Gathering of Shadows (A Darker Shade of Magic) (61 page)

He turned up the collar of his coat, stepped out into the dark, and began to walk again. He walked the bridges and the streets of Lila’s London, the parks and the paths. He walked until his muscles hurt and the pleasant buzz of whisky burned off and he was left with only that stubborn ache in his chest and the nagging pressure of guilt, of need, of duty.

And even then, he walked.

He couldn’t stop walking. If he stopped, he would think, and if he thought too hard, he would go home.

He walked for hours, and only when his legs felt like they would give way unless he stopped, did he finally sink onto a bench along the Thames and listen to the sounds of Grey London, similar to and yet so different from his own.

The river had no light. It was a stretch of black, turning purple with the first hints of morning.

He turned the options over in his mind like a coin.

Run.

Run home.

Run.

Run home.

Run.

VI

Ojka paced the palace shadows, furious with herself.

She’d lost him. She didn’t know how he’d gotten away, only that he had. She’d spent the day searching for him in the crowds, waiting for night to fall, had returned to her post on the balcony, but the ballroom was dark, the celebration somewhere else. A steady stream of men and women poured up and down the steps, vanished and emerged, but none of them were Kell.

In the thickest hours of the night she saw a pair of guards, men in splendid red and gold, leaning in the shadow of the palace steps, talking softly. Ojka drew her blade. She couldn’t decide if she should cut their throats and steal their armor, or torture them for information. But before she could do either, she heard a name pass between them.

Kell.

As she drew close, the language rune began to burn against her skin, and their words took shape.

“… saying he’s gone …” continued one.

“What do you mean,
gone
? As in taken?”

“Run off. Glad, too. Always gave me the creeps….”

Ojka hissed, retreating down the banks. He wasn’t gone. He couldn’t be
gone.

She knelt on the cold earth and drew a piece of parchment from her pocket, spreading it over the ground. Next she dug her fingers into the dirt and ripped up a clod, crushing it in her palm.

This wasn’t blood magic. Just a spell she’d used a hundred times in Kosik, hunting down those who owed her coin, or life.

“Køs øchar,”
she said as the earth tumbled onto the parchment. As it fell, it traced the lines of the city, the river, the streets.

Ojka dusted off her hands.

“Køs Kell,”
she said. But the map didn’t change. The earth didn’t stir. Wherever Kell was, he wasn’t in London. Ojka clenched her teeth, and stood, dreading her king’s reaction even as she drew upon the bond.

He is gone
, she thought, and a moment later she was met by Holland—not only his voice, but his displeasure.

Explain.

He is not in this world
, she said.
He is gone.

A pause and then,
Did he go alone?

Ojka hesitated.
I believe so. The royal family is still here.

The silence that followed made her ill. She imagined Holland sitting on his throne, surrounded by the bodies that had failed him. She would not be one of those.

At last, the king spoke.

He will come back.

How do you know?
asked Ojka.

He will always come home.

* * *

Rhy was a wreck. He’d stayed up through the night, through the darkness, through the memories, resisting the urge to take something to bring sleep without knowing where Kell was, and what might happen to his brother if he did. Instead the prince had tossed and turned for half the night before throwing the blankets off and pacing the room until dawn finally broke over the city.

The final match of the
Essen Tasch
was mere hours away. Rhy didn’t care about the tournament. He didn’t care about Faro and Vesk and politics. He only cared about his brother.

And Kell was still gone.

Still gone.

Still gone.

The darkness swarmed in Rhy’s head.

The palace was coming to life around him. Soon he’d have to don the crown, and the smile, and play prince. He ran his hands through his hair, wincing in pain as a dark curl snagged on one of his rings. Rhy cursed. And then stopped pacing.

His eyes danced across the room—pillows and blankets and sofas, so many
soft
things—before landing on the royal pin. He’d cast it off with his tunic after the ball, and now it glinted in the first of the morning’s light.

He tested the tip against his thumb, biting his lip as it drew blood. Rhy watched the bead well and spill down his palm, his heart racing. Then he brought the pin to the crook of his arm.

Maybe it was the lingering alcohol. Or maybe it was the gnawing panic of knowing that he couldn’t reach Kell, or the guilt of understanding just how much his brother had given up, or the selfish need for him to give up more, to come back, to come home, that made Rhy press the point of the pin into the smooth flesh on the inside of his forearm, and begin to write.

* * *

Kell hissed at the sudden burning in his skin.

He was used to dull aches, shallow pains, echoes of Rhy’s various mishaps, but this was sharp and bright, deliberate in a way that a glancing blow to the ribs or a banged knee never was. The pain dragged itself along the inside of his left arm, and he forced up the sleeve, expecting to see blood staining his tunic, angry red marks across his skin, but there was nothing. The pain stopped, and then started again, drawing itself down his arm in waves. No,
lines.

He stared down at the skin, trying to make sense of the searing pain.

And then, suddenly, he understood.

He couldn’t see the lines, but when he closed his eyes, he could feel them trace their way over his skin the way Rhy used to trace letters with his fingertip, writing out secret messages on Kell’s arm. It was a game they’d played when they were young, stuck side by side at some event or a boring dinner.

This wasn’t a game, not now. And yet Kell could feel the letters blazing down his arm, marked with something far sharper than a fingernail.

S

S-O

S-O-R

S-O-R-R

S-O-R-R-Y.

* * *

Kell was on his feet by the second
R
, cursing at himself for leaving as he drew the coins from around his throat and abandoned the ashen dawn of one London for the vibrant morning of another.

As he made his way to the palace, he thought of everything he wanted to say to the king, but when he climbed the grand stairs and stepped into the foyer, the royal family was already there. So were the Veskan prince and princess, the Faroan lord.

Rhy’s gaze met Kell’s, and his expression blazed with relief, but Kell kept his guard up as he stepped forward. He could feel the storm coming, the energy in the air thick with everything unsaid. He was braced for the fight, the harsh words, the accusations, the orders, but when the king spoke, his voice was warm. “Ah, there he is. We were about to leave without you.”

Kell couldn’t hide his surprise. He’d assumed he would be bound to the palace, perhaps indefinitely. Not welcomed back without the slightest reprimand. He hesitated, meeting the king’s gaze. It was steady, but he could see the warning in it.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, straining to keep his voice airy. “I was on an errand, and I lost track of time.”

“You’re here now,” said the king, bringing a hand to Kell’s shoulder. “That is what matters.” The hand squeezed, hard, and for an instant Kell thought he wouldn’t let go. But then the procession set out, and Maxim’s hand fell away, and Rhy came to Kell’s side, whether out of solidarity or desperation, he didn’t know.

The central arena was filled to capacity, onlookers spilling out into the streets despite the early hour. In a clever touch, the dragons of the eastern arena and the lions of the western one had been moved, and were now converging on the central stadium, icy beasts in the river, lions posted on the stone supports, and the central’s birds in flight overhead. The stadium floor was a tangle of obstacles, columns and boulders and rock shelves, and the stands above swarmed with life and color; Alucard’s pennant with its silver feather waved from every side, dotted here and there with Rul’s blue wolf, and Tos-an-Mir’s black spiral.

When the three magicians finally emerged from their respective tunnels and took their places in the center of the floor, the roar was deafening; Kell and Rhy both cringed at the noise.

In the broad light of morning, the prince looked terrible (Kell could only assume he looked the same). Dark circles stood out beneath Rhy’s pale eyes, and he held his left arm gingerly, shielding the letters freshly scarred into his skin. To every side, the stadium was alive with energy and noise, but the royal box was perilously quiet, the air heavy with things unsaid.

The king kept his eyes on the arena floor. The queen finally shot a glance at Kell, but it was laced with scorn. Prince Col seemed to sense the tension, and watched it all with hawkish blue eyes, while Cora seemed oblivious to the dangerous mood, still sulking from Kell’s subtle rebuff.

Only Lord Sol-in-Ar appeared immune to the atmosphere of dissent. If anything his mood had improved.

Kell scanned the masses below. He didn’t realize he was searching for Lila, not until he found her in the crowd. It should have been impossible in such a massive space, but he could feel the shift of gravity, the pull of her presence, and his eyes found hers across the stadium. From here he couldn’t see her features, couldn’t tell if her lips were moving, but he imagined them forming the word
hello.

And then Rhy stepped forward, managing to muster a shadow of his usual charm as he brought the gold amplifier to his lips.

“Welcome!” he called out. “
Glad’ach! Sasors!
What a tournament it has been. It is only fitting that our three great empires find themselves here, represented equally by three great champions. From Faro, a twin by birth, without equal in the ring, the fiery Tos-an-Mir.” Whistles filled the air as the Faroan bowed, her gold mask winking in the light. “From Vesk, a beast of a fighter, a wolf of a man, Rul!” In the arena, Rul himself let out a howl, and the Veskans in the crowd took up the call. “And of course, from our own Ames, the captain of the sea, the prince of power, Alucard!”

The applause was thunderous, and even Kell brought his hands together, albeit slowly, and without much noise.

“The rules of this final round are simple,” continued Rhy, “because there are few. This is no longer a game of points. A magician’s armor is composed of twenty-eight plates, some broad targets, others small and hard to hit. Today, the last one with plates unbroken wins the crown. So cheer your three magicians, because only one will leave this ring the champion!”

The trumpets blared, the orbs fell, and Rhy retreated into the platform’s shadow as the match began

Below, the magicians became a blur of elements: Rul’s earth and fire; Tos-an-Mir’s fire and air; Alucard’s earth, air, and water.
Of course he’s a triad
, thought Kell grimly.

It took less than a minute for Alucard to land the first blow on Rul’s shoulder. It took more than five for Rul to land the second on Alucard’s shin. Tos-an-Mir seemed content to let the two men strike each other from the books, until Alucard landed an icy blow to the back of her knees, and then she joined the fray.

The air in the royal booth was suffocating. Rhy was silent, slumped tiredly in the shadow of the balcony’s awning, while Kell stood vigilantly beside the king, whose gaze never wavered from the match.

Below, Tos-an-Mir moved like a gold-masked shadow, dancing on the air, while Rul loped and lunged in his predatory lupine way. Alucard still moved with a noble’s poise, even as his elements arced and crashed around him in a storm. The sounds of the fight were lost beneath the swell of cheers, but every point was marked by an explosion of light, a burst of brightness that only drove the crowd to a higher pitch.