In my palm, I feel the heavy, awkward weight of the demon Rhaz’s body pierced on my blade, still writhing in his death throes. Smell melting, rotting flesh. Hear the garbled sound of the demon’s screams. The ichor on my skin, root burning it away. Then, in a silent rush, I feel the heady bloodlust in my veins that might have been Arthur’s, but might have been mine, too—

“Easy there,” Lark murmurs. I turn to him with a question in my eyes, and he nods toward my still-clenching left fist. I scoff but open my fingers and press them wide into my thigh all the same.

“I’m fine.”

“Good,” Lark responds, wrapping my elbow in a light grip, “because we need you back in your seat.”

“Why?”

He tilts his head toward the long drive at the top of the hill, and I see the answer to my question.

The Regents are here.

7

A WAVE OF murmurs flows toward us from the back of the crowd. Legendborn funerals are not uncommon, not in the business of an underground holy war. But this service, for four warriors at once and with the Regents presiding, will likely go down in Order history.

“Come.” Lark tugs me along by the elbow. The low-pitched sound of gravel crunching under heavy vehicles pierces the barrier. The Regents’ motorcade approaches, and the energy of the crowd sharpens with anticipation. Around me, everyone moves to their feet, adjusting their formal layers and robes, sashes, and sigils, so that the Regents will be able to recognize their Line and title on sight.

“Please rise,” Tor commands imperiously from the front of the ceremony. I roll my eyes at her tone as we shuffle back in place. She’s enjoying her role as the public Chapter leader pro tempore far too much for my liking.

Lark leans toward me. “Ready?”

“Yes.” If Lark hears the slight tremor in my voice, he’s polite enough not to mention it. “They’re the ones who’re twenty minutes late.”

“The High Council of Regents has not convened in full in a decade. I reckon they can take their time.”

The murmurs around us fade to anticipatory silence as three black stretch SUVs pull in at the drive at the top of the hill. They slow. A door slams. The sound sets my heart pounding.

“Head and chin up, shoulders back,” Lark offers, his voice calm and close at my ear so that only another Merlin might hear. “Don’t fidget. They won’t acknowledge you here, but they will see you.”

I glare at him, but stop tugging at my sleeves.

Silence falls as a tall white man wearing shades and a black suit folds himself out of the first car. A Vassal of some sort. He extends a deep bow to the seated Legendborn, who nod in return, then walks down the long vehicle to the door farthest back, opening it smoothly.