The woman seemed to read the hesitation in her eyes. “You are not from here, so you do not know. Arnesians pay their debts in many ways. Not all of them with coin. I need nothing from you now, so you will pay me back another time, and in your own way. Yes?”
Lila hesitated. And then bells began to ring in the palace, loud enough to echo through her, and she nodded. “Very well,” she said.
The merchant smiled. “Ir chas,” she said. “Now, let us find you something fitting.”
* * *
“Hmm.” The merchant woman—who called herself Calla—chewed her lip. “Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer something with a corset? Or a train?”
Calla had tried to lead Lila to a rack of dresses, but her eyes had gone straight to the men’s coats. Glorious things, with strong shoulders and high collars and gleaming buttons.
“No,” said Lila, lifting one from the rack. “This is exactly what I want.”
The merchant looked at her with strange fascination, but little—or, at the very least, well-concealed—judgment, and said, “Anesh. If you’re set on that direction, I will find you some boots.”
A few minutes later, Lila found herself in a curtained corner of the tent, holding the nicest clothes she’d ever touched, let alone owned. Borrowed, she corrected herself. Borrowed until paid for.
Lila pulled the artifacts from her various pockets—the black stone, the white rook, the bloodstained silver watch, the invitation—and set them on the floor before tugging off her boots and shrugging out of her old worn cloak. Calla had given her a new black tunic—it fit so well that she wondered if there was some kind of tailoring spell on it—and a pair of close-fitting pants that still hung a little loosely on her bony frame. She’d insisted on keeping her belt, and Calla had the decency not to gawk at the number of weapons threaded through it as she handed her the boots.
Every pirate needed a good pair of boots, and these were gorgeous things, sculpted out of black leather and lined with something softer than loose cotton, and Lila let out a rare gleeful sound as she pulled them on. And then there was the coat. It was an absolute dream, high-collared and lovely and black—true black, velvety and rich—with a fitted waist and a built-in half-cloak that gathered at glassy red clasps on either side of her throat and spilled over her shoulders and down her back. Lila ran her fingers admiringly over the glossy jet-black buttons that cascaded down its front. She’d never been one for baubles and fineries, never wanted anything more than salt air and a solid boat and an empty map, but now that she was standing in a foreign stall in a faraway land, clothed in rich fabrics, she was beginning to see the appeal.
At last, she lifted up the waiting mask. So many of the faces that hung around the stall were lovely, delicate things made of feather and lace and garnished with glass. But this one was beautiful in a different way, an opposite way. It reminded Lila less of dresses and finery, and more of sharpened knives and ships on the seas at night. It looked dangerous. She brought it to rest against her face and smiled.
There was a silver-tinted looking glass propped in the corner, and she admired her reflection in it. She looked little like the shadow of a thief on the WANTED posters back home, and nothing like the scrawny girl hoarding coppers to escape a dingy life. Her polished boots glistened from knee to toe, lengthening her legs. Her coat broadened her shoulders and hugged her waist. And her mask tapered down her cheeks, the black horns curling up over her head in a way that was at once elegant and monstrous. She gave herself a long, appraising look, the way the girl had in the street, but there was nothing to scoff at now.
Delilah Bard looked like a king.
No, she thought, straightening. She looked like a conqueror.
“Lila?” came the merchant woman’s voice beyond the curtain. She pronounced the name as though it were full of e’s. “Does it fit?” Lila slid the trinkets into the new silk-lined pockets of her coat and emerged. The heels of her boots clicked proudly on the stone ground—and yet, she had tested the tread and knew that if she moved on the balls of her feet, the steps would be silent—and Calla smiled, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, even as she tsked.
“Mas aven,” she said. “You look more ready to storm a city than seduce a man.”
“Kell will love it,” assured Lila, and the way she said his name, infusing it with a subtle softness, an intimacy, made the merchant woman ruffle cheerfully. And then the bells chimed again through the city, and Lila swore to herself. “I must go,” she said. “Thank you again.”
“You’ll pay me back,” said Calla simply.
Lila nodded. “I will.”
She was to the mouth of the tent when the merchant woman added, “Look after him.”
Lila smiled grimly and tugged up the collar of her coat. “I will,” she said again before vanishing into the street.
II
Colors blossomed over Kell’s head, blurs of red and gold and rich dark blue. At first they were nothing more than broad streaks, but as his vision came into focus, he recognized them as palace draperies, the kind that hung from the ceilings in each of the royal bedrooms, drawing sky-like patterns out of cloth.
Squinting up, Kell realized he must be in Rhy’s room.
He knew this because the ceiling in his own was decorated like midnight, billows of near-black fabric studded with silver thread, and the queen’s ceiling was like noon, cloudless and blue, and the king’s was like dusk with its bands of yellow and orange. Only Rhy’s was draped like this. Like dawn. Kell’s head spun, and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he tried to piece his thoughts together.
He was lying on a couch, his body sinking into the soft cushions beneath him. Music played beyond the walls of the room, an orchestra, and woven through it, the sounds of laughter and revelry. Of course. Rhy’s birthday ball. Just then, someone cleared his throat, and Kell dragged his eyes back open and turned his head to see Rhy himself sitting across from him.
The prince was draped in a chair, one ankle across his knee, sipping tea and looking thoroughly annoyed.
“Brother,” said Rhy, tipping his cup. He was dressed in all black, his coat and pants and boots adorned with dozens of gold buttons. A mask—a gaudy thing, decorated with thousands of tiny sparkling gold scales—rested on top of his head in place of his usual crown.
Kell went to push the hair out of his eyes and quickly discovered that he could not. His hands were cuffed behind his back.
“You’ve got to be joking …” He shuffled himself up into a sitting position. “Rhy, why in king’s name am I wearing these?” The cuffs weren’t like those ordinary manacles found in Grey London, made of metal links. Nor were they like the binds in White, which caused blinding pain upon resistance. No, these were sculpted out of a solid piece of iron and carved with spellwork designed to dampen magic. Not as severe as the royal swords, to be sure, but effective.
Rhy set his teacup on an ornate side table. “I couldn’t very well have you running away again.”
Kell sighed and tipped his head back against the couch. “This is preposterous. I suppose that’s why you had me drugged, too? Honestly, Rhy.”
Rhy crossed his arms. He was clearly sulking. Kell dragged his head up and looked around, noticing that there were two members of the royal guard in the room with them, still dressed in formal armor, their helmets on, their visors down. But Kell knew Rhy’s personal guard well enough to recognize them, armor or none, and these were not them.
“Where are Gen and Parrish?” asked Kell.
Rhy shrugged lazily. “Having a little too much fun, I imagine.”
Kell shifted on the couch, trying to free himself from the cuffs. They were too tight. “Don’t you think you’re blowing this a little out of proportion?”
“Where have you been, brother?”
“Rhy,” said Kell sternly. “Take these off.”
Rhy’s boot slid from his knee and came to rest firmly on the ground. He straightened in his seat, squaring himself to Kell. “Is it tr
ue?”
Kell’s brow furrowed. “Is what true?”
“That you have a piece of Black London?”
Kell stiffened. “What are you talking about?”
“Is it true?” persisted the prince.
“Rhy,” said Kell slowly. “Who told you that?” No one knew, none except those who wanted the stone gone and those who wanted it reclaimed.
Rhy shook his head sadly. “What have you brought into our city, Kell? What have you brought upon it?”
“Rhy, I—”
“I warned you this would happen. I told you that if you carried on with your deals, you would be caught and that even I could not protect you then.”
Kell’s blood ran cold.
“Do the king and queen know?”
Rhy’s eyes narrowed. “No. Not yet.”
Kell let out a small sigh of relief. “They don’t need to. I’m doing what I have to do. I’m taking it back, Rhy. All the way back to the fallen city.”
Rhy’s brow crinkled. “I can’t let you do that.”
“Why not?” demanded Kell. “It is the only place the talisman belongs.”
“Where is it now?”
“Safe,” said Kell, hoping that was true.
“Kell, I can’t help you if you won’t let me.”
“I’m taking care of it, Rhy. I promise you I am.”
The prince was shaking his head. “Promises are not enough,” he said. “Not anymore. Tell me where the stone is.”
Kell froze. “I never told you it was a stone.”
Heavy silence fell between them. Rhy held his gaze. And then, finally, his lips drew into a small, dark smile, twisting his face in a way that made it look like someone else’s.
“Oh, Kell,” he said. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and Kell caught sight of something under the collar of his shirt and stiffened. It was a pendant. A glass necklace with blood-red edges. He knew it, had seen it before only days earlier.
On Astrid Dane.
Kell lunged to his feet, but the guards were upon him, holding him back. Their motions were too even, their grip too crushing. Compelled. Of course. No wonder their visors were down. Compulsion showed in the eyes.
“Hello, flower boy.” The words came from Rhy’s mouth in a voice that was, and wasn’t, his.
“Astrid,” hissed Kell. “Have you compelled everyone in this palace?”
A low chuckle escaped Rhy’s lips. “Not yet, but I’m working on it.”
“What have you done with my brother?”
“I’ve only borrowed him.” Rhy’s fingers curled under his shirt collar and drew out the pendant. There was only one thing it could be: a possession charm. “Antari blood,” she said proudly. “Allows the spell to exist in both worlds.”
“You will pay for this,” growled Kell. “I will—”
“You will what? Hurt me? And risk hurting your dear prince? I doubt it.” Again, that cold smile, so foreign to Rhy’s face, spread across his lips. “Where is the stone, Kell?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Rhy’s hand swept across the room. “I’m branching out.”
Kell pulled against his binds, the metal digging into his wrists. The dampening cuffs were strong enough to mute elemental abilities and prevent spellwork, but they couldn’t prevent Antari magic. If he could only—
“Tell me where you’ve hidden the stone.”
“Tell me why you are wearing my brother’s body,” he shot back, trying to buy time.
Astrid sighed from within the prince’s shell. “You know so little of war. Battles may be fought from the outside in, but wars are won from the inside out.” She gestured down at Rhy’s body. “Kingdoms and crowns are taken from within. The strongest fortress can withstand any attack from beyond its walls, and yet even it is not fortified against an attack from behind them. Had I marched upon your palace from the steps, would I have made it this far? But now, now no one will see me coming. Not the king, nor the queen, nor the people. I am their beloved prince, and will be so until the moment I choose not to be.”
“I know,” said Kell. “I know what and who you are. What will you do, Astrid? Kill me?”
Rhy’s face lit up with a strange kind of glee. “No”—the word slid over his tongue—“but I’m sure you’ll wish I had. Now”—Rhy’s hand lifted Kell’s chin—“where is my stone?”
Kell looked into his brother’s amber eyes, and beyond them, to the thing lurking in his brother’s body. He wanted to beg Rhy, to plead with him to fight against the spell. But it wouldn’t work. As long as she was in there, he wasn’t.
“I don’t know where it is,” said Kell.
Rhy’s smile spread, wolfish and sharp. “You know. …” Rhy’s mouth formed the words, and Rhy held up his hand, considering his long fingers, the knuckles adorned with glittering rings. Those same hands began twisting the rings so that their jeweled settings were on the inside. “A little piece of me was hoping you would say that.”
And then Rhy’s fingers curled into a fist and connected with Kell’s jaw.
Kell’s head cracked to the side, and he nearly stumbled, but the guards tightened their grips and held him on his feet. Kell tasted blood, but Rhy just smiled that horrible smile and rubbed his knuckles. “This is going to be fun.”
III
Lila ascended the palace stairs, the half-cloak of her new coat billowing behind her. The shimmering midnight carpet rippled faintly with every upward step, as though it were truly water. Other guests climbed the stairs in pairs or small groups, but Lila did her best to mimic their lofty arrogance—shoulders back, head high—as she ascended alone. She might not be of money, but she’d stolen enough from those who were to copy their manners and their mannerisms.
At the top, she presented the invitation to a man in black and gold who bowed and stepped aside, allowing her into a foyer blanketed in flowers. More flowers than Lila had ever seen. Roses and lilies and peonies, daffodils and azaleas, and scores more she could not recognize by sight. Clusters of tiny white blossoms like snowflakes, and massive stems that resembled sunflowers if sunflowers were sky blue. The room filled with the fragrance of them all, and yet it did not overwhelm her. Perhaps she was simply getting used to it.
Music poured through a second, curtained doorway, and the mystery of what lay beyond drew Lila forward through the gallery of flowers. And then, just as she reached out to pull the curtain aside, a second servant appeared from the other side and barred her path. Lila tensed, worried that somehow her disguise and invitation were not enough, that she would be discovered as an impostor, an outsider. Her fingers twitched toward the knife under her coat.
And then the man smiled and said in stiff English, “I am presenting whom?”
“Excuse me?” asked Lila, keeping her voice low, gruff.
The attendant’s brow crinkled. “What title and name should I announce you under, sir?”
“Oh.” Relief swept over her, and her hand slid back to her side. A smile spread across her lips. “Captain Bard,” she said, “of the Sea King.” The attendant looked uncertain, but turned away and said the words without protest.
Her name echoed and was swallowed by the room before she’d even stepped inside.
When she did, her mouth fell open.
The vivid glamour of the world outside paled in comparison to the world within. It was a palace of vaulting glass and shimmering tapestry and, woven through it all like light, magic. The air was alive with it. Not the secret, seductive magic of the stone, but a loud, bright, encompassing thing. Kell had told Lila that magic was like an extra sense, layered on top of sight and smell and taste, and now she understood. It was everywhere. In everything. And it was intoxicating. She could not tell if the energy was coming from the hundreds of bodies in the room, or from the room itself, which certainly reflected it. Amplified it like sound in an echoing chamber.
And it was strangely—impossibly—familiar.
Benea
th the magic, or perhaps because of it, the space itself was alive with color and light. She’d never set foot inside St. James, but it couldn’t possibly have compared to the splendor of this. Nothing in her London could. Her world felt truly grey by comparison, bleak and empty in a way that made Lila want to kiss the stone for freeing her from it, for bringing her here, to this glittering jewel of a place. Everywhere she looked, she saw wealth. Her fingers itched, and she resisted the urge to start picking pockets, reminding herself that the cargo in her own was too precious to risk being caught.
The curtained doorway led onto a landing, a set of stairs sloping down and away onto the hall’s polished floor, the stone itself lost beneath boots and twirling skirts.
At the base of the stairs stood the king and queen, greeting each of their guests. Standing there, dressed in gold, they looked unbearably elegant. Lila had never been so near to royalty—she didn’t count Kell—and knew she should slip away as soon as possible, but she couldn’t resist the urge to flaunt her disguise. And besides, it would be rude not to greet her hosts. Reckless, growled a voice in her head, but Lila only smiled and descended the stairs.
“Welcome, Captain,” said the king, his grip firm around Lila’s hand.
“Your Majesty,” she said, struggling to keep her voice from drifting up. She nodded her mask toward him, careful not to jab him with her horns.
“Welcome,” echoed the queen as Lila kissed her outstretched hand. But as she pulled away, the queen added, “We have not met before.”
“I am a friend of Kell’s,” said Lila as casually as possible, her gaze still on the floor.
“Ah,” said the queen. “Then welcome.”
“Actually,” Lila went on, “Your Highness, I am looking for him. Do you know where he might be?”
The queen considered her blankly and said, “He is not here.” Lila frowned, and the queen added, “But I am not worried.” Her tone was strangely steady, as if she were reciting a line that wasn’t hers. The bad feeling in Lila’s chest grew worse.
A Darker Shade of Magic Page 23
