by V. E. Schwab
“He needs this, Tieren,” pressed Rhy. And then, with a coy smile, “How old are you?”
“Old enough,” answered Tieren. “Why?” One eye opened. “Are my grey hairs showing?”
Rhy smiled. Tieren’s head had been silver for as long as he could remember. Rhy loved the old man, and he suspected that, against Tieren’s better judgment, he loved Rhy, too. As the Aven Essen, he was the protector of the city, a gifted healer, and a very close friend to the crown. He’d mentored Kell as he came into his powers, and nursed Rhy back to health whenever he was sick, or when he’d done something foolish and didn’t want to get caught. He and Kell had certainly kept the old man busy over the years.
“You know,” said Tieren slowly, “you really should be more careful about who sees your mark.”
Rhy flashed him a look of mock affront. “You can’t expect me to remain clothed all the time, Master Tieren.”
“I do suppose that would be too much to ask.”
Rhy tipped his head back against the stones. “People assume it’s just a scar from that night,” he said, “which is exactly what it is, and as long as Kell remains clothed—which, let’s be honest, is a much easier demand—no one will realize it’s anything more.”
Tieren sighed, his universal signal for discontent. The truth was that the mark unsettled Rhy, more than he wanted to admit, and hiding it only made it feel more like a curse. And, strangely, it was all he had. Looking down at his arms, his chest, Rhy saw that aside from the silvery burst of spell work, and the knife wound that looked so small and pale beneath, he bore very few scars. The seal wasn’t pleasant, but it was a scar he’d earned. And one he needed to live with.
“People whisper,” observed Tieren.
“If I make a point of hiding it any more than I do, they will just whisper more.”
What would have happened, wondered Rhy, if I had gone to Tieren with my fears of weakness, instead of accepting Holland’s gift for strength? Would the priest have known what to say? How to help? Rhy had confessed to Tieren, in the weeks after the incident. Told him about accepting the talisman—the possession charm—expecting one of the old man’s reprimands. Instead Tieren had listened, speaking only when Rhy was out of words.
“Strength and weakness are tangled things,” the Aven Essen had said. “They look so much alike, we often confuse them, the way we confuse magic and power.”
Rhy had found the response flip, but in the months that followed, Tieren had been there, at Rhy’s side, a reminder and a support.
When he looked over at Tieren now, the man was staring at the water, past it, as if he could see something there, reflected in the surface, or the steam.
Maybe Rhy could learn to do that. Scry. But Tieren told him once it wasn’t so much about looking out as looking in, and Rhy wasn’t sure he wanted to spend any more time than necessary doing that. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling—the hope—that everyone was born with the ability to do something, that if he just searched hard enough he would find it. His gift. His purpose.
“Well,” said Rhy, breaking the silence, “do you find the waters to your liking?”
“Why won’t you leave me in peace?”
“There’s too much to do.”
Tieren sighed. “As it seems you will not be dissuaded …” He drew a scroll from the folded sleeves of his robes. “The final list of competitors.”
Rhy straightened and took the paper.
“It will be posted in the next day or two,” explained the priest, “once we receive the lists from Faro and Vesk. But I thought you’d want to see it first.” There was something in his tone, a gentle caution, and Rhy undid the ribbon and uncoiled the scroll with nervous fingers, unsure of what he’d find. As the city’s Aven Essen, it was Master Tieren’s task to select the twelve representatives of Ames.
Rhy scanned the list, his attention first landing on Kamerov Loste—he felt a thrill at seeing the name, an invention, a fiction made real—before a name farther down snagged his gaze, a thorn hidden among roses.
Alucard Emery.
Rhy winced, recoiled, but not before the name drew blood. “How?” he asked, his voice low, almost hollow.
“Apparently,” said Tieren, “you’re not the only one capable of pulling strings. And before you get upset, you should know that Emery broke far fewer rules than you have. In fact, he technically broke none. He auditioned for me in the fall, when the Spire was docked, and as far as I’m concerned, he’s the strongest one in the ranks. Two weeks ago his sister came to me, to refresh my memory and to petition his place, though I think she simply wants him to come home. If that’s not enough, there’s the matter of the loophole.”
Rhy tried to keep himself from crumpling the paper. “What loophole?”
“Emery was formally invited to compete three years ago, but …” Tieren hesitated, looking uncomfortable. “Well, we both know that certain circumstances prevented that. He’s entitled to a spot.”
Rhy wanted to climb back into the bath and vanish beneath the water. Instead he slowly, methodically rolled the paper up and retied it with string.
“And here I thought you might be happy,” said Tieren. “The mystery and madness of youth is clearly lost on me.”
Rhy folded forward, rubbing his neck, and then his shoulder. His fingers found the scar over his heart, and he traced the lines absently, a recent habit. The skin was silvery and smooth, just barely raised, but he knew that the seal went all the way through, flesh and bone and soul.
“Let me see,” said Tieren, standing.
Rhy was grateful for the change of focus. He tipped his head out of the way and let the man examine his shoulder, pressing one cool, dry hand to the front, and one to the back. Rhy felt a strange warmth spreading through him along the lines of the spell. “Has the bond weakened?”
Rhy shook his head. “If anything, it seems to be growing stronger. At first, the echoes were dull, but now … it’s not just pain, either, Tieren. Pleasure, fatigue. But also anger, restlessness. Like right now, if I clear my head, I can feel Kell’s”—he hesitated, reaching for his brother—“weariness. It’s exhausting.”
“That makes sense,” said Tieren, hands falling away. “This isn’t simply a physical bond. You and Kell are sharing a life force.”
“You mean I’m sharing his,” corrected Rhy. His own life had been cut off by the dagger driven into his chest. What he had, he was siphoning off Kell. The heat of the bath had vanished, and Rhy was left feeling tired and cold.
“Self-pity is not a good look on you, Your Highness,” said Tieren, shuffling toward the door.
“Thank you,” Rhy called after him, holding up the scroll. “For this.”
Tieren said nothing, only crinkled his brow faintly—there it was again, that line—and vanished.
Rhy sank back against the bench, and considered the list again, Kamerov’s name so close to Alucard’s.
One thing was certain.
It was going to be one hell of a tournament.
III
The guards met Kell at the mouth of the Naresh Kas, as planned.
Staff with his barrel chest and silvering temples and beard, and Hastra, young and cheerful, with a sun-warmed complexion and a crown of dark curls. At least he’s pretty, Rhy had said months ago, on seeing the new guards. The prince had been sulking because his own set, Tolners and Vis, had neither looks nor humor.
“Gentlemen,” said Kell as his coat settled around him in the alley. The guards looked cold, and he wondered how long they’d been waiting for him.
“I would have brought you a hot drink, but …” He held up his empty hands as if to say, rules.
“S’okay, Master Kell,” said Hastra through clenched teeth, missing the jab. Staff, on the other hand, said nothing.
They had the decency not to search him then and there, but rather turned and fell silently in step behind him as he set off in the direction of the palace. He could feel the eyes drifting toward their small procession, a
ny chance at blending in ruined by the presence of the royal guards flanking him in their gleaming armor and red cloaks.
Kell would have preferred subterfuge, the suspicion of being followed, to the actuality, but he straightened his shoulders and held his head high and tried to remind himself that he looked like a royal, even if he felt like prisoner.
He hadn’t even done anything wrong, not today, and saints knew he’d had the chance. Several chances.
At last they reached the palace steps, strewn even now with frost-dusted flowers.
“The king?” Kell asked as they strode through the entryway.
Staff led the way to a chamber where King Maxim stood near a blazing hearth, in conversation with several ostra. When he saw Kell, he dismissed them. Kell kept his head up, but none of the attendants met his gaze. When they were gone, the king nodded him forward.
Kell continued into middle of the room before spreading his arms for Staff and Hastra in a gesture that was as much challenge as invitation.
“Don’t be dramatic,” said Maxim.
The guards had the decency to look uncertain as they came forward.
“Rhy must be rubbing off on me, Your Majesty,” said Kell grimly as Staff helped him out of his coat, and Hastra patted down his shirt and trousers, and ran a hand around the lip of his boots. He didn’t have anything on his person, and they wouldn’t be able to find anything in his coat, not unless he wanted it to be found. He sometimes worried that the coat had a mind of its own. The only other person who’d ever managed to find what they wanted in its pockets was Lila. He’d never found out how she’d done that. Traitorous coat.
Staff withdrew the Grey London letter from one of the pockets, and delivered it to the king before handing the coat back to Kell.
“How was the king?” asked Maxim, taking the letter.
“Dead,” said Kell. That caught the man off guard. He recounted his visit, and the Prince Regent’s—now George IV’s—renewed interest in magic. He even mentioned that the new king had tried to bribe him, taking care to emphasize the fact that he’d declined the offer.
Maxim stroked his beard and looked troubled, but he said nothing, only waved a hand to show Kell that he was dismissed. He turned, feeling his mood darken, but as Staff and Hastra moved to follow, Maxim called them back.
“Leave him be,” he said, and Kell was grateful for that small kindness as he escaped to his rooms.
His relief didn’t last. When he reached the doors to his chamber, he found two more guards standing outside them. The men were Rhy’s.
“Saints, I swear you just keep multiplying,” he muttered.
“Sir?” said Tolners.
“Nothing,” grumbled Kell, pushing past them. There was only one reason Tolners and Vis would be stationed outside his door.
He found Rhy standing in the middle of his room, his back to Kell as he considered himself in a full-length mirror. From this angle, Kell couldn’t see Rhy’s face, and for a moment, a memory surged into his mind, of Rhy waiting for him to wake—only it hadn’t been Rhy, of course, but Astrid wearing his skin, and they were in Rhy’s chambers then, not his. But for an instant the details blurred and he found himself searching Rhy for any pendants or charms, searching his floor for blood, before the past crumbled back into memory.
“About time,” said Rhy, and Kell was secretly relieved when the voice that came from Rhy’s lips was undoubtedly his brother’s.
“What brings you to my room?” he asked, relief bleeding into annoyance.
“Adventure. Intrigue. Brotherly concern. Or,” continued the prince lazily, “perhaps I’m just giving your mirror something to look at besides your constant pout.”
Kell frowned, and Rhy smiled. “Ah, there it is! That famous scowl.”
“I don’t scowl,” grumbled Kell.
Rhy shot a conspiratorial look at his own reflection. Kell sighed and tossed his coat onto the nearest couch before heading for the alcove off his chamber.
“What are you doing?” Rhy called after.
“Hold on,” Kell called back, shutting the door between them. A single candle flickered to life, and by its light he saw the symbols drawn on the wood. There, amid the other marks and fresh with blood, was the doorway to Disan. The way to Windsor Castle. Kell reached out and rubbed at the mark until it was obscured, and then gone.
When Kell returned, Rhy was sitting in Kell’s favorite chair, which he’d dragged around so it was facing the room instead of the balcony doors. “What was that about?” he asked, head resting in his hand.
“That’s my chair,” said Kell flatly.
“Battered old thing,” said Rhy, knowing how fond Kell was of it. The prince had mischief in his pale gold eyes as he got to his feet.
“I’m still nursing a headache,” said Kell. “So if you’re here to force me on another outing—”
“That’s not why I’m here,” said Rhy, crossing to the sideboard. He started to pour himself a drink, and Kell was about to say something very unkind when he saw that it was simply tea.
He nodded at one of the sofas. “Sit down.”
Kell would have stood out of spite, but he was weary from the trip, and he sank onto the nearest sofa. Rhy finished fixing his tea and sat down opposite.
“Well?” prompted Kell.
“I thought Tieren was supposed to teach you patience,” chided Rhy. He set the tea on the table and drew a wooden box from underneath. “I wanted to apologize.”
“For what?” asked Kell. “The lying? The drinking? The fighting? The relentless—” But something in Rhy’s expression made him stop.
The prince raked the black curls from his face, and Kell realized that he looked older. Not old—Rhy was only twenty, a year and a half younger than Kell—but the edges of his face had sharpened, and his bright eyes were less amazed, more intense. He’d grown up, and Kell couldn’t help but wonder if it was all natural, the simple, inevitable progression of time, or if the last dregs of his youth had been stripped away by what had happened.
“Look,” said the prince, “I know things have been hard. Harder these past months than ever. And I know I’ve only made it worse.”
“Rhy—”
The prince held up his hand to silence him. “I’ve been difficult.”
“So have I,” admitted Kell.
“You really have.”
Kell found himself chuckling, but shook his head. “One life is a hard thing to keep hold of, Rhy. Two is …”
“We’ll find our stride,” insisted the prince. And then he shrugged. “Or you’ll get us both killed.”
“How can you say that with such levity?” snapped Kell, straightening.
“Kell.” Rhy sat forward, elbows on his knees. “I was dead.”
The words hung in the air between them.
“I was dead,” he said again, “and you brought me back. You have already given me something I shouldn’t have.” A shadow flashed across his face when he said it, there and then gone. “If it were lost again,” he went on, “I would still have lived twice. This is all borrowed.”
“No,” said Kell sternly, “it is bought and paid for.”
“For how long?” countered Rhy. “You cannot measure out what you have purchased. I am grateful for the life you’ve bought me, though I hate the cost. But what do you plan to do, Kell? Live forever? I don’t want that.”
Kell frowned. “You would rather die?”
Rhy looked tired. “Death comes for us all, Brother. You cannot hide from it forever. We will die one day, you and I.”
“And that doesn’t frighten you?”
Rhy shrugged. “Not nearly as much as the idea of wasting a perfectly good life in fear of it. And to that end …” He nudged the box toward Kell.
“What is it?”
“A peace offering. A present. Happy birthday.”
Kell frowned. “My birthday’s not for another month.”
Rhy took up his tea. “Don’t be ungrateful. Just take it.”
> Kell drew the box onto his knees and lifted the lid. Inside, a face stared up at him.
It was a helmet, made of a single piece of metal that curved from the chin over the top of the head and down to the base of the skull. A break formed the mouth, an arch the nose, and a browlike visor hid the wearer’s eyes. Aside from this subtle shaping, the mask’s only markings were a pair of decorative wings, one above each ear.
“Am I going into battle?” asked Kell, confused.
“Of a sort,” said Rhy. “It’s your mask, for the tournament.”
Kell nearly dropped the helmet. “The Essen Tasch? Have you lost your mind?”
Rhy shrugged. “I don’t think so. Not unless you’ve lost yours …” He paused. “Do you think it works that way? I mean, I suppose it—”
“I’m an Antari!” Kell cut in, struggling to keep his voice down. “I’m the adopted son of the Maresh crown, the strongest magician in the Arnesian empire, possibly in the world—”
“Careful, Kell, your ego is showing.”
“—and you want me to compete in an inter-empire tournament.”
“Obviously the great and powerful Kell can’t compete,” said Rhy. “That would be like rigging the game. It could start a war.”
“Exactly.”
“Which is why you’ll be in disguise.”
Kell groaned, shaking his head. “This is insane, Rhy. And even if you were crazy enough to think it could work, Tieren would never allow it.”
“Oh, he didn’t. Not at first. He fought me tooth and nail. Called it madness. Called us fools—”
“It wasn’t even my idea!”
“—but in the end he understood that approving of something and allowing it are not always the same thing.”
Kell’s eyes narrowed. “Why would Tieren change his mind?”
Rhy swallowed. “Because I told him the truth.”
“And what’s that?”
“That you needed it.”
“Rhy—”
“That we needed it.” He grimaced a little when he said it.
Kell hesitated, meeting his brother’s gaze. “What do you mean?”
