Page 16 of Devious Knight

Kade

Aleksander Ivanov stands and picks up the Damascus Viking sword laid out on the long mahogany table before him, then raises it into the air.

The overhead lights beaming down on him reflect off the pure steel of the blade, making him look fiercer—and stronger—than he is. Dressed in his Knights tunic, he almost looks like he’s ready to go into battle.

Tonight we’re at Raventhorn Hall for the Gathering ceremony. A ritual where we renew our pledge to become Knights.

This is the first time that we’ve been allowed to enter Raventhorn Hall. Up until now we’ve only seen the outside of the building and heard stories about what happens inside.

The room we’re in is similar in style to the conference hall the students assembled in yesterday for the welcome back meeting. But the atmosphere is different.

Power ripples around us like the air we breathe. It touches the high, vaulted ceilings, the stained-glass windows, the massive stone columns and ancient stone walls around us.

The power comes from the men, past and present, who have led the Knights.

Right now all that power lies with the man holding the sword and his men.

Aleksander and the twelve judges next to him form the leadership of the Knights’ council.

But there is also us.

The first row—the row where I’m sitting—consists of the men in the Ivanov elite. The next in line to hold that power. This is the first time in twenty years that there has been such a group.

At the head is Caspian Ivanov, Aleksander’s son, and Thorne, his nephew.

I’m next to Thorne. Beside me are my guys, Dmitri and Logan, then Alex, the fourth member of our group. Everyone else—the other eight hundred freshmen initiates—are behind us.

The only thing we have in common is that, with the exception of Alexander, the judges, Caspian and Thorne who are wearing the Knights’ tunic, we’re in full black suits.

“Sanguis sanguinis mei, caro carnis meae, cor cordis mei,” Aleksander speaks in Latin, raising the sword higher.

His words translate to: Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, heart of my heart.

We all repeat the sacred words each Knight must live by for the rest of his life, pledging our allegiance to the Brotherhood.

Those words are just as important as taking the Oath to become a Knight. We’ll be doing that in September at the start of our sophomore year.

Last semester was about proving our worth to be here. Now that the initial trials are over, the rest of the freshman year will be focused on getting us ready to take the Oath.

“Tonight represents the next phase of your journey in becoming one of us.” Aleksander gives us what could pass for a smile but it disappears from his haggard face just as quickly as it came. “All of you must continue proving your worth and immerse yourself in all the training you will be given. The next few months will be crucial for your success and I expect your undivided devotion. Is that understood?”

“Yes, my lord.” We address him in the formal manner and bow our heads in unison.

“Your freshman year here at Raventhorn will test your resilience and capabilities. Most of all, it separates the weak.” He says that word—weak—as if it’s a vile taste in his mouth. “The weak among you will not continue.”

Weakness is not a word in my vocabulary, and all this…

It’s just details to make it official on paper. In my eyes I was always a Knight.

My mother would have said I was blessed by the gods, so I have nothing to worry about.

Aleksander sets the sword back down on the table and looks at each of us. His eyes are filled with the scrutiny of a leader who thinks of himself as a god and the rest of us as his disciples.

I suppose in a way we are. Those who look up to him, those who fear and revere him, and those like me who pretend we don’t know his secrets.

He’s sick. I don’t know what he’s sick with but I know he’s sick.

I’ve seen him try to hide the same symptoms I witnessed in my grandfather before he died. Grandfather had Huntington’s. I don’t think Aleksander has that, but he has something that’s affecting his brain. Could be a tumor.

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