by V. E. Schwab
Rhy shoved himself up from the chair. “You’re not the only one who wants to crawl out of their skin, Kell,” he said, pacing. “I see the way this confinement is wearing on you.” He tapped his chest. “I feel it. You spend hours training in the Basin with no one to fight, and you have not been at peace a single day since Holland, since the Danes, since the Black Night. And if you want the honest truth, unless you find some release”—Rhy stopped pacing—“I’ll end up strangling you myself.”
Kell winced, and looked down at the mask in his lap. He ran his fingers over the smooth silver. It was simple and elegant, the silver polished to such a shine that it was nearly a mirror. His reflection stared back at him, distorted. It was madness, and it frightened him, how badly he wanted to agree to it. But he couldn’t.
He set the mask on the sofa. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Not if we’re careful,” insisted his brother.
“We’re tethered to each other, Rhy. My pain becomes your pain.”
“I’m well aware of our condition.”
“Then you know I can’t. I won’t.”
“I am not only your brother,” said Rhy. “I am your prince. And I command it. You will compete in the Essen Tasch. You will burn off some of this fire before it spreads.”
“And what about our bond? If I get hurt—”
“Then I will share your pain,” said Rhy levelly.
“You say that now, but—”
“Kell. My greatest fear in life isn’t dying. It’s being the source of someone else’s suffering. I know you feel trapped. I know I’m your cage. And I can’t—” His voice broke, and Kell could feel his brother’s pain, everything he tried to smother until dark and drown until morning. “You will do this,” said Rhy. “For me. For both of us.”
Kell held his brother’s gaze. “All right,” he said.
Rhy’s features faltered, and then he broke into a smile. Unlike the rest of his face, his grin was as boyish as ever. “You will?”
Kell felt a thrill go through him as he took up the mask again. “I will. But if I’m not competing as myself,” he said, “then who will I be?”
Rhy reached into the box and withdrew from among the wrappings a scroll of paper Kell hadn’t noticed. He held it out, and when Kell unfurled it he saw the Arnesian roster. Twelve names. The men and women representing their empire.
There was Kisimyr, of course, as well as Alucard (a thrill ran through Kell at the thought of having an excuse to fight him). He skimmed past them, searching.
“I picked out your name myself,” said Rhy. “You’ll be competing as—”
“Kamerov Loste,” answered Kell, reading the seventh name aloud.
Of course.
K. L.
The letters carved into the knife he wore on his forearm. The only things that had come with him from his previous life, whatever it was. Those letters had become his name—KL, Ka-El, Kell—but how many nights had he spent wondering what they stood for? How many nights had he dreamed up names for himself?
“Oh, come on,” chided Rhy, misreading Kell’s tension for annoyance. “It’s a good name! Rather princely, if I do say so.”
“It’ll do,” said Kell, fighting back a smile as he set the scroll aside.
“Well,” said Rhy, taking up the helmet and holding it out to Kell. “Try it on.”
Kell hesitated. The prince’s voice was light, the invitation casual, but there was more to the gesture, and they both knew it. If Kell put on the mask, this would cease to be a stupid, harmless idea and become something more. Something real. He reached out and took the helmet.
“I hope it fits,” said Rhy. “You’ve always had a big head.”
Kell slipped the helmet on, standing as he did. The inside was soft, the fit made snug by the padding. The visor cut all the way from ear to ear, so his vision and hearing were both clear.
“How do I look?” he asked, his voice muffled slightly by the metal.
“See for yourself,” said Rhy, nodding at the mirror. Kell turned toward the glass. It was eerie, the polished metal creating an almost tunneling reflection, and the cut of the visor hid his gaze so that even though he could see fine, no one would be able to see that one of his eyes was blue and the other black.
“I’m going to stand out,” he said.
“It’s the Essen Tasch,” said Rhy. “Everyone stands out.”
And while it was true that everyone wore masks and it was part of the drama, the tradition, this wasn’t just a mask. “Most competitors don’t dress as though they’re going to war.”
Rhy crossed his arms and gave him an appraising look. “Yes, well, most competitors don’t truly need to maintain their anonymity, but your features are … unique.”
“Are you calling me ugly?”
Rhy snorted. “We both know you’re the prettiest boy at the ball.”
Kell couldn’t stop cheating glances in the mirror. The silver helmet hovered over his simple black clothes, but something was missing….
His coat was still draped on the back of the couch. He took it up and shook it slightly as he turned it inside out, and as he did, his usual black jacket with silver buttons became something else. Something new.
“I’ve never seen that one before,” said Rhy. Neither had Kell, not until a few days earlier, when he’d gotten bored and decided to see what other sides the coat had tucked away (now and then, unused outfits seemed to disappear, new ones turning up in their place).
Kell had wondered at the sudden appearance of this one, so unlike the others, but now, as he shrugged it on, he realized that was because this coat didn’t belong to him.
It belonged to Kamerov.
The coat was knee-length and silver, trimmed in a patterned border of black and lined with bloodred silk. The sleeves were narrow and the bottom flared, the collar high enough to reach the base of his skull.
Kell slipped the coat on, fastening the clasps, which cut an asymmetrical line from shoulder to hip. Rhy had gone rooting around in Kell’s closet, and now he reemerged with a silver walking stick. He tossed it, and Kell plucked it out of the air, his fingers curled around the black lion’s head that shaped the handle.
And then he turned back to his reflection.
“Well, Master Loste,” said Rhy, stepping back, “you do look splendid.”
Kell didn’t recognize the man in the mirror, and not simply because the mask hid his face. No, it was his posture, too, shoulders straight and head up, his gaze level behind the visor.
Kamerov Loste was an impressive figure.
A breeze wove gently around him, ruffling his coat. Kell smiled.
“About that,” said Rhy, referring to the swirling air. “For obvious reasons, Kamerov can’t be an Antari. I suggest you pick an element and stick with it. Two if you must—I’ve heard there are quite a few duals this year—but triads are rare enough to draw attention….”
“Mmhmm,” said Kell, adjusting his pose.
“While I’m sympathetic to your sudden bout of narcissism,” said Rhy, “this is important, Kell. When you’re wearing that mask, you cannot be the most powerful magician in Ames.”
“I understand.” Kell tugged the helmet back off and struggled to smooth his hair. “Rhy,” he said, “are you certain …?” His heart was racing. He wanted this. He shouldn’t want this. It was a terrible idea. But he wanted it all the same. Kell’s blood sang at the idea of a fight. A good fight.
Rhy nodded.
“All right, then.”
“So you’ve come to your senses?”
Kell shook his head, dazed. “Or lost my mind.” But he was smiling now, so hard he felt his face might crack.
He turned the helmet over and over in his hands.
And then, as suddenly as his spirits had soared, they sank.
“Sanct,” he cursed, sagging back onto the couch. “What about my guards?”
“Silver and Gold?” asked Rhy, his pet names for the men. “What about them?”
; “I can’t exactly ditch Staff and Hastra for the entire length of the tournament. Nor can I conveniently misplace them for each and every bout.”
“I’m sorry, I thought you were a master magician.”
Kell threw up his hands. “It has nothing to do with my skill, Rhy. There’s suspicious, and then there’s obvious.”
“Well, then,” said the prince, “we’ll just have to tell them.”
“And they’ll tell the king. And do you want to guess what the king will do? Because I’m willing to bet he won’t risk the stability of the kingdom so I can let off some steam.”
Rhy pinched the bridge of his nose. Kell frowned. That gesture, it didn’t suit the prince; it was something he would do, had done a hundred times.
“Leave it to me,” he said. He crossed to Kell’s doors and swung them open, leaning against the frame. Kell hoped the guards had truly stayed behind when he left King Maxim, but they must have only granted him a berth, because Rhy called them in, closing the door before his own guards could follow.
Kell rose to his feet, unsure what his brother meant to do.
“Staff,” said Rhy, addressing the man with silver temples. “When my father assigned you to shadow Kell, what did he say?”
Staff looked from Kell to Rhy, as if it were a trap, a trick question. “Well … he said we were to watch, and to keep him from harm, and to report to His Majesty if we saw Master Kell doing anything … suspicious.”
Kell scowled, but Rhy flashed an encouraging smile. “Is that so, Hastra?”
The guard with dark gold hair bowed his head. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“But if you were informed about something in advance, then it wouldn’t be suspicious, would it?”
Hastra looked up. “Um … no, Your Highness?”
“Rhy,” protested Kell, but the prince held his hand up.
“You both swore your lives to this family, this crown, and this empire. Does your oath hold?”
Both men bowed their heads and brought their hands to their chests. “Of course, Your Highness,” they said, almost in unison. What on earth is Rhy getting at? wondered Kell.
And then, the prince’s countenance changed. The easiness fell away, as did his cheerful smile. His posture straightened and his jaw clenched, and in that moment he looked less like a prince than a future king. He looked like Maxim.
“Then understand this,” he said, his voice now low and stern. “What I’m about to tell you regards the safety and security of not only our family, but of the Arnesian empire.”
The men’s eyes went wide with concern. Kell’s narrowed.
“We believe there is a threat in the tournament.” Rhy shot Kell a knowing look, though Kell honestly had no idea where he was going with this. “In order to determine the nature of this threat, Kell will be competing in the Essen Tasch, disguised as an ordinary entrant, Kamerov Loste.”
The guards frowned, cheating looks toward Kell, who managed a stiff nod. “The secrecy of my identity,” he cut in, “is paramount. If either Faro or Vesk discovers my involvement, they’ll assume we’ve rigged the game.”
“My father already knows of Kell’s inclusion,” added Rhy. “He has his own matters to attend to. If you see anything during the tournament, you will tell Kell himself, or me.”
“But how are we supposed to guard him?” asked Staff. “If he’s pretending to be someone else?”
Rhy didn’t miss a beat. “One of you will pose as his second—every competitor needs an attendant—and the other will continue to guard him from a safe distance.”
“I’ve always wanted to be in a plot,” whispered Hastra. And then, raising his voice, “Your Highness, could I be the one in disguise?” His eagerness was a barely contained thing.
Rhy looked to Kell, who nodded. Hastra beamed, and Rhy brought his hands together in a soft, decisive clap. “So it’s settled. As long as Kell is Kell, you will guard him with your usual attentiveness. But when dealing with Kamerov, the illusion must be flawless, the secret held.”
The two guards nodded solemnly and were dismissed. Saints, thought Kell as the doors swung shut. He’s actually done it.
“There,” said Rhy, slouching onto the couch. “That wasn’t so hard.”
Kell looked at his brother with a mixture of surprise and awe. “You know,” he said, taking up the mask, “if you can rule half as well as you can lie, you’re going to make an incredible king.”
Rhy’s smile was a dazzling thing. “Thank you.”
IV
SASENROCHE
It was late by the time Lila made her way back to the Night Spire. Sasenroche had quieted, and it had started to sleet, an icy mix that turned to slush on the deck and had to be swept away before it froze solid.
Back in her London—old London—Lila had always hated winter.
Longer nights meant more hours in which to steal, but the people who ventured out usually didn’t have a choice, which made them poor marks. Worse than that, in winter, everything was damp and grey and bitter cold.
So many nights in her past life, she had gone to bed shivering. Nights she couldn’t afford wood or coal, so she’d put on every piece of clothing she owned and huddled down and froze. Heat cost money, but so did food and shelter and every other blasted thing you needed to survive, and sometimes you had to choose.
But here, if Lila practiced, she could summon fire with her fingertips, could keep it burning on nothing but magic and will. She was determined to master it, not just because fire was useful or dangerous, but because it was warm, and no matter what happened, Lila Bard never wanted to be cold again.
That was why Lila favored fire.
She blew out a puff of air. Most of the men stayed behind to enjoy the night on land, but Lila preferred her room on the ship, and she wanted to be alone so she could think.
London. Her pulse lifted at the thought. It had been four months since she first boarded the Night Spire. Four months since she said good-bye to a city she didn’t even know, its name the only tether to her old life. She’d planned to go back, of course. Eventually. What would Kell say, when he saw her? Not that that was her first thought. It wasn’t. It was sixth, or maybe seventh, somewhere below all the ones about Alucard and the Essen Tasch. But it was still there, swimming in her head.
Lila sighed, her breath clouding as she leaned her elbows on the ship’s slush-covered rail and looked down at the tide as it sloshed up against the hull. Lila favored fire, but it wasn’t her only trick.
Her focus narrowed on the water below, and as it did, she tried to push the current back, away. The nearest wave stuttered, but the rest kept coming. Lila’s head had begun to hurt, pounding in time with the waves, but she gripped the splintered rail, determined. She imagined she could feel the water—not only the shudder traveling up the boat, but the energy coursing through it. Wasn’t magic supposed to be the thing in all things? If that was true, then it wasn’t about moving the water, it was about moving the magic.
She thought of “The Tyger,” the poem she used to focus her mind, with its strong and steady beat … but it was a song for fire. No, she wanted something else. Something that flowed.
“Sweet dreams,” she murmured, summoning a line from another Blake poem, trying to get the feeling right. “Of pleasant streams …” She said the line over and over again until the water filled her vision, until the sound of the sloshing waves was all she could hear, and the beat of them matched the beat of her pulse and she could feel the current in her veins, and the water up and down the dock began to still, and …
A dark drop hit the rail between her hands.
Lila lifted her fingers to her nose; they came away stained with blood.
Someone tsked, and Lila’s head snapped up. How long had Alucard been standing at her back?
“Please tell me you didn’t just try to exert your will on the ocean,” he said, offering her a kerchief.
“I almost did it,” she insisted, holding the cloth to her face. It smelled like
him. His magic, a strange mixture of sea air and honey, silver and spice.
“Not that I doubt your potential, Bard, but that’s not possible.”
“Maybe not for you,” she jabbed, even though in truth she was still unnerved by what she’d seen him do back in the tavern.
“Not for anyone,” said Alucard, slipping into his teacher’s voice. “I’ve told you: when you control an element, your will has to be able to encompass it. It has to be able to reach, to surround. That’s how you shape an element, and that’s how you command it. No one can stretch their mind around an ocean. Not without tearing. Next time, aim sma—”
He cut off as a clod of icy slush struck the shoulder of his coat. “Agh!” he said, as bits slipped down his collar. “I know where you sleep, Bard.”
She smirked. “Then you know I sleep with knives.”
His smile faltered. “Still?”
She shrugged and turned back to the water. “The way they treat me—”
“I’ve made my orders very clear,” he said, obviously assuming she’d been misused. But that wasn’t it.
“—like I’m one of them,” she finished.
Alucard blinked, confused. “Why shouldn’t they? You’re part of the crew.”
Lila cringed. Crew. The very word referred to more than one. But belonging meant caring, and caring was a dangerous thing. At best, it complicated everything. At worst, it got people killed. People like Barron.
“Would you rather they try to knife you in the dark?” asked the captain. “Toss you overboard and pretend it was an accident?”
“Of course not,” said Lila. But at least then she’d know how to react. Fights she recognized. Friendship? She didn’t know what to do with that. “They’re probably too scared to try it.”
“Some of them may fear you, but all of them respect you. And don’t let on,” he added, nudging her shoulder with his, “but a few may even like you.”
Lila groaned, and Alucard chuckled.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m Delilah Bard,” she said calmly. “The best thief aboard the Night Spire.”
Normally Alucard left it at that, but not tonight. “But who was Delilah Bard before she came aboard my ship?”
