evil. But from the moment their founders arrived, from the moment they stole Native homelands, the Order themselves gave the demons plenty to feed on! They reap what their magic sows.”
Someone—no, two someones—tug gently at my hair. I yank my head away. “What the hell?” Both Greer and Felicity have their hands up, surprise clear on their faces. “Don’t touch my hair.” Greer looks chagrined. Felicity stammers, “I—I was just telling Greer about the stylist that comes to the Lodge, and your hair—” “Is different than yours?” I snap. “Is curly? Big? Sure, but that doesn’t mean you get to touch it whenever you want. I’m not a petting zoo.” “Sorry, Bree,” Greer says, flushing. Felicity blinks, almost starts speaking again, then stops herself. Nods. “Sorry. I didn’t realize…” “Yeah.”
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And further, Nicholas doesn’t care about what you can do, he only cares about you.
“Do you honestly not realize what he feels for you?”
“Probably why I fell in love with him.”
“No, wait!” He shakes his head, desperation making his eyes bright. “Please. I need you. You have to know I’d choose you. I want you, Bree. If Camlann is coming, I want you.”
For a moment, the three of us stare at one another in wordless comprehension. I look between the two of them—a fallen angel and a king, the dark and the light, and feel a deep, churning thrill at what I’ve done. What we’ve done. This is how it will be now. Oaths between us. Bound to each other. Forever.
And we can, now that we’ve got two more bonded pairs. But there’s another variable here.” He looks over at me. “Nick’s in love with Bree.”
I bet Nick is furious. Angry, heroic, and in love is a formidable combination; he’ll hold off Arthur’s Call, all right.”
Because I am Arthur’s Scion.
“I am a Medium, born from the earth. I am Bloodcrafted, born from resilience. I am Arthur, Awakened!”
I bury my face in the pillow and cry. For Vera. For my ancestors. For my family. For my mother. For all of my people. For the thread of death and violence forcibly woven into our blood, and the resistance we had to grow to survive it.
I don’t know if it’s our inheritances or our bloodlines or what we’ve forged together all on our own, but I can feel Nick’s absence like an open wound in my chest. I love him. Nick is in my heart, and I am in his. This is irrefutable, no matter how it happened or when or why. And I won’t lose someone that I love again. Not when I have the power to save them.
