A Conjuring of Light

by V. E. Schwab

  The Steel Prince.

  It had been so long since Maxim Maresh had worn that mantle, but there were tasks for kings and tasks for soldiers, and now the latter rolled up his sleeves, took up a knife, and began to work.

  VII

  The difference of a single day, thought Rhy, standing alone before the windows as the sun rose. One day. A matter of hours. A world of change.

  Two days ago, Kell had disappeared, and Rhy had carved five letters into his arm to bring him home. Sorry. The cuts were fresh on his skin, the word still burned with movement, and yet it felt like a lifetime ago.

  Yesterday his brother had come home, and been arrested, and the prince had fought to see Kell freed, only to lose him again, to lose himself, to lose everything.

  And wake to this.

  We heard, we heard, we heard.

  In darkness, the change was hard to see, but the thin winter light revealed a terrifying scene.

  Only hours before, London had brimmed with the cheers of the Essen Tasch, the rippling pennants of the final magicians as they fought in the central arena.

  Now, all three stadiums floated like sullen corpses on the blackened river, the only sound the steady chant of morning bells coming from the Sanctuary. Bodies bobbed like apples on the surface of the Isle, and dozens—hundreds—more knelt along the riverbank, forming an eerie border. Others moved in packs through the streets of London, searching for those who hadn’t fallen, hadn’t knelt before the shadow king. The difference of a single day.

  He felt his brother coming.

  Strange, the way that worked. He’d always been able to tell when Kell was near—sibling intuition—but these days he felt his brother’s presence like a cord in reverse, drawing tight instead of slack whenever they were close.

  Now the tension thrummed.

  The echo in Rhy’s chest grew stronger as Kell stepped into the room. He paused in the doorway.

  “Do you want to be alone?”

  “I am never alone,” said the prince absently, and then, forcing himself to brighten, “but I am still alive.” Kell swallowed, and Rhy could see the apology climbing his brother’s throat. “Don’t,” he said, cutting him off. His attention went back to the world beyond the glass. “What happens, after we put them all to sleep?”

  “We force Osaron to face us. And we beat him.”

  “How?”

  “I have a plan.”

  Rhy raised his fingertips to the glass. On the other side, the fog drew itself into a hand, brushed the window, and then pulled away, collapsing back into mist.

  “Is this how a world dies?” he asked.

  “I hope not.”

  “Personally,” said Rhy with sudden, hollow lightness, “I’m rather done with dying. It’s begun to lose its charm.”

  Kell shrugged out of his coat and sank into a chair. “Do you know what happened?”

  “I know what Mother told me, which means I know what you told her.”

  “Do you want to know the truth?”

  Rhy hesitated. “If it will help you to say it.”

  Kell tried to smile, failed, and shook his head. “What do you remember?”

  Rhy’s gaze danced over the city. “Nothing,” he said, though in truth, he remembered the pain, and the absence of pain, the darkness like still water folding over him, and a voice, trying to pull him back.

  You cannot die … I’ve come so far.

  “Have you seen Alucard?”

  Kell shrugged. “I assume he’s in the gallery,” he answered, in a way that said he really didn’t care.

  Rhy’s chest tightened. “You’re probably right.”

  But Rhy knew he wasn’t. He had already scanned the Grand Hall as he passed through, searching, searching. The foyer, the ballrooms, the library. Rhy had scoured every room for that familiar shine of silver and blue, the sun-kissed hair, the glint of a sapphire, and found a hundred faces, some known and others foreign, and none of them Alucard.

  “He’ll turn up,” added Kell absently. “He always does.”

  Just then a shout went up, not from outside, but from within the palace. The crash of doors bursting open somewhere below, a Veskan accent clashing with an Arnesian one.

  “Sanct,” snarled Kell, shoving himself to his feet. “If the darkness doesn’t kill them, their tempers will.”

  His brother plunged out of the room without looking back, and Rhy stood alone for a long moment, shadows whispering against the glass, before he grabbed Kell’s coat, found the nearest hidden door, and slipped through.

  * * *

  The city—his city—was full of shadows.

  Rhy pulled Kell’s coat close about his shoulders and wrapped a scarf around his nose and mouth, the way one might before braving a fire, as if a strip of cloth could keep the magic out. He held his breath as he plunged forward into the sea of fog, but when his body met the shadows, they recoiled, granting Rhy a berth of several feet.

  He looked around and, for a moment, felt as if he were a man expecting to drown, only to find the water two feet deep.

  And then Rhy stopped thinking altogether, and ran.

  Chaos blossomed all around him, the air a tangled mess of sound and fear and smoke. Men and women were trying to drag their neighbors toward the black stretch of the river. Some people staggered and fell, attacked by invisible foes, while others hid behind bolted doors and tried to ward the walls with water, earth, sand, blood.

  Still, Rhy moved like a ghost among them. Unseen. Unsensed. No footsteps followed him through the streets. No hands sought to drag him into the river. No mobs tried to sicken him with shadow.

  The poisoned fog parted for the prince, slipped around him like water around a stone.

  Was it Kell’s life shielding him from harm? Or was it the absence of Rhy’s own? The fact that there was nothing left for the darkness to claim?

  “Get inside,” he called to the fevered, but they could not hear him.

  “Get back,” he shouted at the fallen, but they did not listen.

  The madness surged around him, and Rhy tore himself away from the breaking city and turned his sights again to his quest for the captain of the Night Spire.

  There were only two places Alucard Emery would go: his family estate or his ship.

  Logic said he’d go to the house, but something in Rhy’s gut sent him in the opposite direction, toward the docks.

  He found the captain on his cabin floor.

  One of the chairs by the hearth had been toppled, a table knocked clean of glasses, their glittering shards scattered in the rug and across the wooden floor. Alucard—decisive, strong, beautiful Alucard—lay curled on his side, shivering with fever, his warm brown hair matted to his cheeks with sweat. He was clutching his head, breath escaping in ragged gasps as he spoke to ghosts.

  “Stop … please…” His voice—that even, clear voice, always brimming with laughter—broke. “Don’t make me…”

  Rhy was on his knees beside him. “Luc,” he said, touching the man’s shoulder.

  Alucard’s eyes flashed open, and Rhy recoiled when he saw them filled with shadows. Not the even black of Kell’s gaze, but instead menacing streaks of darkness that writhed and coiled like snakes through his vision, storm blue irises flashing and vanishing behind the fog.

  “Stop,” snarled the captain suddenly. He struggled up, limbs shaking, only to fall back against the floor.

  Rhy hovered over him, helpless, unsure whether to hold him down or try to help him up. Alucard’s eyes found his, but looked straight through him. He was somewhere else.

  “Please,” the captain pleaded with the ghosts. “Don’t make me go.”

  “I won’t,” said Rhy, wondering who Alucard saw. What he saw. How to free him. The captain’s veins stood out like ropes against his skin.

  “He’ll never forgive me.”

  “Who?” asked Rhy, and Alucard’s brow furrowed, as if he were trying to see through the fog, the fever.

  “Rhy—” The sickness ti
ghtened its hold, the shadows in his eyes streaking with lines of light like lightning. The captain bit back a scream.

  Rhy ran his fingers over Alucard’s hair, took his face in his hands. “Fight it,” he ordered. “Whatever’s holding you, fight it.”

  Alucard folded in on himself, shuddering. “I can’t.…”

  “Focus on me.”

  “Rhy…” he sobbed.

  “I’m here.” Rhy Maresh lowered himself onto the glass-strewn floor, lay on his side so they were face-to-face. “I’m here.”

  He remembered, then. Like a dream flickering back to the surface, he remembered Alucard’s hands on his shoulders, his voice cutting through the pain, reaching out to him, even in the dark.

  I’m here now, he’d said, so you can’t die.

  “I’m here now,” echoed Rhy, twining his fingers through Alucard’s. “And I’m not letting go, so don’t you dare.”

  Another scream tore from Alucard’s throat, his grip tightening as the lines of black on his skin began to glow. First red, then white. Burning. He was burning from the inside out. And it hurt—hurt to watch, hurt to feel so helpless.

  But Rhy kept his word.

  He didn’t let go.

  VIII

  Kell stormed toward the western foyer, following the sounds of a brewing fight.

  It was only a matter of time before the mood in the palace turned. Before the magicians refused to sit and wait and watch the city fall. Before someone took it in their head to act.

  He threw open the doors and found Hastra standing before the western entrance, royal short sword clutched in both hands, looking like a cat facing down a line of wolves.

  Brost, Losen, and Sar.

  Three of the tournament’s magicians—two Arnesians and a Veskan—competitors now aligned against a common foe. Kell expected as much from Brost and Sar, two fighters with tempers to match their size, but Kisimyr’s protégé, Losen, was built like a willow, known for his looks as much as his budding talent. Gold rings jingled in his black hair, and he looked out of place between the two oaks. But bruises stained the skin beneath his dark eyes, and his face was grey from grief and lack of sleep.

  “Get out of the way,” demanded Brost.

  Hastra stood resolute. “I cannot let you pass.”

  “On whose orders?” snapped Losen, his voice hoarse.

  “The royal guard. The city guard. The king.”

  “What is this?” demanded Kell, striding toward them.

  “Stay out of it, Antari,” snarled Sar without turning. She stood even taller than Brost, her Veskan form filling the hall, a pair of axes strapped to her back. She’d fallen to Lila in the opening round, spent the rest of the tournament sulking and drinking, but now her eyes were full of fire.

  Kell stopped at their backs, relying on their fighters’ instincts to make them turn. It worked, and through the forest of their limbs, he saw Hastra slump back against the doors.

  Kell took in Losen first. “It won’t bring Kisimyr back.”

  The young magician flushed with indignation. Sweat prickled on his brow, and he swayed a little when he spoke. “Did you see what that monster did to her?” he said, voice slurring. “I have to—”

  “No you don’t,” said Kell.

  “Kisimyr would have—”

  “Kisimyr tried, and lost,” said Kell grimly.

  “You can stay here, hiding in your palace,” growled Brost, “but our friends are out there! Our families!”

  “And your bravado cannot help them.”

  “Veskans do not sit idly by and wait for death,” boomed Sar.

  “No,” said Kell, “your pride carries you right to it.”

  She bared her teeth. “We will not hide like cowards in this place.”

  “This place is the only thing keeping you safe.”

  The air was beginning to shimmer with heat around Brost’s clenched hands. “You cannot keep us here.”

  “Believe me,” said Kell, “there are a dozen other people I’d rather keep, but you were the only ones lucky enough to be in the palace when the curse fell.”

  “And now our city needs us,” roared Brost. “We’re the best it has.”

  Kell curled his hand, pricking the base of his palm with the point of metal he kept against his wrist. He felt the sting, the heat of blood welling on his skin.

  “You’re show ponies,” he said. “Meant to prance in a ring, and if you think that’s the same thing as battling magic, you’re sorely mistaken.”

  “How dare you—” started Brost.

  “Master Kell could fell you all with a single drop of blood,” announced Hastra from behind them.

  Kell stared at the young man with bald surprise.

  “I’ve heard the royal Antari has no teeth,” cut in Sar.

  “We don’t want to hurt you, little prince,” said Brost.

  “But we will,” muttered Losen.

  “Hastra,” said Kell evenly, “leave.”

  The young man hesitated, torn between abandoning Kell and defying him, but in the end, he obeyed. The eyes of the magicians flicked toward him as he passed, and in that instant, Kell moved.

  A breath, and he was behind them, one hand raised to the outer doors.

  “As Staro,” he said. The locks within the door fell with a heavy clank, and fresh steel bars spread back and forth over the wood, sealing the doors shut.

  “Now,” said Kell, holding out his bloodied hand, palm up, as if to offer it. “Go back to the gallery.”

  Losen’s eyes widened, but Brost’s temper was too high, and Sar was lusting for a fight. When none of them moved, Kell sighed. “I want you to remember,” he said, “that I gave you a chance.”

  * * *

  It was over quickly.

  Within moments, Brost sat on the floor, clutching his face, Losen slumped against the wall, holding bruised ribs, and Sar was out cold, the tails of her blond braids singed black.

  The hall was a little worse for wear, but Kell had managed to keep most of the damage confined to the bodies of the three magicians.

  Drawn by the noise, the inner doors flew open, and the doorway filled with people—some magicians, others nobles, all straining to see into the foyer. Three magicians laid out, and Kell standing at their center. Just what he needed. A scene. The whispers were starting, and Kell could feel the weight of eyes and words as they landed on him.

  “Do you yield?” he asked the crumpled forms, unsure which exactly he was addressing.

  A huddle of Faroans looked rather amused as Brost struggled to his feet, still clutching his nose.

  A pair of Veskans went to rouse Sar, and while most of the Arnesians hung back, Jinnar, the wind mage with the silver hair, went straight to Losen and helped the grieving youth to his feet.

  “Come on,” he said, his voice slower and softer than Kell had ever heard it. Tears were streaming silently down Losen’s cheeks, and Kell knew they didn’t stem from bruised ribs or wounded pride.

  “I didn’t reach for her on the roof,” he murmured. “I didn’t…”

  Kell knelt to clean a drop of blood from the marble floor before it stained, and heard the king’s heavy steps before he saw the crowd part around him, Hastra on his heels.

  “Master Kell,” said Maxim, sweeping his gaze over the scene. “I’ll thank you not to bring down the palace.” But Kell could sense the approval lacing the king’s words. Better a show of strength than a tolerance of weakness.

  “Apologies, Your Majesty,” said Kell, bowing his head.

  The king turned on his heel, and that was that. A mutiny subdued. An instant of chaos restored to order.

  Kell knew as well as Maxim how important that was right now, with the city clinging to every shred of power, every sign of strength. As soon as the magicians had been led or carried out, and the hall emptied of spectators, he slumped into a chair along the wall, its cushion still smoking faintly from the incident. He patted it out, then looked up to find his former guard still standing t
here, warm eyes wide beneath his cap of sun-kissed hair.

  “No need to thank me,” said Kell, waving his hand.

  “It’s not that,” said Hastra. “I mean, I’m grateful, sir, of course. But…”

  Kell had a sickening feeling in his stomach. “What is it now?”

  “The queen is asking for the prince.”

  “Last time I checked,” said Kell, “that wasn’t me.”

  Hastra looked to the floor, to the wall, to the ceiling, before mustering the courage to look at him again. “I know, sir,” he said slowly. “But I can’t find him.”

  Kell had felt the blow coming, but it still struck. “You’ve searched the palace?”

  “Pillar to spire, sir.”

  “Is anyone else missing?”

  A hesitation, and then, “Captain Emery.”

  Kell swore under his breath.

  Have you seen Alucard? Rhy had asked, staring out the palace windows. Would he know if the prince had been infected? Would he feel the dark magic swarming in his blood?

  “How long?” asked Kell, already moving toward the prince’s chambers.

  “I’m not certain,” said Hastra. “An hour, maybe a little more.”

  “Sanct.”

  Kell burst into Rhy’s rooms, taking up the prince’s gold pin from the table and jabbing it into his thumb, harder than necessary. He hoped that wherever Rhy was, he felt the prick of metal and knew that Kell was coming.

  “Should I tell the king?” asked Hastra.

  “You came to me,” said Kell, “because you have more sense than that.”

  He knelt, drawing a circle in blood on Rhy’s floor, and pressed his palm flat, the gold pin between flesh and polished wood. “Guard the door,” he said, and then, to the mark itself, and the magic within, “As Tascen Rhy.”

  The floor fell away, the palace vanished, replaced by an instant of darkness and then, just as swiftly, by a room. The ground rocked gently beneath his feet, and Kell knew before taking in the wooden walls, the portal windows, that he was on a ship.

  He found the two of them lying on the floor, foreheads pressed together and fingers intertwined. Alucard’s eyes were closed, but Rhy’s were open, gaze fixed on the captain’s face.

  Anger rose in Kell’s throat.