Gathering of Shadows (A Darker Shade of Magic) (43 page)

He remembered the pain, and the blood, and the fear, and finally the quiet and the dark. The surrender of letting go, of sinking down, away, and the shock of being dragged back, the force of it like falling, a terrible, jarring pain when he hit the ground. Only he wasn’t falling down. He was falling up. Surging back to the surface of himself, and then, and then.

And then the tonic finally took hold, the memories silenced as the past and present both mercifully faded and Rhy slipped feverishly down into sleep.

V

Holland paced the royal chamber.

It was as vast and vaulting as the throne room, with broad windows to every side. Built into the castle’s western spire, it overlooked the entire city. From here he could see the glow from the Sijlt dance like moonlight against the low clouds, see lamps burn pale but steady, diffused by windowpanes and low mist, see the city—
his
city—sleep and wake, rest and stir, and return to life.

His head snapped up as something landed on the sill—power surged reflexively to the surface—but it was just a bird. White and grey with a pale gold crest, and eyes that shone as black as Holland’s. He exhaled.

A
bird.

How long had it been since he’d seen one? Animals had fled with the magic long ago, rooting out the distant places where the world wasn’t dying, burrowing down to reach the retreating life. Any creature foolish enough to stray within reach was slaughtered for sustenance or spellwork, or both. The Danes had kept two horses, pristine white beasts, and even those had fallen in the days after their deaths, when the city plunged into chaos and slaughter for the crown. Holland had missed those early days, of course. He’d spent them clinging to life in a garden a world away.

But here, now, was a bird.

He didn’t realize he was reaching toward it until it ruffled and took wing, his fingertips grazing its feathers before it was out of reach.

A single bird. But it was a sign. The world was changing.

Osaron could summon many things, but not this. Nothing with a heartbeat, nothing with a soul. Holland supposed that was for the best. After all, if Osaron could make a body of his own, he would have no need for Holland. And as much as Holland needed Osaron’s magic, the thought of the
oshoc
moving freely sent a shiver through him. No, Holland was not only Osaron’s partner, he was Osaron’s prison.

And his prisoner was growing restless.

More.

The voice echoed in his head.

Holland took up a book and began to read, but he was only two pages in when the paper shuddered, as if caught by a wind, and the whole thing—from parchment to cover—turned to glass in his hands.

“This is childish,” he murmured, setting the ruined book aside and splaying his hands across the sill.

More.

He felt a tremor beneath his palms and looked down to find tendrils of fog sprawling over the stone and leaving frost, flowers, ivy, fire in their wake.

Holland wrenched his hands away as if burned.

“Stop this,” he said, turning his gaze on the looking glass, a tall, elegant mirror between two windows. He looked at his reflection and saw Osaron’s impatient, impetuous gaze.

We
could do more.

We
could be more.

We
could have more.

We
could have anything.

And instead …

The magic slithered forth, snaked out from Holland’s own hands, a hundred wisp-thin lines that swept and arced around him, threading from wall to wall and ceiling to floor until he stood in the center of a cage.

Holland shook his head and dispelled the illusion. “This is my world,” he said. “It is not a canvas for your whims.”

You have no vision
, sulked Osaron from the reflection.

“I have vision,” replied Holland. “I have seen what happened to
your
world.”

Osaron said nothing, but Holland could feel his restlessness. Could feel the
oshoc
pacing the edges of the
Antari
’s self, wearing grooves into his mind. Osaron was as old as the world, and as wild.

Holland closed his eyes and tried to force calm like a blanket over them both. He needed sleep. A large bed sat in the very center of the room, elegant but untouched. Holland didn’t sleep. Not well. Athos had spent too many years carving—cutting, burning, breaking—the distrust of peace into his body. His muscles refused to unclench; his mind wouldn’t unwind; the walls he’d built hadn’t been built to come down. Athos might be dead, but Holland couldn’t shake the fear that when his eyes closed, Osaron’s might open. Couldn’t bear the thought of surrendering control again.

He’d stationed guards beyond his room to make sure he didn’t wander, but every time he woke, the chamber looked different. A spray of roses climbing the window, a chandelier of ice, a carpet of moss or some exotic fabric—some small change wrought in the night.

We
had a deal.

He could feel the
oshoc
’s will warring with his own, growing stronger every day, and though Holland was still in control, he didn’t know for how much longer. Something would have to be sacrificed. Or someone.

Holland opened his eyes, and met the
oshoc
’s gaze.

“I want to make a new deal.”

In the mirror, Osaron inclined his head, waiting, listening.

“I will find you another body.”

Osaron’s expression soured.
They are too weak to sustain me. Even Ojka would crumble under my true touch.

“I will find you a body as strong as mine,” said Holland carefully.

Osaron looked intrigued.
An
Antari?

Holland pressed on. “
And
his world. To make your own. And in return, you will leave this world to me. Not as it was, but as it can be. Restored.”

Another body, another world
, mused Osaron.
So keen to be rid of me?

“You want more freedom,” said Holland. “I am offering it.”

Osaron turned the offer over. Holland tried to keep his mind calm and clear, knowing the
oshoc
would feel his feelings and know his thoughts.
You offer me an
Antari
vessel. You know I cannot take such a body without permission.

“That is my concern,” said Holland. “Accept my offer, and you will have a new body and a new world to do with as you please. But you will not take
this
world. You will not ruin it.”

Hmmm
, the sound was a vibration through Holland’s head.
Very well
, said the
oshoc
at last.
Bring me another body, and the deal is struck. I will take their world instead.

Holland nodded.

But
, added Osaron,
if they cannot be persuaded, I will keep your body as my own.

Holland growled. Osaron waited.

Well?
A slow smile crept over the reflection.
Do you still wish to make the deal?

Holland swallowed, and looked out his window as a second bird soared past.

“I do.”

I

Kell sat up, a scream still lodged in his throat.

Sweat traced the lines of his face as he blinked away the nightmare.

In his dreams, Red London was burning. He could still smell the smoke now that he was awake, and it took him a moment to realize that it wasn’t simply an echo, trailing him out of sleep. The bedsheets were singed where he was gripping them—he had somehow summoned fire in his sleep. Kell stared down at his hands, the knuckles white. It had been years since his control had faltered.

Kell threw off the covers, and he was halfway to his feet when he heard the cascade of sound beyond the windows, the trumpets and bells, the carriages and shouts.

The tournament.

His blood hummed as he dressed, turning his coat inside out several times—assuring himself that Kamerov’s silver jacket hadn’t been swallowed up by the infinite folds of fabric—before returning it to its royal red and heading downstairs.

He put in a cursory appearance at breakfast, nodding to the king and queen and wishing Rhy luck as a flurry of attendants swirled around the prince with final plans, notes, and questions.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asked the king as Kell palmed a sweet bun and turned toward the door.

“Sir?” he asked, glancing back.

“This is a royal event, Kell. You are expected to attend.”

“Of course.” He swallowed. Rhy shot him a look that said,
I’ve gotten you this far. Don’t blow it now.
And if he did? Would Rhy have to call Castars back in to make another appearance? It would be too risky, trading the roles again in time for the fights, and Kell had a feeling Castars’s charm wouldn’t save him in the ring. Kell fumbled for an excuse. “It’s just … I didn’t think it wise for me to stand with the royal family.”

“And why is that?” demanded King Maxim. The queen’s gaze drifted in his direction, glancing off his shoulder, and Kell had to bite back the urge to point out that he
wasn’t
actually a member of the royal family, as the last four months had made abundantly clear. But Rhy’s look was a warning.

“Well,” said Kell, scrambling for an explanation, “for the prince’s safety. It’s one thing to put me on display with dignitaries and champions in the company of royals, Your Highness, but you’ve said yourself that I’m a target.” The prince gave a small, encouraging nod, and Kell pressed on. “Is it really wise to put me so close to Rhy in such a public forum? I was hoping to stake out a less conspicuous place, in case I’m needed. Somewhere with a good view of the royal podium, but not upon it.”