Sacrifices (Shadow Grail, 3) - Softcover
Sacrifices, the third book in the Shadow Grail series by the New York Times and USA Today bestselling authors Mercedes Lackey and Rosemary Edghill
The students of Oakhurst Academy believe they have triumphed over the Shadow Knights. But Spirit, Burke, Muirin, Loch, and Addie know better. Under the guise of a company called Breakthrough Adventure Systems, the Shadow Knights have actually taken over the campus. The new regime is brutal, designed to turn the students into soldiers wielding both weapons and magic. Anyone who protests disappears.
Desperate, the group decides that Muirin should go undercover to spy on Breakthrough. But Muirin's act is a little too good, and Spirit begins to fear that her friend's loyalties might have truly changed. Surrounded by enemies and friends who suddenly seem like strangers, Spirit has decide who can--and cannot--be trusted.
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About the Author:
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MERCEDES LACKEY is the author of the bestselling Valdemar series, the Obsidian Trilogy (The Outstretched Shadow, To Light a Candle, and When Darkness Falls) and the Enduring Flame trilogy (The Phoenix Unchained, The Phoenix Engendered, and The Phoenix Transformed). She has written many other books, including Trio of Sorcery, Phoenix and Ashes, Sacred Ground, The Firebird, The Fairy Godmother, and Alta. Lackey is the co-author, with Andre Norton, of the Halfblood Chronicles, including Elvenborn. She Lackey was born in Chicago and graduated from Purdue University. Lackey has worked as an artist’s model, a computer programmer, and for American Airlines, and has written lyrics and recorded more than fifty songs. She lives in Oklahoma.
ROSEMARY EDGHILL is a prolific writer in several genres, under her own name and various pseudonyms. Her Bast books, witty mysteries featuring a Wiccan amateur detective, were collected in Bell, Book, and Murder. She has also written Regency Romances and fantasy novels, including several collaborations with Mercedes Lackey (Spirits White as Lightning and Mad Maudlin) and Andre Norton (Shadow of Albion and Leopard in Exile). She lives in Baltimore, Maryland, with several cats and several Cavalier King Charles spaniels, which she shows in obedience competitions.
ONE
Guinevere, High Queen, sat like a statue on the bare back of one of the famous white horses that had been her dowry on the day she had wed Arthur. Only the knights of the Table had ever been permitted to ride them, for they were bred to carry kings.
But there were no more than a handful of Arthur’s knights left now.
When Arthur fell at Camlann—and it seemed to all as if the day were lost—it had been Guinevere who had taken command of his army—and they had been eager to have someone, anyone, lead them. That, Mordred had not expected—that she, of all people, would appear on the battlefield in borrowed armor at the head of a vast army. From the moment Arthur had sent her into exile, she had been preparing for this day. But she had come too late to save her husband and lord. Camelot had fallen.
She had given her dying husband into the care of the Lady of the Lake. She had taken his sword from his death-cold fingers.
And she had followed the fleeing Mordred and his army with all her host.
Mordred had broken Arthur’s army at Camlann, and the years of fighting that had preceded it had stripped Britain of knights and fighting men. But Guinevere’s army did not ride clad in mail and wearing steel. It was made up of Druids and monks, nuns and sorceresses—the Old Ways and the New Faith coming together to oppose an enemy who would destroy all that was. And beside Guinevere rode The Merlin.
Nimue had been the first of Mordred’s allies to desert him, and with the breaking of the spell she had put upon him, The Merlin was freed. When he had learned of Arthur’s death, his wrath had been terrible to see.
Across all of Britain the two armies rode, one pursuing, one fleeing. And slowly, one by one, Mordred’s allies and vassals deserted him. Arthur had died in the springtide. It was autumn when Mordred was brought to bay.
This was the end.
The trees were leafless, now, and the wind was cold. Behind Guinevere stood her husband’s army and her own, each man and woman waiting with a deadly implacable patience to witness the end of the man who had destroyed everything they had worked so long to build. Before her stood the ancient oak tree that Mordred had once meant to be The Merlin’s eternal tomb.
She would gladly have slain the black snake who destroyed her happiness and her husband’s kingdom, but Mordred was so imbued with the powers of Death Itself he could not die. No earthly weapon could slay him—but he could be bound, as he had intended The Merlin to be bound. And since his own magics had prepared the ancient oak, it was all the more fitting that the tree be the vessel to hold him.…
Guinevere heard muffled shouting and the clink of chains. She looked to her right. Here came the Bishop of England in his red and white robes, carrying a golden cross atop a long pole. Beside him walked the Archdruid of Eire, barefoot, with spirals of woad covering every inch of his skin, his only garment a tabard of white bull’s-hide. Behind them walked the White Horse Woman—whom Guinevere’s ancestors had worshipped—the Lady of Apples, priests and holy people of every faith Britain held.
Before them walked The Merlin.
And behind them came Mordred, dragged by the last of Arthur’s knights. His hands were bound with iron and silk and ivy, his mouth had been sewn shut, his body was weighted down with a hundredweight of silver chains, each link carved with runes of blessing and protection. But his eyes were unblinded, and they flashed with fury.
The Merlin began to chant.
The knights pushed Mordred toward the oak—not with their hands, but with stangs made of sacred oak.
And when his body touched it, Mordred began to sink into the tree as if its wood were softened wax. He struggled, eyes wild with anger and power. Still, the knights thrust him backward, and still The Merlin chanted. In a moment more it would be done.
Then to her horror, Guinevere saw that Mordred had torn loose the sinews that had sewn his mouth shut. He roared out a single terrible word. The knights pushing him forward fell to their knees, their screams drowned in those of the holy ones who had come to see justice done.
But The Merlin had not fallen—and he shouted three syllables she did not understand, and did not want to. There was a flash and a roar. Brightness. Darkness. Guinevere cried out, fighting to control her panicked mount.
When she could see again, the oak’s bark was seamless. The Merlin still stood before the oak, but his face was gray with terrible pain and weakness now, and he leaned heavily upon his staff for support. There was no sign of Mordred.
The Merlin staggered forward, summoning his failing strength. As he pointed at the oak, words of fire wrote themselves into the wood.
Oh Thou who wouldst meddle in the affairs of Light and Darkness, Touch Not the Sacred Oak sealed by Merlin’s Own Hand, for herein lies imprisoned the traitorous son of the Great Bear: Medraut Kinslayer the Accursed. Flee, lest his undying evil take you for its own!
The Merlin turned at last, to look at Guinevere. “It is finished,” he said, in a voice flat with exhaustion.
* * *
Spirit shivered in the chill of the Girls’ Locker Room, but as cold as it was, she still wasn’t in any hurry to get changed for class. I never thought I’d miss Mr. Gail and Mr. Wallis, she thought ruefully. But at least I guess I understood them. They might have been horrible, but they weren’t killers.
This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go.
She’d thought—oh she’d been so naïve!—that once the kids had routed the Shadow Knights at the Sadie Hawkins Day Dance, the trouble would be over. Whatever the Shadow Knights had wanted to do on February 2nd, they’d failed. Nobody had died. People had gotten hurt, but nobody had died. They’d proved they could win.
It hadn’t changed anything. And what was even scarier was, it was becoming more and more obvious that the Bad Guys weren’t the secret society within Oakhurst called the Gatekeepers. They weren’t a bunch of faceless Shadow Knights. They were the Oakhurst faculty.
At least the ones who were left. People kept vanishing here, and if you were smart you pretended you didn’t notice.
I’d better get moving, she thought, closing her locker reluctantly. At least she wasn’t the only one here trying to delay the inevitable. She turned to head for the gym.
“Hey, Spirit, ’scuze me—” Trinity Brown started to walk past her, then paused. “You know, when you got here you were, like, a waif. You do realize you’ve gotten all ripped, don’t you?” Trinity chuckled. “Wish I was. Guess I was born to be a string.” She held up her hand in a half wave and walked on.
Spirit blinked in surprise, staring after Trinity. She hadn’t even realized Trinity—who was not a string, merely supermodel-lean—knew her name. It was kind of ironic … now that Oakhurst really was out to kill them, the kids were a lot kinder to each other than they had been when she had arrived in September. One of the first things she’d learned about Oakhurst was that friendships weren’t encouraged.
But I have friends. Good friends. I don’t know what would have happened to me without Loch and Burke and Addie …
And Muirin.
She just hoped Muirin was still her friend.
I’d better get going. She looked down at herself. Trinity was right: she was ripped. If I live to graduate, the only job I’d qualify for is superhero, she thought bitterly. Or maybe government assassin. I sure don’t know how to do anything else.
* * *
The class was Systema. It was a kind of Russian martial art that focused on controlling the joints of one’s opponent. What it meant in practice was that they were all supposed to try to kill each other. When Anastus Ovcharenko started teaching the course, they’d worked out on mats. Now they worked out on the bare wood floor. Spirit and Trinity stood at the back of the group of students (not that something like that would save you). Muirin should have been here, too, but these days Muirin didn’t spend a lot of time in her classes—and she saw plenty of Ovcharenko out of them.
He was already there, of course, smiling cheerfully as he waited for the last of them to arrive. Ovcharenko was always cheerful—especially when he was about to hurt somebody. He always picked someone to spar with while the rest of them paired off against each other. He said it was to demonstrate the proper techniques. Spirit was pretty sure it was more about punishment. Dylan Williams (the official ringleader of the rebellion back in February) had been his favorite chew-toy for weeks, but he’d managed to put Dylan in the infirmary yesterday, and Dylan wasn’t here.
I don’t care who he picks today as long as it isn’t me, Spirit thought fervently.
“Now,” Ovcharenko said, clapping his hands together and smiling. “Who wants to dance with Anastus today? Ah! I know! You! Come here—we will have fun together, eh?”
He smiled and nodded encouragingly. Everyone shifted uneasily, until they were all spread out in a ragged line. For one horrified moment Spirit thought Ovcharenko had chosen her after all.
But he was pointing at Trinity.
“You! Little girl! It is Trinity Brown, yes? You will come and dance with Anastus, yes? Come, come. I promise you I will be gentle.”
Nobody laughed.
“No,” Trinity said. She looked ter...
Guinevere, High Queen, sat like a statue on the bare back of one of the famous white horses that had been her dowry on the day she had wed Arthur. Only the knights of the Table had ever been permitted to ride them, for they were bred to carry kings.
But there were no more than a handful of Arthur’s knights left now.
When Arthur fell at Camlann—and it seemed to all as if the day were lost—it had been Guinevere who had taken command of his army—and they had been eager to have someone, anyone, lead them. That, Mordred had not expected—that she, of all people, would appear on the battlefield in borrowed armor at the head of a vast army. From the moment Arthur had sent her into exile, she had been preparing for this day. But she had come too late to save her husband and lord. Camelot had fallen.
She had given her dying husband into the care of the Lady of the Lake. She had taken his sword from his death-cold fingers.
And she had followed the fleeing Mordred and his army with all her host.
Mordred had broken Arthur’s army at Camlann, and the years of fighting that had preceded it had stripped Britain of knights and fighting men. But Guinevere’s army did not ride clad in mail and wearing steel. It was made up of Druids and monks, nuns and sorceresses—the Old Ways and the New Faith coming together to oppose an enemy who would destroy all that was. And beside Guinevere rode The Merlin.
Nimue had been the first of Mordred’s allies to desert him, and with the breaking of the spell she had put upon him, The Merlin was freed. When he had learned of Arthur’s death, his wrath had been terrible to see.
Across all of Britain the two armies rode, one pursuing, one fleeing. And slowly, one by one, Mordred’s allies and vassals deserted him. Arthur had died in the springtide. It was autumn when Mordred was brought to bay.
This was the end.
The trees were leafless, now, and the wind was cold. Behind Guinevere stood her husband’s army and her own, each man and woman waiting with a deadly implacable patience to witness the end of the man who had destroyed everything they had worked so long to build. Before her stood the ancient oak tree that Mordred had once meant to be The Merlin’s eternal tomb.
She would gladly have slain the black snake who destroyed her happiness and her husband’s kingdom, but Mordred was so imbued with the powers of Death Itself he could not die. No earthly weapon could slay him—but he could be bound, as he had intended The Merlin to be bound. And since his own magics had prepared the ancient oak, it was all the more fitting that the tree be the vessel to hold him.…
Guinevere heard muffled shouting and the clink of chains. She looked to her right. Here came the Bishop of England in his red and white robes, carrying a golden cross atop a long pole. Beside him walked the Archdruid of Eire, barefoot, with spirals of woad covering every inch of his skin, his only garment a tabard of white bull’s-hide. Behind them walked the White Horse Woman—whom Guinevere’s ancestors had worshipped—the Lady of Apples, priests and holy people of every faith Britain held.
Before them walked The Merlin.
And behind them came Mordred, dragged by the last of Arthur’s knights. His hands were bound with iron and silk and ivy, his mouth had been sewn shut, his body was weighted down with a hundredweight of silver chains, each link carved with runes of blessing and protection. But his eyes were unblinded, and they flashed with fury.
The Merlin began to chant.
The knights pushed Mordred toward the oak—not with their hands, but with stangs made of sacred oak.
And when his body touched it, Mordred began to sink into the tree as if its wood were softened wax. He struggled, eyes wild with anger and power. Still, the knights thrust him backward, and still The Merlin chanted. In a moment more it would be done.
Then to her horror, Guinevere saw that Mordred had torn loose the sinews that had sewn his mouth shut. He roared out a single terrible word. The knights pushing him forward fell to their knees, their screams drowned in those of the holy ones who had come to see justice done.
But The Merlin had not fallen—and he shouted three syllables she did not understand, and did not want to. There was a flash and a roar. Brightness. Darkness. Guinevere cried out, fighting to control her panicked mount.
When she could see again, the oak’s bark was seamless. The Merlin still stood before the oak, but his face was gray with terrible pain and weakness now, and he leaned heavily upon his staff for support. There was no sign of Mordred.
The Merlin staggered forward, summoning his failing strength. As he pointed at the oak, words of fire wrote themselves into the wood.
Oh Thou who wouldst meddle in the affairs of Light and Darkness, Touch Not the Sacred Oak sealed by Merlin’s Own Hand, for herein lies imprisoned the traitorous son of the Great Bear: Medraut Kinslayer the Accursed. Flee, lest his undying evil take you for its own!
The Merlin turned at last, to look at Guinevere. “It is finished,” he said, in a voice flat with exhaustion.
* * *
Spirit shivered in the chill of the Girls’ Locker Room, but as cold as it was, she still wasn’t in any hurry to get changed for class. I never thought I’d miss Mr. Gail and Mr. Wallis, she thought ruefully. But at least I guess I understood them. They might have been horrible, but they weren’t killers.
This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go.
She’d thought—oh she’d been so naïve!—that once the kids had routed the Shadow Knights at the Sadie Hawkins Day Dance, the trouble would be over. Whatever the Shadow Knights had wanted to do on February 2nd, they’d failed. Nobody had died. People had gotten hurt, but nobody had died. They’d proved they could win.
It hadn’t changed anything. And what was even scarier was, it was becoming more and more obvious that the Bad Guys weren’t the secret society within Oakhurst called the Gatekeepers. They weren’t a bunch of faceless Shadow Knights. They were the Oakhurst faculty.
At least the ones who were left. People kept vanishing here, and if you were smart you pretended you didn’t notice.
I’d better get moving, she thought, closing her locker reluctantly. At least she wasn’t the only one here trying to delay the inevitable. She turned to head for the gym.
“Hey, Spirit, ’scuze me—” Trinity Brown started to walk past her, then paused. “You know, when you got here you were, like, a waif. You do realize you’ve gotten all ripped, don’t you?” Trinity chuckled. “Wish I was. Guess I was born to be a string.” She held up her hand in a half wave and walked on.
Spirit blinked in surprise, staring after Trinity. She hadn’t even realized Trinity—who was not a string, merely supermodel-lean—knew her name. It was kind of ironic … now that Oakhurst really was out to kill them, the kids were a lot kinder to each other than they had been when she had arrived in September. One of the first things she’d learned about Oakhurst was that friendships weren’t encouraged.
But I have friends. Good friends. I don’t know what would have happened to me without Loch and Burke and Addie …
And Muirin.
She just hoped Muirin was still her friend.
I’d better get going. She looked down at herself. Trinity was right: she was ripped. If I live to graduate, the only job I’d qualify for is superhero, she thought bitterly. Or maybe government assassin. I sure don’t know how to do anything else.
* * *
The class was Systema. It was a kind of Russian martial art that focused on controlling the joints of one’s opponent. What it meant in practice was that they were all supposed to try to kill each other. When Anastus Ovcharenko started teaching the course, they’d worked out on mats. Now they worked out on the bare wood floor. Spirit and Trinity stood at the back of the group of students (not that something like that would save you). Muirin should have been here, too, but these days Muirin didn’t spend a lot of time in her classes—and she saw plenty of Ovcharenko out of them.
He was already there, of course, smiling cheerfully as he waited for the last of them to arrive. Ovcharenko was always cheerful—especially when he was about to hurt somebody. He always picked someone to spar with while the rest of them paired off against each other. He said it was to demonstrate the proper techniques. Spirit was pretty sure it was more about punishment. Dylan Williams (the official ringleader of the rebellion back in February) had been his favorite chew-toy for weeks, but he’d managed to put Dylan in the infirmary yesterday, and Dylan wasn’t here.
I don’t care who he picks today as long as it isn’t me, Spirit thought fervently.
“Now,” Ovcharenko said, clapping his hands together and smiling. “Who wants to dance with Anastus today? Ah! I know! You! Come here—we will have fun together, eh?”
He smiled and nodded encouragingly. Everyone shifted uneasily, until they were all spread out in a ragged line. For one horrified moment Spirit thought Ovcharenko had chosen her after all.
But he was pointing at Trinity.
“You! Little girl! It is Trinity Brown, yes? You will come and dance with Anastus, yes? Come, come. I promise you I will be gentle.”
Nobody laughed.
“No,” Trinity said. She looked ter...
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- PublisherTor Teen
- Publication date2013
- ISBN 10 076531763X
- ISBN 13 9780765317636
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