Gathering of Shadows (A Darker Shade of Magic) (54 page)

She bit back a scream as the flame licked her wrists before finally snapping the rope. As soon as her hands were free, she rolled over the fire, plunging herself back into darkness. She tugged the gag off and sat up to reach her ankles, smacking her head against the top of the box and swearing roundly as she fell back. Maneuvering carefully, she managed to reach the ropes at her feet and unknot them.

Limbs free, she pushed against the lid of the box. It didn’t budge. She swore and brought her palms together, a tiny flame sparking between them. By its light she could see that the box had no latches. It was a cargo crate. And it was nailed shut. Lila doused the light, and let her aching head rest against the floor of the crate. She took a few steadying breaths—
Emotion isn’t strength
, she told herself, reciting one of Alucard’s many idioms—and then she pressed her palms to the wooden walls of the crate, and
pushed.

Not with her hands, but with her
will.
Will against wood, will against nail, will against air.

The box shuddered.

And
exploded.

Metal nails ground free, boards snapped, and the air within the box shoved everything
out.
She covered her head as debris rained back down on her, then got to her feet, dragging in air. The flesh of her wrists was angry and raw, her hands shaking from pain and fury as she fought to get her bearings.

She’d been wrong. She was in a cargo hold. On a ship. But judging by the boat’s steadiness, it was still docked. Lila stared down at the remains of the crate. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on her; after all, she’d tried to do the same thing to Stasion Elsor. But she liked to believe that if she’d actually put him in a crate, she would have given him air holes.

The devil’s mask winked at her from the wreckage, and she dug it free, pulling it down over her head. She knew where Ver-as-Is was staying. She’d seen his crew at the Sun Streak, an inn on the same street as the Wandering Road.

“Hey,” called a man, as she climbed to the deck. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Lila didn’t slow. She crossed the ship briskly and descended the plank to the dock, ignoring the shouts from the deck, ignoring the morning sun and the distant sound of cheers.

Lila had warned Ver-as-Is what would happen.

And she was a girl of her word.

* * *

“What part of
you need to lose
don’t you understand?”

Rhy was pacing Kell’s tent, looking furious.

“You shouldn’t be here,” said Kell, rubbing his sore shoulder.

He hadn’t meant to win. He’d just wanted it to be a good match. A close match. It wasn’t his fault that ‘Rul the Wolf’ had stumbled. It wasn’t his fault that the nines favored close combat. It wasn’t his fault that the Veskan had
clearly
had a little too much fun the night before. He’d seen the man fight, and he’d been brilliant. Why couldn’t he have been brilliant
today
?

Kell ran a hand through his sweat-slicked hair. The silver helmet sat, cast off, on the cushions.

“This is not the kind of trouble we need, Kell.”

“It was an accident.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

Hastra stood against the wall, looking as if he wanted to disappear. Up in the central arena, they were still cheering Kamerov’s name.

“Look at me,” snapped Rhy, pulling Kell’s jaw up so their eyes met. “You need to start losing
now
.” He started pacing again, his voice low even though he’d had Hastra clear the tent. “The nines is a point game,” he continued. “Top score in your group advances. With any luck, one of the others will take their match by a landslide, but as far as you’re concerned, Kamerov is going
out
.”

“If I lose by too much, it will look suspicious.”

“Well you need to lose by
enough
,” said Rhy. “The good news is, I’ve seen your next opponent, and he’s good enough to beat you.” Kell soured. “Fine,” amended Rhy, “he’s good enough to beat
Kamerov.
Which is exactly what he’s going to do.”

Kell sighed. “Who am I up against?”

Rhy finally stopped pacing. “His name is Stasion Elsor. And with any luck, he’ll slaughter you.”

* * *

Lila locked the door behind her.

She found her knives in a bag at the foot of the bed, along with the trinkets and the shard of stone. The men themselves were still asleep. By the looks of it—the empty bottles, the tangled sheets—they’d had a late night. Lila chose her favorite knife, the one with the knuckled grip, and approached the beds, humming softly.

How do you know when the Sarows is coming?

(Is coming is coming is coming aboard?)

She killed his two companions in their beds, but Ver-as-Is she woke, right before she slit his throat. She didn’t want him to beg; she simply wanted him to see.

A strange thing happened when the Faroans died. The gems that marked their dark skin lost their hold and tumbled free. The gold beads slid from Ver-as-Is’s face, hitting the floor like rain. Lila picked up the largest one and pocketed it as payment before she left. Back the way she’d come with her coat pulled tight and her head down, fetching the mask from the bin where she’d stashed it. Her wrists still burned, and her head still ached, but she felt much better now, and as she made her way toward the Wandering Road, breathing in the cool air, letting sunlight warm her skin, a stillness washed over her—the calm that came from taking control, from making a threat and following through. Lila felt like herself again. But underneath it all was a twinge, not of guilt or regret, but the nagging pinch that she was forgetting something.

When she heard the trumpets, it hit her.

She craned her neck, scouring the sky for the sun, and finding only clouds. But she knew. Knew it was late. Knew
she
was late. Her stomach dropped like a stone, and she slammed the helmet on and
ran.

* * *

Kell stood in the center of the arena, waiting.

The trumpets rang out a second time. He squared his shoulders to the opposite tunnel, waiting for his opponent to emerge.

But no one came.

The day was cold, and his breath fogged in front of his mask. A minute passed, then two, and Kell found his attention flicking to the royal platform where Rhy stood, watching, waiting. Behind him, Lord Sol-in-Ar looked impassive, Princess Cora bored, Queen Emira lost in thought.

The crowd was growing restless, their attention slipping.

Kell’s excitement tensed, tightened, wavered.

His banner—the mirrored lions on red—waved above the podium and in the crowd. The other banner—crossed knives on black—snapped in the breeze.

But Stasion Elsor was nowhere to be found.

* * *

“You’re very late,” said Ister as Lila surged into the Arnesian tent.

“I know,” she snapped.

“You’ll never—”

“Just
help me
, priest.”

Ister sent a messenger to the stadium and enlisted two more attendants, and the three rushed to get Lila into her armor, a flurry of straps and pads and plates.

Christ. She didn’t even know who she was set to fight.

“Is that blood?” asked one attendant, pointing to her collar.

“It’s not mine,” muttered Lila.

“What happened to your wrists?” asked another.

“Too many questions, not enough work.”

Ister appeared with a large tray, the surface of which was covered in weapons. No, not weapons, exactly, only the hilts and handles.

“I think they’re missing something.”

“This is the nines,” said Ister. “You have to supply the rest.” She plucked a hilt up from the tray and curled her fingers around it. The priest’s lips began to move, and Lila watched as a gust of wind whipped up and spun tightly around and above the hilt until it formed a kind of blade.

Lila’s eyes widened. The first two rounds had been fought at a distance, attacks lobbed across the arena like explosives. But weapons meant hand-to-hand combat, and close quarters were Lila’s specialty. She swiped two dagger hilts from the tray and slid them underneath the plates on her forearms.

“Fal chas,”
said Ister, just before the trumpets blared in warning, and Lila cinched the demon’s jaw and took off, the final buckles on her mask still streaming behind her.

* * *

Kell cocked his head at Rhy, wondering what the prince would do. If Elsor didn’t show, he would be forced to forfeit. If he was forced to forfeit, Kell would have the points to advance. Kell
couldn’t
advance. He watched the struggle play out across Rhy’s face, and then the king whispered something in his ear. The prince seemed to grow paler as he raised the gold ring to his mouth, ready to call the match. But before he could speak, an attendant appeared at the edge of the platform and spoke rapidly. Rhy hesitated, and then, mercifully, the trumpets rang.

Moments later Stasion hurried into the stadium looking … disheveled. But when he saw Kell, he broke into a smile, his teeth shining white behind his devil’s mask. There was no warmth in that look. It was a predator’s grin.

The crowds burst into excited applause as Kamerov Loste and Stasion Elsor took their places at the center of the arena.

Kell squinted through his visor at Elsor’s mask. Up close it was a nightmarish thing.

“Tas renar,”
said Kell.
You are late.

“I’m worth the wait,” answered Stasion. His voice caught Kell off guard. Husky and smooth, and sharp as a knife. And yet, undeniably female.

He knew that voice.

Lila.

But this wasn’t Lila. This
couldn’t
be Lila. She was a human, a Grey-worlder—a Grey-worlder unlike any other, yes, but a Grey-worlder all the same—and she didn’t know how to do magic, and she would definitely never be crazy enough to enter the
Essen Tasch.

As soon as the thought ran through his head, Kell’s argument crumbled. Because if anyone was bullheaded enough to do something this stupid, this rash, this suicidal, it was the girl who’d picked his pocket that night in Grey London, who’d followed him through a door in the worlds—a door she should never have survived—and faced the black stone and the white royals and death itself with a sharpened smile.

The same sharpened smile that glinted now, between the lips of the demon’s face.

“Wait,”
said Kell.

The word was a whisper, but it was too late. The judge had already signaled, and Lila let go of her spheres. Kell dropped his own an instant later, but she was already on the attack.

Kell hesitated, but she didn’t. He was still trying to process her presence when she iced the ground beneath his feet, then struck out at close range with a dagger made of flame. Kell lunged away, but not far enough, and a moment later he was on his back, light bursting from the plate across his stomach, and Lila Bard kneeling over him.

He stared up into her mismatched brown eyes.

Did she know it was him behind the silver mask?

“Hello,” she said, and in that one word, he knew that she did. Before he could say anything, Lila pushed herself off again. Kell quickly rolled backward, leveraging himself into a fighting crouch.

She had two knives now (of
course
she had chosen the blades—one made of fire, one made of ice), and she was twirling them casually. Kell had chosen nothing. (It was a bold move, one Kamerov would make, and one designed to sink him. But not this fast.) He lashed his water into a whip and struck, but Lila rolled out of reach and threw her icy blade. Kell dodged, and in that distracted moment she tried to strike again, but this time his earth caught hold of her boot and his whip lashed out. Lila got her fire knife up to block his blow, the water whip breaking around the blade, but the whip’s end managed to find her forearm, shattering a plate.

Lila was still pinned in place, but she was smirking, and an instant later her ice blade hit Kell from behind. He staggered forward as a second plate broke and he lost his hold on her foot.

And then the real fight began.

They sparred, a blur of elements and limbs, hits marked only by a flare of light. They came together, lunged apart, matching each other blow for blow.

“Have you lost your mind?” he growled as their elements crashed together.

“Nice to see you, too,” she answered, ducking and spinning behind him.

“You have to stop,” he ordered, narrowly dodging a fireball.

“You first,” she chided, diving behind a column.

Water slashed, and fire burned, and earth rumbled.

“This is madness.”

“I’m not the only one in disguise.” Lila drew near, and he thought she’d go in for a strike, but at the last second she changed her mind, touched the fire blade to her empty palm, and
pushed.

For an instant, the air around them faltered. Kell saw pain flash across Lila’s face behind the mask, but then a wall of flame
erupted
toward him, and it was all he could do to will his water up into a wave over his head. Steam poured forth as the two elements collided. And then Lila did something completely unexpected. She reached out and froze the water over Kell’s head.
His
water.

The audience gasped, and Kell swore, as the sheet of ice cracked and splintered and came crashing down on top of him. It wasn’t against the rules—they’d both chosen water—but it was a rare thing, to claim your opponent’s element for yourself, and overpower them.

A rarer thing still, to be overpowered.

Kell could have escaped, could have drawn the fight out another measure, maybe two. But he had to lose. So he held his ground and let the ceiling of ice fall, shattering the plates across his shoulders and back, and sending up flares of light.

And just like that, it was over.

Delilah Bard had won.

She came to a stop beside him, offered him her hand.

“Well played,
mas vares
,” she whispered.

Kell stood there, dazed. He knew he should bow to her, to the crowd, and go, but his feet wouldn’t move. He watched as Lila tipped her mask up to the stands, and the king, then watched as she gave him one last devilish grin and slipped away. He gave a rushed bow to the royal platform and sprinted after her, out of the stadium and into the tents, throwing open the curtain marked by the two crossed blades.