A Conjuring of Light

by V. E. Schwab

  “Even glass can be strong,” said Rhy, “if it is thick enough.”

  A flickering smile, there and then gone, and there again, the first one real, the second set. “I raised a smart son.”

  Rhy ran a hand through his hair. “You raised me, too.”

  She frowned at that, the way she had at his quips so many times before. Frowned in a way that reminded him of Kell, not that he would ever say so.

  “Rhy,” she said. “I never meant—”

  Behind them, a man cleared his throat. Rhy turned to find Prince Col standing in the doorway, his clothing wrinkled and his hair mussed, as though he’d never been to bed.

  “I hope I am not interrupting?” said the Veskan, a subtle tension in his voice that set the prince on edge.

  “No,” answered the queen coolly at the same time Rhy said, “Yes.”

  Col’s blue eyes flicked between them, clearly registering their discomfort, but he didn’t withdraw. Instead he stepped forward into the Jewel, letting the doors swing shut behind him.

  “I was looking for my sister.”

  Rhy remembered the bruises around Cora’s wrist. “She isn’t here.”

  The Veskan prince gave the room a sweeping look. “So I see,” he said, ambling toward them. “Your palace really is magnificent.” He moved at a casual pace, as if admiring the room, but his eyes kept flicking back toward Rhy, toward the queen. “Every time I think I’ve seen it all, I find another room.”

  A sword hung at his hip, a jeweled hilt marking the blade for show, but Rhy’s hackles still rose at the sight of it, at the prince’s carriage, his very presence. And then Emira’s attention flicked suddenly upward, as if she’d heard something Rhy couldn’t.

  “Maxim.”

  His father’s name was a strangled whisper on the queen’s lips, and she started toward the doors, only to come up short as Col drew his weapon free.

  In that one gesture, everything about the Veskan changed. His youthful arrogance evaporated, the casual air replaced by something grim, determined. Col may have been a prince, but he held his sword with the calm control of a soldier.

  “What are you doing?” demanded Rhy.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Col’s grip tightened on the blade. “I’m winning a war before it starts.”

  “Lower your blade,” ordered the queen.

  “Apologies, Your Highness, but I can’t.”

  Rhy searched the prince’s eyes, hoping to see the shadow of corruption, to find a will twisted by the curse beyond the palace walls, and shuddered when he found them green and clear.

  Whatever Col was doing, he was doing it by choice.

  Somewhere beyond the doors, a shout went up, the words smothered, lost.

  “For what it’s worth,” said the Veskan prince, raising his blade. “I really only came for the queen.”

  His mother spread her arms, the air around her fingers shimmering with frost. “Rhy,” she said, her voice a plume of mist. “Run.”

  Before the word was fully out, Col was surging forward.

  The Veskan was fast, but Rhy was faster, or so it seemed as the queen’s magic weighted Col’s limbs. The icy air wasn’t enough to stop the attack, but it slowed Col long enough for Rhy to throw himself in front of his mother, the blade meant for her driving instead into his chest.

  Rhy gasped at the savage pain of steel piercing skin, and for an instant he was back in his rooms, a dagger thrust between his ribs and blood pouring between his hands, the horrible sear of torn flesh quickly giving way to numbing cold. But this pain was real, was hot, was giving way to nothing.

  He could feel every terrible inch of metal from the entry wound just beneath his sternum to the exit wound below his shoulder. He coughed, spitting blood onto the glass floor, and his legs threatened to fold beneath him, but he managed to stay on his feet.

  His body screamed, his mind screamed, but his heart kept beating stubbornly, defiantly, around the other prince’s blade.

  Rhy drew in a ragged breath, and raised his head.

  “How … dare you,” he growled, mouth filling with the copper taste of blood.

  The victory on Col’s face turned to shock. “Not possible,” he stammered, and then, in horror, “What are you?”

  “I am—Rhy Maresh,” he answered. “Son to Maxim and Emira—brother to Kell—heir to this city—and the future king of Arnes.”

  Col’s hands fell from the weapon. “But you should be dead.”

  “I know,” said Rhy, dragging his own blade from its sheath and driving the steel into Col’s chest.

  It was a mirror wound, but there was no spell to shield the Veskan prince. No magic to save him. No life to bind his own. The blade sank in. Rhy expected to feel guilt—or anger, or even triumph—as the blond boy collapsed, lifeless, but all he felt was relief.

  Rhy dragged in another breath and wrapped his hands around the hilt of the sword still embedded in his chest. It came free, its length stained red.

  He let it fall to the floor.

  Only then did he hear the small gasp—a soundless cry—and feel his mother’s cold fingers tightening on his arm. He turned toward her. Saw the red stain spreading across the front of her dress where the sword had driven in. Through him. Through her. There, just above her heart. The too-small hole of a too-great wound. His mother’s eyes met his.

  “Rhy,” she said, a small, disconcerted crease between her brows, the same face she’d made a hundred times whenever he and Kell got into trouble, whenever he shouted or bit his nails or did anything that wasn’t princely.

  The furrow deepened, even as her eyes went glassy, one hand drifting toward the wound, and then she was falling. He caught her, stumbled as the sudden weight tore against his open, ruined chest.

  “No, no, no,” he said, sinking with her to the prismed floor. No, it wasn’t fair. For once, he’d been fast enough. For once, he’d been strong enough. For once—

  “Rhy,” she said again, so gently—too gently.

  “No.”

  Her bloody hands reached for his face, tried to cup his cheek, and missed, streaking red along his jaw.

  “Rhy…”

  His tears spilled over her fingers.

  “No.”

  Her hand fell away, and her body slumped against him, still, and in that sudden stillness, Rhy’s world narrowed to the spreading stain, the lingering furrow between his mother’s eyes.

  Only then did the pain come, folding over him with such sudden force, such horrible weight, that he clutched his chest and began to scream.

  IV

  Alucard stood at the ship’s wheel, attention flicking between the three magicians on deck and the line of the sea. The Ghost felt wrong under his hands, too light, too long, a shoe made for someone else’s foot. What he wouldn’t have given for the steady bulk of the Spire. For Stross, and Tav, and Lenos—each name a shard of wood under his skin. And for Rhy—that name an even deeper wound.

  Alucard had never longed so much for London.

  The Ghost was making good time, but even with the cool, clear day and three recovering Antari keeping wind in the sails, someone still had to chart a course, and for all his posturing, Kell Maresh didn’t know the first thing about steering ships, Holland could barely keep his food down, and Bard was a quick study but would always be a better thief than a sailor—not that he’d ever say so to her face. Thus the task of getting the Ghost to Tanek and the crew—what few were left—to London fell to him.

  “What does it mean?” Bard’s voice drifted up from the lower deck. She was standing close to the Antari prince while the latter held the Inheritor up to the sun.

  Alucard winced, remembering what he’d gone through to get the blasted thing. The tip-off in Sasenroche. The boat to the cliffs at Hanas. The unmarked grave and the empty coffin and that was just the beginning, but it all made for a good story, and for Maris that was half the price.

  And everyone paid. First timers most of all. If Maris didn’t know you, she didn’t trus
t you, and a modest prize was like to earn you a swift departure with no invitation to return, so Alucard had paid. Dug up that Inheritor and taken it all the way to Maris, and now here they were, and here it was, with him again.

  Rhy’s brother (Alucard discovered that he hated Kell a little less when he thought of him that way) was turning the device gingerly between his fingers while Bard leaned over him.

  Holland was watching the others in silence, and so Alucard watched him. The third Antari didn’t often speak, and when he did, his words were dry, disdainful. He had all the airs of someone who knew his own strength, and knew it went unequaled, at least in present company. Alucard might have liked him if he were a little less of an asshole. Or maybe a little more. He might have liked him, anyway, if he weren’t a traitor. If he hadn’t summoned the monster that now raged like a fire through London. The same monster that had killed Anisa.

  “Give and Take,” said Kell, squinting.

  “Right,” pressed Bard. “But how does it work?”

  “I imagine you pierce your hand against the point,” he explained.

  “Give it here.”

  “This isn’t a toy, Lila.”

  “And I’m not a child, Kell.”

  Holland cleared his throat. “We should all be familiar with it.”

  Kell rolled his eyes and took a last studying look before offering up the Inheritor.

  Holland reached to take it when Kell gasped suddenly and let go. The cylinder tumbled from his fingers as he doubled over, a low groan escaping his throat.

  Holland caught the Inheritor and Bard caught Kell. He’d gone white as a sail, one hand clutching his chest.

  Alucard was on his feet, racing toward them, one word pounding through his head, his heart.

  Rhy.

  Rhy.

  Rhy.

  Magic flared in his vision as he reached Kell’s side, scanning the silvery lines that coiled around the Antari. The knot at Kell’s heart was still there, but the threads were glowing with a fiery light, pulsing faintly at some invisible strain.

  Kell fought back a cry, the sound whistling through his clenched teeth.

  “What is it?” demanded Alucard, barely able to hear his own words over that panicked echo in his blood. “What’s happening?”

  “The prince,” Kell managed, his breath ragged.

  I know that, he wanted to scream. “Is he alive?” Alucard realized the answer even before Kell scowled at him.

  “Of course he’s alive,” snapped the Antari, fingers digging into his front. “But—he’s been attacked.”

  “By who?”

  “I don’t know,” growled Kell. “I’m not psychic.”

  “My money’s on Vesk,” offered Bard.

  Kell let out a small hiccup of pain as the threads flared, singeing the air before dimming back to their usual silver glow.

  Holland pocketed the Inheritor. “If he can’t die, then there’s no reason to worry.”

  “Of course there’s a reason,” Kell shot back, forcing himself up. “Someone just tried to murder the prince of Arnes.” He drew a royal pin from the pocket of his coat. “We have to go. Lila. Holland.”

  Alucard stared. “What about me?” His pulse was steadying, but his whole body still hummed with the animal panic, the need to act.

  Kell pressed his thumb to the pin’s tip, drawing blood. “You can stay with the ship.”

  “Not a chance,” snarled Alucard, casting his gaze at the meager crew left on board.

  Holland was just standing there, watching, but when Lila made as if to go to Kell’s side, his pale fingers caught her arm. She glared at him, but he didn’t let go, and Kell didn’t look back, didn’t wait to see if they were following as he brought the token to the wall.

  Holland shook his head. “That won’t work.”

  Kell wasn’t listening. “As Tascen—”

  The rest of the spell was cut off by a crack splitting the air, accompanied by the sudden pitch of the ship and Kell’s stunned yelp as his body was forcefully hurled backward across the deck.

  To Alucard’s eyes, it looked like a Saint’s Day firework had gone off in the middle of the Ghost.

  A crackle of light, a sputter of energy, the silver of Kell’s magic crashing against the blues and greens and reds of the natural world. Rhy’s brother tried to stand up, holding his head, clearly surprised to find himself still on the ship.

  “What in the ever-loving hell was that?” asked Bard.

  Holland took a slow step forward, casting a shadow over Kell. “As I was saying, you cannot make a door on a moving craft. It defies the rules of transitional magic.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  The other Antari raised a brow. “Obviously, I assumed you knew.”

  The color was coming back into Kell’s face, the pained furrows fading, replaced by a hot flush.

  “Until we reach land,” continued Holland, “we’re no better than ordinary magicians.”

  The disdain in his voice raked on Alucard’s nerves. No wonder Bard was always trying to kill him.

  Lila made a sound then, and Alucard turned in time to see Kell on his feet, hands lifted in the direction of the mast. The current of magic filled his vision, power tipping toward Kell like water in a glass. A second later the gust of wind hit the ship so hard its sails snapped and the whole thing made a low wooden groan.

  “Careful!” shouted Alucard, sprinting toward the wheel as the ship banked hard beneath the sudden gale.

  He got the Ghost back on course as Kell drove it on with a degree of focus—of concentrated force—he’d never seen the Antari use. A level of strength reserved not for London, or the king and queen, not for Rosenal, or Osaron himself.

  But for Rhy, thought Alucard.

  The same force of love that had broken the laws of the world and brought a brother back to life.

  Threads of magic drew taut and bright as Kell forced his strength into the sails, Holland and Lila bracing themselves as he drew past the limits of his power and leaned on theirs.

  Hold on, Rhy, thought Alucard, as the ship skated forward, rising until it skimmed the surface of the water, sea spray misting the air around them as the Ghost surged anew for London.

  V

  Rhy descended the prison stairs.

  His steps were slow, bracing. It hurt to breathe, a pain that had nothing to do with the wound to his chest, and everything to do with the fact that his mother was dead.

  Bandages wove around his ribs and over his shoulder, too tight, the skin beneath already closed. Healed—if that was the word for it. But it wasn’t, because Rhy Maresh hadn’t healed in months.

  Healing was natural, healing took time—time for muscle to fuse, for bones to set, for skin to mend, time for scars to form, for the slow recession of pain followed by the return of strength.

  In all fairness, Rhy had never known the long suffering of convalescence. Whenever he’d been injured as a child, Kell had always been there to mend him. Nothing worse than a cut or bruise ever lasted more than the time it took to find his brother.

  But even that had been different.

  A choice.

  Rhy remembered falling from the courtyard wall when he was twelve and spraining his wrist. Remembered Kell’s quickness to draw blood, Rhy’s quickness to stop him, because he could bear the pain more than he could bear Kell’s face when the blade sank in, the knowledge that he’d feel dizzy and ill the rest of the day from the magic’s strain. And because, secretly, Rhy wanted to know he had a choice.

  To heal.

  But when Astrid Dane had driven the blade between his ribs, when the darkness had swallowed him, and then receded like a tide, there’d been no choice, no chance to say no. The wound was already closed. The spell already done.

  He’d stayed in bed for three days in a mimicry of convalescence. He’d felt weak and ill, but it had less to do with his mending body than the new hollowness inside it. The voice in his head that whispered wrong, wrong, wit
h every pulse.

  Now he did not heal. A wound was a wound and then it wasn’t.

  A shudder went through him as he reached the bottom step.

  Rhy did not want to do this.

  Did not want to face her.

  But someone had to handle the living, as much as someone had to handle the dead, and the king had already laid claim to the latter. His father, who was dealing with his grief as though it were an enemy, something to defeat, subdue. Who had ordered every Veskan in the palace rounded up, put under armed guard, and confined to the southern wing. His father, who had laid out his dead wife on the stone grieving block with such peculiar care, as if she were fragile. As if anything could touch her now.

  In the gloom of the prison, a pair of guards stood watch.

  Cora was sitting cross-legged on the bench at the back of her cell. She wasn’t chained to the wall, as Holland had been, but her delicate wrists were bound in iron so heavy her hands had to rest on the bench before her knees, making her look as though she were leaning forward to whisper a secret.

  Blood dappled her face like freckles, but when she saw Rhy, she actually smiled. Not the rictus grin of the mad, or the rueful smirk of the guilty. It was the same smile she’d given him as they perched in the royal baths telling stories: cheerful, innocent.

  “Rhy,” she said brightly.

  “Was it your idea, or Col’s?”

  She pursed her lips, sulking at the lack of preamble. But then her eyes went to the bandage that peeked through Rhy’s stiffened collar. It should have been a killing blow. It had been.

  “My brother is one of the best swordsmen in Vesk,” said Cora. “Col has never missed his mark.”

  “He didn’t,” said Rhy simply.

  Cora’s brow crinkled, then smoothed. Expressions flitted across her face like pages flipping in a breeze, too fast to catch.