The Complete Chosen Trilogy (The Chosen Book 0)

by N. M. Santoski

  “We are,” Nerys Tew volunteered. “We've been studying Sword lore in Caer Fyrrdin for centuries. We housed the Sword until the Council fled to London after the death of Llywelyn ap Gruffyd, we can't help but have a connection to it.”

  “Why has this information not been dispersed?” Robert snapped. “Scholars all over the world could benefit from it!”

  “Addie is fiercely territorial. Regardless, I’m not certain that Nolan made it all the way to Wales. How could he?”

  “We have no idea what kind of resources John left him with,” Robert admitted. “He could have thousands of dollars stashed away. He could have hidden bolt-holes all over the country. We don’t know if they moved every year, or every five. Nolan is clearly familiar with being on the run.”

  “We don’t have a choice!” Mara said. “If Merry is right, time is running out. Nolan needs to be reunited with the Sword and take his place as Lord Fulmen soon… before it ruins us all.”

  ***

  Nolan wasn't in Europe, or California, or even out of the state he’d started in. He was at the bottom of the hill that led to Caer Anglia, in his grandfather's house at the edge of the town that the numen simply called the Village.

  As Nolan saw the wave of mud coming to crush him during the Rite of Passage, he took the only course he could: he blasted the wooden floor planks open below him and fell through to the catacombs, a cascade of sticky mud following. After a few suffocating moments, the onslaught of mud stopped, its own weight keeping it suspended in the funnel-like pit. Nolan rolled to the side, gasping for air, and landed right on top of a catafalque. He choked back his cry of surprise and got up into a crouch, waiting to see if anyone had figured out that he was still alive.

  He only waited a moment, however. He took the stairs three at a time and headed straight for the locked underground passage, mentally bemoaning the loss of the Sword and already beginning to plan how he would recover it. First, though, he had to escape with his life.

  He reached the door and grabbed the lock, long ago sealed by Artifex's own hand. He shocked it repeatedly until the metal itself shattered and the door swung open. He pulled it shut behind him and was plunged into absolute darkness.

  He cursed to himself as he filled a hand with Power and held it up as a light source. The tunnel had clearly been abandoned for years—longer than Nolan had been alive, if he had to guess. He saw a rat scurrying around in terror and sent a bolt of plasma before him to scare off anything else waiting in front of him.

  He soon noticed that every few feet, he was passing under sets of barred grates. He was in the old, long unused pathway to the Village. He followed the path through to its end and came up at the old Mill. He climbed out of the ground, dirty but pleased. He was only steps from home.

  His arrival in the home of his childhood was as uneventful as a fugitive's arrival can be. He dug the key to the back door out of the flowerpot on the porch, pushing the dirt back so it looked undisturbed. He unlocked the door, pushing it open to reveal a mini-bailey still blocking his path. Thanking every god listening that he had sealed the house without the Sword of the Nine, he sent a spark into the bubble, popping it without a sound.

  He closed the door behind him and locked it twice, standing in the darkness with only the sound of his own breathing for company. A faint blue glow pulsed from the upstairs corridor. Ignoring it, Nolan felt his way into the kitchen and made sure the vertical blinds were tightly shut. Only then did he turn on the ventilation hood light.

  He looked around the house, making sure nothing was out of place or obviously disturbed. It was as he had left it last July... perhaps dustier, but no one had been in the house. His sanctuary was untouched. He began making plans to move his things into the ground floor of the house, containing his presence as tightly as he could to avoid detection.

  His original plan had been to stop here briefly before striking out for a less obvious hiding spot, but the loss of the Sword made that option less appealing. His plan to leave a message for Gia or Pyrrhus or Uncle Robert wouldn't work, either—it could just as easily be found by Artifex or Manas.

  He decided to stay put in the house, covering his tracks as best he could. If the house protected his grandfather through almost twenty years of being hunted, it should protect him long enough to make some sort of plan for getting the Sword back. He could protect himself from anyone coming to capture or kill him, and wait to see how long it would take his family and friends to figure out where he was. After all—who would think to look less than a mile from Caer Anglia? He would wait—and plan.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Claire caught herself pressing her skirt down against her legs to dry her sweaty palms for the fifth time that morning. With a groan of frustration, she clenched her hands into fists and resolved to be calm. They were just students. She could handle this.

  A knock at the door made her scream and jump straight up, completely terrified.

  “Claire?” Matthew’s voice asked, sounding worried. “Can I come in?”

  “Oh!” She hurried for the door and pulled it open to reveal him, holding a steaming mug and looking very worried indeed.

  “Are you alright? Was that you screaming?”

  “I was just thinking—I didn’t expect company.”

  He gave her a lopsided smile and offered the mug. “I brought you tea.”

  She’d been too preoccupied that morning to even think of brewing tea. She accepted the mug with thanks and took a deep draught.

  “I needed that, thank you.”

  “I thought you might. I remember my first class—I thought they were going to eat me alive.”

  “Did they?”

  “Am I a zombie?” He pretended to look himself over. “I guess I could stand to get a little more sun…”

  “You know that’s not what I meant!”

  “I know. They were fine, I was fine, and you’ll be fine.” He reached out and squeezed her shoulder, looking her squarely in the eye. “You know your stuff, my girl. That’s all you need. It’s all up there for you, and staring at your lesson plan isn’t going to make it any easier. Just get in there and do it!”

  She smiled for the first time that day. “Thanks, coach.”

  He opened the door and slipped back through it, giving her one last encouraging smile before disappearing. She drained the rest of the tea and placed the mug on her desk a bit too hard—the resulting bang echoed through the room for a long moment.

  “You can do this,” she muttered to herself, and left to face the mob.

  When she entered her classroom, thirteen curious faces whipped around to stare at her. The other half of the class was with Matthew, but these thirteen—

  (thirteen’s such an unlucky number)

  --were waiting for her.

  She strode to the front of the room, heels clicking on the tiling. She tilted her chin up just a fraction at their stares, daring them to criticize her.

  Nothing came.

  They watched silently as she finished her walk and turned to face them, looking intimidated by the expression on her face. Gia’s sister was sitting in the front row, looking terrified. Aware that she probably looked like a termagant, she deliberately let her features soften into a smile.

  "Good morning, students. Welcome to Caer Anglia and your first History class. This is my first time teaching, as many of you know, so I hope we can all make the experience as painless as possible."

  Taking a cue from Dr. Jenkins, she ran down the list of students, chatting with each about their numina and their lives in general. Finally, with a little less than an hour remaining in their time, she leaned back against the desk and opened the floor to questions.

  The first one took her completely by surprise, though in retrospect she supposed it shouldn't have.

  "Are we going to learn about Nolan Aeron?" a small blonde teen in the front row asked, her eyes wide. "He's so fascinating."

  "Nolan? Well, this is really a history class--"

 
; "You know him, right?" One of the boys from the back called. "You had the same teach year. Is it true he murdered two students?"

  "What? No! That is not at all true."

  "I heard he was dragged into his Rite of Passage kicking and screaming!"

  "I was right in the front-- he told Manas Warrington he was going to kill him!"

  "Enough!" Claire finally snapped, out of patience. "Who told you those ridiculous things?"

  There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments before one of the girls ventured, "He's all anyone is talking about, Ms. Connor."

  "Well..." Claire sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. "This is how rumors start, and rumors can be incredibly damaging. I will not hear this type of speculation in my classroom. Is that clear?"

  Thirteen nods.

  "Ma'am, what did happen to him? Did he abandon us?"

  "Just like his grandfather."

  "Now he was a murderer!"

  "Killed his own son and stole Nolan away, you know."

  "Maybe it's better--"

  "What did I just say?" Claire snapped. "No unfounded rumors!"

  "John Aeron was convicted of his crimes, ma'am. How can that be rumor?"

  She took a deep breath, desperately trying to keep her growing anger safely tucked away. "John Aeron was convicted in absentina. He was unable to defend himself, he never got to tell his side of the story, and the conviction was purely to calm masses of panicked people. There has never been proof that he did those horrible things. Now. Does anyone have any questions pertaining to this class?"

  Silence.

  "Very well. It's a little early, but you are dismissed. Read the first four chapters of the book for next week-- and be ready for a quiz!" She shouted over the scraping of chairs and the stomp of eager feet heading for lunch.

  As the last students filed through the door, still chattering, Proctor Castillo sidled past them to stand in the middle of her old classroom, mouth pursed.

  “Good afternoon, Proctor,” Claire said politely enough, though her heart was racing. “How can I help you?”

  “A decent first attempt, girl,” she said as she took in the notes on the board, “but I do have some suggestions.”

  “I would appreciate any help you can give me, ma’am.”

  Castillo looked at her sharply, as if gauging her sincerity. Seeing no mockery in Claire’s face, she paced in front of the desks like a prowling tiger.

  “I was listening to you teach—you have a good voice for it. People underestimate the power of a good voice when you’re teaching teenagers. Your content, however, left something to be desired.” She paused in front of Claire and peered into her face, far too close for Claire’s comfort. “We have yet to have a staff meeting on this topic, but let me be clear: no teacher in this school is to defend Nolan Aeron in any way, directly or indirectly. You are to condemn him utterly, as a defector and a threat to our security. Is that clear?”

  “With all due respect, Proctor…”

  “No, Miss Connor. All I want to hear out of your mouth is the word yes. If you cannot do that, then I will petition Lord Artifex for your removal.”

  “Yes, Proctor Castillo,” she said obediently.

  “I knew you would understand the situation. You’re a smart girl,” she said as she patted Claire on the cheek. Claire stomped on the sudden urge to bite her and merely smiled instead.

  “Carry on, Miss Connor. I will see you at the staff meeting this afternoon.” She swept from the room, leaving Claire to make a face at her back.

  “Your face will freeze that way, you know,” Matthew said as he entered.

  “Could you, just once, come into a room without scaring me to death?” she snapped.

  Ignoring her ire, he took her arm and began to drag her from the room. “You’ll learn fast to grab something to eat when you can. What was all that about?”

  “You’ll find out this afternoon,” she said, and firmly closed her mouth on the subject. “I’m really not hungry, Matthew. I think I’ll just head back to my rooms.”

  “Are you sure? Plenty of terrible sandwiches to go around!”

  “I’m sure.” She gave him a small smile and left him in front of his office. She made her way down to her private rooms and unlocked them, stepping in with a sigh of relief.

  “Good afternoon.”

  Claire jumped, but somehow managed not to scream. Michael Warrington was sitting at her table.

  “Lord Artifex!”

  “I just wanted to check in on your after your first class, Miss Connor.”

  “It went well, I think.” She attempted a half-hearted smile. “I’m still alive at least, and so are they. It’s a start.”

  He made a noncommittal noise deep in his throat and simply sat there at her table, staring at her. “Do you have tea? I’m parched.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she lied, wincing at the thought of joining him for one of her favorite drinks in the whole world, “I just ran out this morning. I can offer you water, or juice?”

  “Pity—well, then, water is fine. Miss Connor, I’d like to remind you, if I may, that the Council is responsible for your employment. You will be evaluated throughout the year, often without warning, to make sure you are guiding the students well and are not overwhelmed. As an employee of the Council, you will be expected to follow the party line regarding any… politically sensitive topics. Do you understand?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Excellent. We will see much of each other, I think, so we’ll have time for that tea another day.” He inclined his head and, as always, Claire fought an absurd urge to curtsey. “Good afternoon, madam.”

  She held herself up until the door closed behind him and then let her body drop into the nearest chair, shaking. She got her trembling under control as she gathered her thoughts and made a decision. She struggled to her feet and made it down the hall to Matthew’s office.

  “Change your mind about lunch?” he mumbled as he opened the door, half of a sandwich hanging from his mouth.

  “Charming. No, I’m not hungry, but I do need to talk to you.”

  Wordlessly, he gestured her in and forced another cup of tea on her, and the other half of his sandwich.

  She took a deep breath, let it out, and began to talk. She told him the truth about Nolan, the truth of why she accepted the job at Caer Anglia, and her plans for the year. She told him of Castillo and Warrington’s interest in her and her fears. Finally, she ran out of the things to say and just stopped mid-sentence, wide-eyed.

  “That’s all,” she finished miserably, picking at the crust left on her plate.

  Matthew stood abruptly and strode around the desk to her side. Before she could register what he was doing, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her to her feet, crushing her to his chest in a hug.

  “Poor little girl—what have they done to you all?”

  “I’m not a little girl!” she said indignantly, the effect destroyed by the muffling properties of his vest.

  “I know you’re not a little girl,” he said soothingly, patting her back a few times. “So you plan on working against them from inside? What exactly did you have in mind?”

  “I’ll show you, if you want—meet me in the dining hall after curfew.”

  ***

  She made it through the staff meeting without screaming or storming out, somehow. Only once did she react to the hate spewing out of Castillo’s mouth, and that was just to dig her nails into her thighs, leaving half-moon marks that remained for days.

  That night, she pulled one of her old hoodies out of the closet and pulled it over her head, securing her hair in a bun so none of it escaped the hood. She rummaged in her desk for a moment, looking for something to write with, and then slipped out to meet Matthew upstairs.

  “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind!” Matthew hissed, crouching behind one of the large lunch tables. “What are you going to use?”

  She brandished a large permanent marker, the kind that always smelled va
guely of poison. “This.”

  “That won’t come off,” he said, surprised enough to state the obvious.

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course not. What’s the point if someone can wipe it away the moment they see it? Keep an eye out!”

  She approached the large glass windows that looked out over the forest, feeling very exposed even with the hood of her sweatshirt up. Uncapping the marker, she hopped up on one of the tables in order to reach higher and began to write in large, childish letters.

  “Nolan Aeron lives…” Matthew read aloud, smirking.

  “I was going to write Semper Aeronius, but then they’d know for sure it was me.”

  “Aren’t we melodramatic?”

  “It’s a start—“ she began, hands on her hips, but they were interrupted by the sound of someone coming up the stairs.

  “Run!” she yelped, and they sprinted for the kitchen, knowing there was a small staircase there that led to the second floor. They didn’t stop running until they were in Matthew’s office, slamming the door behind them.

  Claire found herself grinning at Matthew in sheer relief, a laugh threatening to erupt from her throat as she desperately shoved it down.

  “We’re going to get in trouble for this,” he said, grinning back as they leaned against the door, trying to catch their breath.

  “I don’t think so—I just hope that none of the students get blamed,” she said, suddenly afraid. They were willing to take the risk for themselves, but to trap some unwitting student in their mission was going too far.

  “They won’t be able to prove anything, and it’s harmless, what we’re doing. They’ll write it off as a prank, I’m sure.”

  “Matthew,” she interrupted him suddenly, with a quiet gravity that made him stop smiling, “this could get really dangerous. I appreciate your help, but I’ll understand if you want to—“

  His finger on her lips silenced her. As if asking for permission, he gave her a small, chaste kiss on the cheek before sliding his hand down to take hers.

  “I have no idea what Warrington’s game is, but Nolan seemed like a good guy, the little I saw him last year. After our discussions, how could I leave you to do it alone?”