Gathering of Shadows (A Darker Shade of Magic) (8 page)

Kell glanced up the stairs. “What about the guards?”

“Yours or mine?” asked the prince. “Yours are standing by the upper doors. Helps that they don’t know there’s another way out of this place. As for my own men, they’re probably still outside my room. My stealth really is in fine form today. Shall we?”

The Basin had its own route out of the palace, a narrow staircase that curled up one of the structure’s supports and onto the bank; the two made their way up, lit only by the reddish dark and the pale lanterns that hung sparsely, burning with eternal flames.

“This is a bad idea,” said Kell, not because he expected to change Rhy’s mind, but simply because it was his job to say it, so that later he could tell the king and queen he’d tried.

“The best kind,” said Rhy, looping his arm around Kell’s shoulders.

And with that the two stepped out of the palace, and into the night.

II

Other cities slept away the winter months, but Red London showed no signs of retreat. As the two brothers walked the streets, elemental fires burned in every hearth, steam drifting from the chimneys, and through his clouded breath, Kell saw the haloed lights of the Night Market lining the bank, the scent of mulled wine and stew drifting on the steam, and the streets bustling with scarf-wrapped figures in jewel-toned cloaks.

Rhy was right: Kell was the only one dressed in black. He pulled the cap down over his brow, to shield him less from the cold than the inevitable looks.

A pair of young women strolled past, arm in arm, and when one cut a favoring glance at Rhy, nearly tripping over her skirts, he caught her elbow.

“An, solase, res naster,”
she apologized.

“Mas marist,”
replied Rhy in his effortless Arnesian.

The girl didn’t seem to notice Kell, who still hung a step back, half in the bank’s shadow. But her friend did. He could feel her eyes hanging on him, and when he finally met her gaze, he felt a grim satisfaction at her indrawn breath.

“Avan,”
said Kell, his voice little more than fog.

“Avan,”
she said, stiffly, bowing her head.

Rhy pressed his lips to the other girl’s gloved fingers, but Kell didn’t take his eyes off the one watching him. There had been a time when Arnesians worshipped him as blessed, fell over themselves trying to bow low enough; while he never relished that display, this was worse. There was a measure of reverence in her eyes, but also fear and, worse, distrust. She looked at him as if he were a dangerous animal. As if any sudden movement might cause him to strike. After all, as far as she knew, he was to blame for the Black Night that had swept the city, the magic that made people’s eyes turn as black as his own as it ate them from the inside out. And no matter what statements the king and queen issued, no matter how many rumors Rhy tried to spread to the contrary, everyone believed it was Kell’s doing. His fault.

And in a way, of course, it was.

He felt Rhy’s hand on his shoulder and blinked.

The girls were walking away, arm in arm, whispering furiously.

Kell sighed and looked back at the royal palace arcing over the river. “This was a bad idea,” he said again, but Rhy was already off, heading away from the Night Market and the glow of the Isle.

“Where are we going?” asked Kell, falling into step behind the prince.

“It’s a surprise.”

“Rhy,” warned Kell, who had come to hate surprises.

“Fear not, Brother. I promised you an elegant outing, and I plan to deliver.”

* * *

Kell hated the place the moment he saw it.

It was called Rachenast.

Splendor.

Ruinously loud and riotously colorful, Splendor was a leisure palace where the city’s
ostra
—their elite—could stave off the coldest months by simply denying their presence. Beyond the silver-plated doors, the winter night evaporated. Inside, it was a summer day, from the fire lanterns burning sun-bright overhead to the artificial arbor, shading everyone beneath a dappled canopy of green.

Stepping from the icy night with its curtain of dark and fog into the expansive, well-lit field, Kell felt suddenly—horribly—exposed. He couldn’t believe it, but he and Rhy were actually
under
dressed. He wondered if Rhy
wanted
to cause a scandal or a scene, to have his presence challenged. But the attendants at the doors either recognized the royal prince or Kell himself (and by extension Rhy, since saints knew no one else could drag the
Antari
to such a fête), because the two were welcomed in.

Kell squinted at the onslaught of activity. Banquet tables were piled with fruit and cheese and pitchers of chilled summer wine, and couples twirled across a blue stone platform made to resemble a pond, while others lounged on pillows beneath the enchanted trees. Wind chimes sang, and people laughed—the high, bright laugh of aristocrats—and toasted their companions with crystal cups, their wealth, like the landscape, on display.

Perhaps the whole charade would have been enchanting if it weren’t so frivolous, so gaudy. Instead, Kell found it insufferable. Red London might have been the jewel of the Arnesian empire, but it still had poor people, and suffering—and yet, here in Splendor, the
ostra
could play pretend, craft utopias out of money and magic.

On top of it all, Rhy was right: no one else was wearing black, and Kell felt like a stain on a clean tablecloth (he thought of changing his coat, trading out the black for something brighter, but couldn’t bring himself to wear any of the peacock shades so in fashion this winter) as the prince put a hand on his shoulder and ushered him forward. They passed a banquet table, and Rhy took up two flutes of summer wine. Kell kept his hat on, surveying the room from between the brim of the cap and the rim of the glass Rhy pressed into his hands.

“Do you think they’ve seen through my disguise yet,” mused the prince, keeping his head bowed, “or are they all too busy preening?”

Kell was surprised by the hint of judgment in his brother’s tone. “Give it time,” he said, “we’ve only just arrived.” But he could feel the knowledge moving like a tremor through the room as Rhy led them toward a sofa beneath a tree.

The prince sank into the cushions and cast off his hat. His black curls shone, and even without the usual circlet of gold in his hair, everything about him—his posture, his perfect smile, his self-possession—registered as regal. Kell knew he couldn’t mimic any of those things; he’d tried. Rhy tossed his hat onto the table. Kell hesitated, fingering the brim of his own, but kept it on, his only armor against prying eyes.

He sipped his drink and, having little interest in the rest of Splendor, considered his brother. He still didn’t understand Rhy’s half-hearted disguise. Splendor was a haunt for the elite, and the elite knew the prince’s company better than anyone in the city. They spent months learning the royal tongue just so they could talk their way into his graces (even though Kell knew Rhy found that habit uncomfortable and unnecessary). But the clothes weren’t the only thing that bothered him. Everything about the prince was in its place, and yet …

“Am I really that good-looking?” asked Rhy without meeting his gaze, while glassy laughter chimed through the room.

“You know you are,” answered Kell, dragging his attention to the carpet of grass beneath their feet.

No one approached their couch save for an attendant, a young woman in a white dress, who asked if there was anything she could do to make their evening more enjoyable. Rhy flashed his smile and sent her in search of stronger drink and a flower.

Kell watched as the prince stretched his arms along the back of the sofa, his pale gold eyes glittering as he surveyed the room. This was Rhy at his most understated, and it was still dreadfully conspicuous.

The attendant returned holding a decanter of ruby liquor and a single dark blue blossom; Rhy accepted the drink and tucked the flower behind her ear with a smile. Kell rolled his eyes. Some things didn’t change.

As Rhy filled his glass, Kell caught a swell of whispers as more eyes wandered their way. He felt the inevitable weight as the collective gaze shifted from the prince to his companion. Kell’s skin crawled under the attention, but instead of ducking his head, he forced himself to meet their eyes.

“This would be a good deal more fun,” observed Rhy, “if you’d stop scowling at everyone.”

Kell gave him a withering look. “They fear me.”

“They worship you,” said Rhy with a wave of his hand. “The majority of this city thinks you’re a
god
.”

Kell cringed at the word.
Antari
magicians were rare—so rare that they were seen by some as divine, chosen. “And the rest think I’m a devil.”

Rhy sat forward. “Did you know that in Vesk, they believe you turn the seasons and control the tide, and bless the empire?”

“If you’re appealing to my ego—”

“I’m simply reminding you that you will always be singular.”

Kell stilled, thinking of Holland. He told himself that a new
Antari
would be born, or found, eventually, but he wasn’t sure if he believed it. He and Holland had been two of a disappearing kind. They had always been rare, but they were rapidly approaching
extinct.
What if he really was the last one?

Kell frowned. “I would rather be normal.”

Now it was Rhy’s turn to wear the withering look. “Poor thing. I wonder what it feels like, to be put on a pedestal.”

“The difference,” said Kell, “is that the people
love
you.”

“For every ten who love me,” said Rhy, gesturing at the sprawling room, “one would like to see me dead.”

A memory surfaced, of the Shadows, the men and women who had tried to take Rhy’s life six years before, simply to send a message to the crown that they were wasting precious resources on frivolous affairs, ignoring the needs of their people. Thinking of Splendor, Kell could almost understand.

“My
point
,” continued Rhy, “is that for every ten who worship you, one wants to see you burn. Those are simply the odds when it comes to people like us.”

Kell poured himself a drink. “This place is horrible,” he mused.

“Well …” said Rhy, emptying his own glass in one swallow and setting it down with a
click
on the table, “we could always leave.”

And there it was, in Rhy’s eye, that glint, and Kell suddenly understood the prince’s outfit. Rhy wasn’t dressed for Splendor because it wasn’t his true destination. “You chose this place on purpose.”

A languorous smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You chose it because you
knew
I would be miserable here and more likely to cave when you offered to take me someplace else.”

“And?”

“And you greatly underestimate my capacity for suffering.”

“Suit yourself,” said the prince, rising to his feet with his usual lazy grace. “
I’m
going to take a turn around the room.”

Kell glowered but did not rise. He watched Rhy go, trying to emulate the prince’s practiced nonchalance as he sat back with his glass.

He watched his brother maneuver through the field of people, smiling cheerfully, clasping hands and kissing cheeks and occasionally gesturing to his outfit with a self-deprecating laugh; despite his earlier remark, the fact was, Rhy fit in effortlessly. As
he should
, Kell supposed.

And yet, Kell loathed the greedy way the
ostra
eyed the prince. The women’s batting lashes held too little warmth and too much cunning. The men’s appraising looks now held too little kindness and too much hunger. One or two shot a glance toward Kell, a ghost of that same hunger, but none were brave enough to approach. Good. Let them whisper, let them look. He felt the strange and sudden urge to make a scene, to watch their amusement harden into terror at the sight of his true power.

Kell’s grip tightened on his glass, and he was about to rise when he caught the edge of conversation from a nearby party.

He didn’t mean to eavesdrop; the practice just came naturally. Perhaps the magic in his veins gave him strong ears, or perhaps he’d simply learned to tune them over the years. It became habit, when you were so often the topic of whispered debate.