A Conjuring of Light

by V. E. Schwab

  “Taking in strays, are we?” the man had asked when he caught sight of Lenos. He had an easy way about him, the kind of smile that made you want to smile too. Lenos stared—the sailors in his village had all been sun scorched and scraggly. Even the captains looked like they’d been left out for a summer and a winter and a spring. But this man was young and strong and striking, dressed in crisp black with silver trim.

  “The name’s Alucard Emery,” he’d said, and a murmur had gone through the gathered men, but Lenos didn’t have a clue what an Emery was, or why he was supposed to care. “This here’s the Night Spire, and you’re here because she needs a crew. But you’re not my crew. Not yet.”

  He nodded at the nearest man, a towering figure, muscles wound like coarse ropes around his frame. “What can you do?”

  A chuckle went through the group.

  “Well,” said the broad man. “I’m decent at lifting.”

  “Can read any map,” offered another.

  “A thief,” said a third. “The best you’ll find.”

  Each and every man aboard was more than a sailor. They each had a skill—some had several. And then Alucard Emery had looked at Lenos with that storm-dark gaze.

  “And you?” he’d said. “What can you do?”

  Lenos had looked down at his too-thin form, ribs protruding with every breath, his hands roughened only by a childhood playing on rocky banks. The truth was, Lenos had never been very good at anything. Not natural magic or pretty women, feats of strength or turns of phrase. He wasn’t even terribly skilled at sailing (though he could tie a knot and wasn’t afraid of drowning).

  The only thing Lenos had a knack for was sensing danger—not reading it in a darkened dish, or spotting it in lines of light, but simply feeling it, the way one might a tremor underfoot, a coming storm. Sensing it, and steering to avoid it.

  “Well?” prompted Alucard.

  Lenos swallowed. “I can tell you when there’s trouble.”

  Alucard had raised a brow (there was no sapphire winking from it, then, not until their first outing in Faro).

  “Captain,” Lenos had added hastily, misreading the man’s surprise for insult.

  Alucard Emery had flashed another kind of smile. “Well, then,” he’d said, “I’ll hold you to it.”

  That was another night, another time, another ship.

  But Lenos had always kept his word.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling,” he whispered now, looking out to sea. The water was calm, the skies were clear, but there was a weight in his chest like a breath held too long.

  “Lenos.” Alucard chuckled thinly and got to his feet. “A piece of magic is parading as a god, a poisoned fog is destroying London, and three Antari are sparring aboard our ship,” said the captain. “I’d be worried if you didn’t.”

  II

  Bloody hell, thought Lila, as she doubled over on the deck.

  After hours of practice, she was dizzy and Kell’s skin was slick with sweat, but Holland barely looked winded. She fought the urge to hit him in the stomach before Hano called out from the crow’s nest. The ship needed a breeze.

  She slumped back onto a crate as the others went to help. She felt like she’d gone three rounds in the Essen Tasch, and lost every single one. Every inch of her body—flesh down to bone—ached from using the rings. How the other two Antari had the energy left to put wind in the sails, she had no idea.

  But the training seemed to be working.

  As the ship sailed through the first fingers of dusk, they’d reached a kind of equilibrium. They were now able to balance and amplify their magic without over-drawing from each other. It was such a strange sensation, to be stronger and weaker at the same time, so much power but so hard to wield, like an off-weighted gun.

  Even still, the world blazed with magic, the threads of it tracing the air like light, lingering every time Lila blinked. She felt as if she could reach out and pluck one and make the world sing.

  She held her hand before her eyes, squinting at the silver ring still wrapped around her middle finger.

  It was control. It was balance. It was everything she wasn’t, and even now Lila was tempted to chuck it in the sea.

  She’d never been one for moderation. Not when she was just a street rat with a quick temper and a quicker knife, and certainly not now that she’d struck flint against the magic in her veins. She knew this about herself, she liked it, was convinced it had kept her alive. Alive, but also alone—hard to keep an eye on others when you were keeping both out for yourself.

  Lila shivered, the sweat long cold along her scalp.

  When had the stars come out?

  She dragged herself upright, hopped down from the crate, and was halfway to the hold when she heard the singing. Her body ached, and she wanted a drink, but her feet followed the sound, and soon she found its source. Hastra sat cross-legged with his back against the rail, something cupped in his hands.

  Even in the low light, Hastra’s brown curls were threaded with gold. He looked young, even younger than she was, and when he saw her standing there, he didn’t shy away like Lenos. Instead, Hastra grinned. “Miss Bard,” he said warmly. “I like your new eye.”

  “So do I,” she said, sliding to the floor. “What’s in your hands?”

  Hastra uncurled his fingers to reveal a small blue egg. “I found it on the docks in Rosenal,” he said. “You’re supposed to sing to eggs, did you know that?”

  “To make them hatch?”

  Hastra shook his head. “No, they’ll do that anyway. You sing to them so they hatch happy.”

  Lila raised a brow. They were roughly the same age, but there was something boyish about Hastra—he was young in a way she’d never been. And yet, the air was always warm around him, the same way it was with Tieren, calm sliding through her mind like silk, like snow. “Kell tells me you should have been a priest.”

  Hastra’s smile saddened. “I know I didn’t make a very good guard.”

  “I don’t think he meant it as an insult.”

  He ran his thumb over the brittle shell. “Are you as famous in your world as Kell is here?”

  Lila thought of the wanted posters lining her London. “Not for the same reasons.”

  “But you’ve decided to stay.”

  “I think so.”

  His smile warmed. “I’m glad.”

  Lila blew out a breath, ruffling her hair. “I wouldn’t be,” she said. “I tend to make a mess of things.”

  Hastra looked down at the little blue egg. “Life is chaos. Time is order.”

  Lila drew her knees up to her chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He blushed. “I’m not certain. But Master Tieren said it, so it sounded wise.”

  Lila started to laugh, then cut off as her body crackled with pain. She really needed that drink, so she left Hastra to his egg and his songs and made her way down into the hold.

  * * *

  The galley wasn’t empty.

  Jasta sat at the narrow table, a glass in one hand and a deck of cards in the other. Lila’s stomach growled, but the room smelled like Ilo had tried (and failed) to make a stew, so she went for the shelf instead, pouring herself a cup of whatever Jasta was already having. Something strong and dark.

  She could feel the captain’s gaze on her.

  “This new eye,” mused Jasta, “it suits you.”

  Lila tipped the cup her way. “Cheers.”

  Jasta set down her glass and shuffled the deck between both hands. “Sit with me. Play a hand.”

  Lila scanned the table, which was covered in the remains of a game, empty glasses piled to one side and cards to the other.

  “What happened to your last opponent?”

  Jasta shrugged. “He lost.”

  Lila smiled thinly. “I think I’ll pass.”

  Jasta gave a soft grunt. “You won’t play because you know you will lose.”

  “You can’t goad me into playing.”

  “Tac, maybe you
are not a pirate after all, Bard. Maybe you are just pretending, like Alucard, playing dress-up in clothes that do not fit. Maybe you belong in London, not out here, on the sea.”

  Lila’s smile sharpened. “I belong wherever I choose.”

  “I think you are a thief, not a pirate.”

  “A thief steals on land, a pirate at sea. The last time I checked, I was both.”

  “That is not the true difference,” said Jasta. “The true difference is tarnal.” Lila didn’t know the word. The woman must have seen, because she searched for several long seconds and then said, in English, “Fearless.”

  Lila’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t realize Jasta spoke anything but Arnesian. Then again, sailors had a way of snatching words up like coins, pocketing them for later.

  “You see,” continued Jasta, cutting the deck, “a thief plays the game only when they think they’ll win. A pirate plays the game even when they think they’ll lose.”

  Lila downed her drink and swung a leg over the bench, her limbs leaden. She rapped her knuckles on the table, her new ring glinting in the lantern light. “All right, Jasta. Deal me in.”

  The game was Sanct.

  “You lose, you drink,” said Jasta, dealing the cards. They hissed across the tabletop, face down. Their backs were black and gold. Lila took up her cards and scanned them absently. She knew the rules well enough to know it was less about knowing how to play and more about knowing how to cheat.

  “Now tell me,” continued the captain, stacking her own hand, “what do you want?”

  “That’s a broad question.”

  “And an easy one. If you don’t know the answer, you don’t know yourself.”

  Lila paused, thinking. She threw down two cards. A specter and a queen. “Freedom,” she said. “And you?”

  “What do I want?” mused Jasta. “To win.”

  She threw down a pair of saints.

  Lila swore.

  Jasta smiled crookedly. “Drink.”

  * * *

  “How do you know when the Sarows is coming?” hummed Lila as she made her way down the ship’s narrow hall, fingertips skimming either wall for balance.

  Right about then, Alucard’s warning about Jasta was coming back in full force.

  “Never challenge that one to a drinking contest. Or a sword fight. Or anything else you might lose. Because you will.”

  The boat rocked beneath her feet. Or maybe she was the one rocking. Hell. Lila was slight, but not short of practice, and even so, she’d never had so much trouble holding her liquor.

  When she got to her room, she found Kell hunched over the Inheritor, examining the markings on its side.

  “Hello, handsome,” she said, bracing herself in the doorway.

  Kell looked up, a smile halfway to his lips before it fell away. “You’re drunk,” he said, giving her a long, appraising look. “And you’re not wearing any shoes.”

  “Your powers of observation are astonishing.” Lila looked down at her bare feet. “I lost them.”

  “How do you lose shoes?”

  Lila crinkled her brow. “I bet them. I lost.”

  Kell rose. “To who?”

  A tiny hiccup. “Jasta.”

  Kell sighed. “Stay here.” He slipped past her into the hall, a hand alighting on her waist and then, too soon, the touch was gone. Lila made her way to the bed and collapsed onto it, scooping up the discarded Inheritor and holding it up to the light. The spindle at the cylinder’s base was sharp enough to cut, and she turned the device carefully between her fingers, squinting to make out the words wrapped around it.

  Rosin, read one side.

  Cason, read the other.

  Lila frowned, mouthing the words as Kell reappeared in the doorway. “Give—and Take,” he translated, tossing her the boots.

  She sat up too fast, winced. “How did you manage that?”

  “I simply explained that she couldn’t have them—they wouldn’t have fit—and then I gave her mine.”

  Lila looked down at Kell’s bare feet, and burst into laughter. Kell was leaning over her then, pressing a hand over her mouth—You’ll wake the boat—a ghost of whisper, a caress of air—and she fell back onto the cot, taking him down with her.

  “Dammit, Lila.” He caught himself just before he slammed his head against the wall. The bed really wasn’t big enough for two. “How much did you have to drink?”

  Lila’s laughter died away. “Never used to drink in company,” she mused aloud. Odd to feel herself speaking even though she didn’t think to do it. The words just spilled out. “Didn’t want to get caught unawares.”

  “And now?”

  That flickering grin. “I think I could take you.”

  He lowered himself until his hair brushed Lila’s temple. “Is that so?” But then something caught his eye through the port window. “There’s a ship out there.”

  Lila’s head spun. “How can you see it in the dark?”

  Kell frowned. “Because it’s burning.”

  Lila was up in an instant, the world tipping beneath her bare feet. She dug her nails deep into her palms, hoping the pain would clear her head. Danger would have to do the rest.

  “What does it mean?” Kell was asking, but she was already sprinting up the stairs.

  “Alucard!” she called as she reached the deck.

  For a brief, terrible second, the Ghost stretched quiet around her, the deck empty, and Lila thought she was too late, but there were no corpses, and a second later the captain was there, Hastra, too, still cradling his egg. Lenos appeared, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, shoulders tensed like he’d woken from bad dreams. Kell caught up, barefoot as he tugged on his coat.

  In the distance, the ship burned, a flare of red and gold against the night.

  Alucard came to a halt beside her.

  “Sanct,” he swore, the flames reflected in his eyes.

  “Mas aven…” started Lenos.

  And then he made a strange sound, like a hiccup caught in his throat, and Lila turned in time to see the barbed blade protruding from his chest before he was wrenched back over the side, and the Sea Serpents boarded the Ghost.

  III

  For months, Kell had trained alone beneath the royal palace, leaving his sweat and blood to stain the Basin floors. There he’d faced a hundred enemies and fought a hundred forms, sharpened his mind and his magic, learned to use anything and everything at hand, all of it preparing—not for the tournament, which he’d never thought of entering—but for this very moment. So that when death came for him again, he would be ready.

  He had trained for a fight in the palace.

  Trained for a fight in the streets.

  Trained for a fight in daylight and in darkness.

  But Kell hadn’t thought to train for a fight at sea.

  Without Alucard’s power filling the sails, the canvases collapsed, twisting the Ghost so the water struck sidelong, rocking the ship as the mercenaries spilled onto the deck.

  All that was left of Lenos, after the short and fleeting splash, were the drops of blood dappling the wood. A square of calm in a night turned wild—water and wind in Kell’s ears, wood and steel beneath his feet, all of it pitching and rolling as if caught in a storm. It was so much louder and sharper than those imagined battles in the Basin, so much more terrifying than those games in the Essen Tasch, that for an instant—only an instant—Kell froze.

  But then the first shout cut the air, and a flash of water surged into ice as Alucard drew a blade from the dark sea, and there was no time to think, no time to plan, no time to do anything but fight.

  Kell lost sight of Lila within moments, relying on the threads of her magic—the persistent hum of her power in his veins—to tell him she remained alive as the Ghost plunged into chaos.

  Hastra was grappling with a shadow, his back to the mast, and Kell flicked his wrist, freeing the slivers of steel he kept sheathed within his cuff as the first two killers came for him. His steel nails flew as they had
in the Basin so many times, but now they pierced hearts instead of dummies, and for every shadow he killed, another came.

  Steel whispered behind him, and Kell turned in time to dodge an assassin’s knife. It still found flesh, but sliced his cheek instead of his throat. Pain registered as a distant thing, sharpened only by sea air as his fingers brushed the cut and then caught the assassin’s wrist. Ice blossomed up his arm, and Kell let go just as another shadow caught him around the waist and slammed him sideways into the ship’s rail.

  The wood broke beneath the force, and the two went crashing down into the sea. The surface was a frozen wall, knocking the air from Kell’s lungs, icy water flooding in as he grappled with the killer, the churning darkness broken only by the light of the burning ship somewhere above. Kell tried to will the water calm, or at least clear it from his eyes, but the ocean was too big, and even if he’d drawn on Holland and Lila both it wouldn’t have been enough. He was running out of air, and he couldn’t stomach the thought of Rhy, a London away, gasping for breath again. He had no choice. The next time the killer slashed with a curved knife, Kell let the blow land.

  A gasp escaped in a stream of air as the blade sliced his coat sleeve and bit deep into his arm. Instantly the water began to cloud with blood.

  “As Steno,” he said, the words muffled by the water, his last expelled breath, but still audible and brimming with intent. The mercenary went rigid as his body turned from human flesh to stone and plummeted down toward the sea floor. Kell surged urgently upward in reflected movement and broke through the surface of the waves. From where he was, he could see the attackers’ shallow rafts, handholds spelled from wood and steel leading up from the water to the Ghost’s deck.

  Kell climbed, his arm throbbing and his waterlogged clothes weighing him down with every upward step, but he made it, hauling himself over the side.

  “Sir, look out!”

  Kell spun as the killer came at him, but the man was drawn up short by Hastra’s sword slashing through his back. The assassin folded, and Kell found himself staring into the young guard’s terrified eyes. Blood splattered Hastra’s face and hands and curls. He looked unsteady on his feet.