Gathering of Shadows (A Darker Shade of Magic) (23 page)

“I’m still nursing a headache,” said Kell. “So if you’re here to force me on another outing—”

“That’s not why I’m here,” said Rhy, crossing to the sideboard. He started to pour himself a drink, and Kell was about to say something very unkind when he saw that it was simply tea.

He nodded at one of the sofas. “Sit down.”

Kell would have stood out of spite, but he was weary from the trip, and he sank onto the nearest sofa. Rhy finished fixing his tea and sat down opposite.

“Well?” prompted Kell.

“I thought Tieren was supposed to teach you patience,” chided Rhy. He set the tea on the table and drew a wooden box from underneath. “I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?” asked Kell. “The lying? The drinking? The fighting? The relentless—” But something in Rhy’s expression made him stop.

The prince raked the black curls from his face, and Kell realized that he looked older. Not
old
—Rhy was only twenty, a year and a half younger than Kell—but the edges of his face had sharpened, and his bright eyes were less amazed, more intense. He’d grown up, and Kell couldn’t help but wonder if it was all natural, the simple, inevitable progression of time, or if the last dregs of his youth had been stripped away by what had happened.

“Look,” said the prince, “I know things have been hard. Harder these past months than ever. And I know I’ve only made it worse.”

“Rhy—”

The prince held up his hand to silence him. “I’ve been difficult.”

“So have I,” admitted Kell.

“You really have.”

Kell found himself chuckling, but shook his head. “One life is a hard thing to keep hold of, Rhy. Two is …”

“We’ll find our stride,” insisted the prince. And then he shrugged. “Or you’ll get us both killed.”

“How can you say that with such levity?” snapped Kell, straightening.

“Kell.” Rhy sat forward, elbows on his knees. “I was dead.”

The words hung in the air between them.

“I was
dead
,” he said again, “and you brought me back. You have already given me something I shouldn’t have.” A shadow flashed across his face when he said it, there and then gone. “If it were lost again,” he went on, “I would still have lived twice. This is all borrowed.”

“No,” said Kell sternly, “it is bought and paid for.”

“For how long?” countered Rhy. “You cannot measure out what you have purchased. I am grateful for the life you’ve bought me, though I hate the cost. But what do you plan to do, Kell? Live forever? I don’t want that.”

Kell frowned. “You would rather die?”

Rhy looked tired. “Death comes for us all, Brother. You cannot hide from it forever. We
will
die one day, you and I.”

“And that doesn’t frighten you?”

Rhy shrugged. “Not nearly as much as the idea of wasting a perfectly good life in fear of it. And to that end …” He nudged the box toward Kell.

“What is it?”

“A peace offering. A present. Happy birthday.”

Kell frowned. “My birthday’s not for another month.”

Rhy took up his tea. “Don’t be ungrateful. Just take it.”

Kell drew the box onto his knees and lifted the lid. Inside, a face stared up at him.

It was a helmet, made of a single piece of metal that curved from the chin over the top of the head and down to the base of the skull. A break formed the mouth, an arch the nose, and a browlike visor hid the wearer’s eyes. Aside from this subtle shaping, the mask’s only markings were a pair of decorative wings, one above each ear.

“Am I going into battle?” asked Kell, confused.

“Of a sort,” said Rhy. “It’s your mask, for the tournament.”

Kell nearly dropped the helmet. “The
Essen Tasch
? Have you lost your mind?”

Rhy shrugged. “I don’t think so. Not unless you’ve lost yours …” He paused. “Do you think it works that way? I mean, I suppose it—”

“I’m an
Antari
!” Kell cut in, struggling to keep his voice down. “I’m the adopted son of the Maresh crown, the strongest magician in the Arnesian empire, possibly in the
world
—”

“Careful, Kell, your ego is showing.”

“—and you want me to compete in an inter-empire tournament.”

“Obviously the great and powerful
Kell
can’t compete,” said Rhy. “That would be like rigging the game. It could start a war.”

“Exactly.”

“Which is why you’ll be in disguise.”

Kell groaned, shaking his head. “This is insane, Rhy. And even if you were crazy enough to think it could work, Tieren would never allow it.”

“Oh, he didn’t. Not at first. He fought me tooth and nail. Called it madness. Called us fools—”

“It wasn’t even my idea!”

“—but in the end he understood that approving of something and allowing it are not always the same thing.”

Kell’s eyes narrowed. “Why would Tieren change his mind?”

Rhy swallowed. “Because I told him the truth.”

“And what’s that?”

“That you needed it.”

“Rhy—”

“That
we
needed it.” He grimaced a little when he said it.

Kell hesitated, meeting his brother’s gaze. “What do you mean?”

Rhy shoved himself up from the chair. “You’re not the only one who wants to crawl out of their skin, Kell,” he said, pacing. “I see the way this confinement is wearing on you.” He tapped his chest. “
I feel
it. You spend hours training in the Basin with no one to fight, and you have not been at peace a single day since Holland, since the Danes, since the Black Night. And if you want the honest truth, unless you find some release”—Rhy stopped pacing—“I’ll end up strangling you myself.”

Kell winced, and looked down at the mask in his lap. He ran his fingers over the smooth silver. It was simple and elegant, the silver polished to such a shine that it was nearly a mirror. His reflection stared back at him, distorted. It was madness, and it frightened him, how badly he wanted to agree to it. But he couldn’t.

He set the mask on the sofa. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Not if we’re careful,” insisted his brother.

“We’re tethered to each other, Rhy. My pain becomes your pain.”

“I’m well aware of our condition.”

“Then you know I can’t. I
won’t
.”

“I am not only your brother,” said Rhy. “I am your prince. And I command it. You will compete in the
Essen Tasch.
You will burn off some of this fire before it spreads.”

“And what about our bond? If I get hurt—”

“Then I will share your pain,” said Rhy levelly.

“You say that now, but—”

“Kell. My greatest fear in life isn’t dying. It’s being the source of someone else’s suffering. I know you feel trapped. I know I’m your cage. And I can’t—” His voice broke, and Kell could feel his brother’s pain, everything he tried to smother until dark and drown until morning. “You
will
do this,” said Rhy. “For me. For both of us.”

Kell held his brother’s gaze. “All right,” he said.

Rhy’s features faltered, and then he broke into a smile. Unlike the rest of his face, his grin was as boyish as ever. “You will?”

Kell felt a thrill go through him as he took up the mask again. “I will. But if I’m not competing as myself,” he said, “then who will I be?”

Rhy reached into the box and withdrew from among the wrappings a scroll of paper Kell hadn’t noticed. He held it out, and when Kell unfurled it he saw the Arnesian roster. Twelve names. The men and women representing their empire.

There was Kisimyr, of course, as well as Alucard (a thrill ran through Kell at the thought of having an excuse to fight him). He skimmed past them, searching.

“I picked out your name myself,” said Rhy. “You’ll be competing as—”

“Kamerov Loste,” answered Kell, reading the seventh name aloud.

Of course.

K. L.

The letters carved into the knife he wore on his forearm. The only things that had come with him from his previous life, whatever it was. Those letters had become his name—
KL, Ka-El, Kell
—but how many nights had he spent wondering what they stood for? How many nights had he dreamed up names for himself?

“Oh, come on,” chided Rhy, misreading Kell’s tension for annoyance. “It’s a good name! Rather princely, if I do say so.”

“It’ll do,” said Kell, fighting back a smile as he set the scroll aside.

“Well,” said Rhy, taking up the helmet and holding it out to Kell. “Try it on.”

Kell hesitated. The prince’s voice was light, the invitation casual, but there was more to the gesture, and they both knew it. If Kell put on the mask, this would cease to be a stupid, harmless idea and become something more. Something real. He reached out and took the helmet.

“I hope it fits,” said Rhy. “You’ve always had a big head.”

Kell slipped the helmet on, standing as he did. The inside was soft, the fit made snug by the padding. The visor cut all the way from ear to ear, so his vision and hearing were both clear.

“How do I look?” he asked, his voice muffled slightly by the metal.

“See for yourself,” said Rhy, nodding at the mirror. Kell turned toward the glass. It was eerie, the polished metal creating an almost tunneling reflection, and the cut of the visor hid his gaze so that even though he could see fine, no one would be able to see that one of his eyes was blue and the other black.

“I’m going to stand out,” he said.

“It’s the
Essen Tasch
,” said Rhy. “Everyone stands out.”

And while it was true that everyone wore
masks
and it was part of the drama, the tradition, this wasn’t just a mask. “Most competitors don’t dress as though they’re going to war.”

Rhy crossed his arms and gave him an appraising look. “Yes, well, most competitors don’t truly
need
to maintain their anonymity, but your features are … unique.”

“Are you calling me ugly?”

Rhy snorted. “We both know you’re the prettiest boy at the ball.”

Kell couldn’t stop cheating glances in the mirror. The silver helmet hovered over his simple black clothes, but something was missing….

His coat was still draped on the back of the couch. He took it up and shook it slightly as he turned it inside out, and as he did, his usual black jacket with silver buttons became something else. Something new.

“I’ve never seen that one before,” said Rhy. Neither had Kell, not until a few days earlier, when he’d gotten bored and decided to see what other sides the coat had tucked away (now and then, unused outfits seemed to disappear, new ones turning up in their place).

Kell had wondered at the sudden appearance of this one, so unlike the others, but now, as he shrugged it on, he realized that was because this coat didn’t belong to him.

It belonged to
Kamerov.

The coat was knee-length and silver, trimmed in a patterned border of black and lined with bloodred silk. The sleeves were narrow and the bottom flared, the collar high enough to reach the base of his skull.

Kell slipped the coat on, fastening the clasps, which cut an asymmetrical line from shoulder to hip. Rhy had gone rooting around in Kell’s closet, and now he reemerged with a silver walking stick. He tossed it, and Kell plucked it out of the air, his fingers curled around the black lion’s head that shaped the handle.

And then he turned back to his reflection.

“Well, Master Loste,” said Rhy, stepping back, “you do look splendid.”

Kell didn’t recognize the man in the mirror, and not simply because the mask hid his face. No, it was his posture, too, shoulders straight and head up, his gaze level behind the visor.

Kamerov Loste was an impressive figure.

A breeze wove gently around him, ruffling his coat. Kell smiled.

“About that,” said Rhy, referring to the swirling air. “For obvious reasons, Kamerov can’t be an
Antari.
I suggest you pick an element and stick with it. Two if you must—I’ve heard there are quite a few duals this year—but triads are rare enough to draw attention….”

“Mmhmm,” said Kell, adjusting his pose.

“While I’m sympathetic to your sudden bout of narcissism,” said Rhy, “this is important, Kell. When you’re wearing that mask, you cannot be the most powerful magician in Ames.”

“I understand.” Kell tugged the helmet back off and struggled to smooth his hair. “Rhy,” he said, “are you certain …?” His heart was racing. He wanted this. He shouldn’t want this. It was a terrible idea. But he wanted it all the same. Kell’s blood sang at the idea of a fight. A good fight.

Rhy nodded.

“All right, then.”

“So you’ve come to your senses?”

Kell shook his head, dazed. “Or lost my mind.” But he was smiling now, so hard he felt his face might crack.

He turned the helmet over and over in his hands.

And then, as suddenly as his spirits had soared, they sank.

“Sanct,”
he cursed, sagging back onto the couch. “What about my guards?”

“Silver and Gold?” asked Rhy, his pet names for the men. “What about them?”

“I can’t exactly ditch Staff and Hastra for the entire length of the tournament. Nor can I conveniently misplace them for each and every bout.”

“I’m sorry, I thought you were a master magician.”

Kell threw up his hands. “It has nothing to do with my skill, Rhy. There’s suspicious, and then there’s obvious.”

“Well, then,” said the prince, “we’ll just have to tell them.”

“And they’ll tell the king. And do you want to guess what the king will do? Because I’m willing to bet he won’t risk the stability of the kingdom so I can let off some steam.”

Rhy pinched the bridge of his nose. Kell frowned. That gesture, it didn’t suit the prince; it was something
he
would do, had done a hundred times.

“Leave it to me,” he said. He crossed to Kell’s doors and swung them open, leaning against the frame. Kell hoped the guards had truly stayed behind when he left King Maxim, but they must have only granted him a berth, because Rhy called them in, closing the door before his own guards could follow.

Kell rose to his feet, unsure what his brother meant to do.

“Staff,” said Rhy, addressing the man with silver temples. “When my father assigned you to shadow Kell, what did he say?”