Gathering of Shadows (A Darker Shade of Magic)

by V. E. Schwab

  Kell tensed, his attention flicking to the aristocrats that peppered the vast room. They were whispering, eying Kell with interest over their glasses.

  Kell resisted the urge to reach out and grab the royal’s sleeve. “How much do these people know?” he demanded, fighting to keep his voice low, even. “About me?”

  George waved his hand. “Oh, nothing troublesome. I believe I told them you were a foreign dignitary. Which is true, in the strictest sense. But the problem is, the less they know, the more they gossip. Perhaps we should simply introduce you—”

  “I would pay my respects,” cut in Kell. “To the old king.” He knew they buried men in this world. It struck him as strange, to put a body in a box, but it meant the king—what was left of him—would be here, somewhere.

  George sighed, as if the request were both expected and terribly inconvenient. “I figured as much,” he said, finishing the drink. “He’s in the chapel. But first …” He held out a hand, heavily adorned with rings. “My letter.” Kell withdrew the envelope from the pocket of his coat. “And the one for my father.”

  Reluctantly, Kell retrieved the second note. The old king had always taken such care with the letters, instructing Kell not to mar the seal. The new king took up a short knife from the side bar and slashed the envelope, drawing out the contents. He hated the idea of George seeing the sparse note.

  “You came all the way out here to read him this?” he asked, scornfully.

  “I was fond of the king.”

  “Well, you’ll have to make do with me now.”

  Kell said nothing.

  The second letter was significantly longer, and the new king lowered himself onto a couch to read it. Kell felt decidedly uncomfortable, standing there while George looked over the letter and the king’s entourage looked over him. When the king had read it through three or four times, he nodded to himself, tucked the letter away, and got to his feet.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Kell followed George out, grateful to escape the room and all the gazes in it.

  “Bloody cold out,” the king said, bundling himself into a lush coat with a fur collar. “Don’t suppose you could do something about that?”

  Kell’s eyes narrowed. “The weather? No.”

  The king shrugged, and they stepped out onto the palace grounds, shadowed by a huddle of attendants. Kell pulled his coat close around his body; it was a bitter February day, the wind high and the air wet and biting cold. Snow fell around them, if it could be called falling. The air caught it up and twisted the drifts into spirals so that little ever touched the frozen ground. Kell pulled up his hood.

  Despite the chill, his hands were bare inside their pockets; his fingertips were going numb, but Antari relied on their hands and their blood to do magic, and gloves were cumbersome, an obstacle to quick-drawn spells. Not that he feared an attack on Grey London soil, but he’d rather be prepared….

  Then again, with George, even simple conversation felt a bit like a duel, the two possessing little love and less trust for one another. Plus, the new king’s fascination with magic was growing. How long before George had Kell attacked, just to see if and how he would defend himself? But then, such a move would forfeit the communication between their worlds, and Kell didn’t think the king was that foolish. At least he hoped not; as much as Kell hated George, he didn’t want to lose his one excuse to travel.

  Kell’s hand found the coin in his pocket, and he turned it over and over absently to keep his fingers warm. He assumed they were walking toward a graveyard, but instead the king led him to a church.

  “St. George’s Chapel,” he explained, stepping through.

  It was impressive, a towering structure, full of sharp edges. Inside, the ceiling vaulted over a checkered stone floor. George handed off his outer coat without looking; he simply assumed someone would be there to take it, and they were. Kell looked up at the light pouring in through the stained-glass windows, and thought absently that this wouldn’t be such a bad place to be buried. Until he realized that George III hadn’t been laid to rest up here, surround by sunlight.

  He was in the vault.

  The ceiling was lower, and the light was thin, and that, paired with the scent of dusty stone, made Kell’s skin crawl.

  George took an unlit candelabrum from a shelf. “Would you mind?” he asked. Kell frowned. There was something hungry in the way George asked. Covetous.

  “Of course,” said Kell. He reached out toward the candles, his fingers hovering above before continuing past them to a vase of long-stemmed matches. He took one, struck it with a small, ceremonial flourish, and lit the candles.

  George pursed his lips, disappointed. “You were all too eager to perform for my father.”

  “Your father was a different man,” said Kell, waving the match out.

  George’s frown deepened. He obviously wasn’t used to being told no, but Kell wasn’t sure if he was upset at being denied in general, or being denied magic specifically. Why was he so intent on a demonstration? Did he simply crave proof? Entertainment? Or was it more than that?

  He trailed the man through the royal vault, suppressing a shudder at the thought of being buried here. Being put in a box in the ground was bad enough, but being entombed like this, with layers of stone between you and the world? Kell would never understand the way these Grey-worlders sealed away their dead, trapping the discarded shells in gold and wood and stone as if some remnant of who they’d been in life remained. And if it did? What a cruel punishment.

  When George reached his father’s tomb, he set the candelabrum down, swept the hem of his coat into his hand, and knelt, head bowed. His lips moved silently for a few seconds, and then he drew a gold cross from his collar and touched it to his lips. Finally he stood, frowning at the dust on his knees and brushing it away.

  Kell reached out and rested his hand thoughtfully on the tomb, wishing he could feel something—anything—within. It was silent and cold.

  “It would be proper to say a prayer,” said the king.

  Kell frowned, confused. “To what end?”

  “For his soul, of course.” Kell’s confusion must have showed. “Don’t you have God in your world?” He shook his head. George seemed taken aback. “No higher power?”

  “I didn’t say that,” answered Kell. “I suppose you could say we worship magic. That is our highest power.”

  “That is heresy.”

  Kell raised a brow, his hand slipping from the tomb’s lid. “Your Majesty, you worship a thing you can neither see nor touch, whereas I worship something I engage with every moment of every day. Which is the more logical path?”

  George scowled. “It isn’t a matter of logic. It is a matter of faith.”

  Faith. It seemed a shallow substitution, but Kell supposed he couldn’t blame the Grey-worlders. Everyone needed to believe in something, and without magic, they had settled for a lesser god. One full of holes and mystery and made-up rules. The irony was that they had abandoned magic long before it abandoned them, smothered it with this almighty God of theirs.

  “But what of your dead?” pressed the king.

  “We burn them.”

  “A pagan ritual,” he said scornfully.

  “Better than putting their bodies in a box.”

  “And what of their souls?” pressed George, seeming genuinely disturbed. “Where do you think they go, if you don’t believe in heaven and hell?”

  “They go back to the source,” said Kell. “Magic is in everything, Your Majesty. It is the current of life. We believe that when you die, your soul returns to that current, and your body is reduced again to elements.”

  “But what of you?”

  “You cease to be.”

  “What is the point, then?” grumbled the king. “Of living a good life, if there is nothing after? Nothing earned?”

  Kell had often wondered the same thing, in his own way, but it wasn’t an afterlife he craved. He simply d
idn’t want to return to nothing, as if he’d never been. But it would be a cold day in Grey London’s hell before he agreed with the new king on anything. “I suppose the point is to live well.”

  George’s complexion was turning ruddy. “But what stops one from committing sins, if they have nothing to fear?”

  Kell shrugged. “I’ve seen people sin in the name of god, and in the name of magic. People misuse their higher powers, no matter what form they take.”

  “But no afterlife,” grumbled the king. “No eternal soul? It’s unnatural.”

  “On the contrary,” said Kell. “It is the most natural thing in the world. Nature is made of cycles, and we are made of nature. What is unnatural is believing in an infallible man and a nice place waiting in the sky.”

  George’s expression darkened. “Careful, Master Kell. That is blasphemy.”

  Kell frowned. “You’ve never struck me as a very pious man, Your Majesty.”

  The king crossed himself. “Better safe than sorry. Besides,” he said, looking around, “I am the King of England. My legacy is divine. I rule by the grace of that God you mock. I am His servant, as this kingdom is mine at His grace.” It sounded like a recitation. The king tucked the cross back beneath his collar. “Perhaps,” he added, twisting up his face, “I would worship your god, if I could see and touch it as you do.”

  And here they were again. The old king had regarded magic with awe, a child’s wonder. This new king looked at it the way he looked at everything. With lust.

  “I warned you once, Your Majesty,” said Kell. “Magic has no place in your world. Not anymore.”

  George smiled, and for an instant he looked more like a wolf than a well-fed man. “You said yourself, Master Kell, that the world is full of cycles. Perhaps our time will come again.” And then the grin was gone, swallowed up by his usual expression of droll amusement. The effect was disconcerting, and it made Kell wonder if the man was really as dense and self-absorbed as his people thought, or if there was something there, beneath the shallow, self-indulgent shell.

  What had Astrid Dane said?

  I do not trust things unless they belong to me.

  A draft cut through the vault, flickering the candlelight. “Come,” said George, turning his back on Kell and the old king’s tomb.

  Kell hesitated, then drew the Red London lin from his pocket, the star glittering in the center of the coin. He always brought one for the king; every month, the old monarch claimed that the magic in his own was fading, like heat from dying coals, so Kell would bring him one to trade, pocket-warm and smelling of roses. Now Kell considered the coin, turning it over his fingers.

  “This one’s fresh, Your Majesty.” He touched it to his lips, and then reached out and set the warm coin on top of the cold stone tomb.

  “Sores nast,” he whispered. Sleep well.

  And with that, Kell followed the new king up the stairs, and back out into the cold.

  * * *

  Kell fought not to fidget while he waited for the King of England to finish writing his letter.

  The man was taking his time, letting the silence in the room thicken into something profoundly uncomfortable, until Kell found himself wanting to speak, if only to break it. Knowing that was probably the point, he held his tongue and stood watching the snow fall and the sky darken beyond the window.

  When the letter was finally done, George sat back in his chair and took up a wine cup, staring at the pages as he drank. “Tell me something,” he said, “about magic.” Kell tensed, but the king continued. “Does everyone in your world possess this ability?”

  Kell hesitated. “Not all,” he said. “And not equally.”

  George tipped the glass from side to side. “So you might say that the powerful are chosen.”

  “Some believe that,” said Kell. “Others think it is simply a matter of luck. A good hand drawn in cards.”

  “If that’s the case, then you must have drawn a very good hand.”

  Kell considered him evenly. “If you’ve finished your letter, I should—”

  “How many people can do what you do?” cut in the king. “Travel between worlds? I’d wager not many, or else I might have seen them instead. Really,” he said, getting to his feet, “it’s a wonder your king lets you out of his sight.”

  He could see the thoughts in George’s eyes, like cogs turning. But Kell had no intention of becoming part of the man’s collection.

  “Your Majesty,” said Kell, trying to keep his voice smooth, “if you are feeling the urge to keep me here, thinking it might gain you something, I would strongly discourage the attempt, and remind you that any such gesture would forfeit future communication with my world.” Please don’t do this, he wanted to add. Don’t even try it. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing his last escape. “Plus,” he added for good measure, “I think you would find I am not easily kept.”

  Thankfully the king raised his ringed hands in mock surrender. “You mistake me,” he said with a smile, even though Kell did not think he’d been at all mistaken. “I simply don’t see why our two great kingdoms shouldn’t share a closer bond.”

  He folded his letter, and sealed it with wax. It was long—several pages longer than usual, judging by the way the paper bulged and its weight when Kell took it.

  “For years these letters have been riddled with formalities, anecdotes instead of history, warnings in place of explanation, useless bits of information when we could be sharing real knowledge,” pressed the king.

  Kell slipped the letter into the pocket of his coat. “If that’s all …”

  “Actually, it’s not,” said George. “I’ve something for you.”

  Kell cringed as the man set a small box on the table. He didn’t reach for it. “That is kind of you, Your Majesty, but I must decline.”

  George’s shallow smile faded. “You would refuse a gift from the King of England?”

  “I would refuse a gift from anyone,” said Kell, “especially when I can tell it’s meant as payment. Though I know not for what.”

  “It’s simple enough,” said George. “The next time you come, I would have you bring me something in return.”

  Kell grimaced inwardly. “Transference is treason,” he said, reciting a rule he’d broken so many times.

  “You would be well compensated.”

  Kell pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your Majesty, there was a time when I might have considered your request.” Well, not yours, he thought, but someone’s. “But that time has passed. Petition my king for knowledge if you will. Ask of him a gift, and if he concedes, I shall bring it to you. But I bear nothing of my own free will.” The words hurt to say, a wound not quite healed, the skin still tender. He bowed and turned to go, even though the king had not dismissed him.

  “Very well,” said George, standing, his cheeks ruddy. “I will see you out.”

  “No,” said Kell, turning back. “I would not inconvenience you so,” he added. “You have guests to attend to.” The words were cordial. Their tone was not. “I will go back the way I came.”

  And you will not follow.

  Kell left George red-faced beside the desk, and retraced his steps to the old king’s chamber. He wished he could lock the door behind him. But of course, the locks were on the outside of this room. Another reminder that this room had been more prison than palace.

  He closed his eyes and tried to remember the last time he’d seen the man alive. The old king hadn’t looked well. He hadn’t looked well at all, but he’d still known Kell, still brightened at his presence, still smiled and brought the royal letter to his nose, inhaling its scent.

  Roses, he’d murmured softly. Always roses.

  Kell opened his eyes. Part of him—a weary, grieving part—simply wanted to go home. But the rest of him wanted to get out of this blasted castle, go someplace where he wouldn’t be a royal messenger or an Antari, a prisoner or a prince, and wander the streets of Grey London until he became simply a shadow, one of thousan
ds.

  He crossed to the far wall, where heavy curtains framed the window. It was so cold in here that the glass hadn’t frosted over. He drew the curtain back, revealing the patterned wallpaper beneath, the design marred by a faded symbol, little more than a smudge in the low light. It was a circle with a single line through it, a transfer mark leading from Windsor to St. James. He shifted the heavy curtain back even farther, revealing a mark that would have been lost long ago, if it hadn’t been shielded entirely from time and light.

  A six-pointed star. One of the first marks Kell had made, years ago, when the king had been brought to Windsor. He’d drawn the same mark on the stones of a garden wall that ran beside Westminster. The second mark had been long lost, washed away by rain or buried by moss, but it didn’t matter. It had been drawn once, and even if the lines were no longer visible, a blood sigil didn’t fade from the world as quickly as it did from sight.

  Kell pushed up his sleeve and drew his knife. He carved a shallow line across the back of his arm, touched his fingers to the blood, and retraced the symbol. He pressed his palm to it and cast a last glance back at the empty room, at the light seeping beneath the door, listening to the far-off sounds of laughter.

  Damned kings, thought Kell, leaving Windsor once and for all.

  III

  THE EDGE OF ARNES

  Lila’s boots hit land for the first time in months.

  The last time they’d docked had been at Korma three weeks past, and Lila had drawn the bad lot and been forced to stay aboard with the ship. Before that, there was Sol, and Rinar, but both times Emery insisted she keep to the Spire. She probably wouldn’t have listened, but there was something in the captain’s voice that made her stay. She’d stepped off in the port town of Elon, but that had been for half a night more than two months ago.