by V. E. Schwab
“Halt!” they called in Arnesian, and Holland had the sense to fold his cuffed hands beneath his cloak; but at the sight of Kell, the two men paled, one bowing deeply, the other murmuring what might have been a blessing or a prayer, too low for him to make out.
Alucard rolled his eyes at the display as Kell adopted an imitation of his usual arrogance, explaining that they were here on royal business. Yes, everything was well. No, they did not need an escort.
At last, the men retreated to their post, and Lila gave her own mocking bow in Kell’s direction.
“Mas vares,” she said, then straightened sharply, the humor gone from her face. With a gesture that was at once casual and frighteningly quick, she freed a knife from her belt.
“What is it?” asked Kell and Alucard at once.
“Someone’s been following us,” she said.
Kell’s brows went up. “You didn’t think to mention that before?”
“I could have been wrong,” she said, twirling the blade in her fingers, “but I’m not.”
“Where are—”
Before Kell could finish, she spun, and threw.
The knife sang through the air, eliciting a yelp as it embedded itself in a post a few inches above a crop of brown curls threaded with gold. A boy stood, back pressed to the post and empty hands raised in immediate surrender. On his forehead was a mark in blood. He was dressed in ordinary clothes, no red and gold trim, no symbols of the House Maresh emblazoned on his coat, but Alucard still recognized him from the palace.
“Hastra,” said Kell darkly.
The young man ducked out from under Lila’s blade. “Sir,” he said, dislodging the knife.
“What are you doing here?”
“Tieren sent me.”
Kell groaned, and muttered under his breath, “Of course he did.” Then, louder, “Go home. You have no business here.”
The boy—and he really was just a boy, in manner as well as age—straightened at that, puffing up his narrow chest. “I’m your guard, sir. What is that worth if I don’t guard you?”
“You’re not my guard, Hastra,” said Kell. “Not anymore.”
The boy flinched but held his ground. “Very well, sir. But if I am not a guard, then I am a priest, and my orders come from the Aven Essen himself.”
“Hastra—”
“And he’s really very hard to please, you know—”
“Hastra—”
“And you do owe me a favor, sir, since I did stand by you, when you snuck out of the palace and entered the tournament—”
Alucard’s head whipped around. “You did what?”
“Enough,” cut in Kell, waving his hand.
“Anesh,” said Jasta, who hadn’t been following the conversation and didn’t seem to care. “Come, go, I don’t care. I’d rather not stand here on display. Bad for my reputation to be seen with black-eyed princes and royal guards and nobles playing dress-up.”
“I’m a privateer,” said Alucard, affronted.
Jasta only snorted and started toward the docks. Hastra hung back, his wide brown eyes still leveled expectantly on Kell.
“Oh, come on,” said Lila. “Every ship needs a pet.”
Kell threw up his hands. “Fine. He can stay.”
* * *
“Who were you?” demanded Alucard as they walked along the docks, passing ships of every size and color. The thought of Kell entering the tournament—his tournament—was madness. The thought that Alucard had had the chance to fight him—that maybe he had—was maddening.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Kell.
“Did we fight?” But how could they have? Alucard would have seen the silver thread, would have known—
“If we had,” said Kell pointedly, “I would have won.”
Annoyance flared through Alucard, but then he thought of Rhy, the tether between the two, and anger swallowed indignation.
“Do you have any idea how foolish that was? How dangerous for the prince?”
“Not that it’s any of your business,” said Kell, “but the whole thing was Rhy’s idea.” That two-toned gaze cut his way. “I don’t suppose you tried to stop Lila?”
Alucard glanced over his shoulder. Bard brought up the rear of the party, Holland a pace ahead of her. The other Antari was looking at the ships the way Lila had looked at the horses, with a mixture of discomfort and disdain.
“What’s the matter,” she was saying, “can’t swim?”
Holland’s lips pursed. “It is a little harder with chains on.” His attention went back to the boats, and Alucard understood. He recognized the look in his eyes, a wariness bordering on fear.
“You’ve never been on a ship, have you?”
The man didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
Lila let out a small, malicious laugh. As if she’d known half a thing about ships when Alucard first took her on.
“Here we are,” said Jasta, coming to a stop beside something that might—in certain places—qualify as a ship, the way some cottages might qualify as mansions. Jasta patted the boat’s side the way a rider might a horse’s flank. Its name ran in silver stenciling along the white hull. Is Hosna. The Ghost.
“She’s a bit small,” said the captain, “but whip fast.”
“A bit small,” echoed Lila dryly. The Ghost was half the length of the Night Spire, with three short sails and a Faroanesque hull, narrow and feather sharp. “It’s a skiff.”
“It’s a runner,” clarified Alucard. “They don’t hold much, but there are few things faster on the open sea. It won’t be a cozy ride, by any stretch, but we’ll reach the market quickly. Especially with three Antari keeping wind in our sails.”
Lila looked longingly at the ships to either side, towering vessels with dark wood and gleaming sails.
“What about that one?” she said, pointing to a proud ship two berths down.
Alucard shook his head. “It isn’t ours.”
“It could be.”
Jasta shot her a look, and Lila rolled her eyes. “Kidding,” she said, even though Alucard knew she wasn’t. “Besides,” she added, “wouldn’t want something too pretty. Pretty things tend to draw greedy eyes.”
“Speaking from experience, Bard?” he teased.
“Thank you, Jasta,” cut in Kell. “We’ll bring her back in one piece.”
“Oh, I’ll be making sure of it,” said the captain, striding up the boat’s narrow ramp.
“Jasta—”
“My vessel, my rules,” she said, arms akimbo. “I can get you wherever you’re going in half the time, and if you’re on some mission to save the kingdom, well, it is my kingdom, too. And I wouldn’t mind having the crown on my side next time I’m in troubled waters.”
“How do you know our motives are so honorable?” said Alucard. “We could just be fleeing.”
“You could be,” she said, and then, jabbing a finger at Kell, “but he isn’t.” With that she stomped onto the deck and they had little choice but to follow her aboard.
“Three Antari get on a boat,” singsonged Alucard, as if it were the beginning of a tavern joke. He had the added delight of seeing both Kell and Holland try to balance as the deck bobbed under the sudden weight. One looked uncomfortable, the other ill, and Alucard could have assured them that it wouldn’t be so bad once they were out at sea, but he wasn’t feeling generous.
“Hano!” called Jasta, and a young girl’s head appeared above a stack of crates, her black hair pulled into a messy bun.
“Casero!” She swung up onto the crate, legs dangling over the edge. “You’re back early.”
“I have some cargo,” said Jasta.
“Sha!” said Hano delightedly.
There was a thud and a muffled curse from somewhere on board, and a moment later an old man shuffled out from behind another crate, rubbing his head. His back was bent like a hook, his skin dark and his eyes a milky white.
“Solase,” he mumbled, and Alucard couldn’t tell if he was apologizing to th
em or to the crates he’d thudded into.
“That’s Ilo,” said Jasta, nodding at the blind man.
“Where’s the rest of your crew?” asked Kell, looking around.
“This is it,” said Jasta.
“You let a little girl and a blind man guard a ship full of stolen merchandise,” said Alucard.
Hano giggled and held up a purse. Alucard’s purse. A moment later Ilo held up a blade. It was Kell’s.
The magician flicked his fingers, and the blade snapped hilt first back into his hand, a display that earned him an approving clap from the girl. Alucard reclaimed his purse with a similar flourish and went so far as to let the leather retie itself onto his belt. Lila patted herself down, making sure she still had all her knives, and smiled in satisfaction.
“The map,” prompted Jasta. Alucard handed it over.
The captain unfurled the paper, clicking her tongue. “Going Waters, then,” she said. It was no surprise to anyone that Jasta, given her particular interests, was familiar with the market.
“What’s in these boxes?” asked Kell, resting a hand on one lid.
“A little of this, a little of that,” said the captain. “Nothing that will bite.”
Hastra and Lenos were already unwinding the ropes, the young guard cheerfully following the sailor’s lead.
“Why are you in chains?” asked Hano. Alucard hadn’t seen the girl hop down from her perch, but now she stood directly in front of Holland, hands on her hips in a mimic of Jasta’s own stance, her black bun coming roughly to the Antari’s ribs. “Did you do a bad thing?”
“Hano!” called Jasta, and the girl flitted away again without waiting for an answer. The boat came unmoored, rocking beneath them. Bard smiled, and Alucard felt his balance shift, and then return.
Holland, meanwhile, tipped his head back and drew a deep, steadying breath, eyes up to the sky as if that would keep him from being ill.
“Come on,” said Kell, taking the other Antari’s arm. “Let’s find the hold.”
“I don’t like that one,” said Alucard as Bard came to stand at his side.
“Which one?” she asked dryly, but she cut him a glance, and must have seen something in his face because she sobered. “What do you see when you look at Holland?”
Alucard drew in a breath, and blew it out in a cloud. “This is what magic looks like,” he said twirling his fingers through the plume. Instead of dispersing, the pale air twisted and coiled into thin ribbons of mist against the seamless stretch of night and sea.
“But Holland’s magic is…” He splayed his fingers, and the ribbons of fog splintered, frayed. “He isn’t weaker for it. If anything, his light is brighter than yours or Kell’s. But the light is uneven, unsteady, the lines all broken, re-formed, like bones that didn’t set. It’s…”
“Unnatural?” she guessed.
“Dangerous.”
“Splendid,” she said, folding her arms against the cold. A yawn escaped, like a silent snarl through clenched teeth.
“Get some rest,” he said.
“I will,” said Bard, but she didn’t move.
Alucard turned automatically toward the wheel before remembering he wasn’t the captain of this ship. He hesitated, like a man who’s gone through a door to fetch something, only to forget what he’d come for. At last, he went to help Lenos with the sails, leaving Bard at the ship’s rail.
When he looked back ten, fifteen, twenty minutes later, she was still there, eyes trained on the line where water met sky.
V
Rhy rode out as soon as they were gone.
There were too many souls to find, and the thought of staying in the palace another minute made him want to scream. Soon the dark would be upon them, upon him, the fall of night and the confinement. But for now, there was still light, still time.
He took two men, both silvers, and set out into the city, trying to keep his attention from drifting to the eerie palace floating next to his, the strange procession of men and women climbing its steps, trying to keep himself from dwelling on the strange black substance that turned stretches of road into glossy, icelike streaks and climbed bits of wall like ivy or frost. Magic overwhelming nature.
He found a couple hunkered down in the back of their house, too afraid to leave. A girl wandering, dazed and coated in the ash of someone else, family or friend or stranger, she wouldn’t say. On the third trip, one of the guards came galloping toward him.
“Your Highness,” called the man, blood mark smearing with the sweat on his brow as he reined in his horse. “There’s something you need to see.”
They were in a tavern hall.
Two dozen men, all dressed in the gold and red of the royal guard. And all sick. All dying. Rhy knew each and every one, by face if not by name. Isra had said that some of them were missing. That the blood marks had failed. But they hadn’t vanished. They were here.
“Your Highness, wait!” called the silver as Rhy plunged forward into the hall, but he was not afraid of the smoke or the sickness. Someone had pushed the tables and chairs out of the way, cleared the space, and now his father’s men—his men—were lying on the floor in rows, spaces here and there where a few had risen up, or fallen forever.
Their armor had been stripped off and set aside, propped like a gallery of hollow spectators along the walls as, on the floor, the guards sweated and writhed and fought demons he couldn’t see, the way Alucard had aboard the Spire.
Their veins stood out black against their throats, and the whole hall smelled vaguely of burning skin as the magic scorched its way through them.
The air was thick with something like dust.
Ash, realized Rhy.
All that was left of those who’d burned.
One man was slumped against the wall by the doors, sweat sheening his face, the sickness just beginning to set in.
His beard was trimmed short, his hair streaked with grey, and Rhy recognized him at once. Tolners. A man who’d served his father before he was king. A man assigned to serve Rhy. He’d seen the guard this morning in the palace, safe and well within the wards.
“What have you done?” he asked, grabbing the guard by the collar. “Why did you leave the palace?”
The man’s vision slid in and out of focus. “Your Majesty,” he rasped. Trapped in the fever’s hold, he mistook Rhy for his father. “We are—the royal guard. We—do not hide. If we are not—strong enough—to brave the dark—we do not—deserve to serve—” he broke off, wracked by a sudden, violent chill.
“You fool,” snapped Rhy, even as he eased Tolners back into his chair and pulled the man’s coat close around his shivering form. Rhy turned on the room of dying guards, raking an ash-slicked hand through his hair, feeling furious, helpless. He couldn’t save these men. Could only watch as they fought, failed, died.
“We are the royal guard,” murmured a man on the floor.
“We are the royal guard,” echoed two more, taking it up as a chant against whatever darkness fought to take them.
Rhy wanted to yell, to curse, but he couldn’t, because he knew the things he had done in the name of strength, knew what he was doing even now, walking the cursed streets, combing the poisoned fog, knew that even if Kell’s magic hadn’t shielded him, he would have gone again, and again, for his city, his people.
And so Rhy did what he had done for Alucard on the Spire floor.
He did the only thing he could.
He stayed.
* * *
Maxim Maresh knew the value of a single Antari.
He had stood before the windows and watched three ride away from the palace, the city, the monster poisoning its heart. He had weighed the odds, known it was the right decision, the strategy with the highest odds, and yet he could not help but feel that his best weapons were suddenly out of reach. Worse, that he had loosened his grip, let them fall, and now stood facing a foe without a blade.
His own wasn’t ready—it was still being forged.
Maxi
m’s reflection hung suspended in the glass. He did not look well. He felt worse. One hand rested against the window, shadows contouring to his fingers in a ghostly mimic, a morbid echo.
“You let him leave,” said a gentle voice, and the Aven Essen materialized in the glass behind him, a specter in white.
“I did,” said Maxim. He had seen his son’s body on the bed, chest still, cheeks hollow, skin grey. The image was burned like light against his eyes, an image he would never forget. And he understood, now more than ever, that Kell’s life was Rhy’s, and if he could not guard it himself, he would see it sent away. “I tried to stop Kell once. It was a mistake.”
“He might have stayed this time,” said Tieren carefully, “if you’d asked instead of ordered.”
“Perhaps.” Maxim’s hand fell away from the glass. “But this city is no longer safe.”
The priest’s blue eyes were piercing. “The world might prove no safer.”
“I cannot do anything about the dangers in the world, Tieren, but I can do something about the monster here in London.”
He began to cross the room, and made it three steps before it tipped violently beneath him. For a terrible instant his vision dimmed, and he thought he would fall.
“Your Majesty,” said Tieren, catching his arm. Beneath his tunic, the fresh line of cuts ached, the wounds deep, flesh and blood carved away. A necessary sacrifice.
“I’m well,” he lied, pulling free.
Tieren gave him a scornful look, and he regretted showing the priest his progress.
“I cannot stop you, Maxim,” said Tieren, “but this kind of magic has consequences.”
“When will the sleeping spell be ready?”
“If you are not careful—”
“When?”
“It is difficult to make such a spell, harder still to stretch it over a city. The very nature of it toes the line of the obscene, to put a body and mind to rest is still a manipulation, an exertion of one’s will over—”
“When?”
The priest sighed. “Another day. Maybe two.”
Maxim straightened, nodded. They would last that long. They had to. When he began to walk again, the ground held firm beneath his feet.
“Your Majesty—”
