by V. E. Schwab
He set off again through the market, with Hastra a few strides behind.
The crowds grew thicker as Kell walked, swirling around him like a tide. Faroans with their bright, intricately folded fabrics and jeweled skin. Veskans adorned by silver and gold bands, tall and made taller by their manes of hair. And of course, Arnesians, in their rich cowls and cloaks.
And then, some Kell couldn’t place. A few fair enough to be Veskans, but in Arnesian clothes. A dark-skinned figure with a coil of Veskan braids.
The nightmare floated to the surface of his mind—so many strange faces, so many almost familiar ones—but he forced it down. A stranger brushed his arm as they crossed paths, and Kell found his hands going into his pockets to check for missing things, even though there was nothing there to steal.
So many people, he thought. Lila would pick every pocket here.
Just as he thought it, he caught sight of a shadow amid the color and light.
A thin figure.
A black coat.
A sharp smile.
Kell caught his breath, but by the time he blinked, the shadow was gone. Just another phantom made by the crowd. A trick of the eye.
Still, the glimpse, even false, made him feel unsteady, and his pace slowed enough to interrupt the foot traffic around him.
Hastra was there again at his side. “Are you all right, sir?”
Kell waved off his concern. “I’m fine,” he said. “But we’d better head back.”
He set off toward the palace end of the market, stopping only when he reached Calla’s stall. “Wait here,” he told Hastra before ducking inside.
Calla’s shop was always changing, it seemed, to suit the city’s festive needs. His gaze wandered over the various winter accessories that now lined the walls and covered the tables.
“Avan!” called the merchant as she appeared from a curtained area near the back of the tent, holding a piece of black leather in one hand. Calla was short and round, with the shrewd eye of a businesswoman and the warmth of a wood fire. Her face lit up when she saw him. “Master Kell!” she said, folding herself into deep curtsy.
“Come now, Calla,” he said, guiding her up, “there’s no need for that.”
Her eyes danced with even more mischief than usual. “What brings you to my shop tonight, mas vares?”
She said the words—my prince—with such kindness that he didn’t bother correcting her. Instead he fidgeted with a box on the table, a pretty inlaid thing. “Oh, I found myself in the market, and thought I would come and see that you are well.”
“You do me too much honor,” she said, smile widening. “And if you were coming to see about that debt,” she went on, eyes bright, “you should know that it has recently been paid.”
Kell’s chest tightened. “What? When?”
“Indeed,” continued Calla. “Only a few minutes ago.”
Kell didn’t even say good-bye.
He lunged out of the tent and into the churning market, scanning the currents of people streaming past.
“Sir,” asked Hastra, clearly worried. “What’s wrong?”
Kell didn’t answer. He turned in a slow circle, scouring the crowd for the thin shadow, the black coat, the sharp smile.
She’d been real. She’d been here. And of course, she was already gone.
Kell knew he was beginning to draw attention, even with the cover of the masses. A few Arnesians started to whisper. He could feel their gazes.
“Let’s go,” he said, forcing himself back toward the palace. But as he walked, heart pounding, he replayed the moment in his mind, the glimpse of a ghost.
But it hadn’t been a ghost. Or a trick of the eye.
Delilah Bard was back in London.
I
WHITE LONDON
Holland knew the stories by heart.
He’d grown up with them—stories of a bad king, a mad king, a curse; of a good king, a strong king, a savior. Stories of why the magic went away, and who would bring it back. And every time a new ruler the throne with blood and the dregs of power in their veins, the people would say now. Now the magic will come back. Now the world will wake. Now it will get better, now we will get stronger.
The stories ran in the veins of every Londoner. Even when the people grew thin and pale, even when they began to rot inside and out, even when they had no food, no strength, no power, the stories survived. And when Holland was young, he believed them, too. Even believed, when his eye went black, that he might be the hero. The good king. The strong king. The savior.
But on his knees before Athos Dane, Holland had seen the stories for what they were: desperate tales for starving souls.
And yet.
And yet.
Now he stood in the square at the heart of the city, with his name on every tongue and a god’s power running in his veins. Everywhere he stepped, the frost withdrew. Everything he touched regained its color. All around him, the city was thawing (the day the Siljt unfroze, the people went mad. Holland had led uprisings, had witnessed riots, but never in his life had he seen celebration). Of course, there was tension. The people had starved too long, survived only on violence and greed. He couldn’t blame them. But they would learn. Would see. Hope, faith, change: these were fragile things, and they had to be tended.
“Køt!” they called out—King—while the voice in his head, that constant companion, hummed with pleasure.
The day was bright, the air alive, and the people crowded to see Holland’s latest feat, held at bay by the Iron Guard. Ojka stood beside him, her hair on fire in the sun, a knife in hand.
King! King! King!
It was called the Blood Square, where they stood. An execution site, the stones beneath his boots stained black and streaked where desperate fingers had scrounged at the spilled life in case it held a taste of magic. Eight years ago, the Danes had dragged him from a fast death here, and granted him a slow one.
The Blood Square.
It was time to give the name another meaning.
Holland held out his hands, and Ojka brought the blade to rest against his palms. The crowd quieted in anticipation.
“My king?” said Ojka, her yellow eye asking for permission. So many times the hand had been his, but not the will. This time the hand was his servant’s, the will his own.
Holland nodded, and the blade bit down. Blood welled and spilled to the ruined stones, and where it struck, it broke the surface of the world, like a stone cast in a pool. The ground rippled, and behind his eyes Holland saw the square reborn. Clean, and whole. As the ripples spread, they swallowed the stains, mended the cracks, turned the broken pavers to polished marble, the abandoned basin of a well to a fountain, the fallen columns to vaulting archways.
We can do more, said the god in his head.
And before Holland could sort the oshoc’s thoughts from his own, the magic was spreading.
The archways of the Blood Square rippled and reformed, melting from stone into water before hardening to glass. Beyond them, the streets shuddered, and the ground beneath the crowd’s feet dissolved from rock into rich, dark soil. The people fell to their knees, sinking to the loamy earth and digging their fingers in up to the wrists.
Enough, Osaron, thought Holland. He closed his bloody hands, but the ripples went on, the shells of ruined buildings collapsing into sand, the fountain overflowing not with water but with amber-colored wine.
The pillars morphed into apple trees, their trunks still marbled stone, and Holland’s chest began to ache, his heart pounding as the magic poured like blood from his veins, each beat forcing more power into the world.
Enough!
The ripples died.
The world fell still.
The magic tapered off, the square a shimmering monstrosity of elements, the edges a wavering shore. The people were caked with earth, and wet from the fountain’s rain, their faces bright, their eyes wide—not with hunger, but with awe.
“King! King! King!” they all called, while in his
head, Osaron’s own word echoed.
More. More. More.
II
RED LONDON
Back at the Wandering Road, the crowd had thinned, but the wolfhound was still sprawled in the exact same position by fire. Lila couldn’t help but wonder if it was alive. She crossed to the hearth, and knelt slowly, hand hovering over the creature’s chest.
“I already checked,” said a voice behind her. Lila looked up to see Lenos fidgeting nervously. “He’s okay.”
Lila straightened. “Where is everybody?”
Lenos cocked his head toward a corner table. “Stross and Tav have got a game going.”
The men were playing Sanct, and from what she could tell, they hadn’t been playing long, because neither looked that angry and both still had all their weapons and most of their clothes. Lila wasn’t a fan of the game, mostly because after four months of watching the sailors win and lose, she felt no closer to understanding the rules well enough to play, let alone cheat.
“Vasry went out,” Lenos continued as Lila ambled toward the table. “Kobis went to bed.”
“And Alucard?” she asked, trying to keep her tone flat with disinterest. She took up Stross’s drink and downed it, ignoring the first mate’s muttered protests.
Stross threw down a card with a hooded figure holding two chalices. “Too late,” he said to her, keeping his eyes on the table and the cards. “Captain said he was retiring.”
“Awfully early,” mused Lila.
Tav chuckled and mumbled something, but she couldn’t decipher it. He was from somewhere at the edge of the empire, and the more he drank, the less intelligible his accent became. And since Lila’s default when she didn’t understand something was to keep her mouth shut, she simply walked away. After a few steps she stopped and turned back to Lenos, drawing the palm fire from her coat. The light was already fading, and she hadn’t thought to ask if there was a way to restore it, or if it was a one-time-use kind of charm, which seemed wasteful.
“Here,” she said, tossing Lenos the orb.
“What’s this for?” he asked, surprised.
“Keeps the shadows at bay,” she said, heading for the stairs. Lenos stood there, staring down at the orb, perplexed by either the sphere itself or the fact that the Sarows had just given him a gift.
Why had she given it to him?
Getting soft, grumbled a voice in her head. Not Kell’s, or Barron’s. No, this voice was all hers.
As Lila climbed the stairs, she produced a narrow bottle of wine she’d nicked, not from the inn or the market—she knew better than to steal from warded tents—but from Alucard’s own stash aboard the Spire.
The captain’s room sat across from hers, the doors facing like duelers. Which seemed fitting. But when she reached the doors, she paused between them, presented with the question of which she’d come for, and which she planned to open.
Lila hovered there in the hall.
She wasn’t sure why she was drawn to his room more than hers. Perhaps because she was restless, being back in this city for the first time, a place at once strange and familiar. Perhaps because she wanted to slip back into the comfort of English. Perhaps because she wanted to learn more about the tournament, and Alucard’s participation. Or perhaps out of simple habit. This was how they spent most nights at sea, after all, a bottle of wine and a magical fire, each trying to pry secrets from the other without giving up any of their own. Had Lila become so accustomed to the dance that she actually missed it?
Hang this, she thought. What a waste of life, to stand around and think so much on every little thing. What did it matter why she wanted to see the captain? She simply did.
And so, casting motive aside, she reached out to knock, only to stop when she heard footsteps from within, coming briskly toward the door.
Her thief’s sense twitched, and her body moved before her mind, boots silently retreating one stride, then two, before sliding smoothly behind the corner of the hallway’s nearest bend. She had no reason to hide, but she’d been doing it so long, the gesture came naturally. Besides, hiding was simply seeing without being seen, and that gave her the upper hand. Nothing to be lost by it, and often something to be gained.
An instant later, the door swung open and Alucard Emery stepped into the hall.
The first thing she noticed was his silence. The captain of the Night Spire normally made a certain amount of noise. His jewelry jangled and his weapons clanked, his steel-heeled boots announced every step, and even when his attire was quiet, Alucard himself usually hummed. Lila had mentioned it once, and he simply said he’d never been a fan of quiet. She’d thought him incapable of it, but as he made his way down the hall, his steps marked only by the gentle creak of the floorboards, she realized that, before, he’d always meant to be loud.
Another aspect of the role he was playing, now cast aside, replaced by … what?
He was fully dressed, but not in his usual clothes. Alucard had always favored fine, flashy things, but now he looked less like a pirate captain and more like an elegant shadow. He’d traded the blue coat he’d worn ashore for a charcoal half cloak, a simple silver scarf at his throat. He wore no obvious weapons and the sapphire was gone from his brow, along with all the rings from his fingers save one, the thick silver band shaped like a feather. His brassy brown hair was combed back beneath a black cap, and Lila’s first thought was that, pared down, he looked younger, almost boyish.
But where was he going? And why was he going in disguise?
Lila trailed him down the stairs of the inn and out into the night, close enough to keep track and far enough away to avoid notice. She might have spent the last four months as a privateer, but she had spent years as a shadow. She knew how to blend into the dark, how to tail a mark, how to breathe and move with the current of the night instead of against it, and Alucard’s steps might have been light, but hers were silent.
She’d expected him to head for the market, overflowing with people, or the web of streets that traced lines of light away from the river. Instead he hugged its banks, following the red glow of the Isle and the main concourse past the palace to a bridge on the far side. It was made of pale stone and accented with copper: copper railings, and copper pillars, and sculpted copper canopies. The whole thing formed a kind of shining tunnel. Lila hesitated at its base—the entire length of the bridge beneath the canopies was well lit, the metal reflecting and magnifying the light, and though people were strewn along it, mostly in pairs and groups, collars turned up against the cold, few actually seemed to be making their way across to the opposite bank. Blending in would be nearly impossible.
A few merchants had set up stalls beneath the lanterns, haloed by mist and candlelight, and Lila hung back to see if Alucard was heading for one of those, but he made his way briskly across, eyes ahead, and Lila was forced to either follow or be left behind. She set off after him, fighting to keep her pace leisurely, ignoring the glittering stalls and the patterned metal ceiling, but not so pointedly as to give away her purpose. It was a wasted effort in the end—Alucard never once looked back.
Walking beneath the copper canopies, she saw that they were dappled to look like trees, starlight shining through the leaves, and Lila thought, once more, what a strange world she’d stumbled into, and how glad she was to be there.
Alucard crossed the entire length of the bridge and descended a grand set of stairs to the southern bank of the Isle. Lila had only been on this side once, when she and Kell took Rhy to the sanctuary, and she’d never given much thought to what else lined this other, darker half of the city. Shops and taverns, she would have guessed, perhaps a shadier version of the northern bank. She would have been wrong. This half of London was quiet by comparison; the sanctuary rose solemnly from a bend in the river, and beyond a boundary of bank-side shops and inns, the city gave way to gardens and orchards and, beyond these, to manor homes.
Lila’s old stomping grounds in Mayfair and Regent Park paled in comparison to this London’s
southern bank. Elegant carriages pulled by magnificent steeds dotted street after street of grand estates, high-walled and furnished with marble and glass and gleaming metal. The evening mist itself seemed to glitter with wealth.
Ahead, Alucard had quickened his pace, and Lila picked hers up to match. Far fewer people were on these streets, which made tailing him a good deal harder, but his attention was fixed on the road ahead. As far as Lila could tell, there was nothing to see here. No deals to do. No trouble to get into. Nothing but houses, half the windows dark.
Finally Alucard turned off the road, stepping through an intricate gate and into a courtyard lined with shrubbery and bordered by trees, their branches winter-bare.
When Lila caught up, she saw that the curling metalwork of the gate formed an ornate E. And then she looked inside, and caught her breath. The floor of the courtyard was a mosaic of glittering blue and silver stone. She hovered in the shadow of the gate as Alucard made his way up the walk, and watched as, halfway to the door, he paused to collect himself. He dragged his cap from his head and shoved it into the satchel on his shoulder, tousled his hair, flexed his hands, muttered something she couldn’t hear, and then picked up again, his stride calm and confident as he hopped up a short set of steps, then rang a bell.
A moment later, one of the two front doors swung open, and a steward appeared. On seeing Alucard, he bowed. “Lord Emery,” he said, stepping aside. “Welcome home.”
Lila stared in disbelief.
Alucard wasn’t visiting the master of the house.
He was the master of the house.
Before he could step inside, a girl appeared in the doorway, squealed with delight, and threw her arms around his neck.
“Luc!” she cried as he swung her into the air. The girl couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen, and she had his wavy brown curls and dark eyes.
“Anisa.” He broke into a smile Lila had never seen before, not on him. It wasn’t the proud grin of a captain or the mischievous smirk of a rake, but the absolute adoration of an older brother. She’d never had any siblings, so she didn’t understand the look, but she recognized the simple, blind love, and it twisted something in her.
