Nick had been disdainful about Vassal families whose sole focus is positioning one of their children to join the Order: “The Order’s mission is fighting Shadowborn and protecting humans. It’s safer on the outside, but for some the benefits of membership outweigh the risks. Even Pages and their families get privileges Vassals don’t. Only Legendborn can recruit new members, so these climbers will do anything to curry favor with their assigned bloodline in hopes that their child will get tapped,” he’d scoffed. “But those Vassals don’t want to help people, they want the status. And they put their kid in harm’s way to get it.”

Hence, Rule Two: “Keep your head down. Disappear. Make them forget you, so they don’t consider you competition.”

But Nick seems genuinely happy to see the other boy, so maybe Whitty’s not the “sport and glory” variety?

“The Upper Nantahala’s class three and four rapids, though. We did all right.” Nick nods in my direction. “This is Bree Matthews. Bree, this is James Whitlock, also known as Whitty. The Whitlocks are Vassals to the Line of Tristan, and they own most of the pig farms out in Clinton.”

“We prefer the term ‘hog barons.’ ” Whitty gives me a conspiratorial wink. He offers his hand; his grip is firm and warm. The faded blue cuff around his wrist is held together by a rubber band. “Nice to meet you, Bree. Nick here your sponsor?” I nod, and he whistles low. “Well, all right then.”

“I’m Sarah’s Page.” Whitty jerks a thumb at his companion. “And this is Greer Taylor. They’re Russ’s.”

“Hey, y’all.” Greer gives a short wave. They’re basketball-player tall and lean, with long, muscled arms and legs. Their dirty-blond hair lies in a single braid over their shoulder, while a few shorter strands fall out the front of their slouchy gray knit cap. An unbuttoned, expensive-looking, slate-colored suit vest over an untucked denim shirt and cuffed jeans puts their look somewhere between designer and hipster. They’re also wringing their hands in front of their belt buckle in a nervous gesture that reminds me painfully of Alice.

“Thought we’d come over and introduce ourselves,” Whitty says with a sidelong glance at the rest of the room. “Plenty o’ time to be at each other’s throats later, if the tournament stories are true.”

Nick starts to reply—to assuage our fears or to counter Whitty’s casual prediction of violence?—but stops when a tall boy with brown curly hair appears at his elbow.

“Sorry to interrupt, but are you Nick Davis?” When Nick nods, the boy’s brows shoot up. He offers his hand. “I’m Craig McMahon, fourth-year Page.”