Gathering of Shadows (A Darker Shade of Magic) (39 page)

Lila slid the mask over her head. She was still wondering at the beautiful, monstrous thing when Calla handed her something else. It was made of the same black leather, and lined with the same dark metal, and it shaped a kind of crown, or a smile, the sides taller than the center. Lila turned it over in her hands, wondering what it was for, until Calla retrieved it, swept around behind her, and fastened the plate around her throat.

“To keep your head on your shoulders,” said the woman, who then proceeded to clasp the sides of the neck guard to small, hidden hinges on the tapered sides of the mask. It was like a jaw, and when Lila looked at her reflection, she saw her features nested within the two halves of the monster’s skull.

She broke into a devilish grin, her teeth glinting within the mouth of the helmet.

“You,” said Lila, “are brilliant.”

“Anesh,”
said Calla with a shrug, though Lila could see that the merchant was proud.

She had the sudden and peculiar urge to
hug
the woman, but she resisted.

The hinged jaw allowed her to raise the mask, which she did, the demon’s head resting on top of her own like a crown, the jaw still circling her throat. “How do I look?” she asked.

“Strange,” said Calla. “And dangerous.”

“Perfect.”

Outside, the bells began to toll, and Lila’s smile widened.

It was time.

* * *

Kell crossed to the bed and examined the clothes—a set of black trousers and a high-collared black shirt, both trimmed with gold. On top of the shirt sat the gold pin Rhy had given him for the royal reception. His coat waited, thrown over the back of a chair, but he left it there. It was a traveler’s charm, and tonight he was confined to the palace.

The clothes on the bed were Rhy’s choice, and they weren’t simply a gift.

They were a message.

Tomorrow, you can be
Kamerov.

Tonight, you are
Kell.

Hastra had appeared earlier, only to confiscate his mask, on Rhy’s orders.

Kell had been reluctant to relinquish it.

“You must be excited,” Hastra had said, reading his hesitation, “about the tournament. Don’t imagine you get to test your mettle very often.”

Kell had frowned. “This isn’t a game,” he’d said, perhaps too sternly. “It’s about keeping the kingdom safe.” He felt a twinge of guilt as he watched Hastra go pale.

“I’ve sworn an oath to protect the royal family.”

“I’m sorry then,” said Kell ruefully, “that you’re stuck protecting
me
.”

“It’s an honor, sir.” There was nothing in his tone but pure, simple truth. “I would defend you with my life.”

“Well,” said Kell, surrendering Kamerov’s mask. “I hope you never have to.”

The young guard managed a small, embarrassed smile. “Me too, sir.”

Kell paced his room and tried to put tomorrow from his mind. First he had to survive tonight.

A pitcher and bowl sat on the sideboard, and Kell poured water into the basin and pressed his palms to the sides until it steamed. Once clean, he dressed in Rhy’s chosen attire, willing to humor his brother. It was the least he could do—though Kell wondered, as he slipped on the tunic, how long Rhy would be calling in this payment. He could picture the prince a decade from now, telling Kell to fetch him tea.

“Get it yourself,” he would say, and Rhy would tut and answer, “Remember Kamerov?”

Kell’s evening clothes were tight, formfitting in the style Rhy favored, and made of a black fabric so fine it caught the light instead of swallowing it. The cut and fit forced him to stand at full height, erasing his usual slouch. He fastened the gold buttons, the cuffs and collar—saints, how many clasps did it take to clothe a man?—and lastly the royal pin over his heart.

Kell checked himself in his mirror, and stiffened.

Even with his fair skin and auburn hair, even with the black eye that shone like polished rock, Kell looked
regal.
He stared at his reflection for several long moments, mesmerized, before tearing his gaze away.

He looked like a prince.

* * *

Rhy stood before the mirror, fastening the gleaming buttons of his tunic. Beyond the shuttered balcony, the sounds of celebration were rising off the cold night like steam. Carriages and laughter, footsteps and music.

He was running late, and he knew it, but he couldn’t seem to get his nerves under control, wrangle his fears. It was getting dark, and the darkness leaned against the palace, and against him, the weight settling on his chest.

He poured himself a drink—his third—and forced a smile at his reflection.

Where was the prince who relished such festivities, who loved nothing better than to be the contagious joy at the center of the room?

Dead, thought Rhy, drily, before he could stop himself, and he was glad, not for the first time, that Kell could not read his mind as well as feel his pain. Luckily, other people still seemed to look at Rhy and see what he’d been instead of what he was. He didn’t know if that meant he was good at hiding the difference, or that they weren’t paying attention to begin with. Kell looked, and Rhy was sure he saw the change, but he had the sense not to say anything. There was nothing to be said. Kell had given Rhy a life—
his
life—and it wasn’t his fault if Rhy didn’t like it as much as his own. He’d lost that one, forfeited by his own foolishness.

He downed the drink, hoping it would render him in better spirits, but it dulled the world without ever touching his thoughts.

He touched the gleaming buttons and adjusted his crown for the dozenth time, shivering as a gust of cold air brushed against his neck.

“I fear you haven’t enough gold,” came a voice from the balcony doors.

Rhy stiffened. “What are guards for,” he said slowly, “when they let even pirates pass?”

The man took a step forward, and then another, silver on him ringing like muffled chimes. “
Privateer
’s the term these days.”

Rhy swallowed and turned to face Alucard Emery. “As for the gold,” he said evenly, “it is a fine balance. The more I wear, the more likely one is to try and rob me of it.”

“Such a dilemma,” said Alucard, stealing another stride. Rhy took him in. He was dressed in clothes that had clearly never seen the sea. A dark blue suit, accented by a silver cloak, his rich brown hair groomed and threaded with gems to match. A single sapphire sparkled over his right eye. Those eyes, like night lilies caught in moonlight. He used to smell like them, too. Now he smelled like sea breeze and spice, and other things Rhy could not place, from lands he’d never seen.

“What brings a rogue like you to my chambers?” he asked.

“A rogue,” Alucard rolled the word over his tongue. “Better a rogue than a bored royal.”

Rhy felt Alucard’s eyes wandering slowly, hungrily, over him, and he blushed. The heat started in his face and spread down, through his collar, his chest, beneath shirt and belt. It was disconcerting; Rhy might not have magic, but when it came to conquests, he was used to holding the power—things happened at his whim, and at his pleasure. Now he felt that power falter, slip. In all of Ames, there was only one person capable of flustering the prince, of reducing him from a proud royal to a nervous youth, and that was Alucard Emery. Misfit. Rogue. Privateer. And royal. Removed from the throne by a stretch of tangled bloodlines, sure, but still. Alucard Emery could have had a crest and a place in court. Instead, he fled.

“You’ve come for the tournament,” said Rhy, making small talk.

Alucard pursed his lips at the attempt. “Among other things.”

Rhy hesitated, unsure what to say next. With anyone else, he would have had a flirtatious retort, but standing there, a mere stride away from Alucard, he felt short of breath, let alone words. He turned away, fidgeting with his cuffs. He heard the chime of silver and a moment later, Alucard snaked an arm possessively around his shoulders and brought his lips to the prince’s neck, just below his ear. Rhy actually
shivered.

“You are far too familiar with your prince,” he warned.

“So you confess it, then?” His brushed his lips against Rhy’s throat. “That you are mine.”

He bit the lobe of Rhy’s ear, and the prince gasped, back arching. Alucard always did know what to say—what to do—to tilt the world beneath his feet.

Rhy turned to say something, but Alucard’s mouth was already there on his. Hands tangled in hair, clutched at coats. They were a collision, spurred by the force of three years apart.

“You missed me,” said Alucard. It was not a question, but there
was
a confession in it, because everything about Alucard—the tension in his back, the ways his hips pressed into Rhy’s, the race of his heart and the tremor in his voice—said that the missing had been mutual.

“I’m a prince,” said Rhy, striving for composure. “I know how to keep myself entertained.”

The sapphire glinted in Alucard’s brow. “
I
can be very entertaining.” He was already leaning in as he spoke, and Rhy found himself closing the distance, but at the last moment Alucard tangled his fingers in Rhy’s hair and pulled his head back, exposing the prince’s throat. He pressed his lips to the slope below Rhy’s jaw.

Rhy clenched his teeth, fighting back a groan, but his stillness must have betrayed him; he felt Alucard smile against his skin. The man’s fingers drifted to his tunic, deftly unbuttoning his collar so his kisses could continue downward, but Rhy felt him hesitate at the sight of the scar over his heart. “Someone has wounded you,” he whispered into Rhy’s collarbone. “Shall I make it better?”

Rhy pulled Alucard’s face back to his, desperate to draw his attention from the mark, and the questions it might bring. He bit Alucard’s lip, and delighted in the small victory of the gasp it earned him as—

The bells rang out.

The Banner Night.

He was late. They were late.

Alucard laughed softly, sadly. Rhy closed his eyes and swallowed.

“Sanct,”
he cursed, hating the world that waited beyond his doors, and his place in it.

Alucard was already pulling away, and for an instant all Rhy wanted to do was pull him back, hold fast, terrified that if he let go, Alucard would vanish again, not just from the room but from London, from
him
, slip out into the night and the sea as he’d done three years before. Alucard must have seen the panic in his eyes, because he turned back, and drew Rhy in, and pressed his lips to Rhy’s one last time, a gentle, lingering kiss.

“Peace,” he said, pulling slowly free. “I am not a ghost.” And then he smiled, and smoothed his coat, and turned away. “Fix your crown, my prince,” he called back as he reached the door. “It’s crooked.”

II

Kell was halfway down the stairs when he was met by a short
ostra
with a trimmed beard and a frazzled look. Parlo, the prince’s shadow since the tournament preparations first began.

“Master Kell,” he said, breathless. “The prince is not with you?”

Kell cocked his head. “I assumed he was already downstairs.”

Parlo shook his head. “Could something be wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” said Kell with certainty.

“Well then, it’s about to be. The king is losing patience, most of the guests are here, and the prince has not yet made an entrance.”

“Perhaps that’s exactly what he’s trying to make.” Parlo looked sick with panic. “If you’re worried, why don’t you go to his room and fetch him?” The
ostra
paled even further, as if Kell had just suggested something unfathomable. Obscene.

“Fine,” grumbled Kell, turning back up the stairs. “
I’ll
do it.”

Tolners and Vis were standing outside Rhy’s room. Kell was a few strides shy of the chamber when the doors burst open and a figure came striding out. A figure that most certainly
wasn’t
Rhy. The guards’ eyes widened at the sight of him. The man obviously hadn’t gone in that way. Kell pulled up short as they nearly collided, and even though it had been years—too few, in Kell’s estimation—he recognized the man at once.

“Alucard Emery,” he said coldly, exhaling the name like a curse.