by V. E. Schwab
Cold. Gnawing and rending, and then gone.
And in its wake—nothing.
Ojka’s doubled over, fingers clamped uselessly around the metal collar as she let out an animal groan. The world looked wrong—pale and thin and empty—and she felt severed from it, from herself, from her king.
It was like losing a limb: none of the pain, but all of the wrongness, a vital piece of her cut away so fast she could feel the space where it had been, where it should be. And then she realized what it was. The loss of a sense. Like sight, or sound, or touch.
Magic.
She couldn’t feel its hum, couldn’t feel its strength. It had been everywhere, a constant presence from her bones to the air around her body, and it was suddenly, horribly … gone.
The veins on her hands were beginning to lighten, from black to pale blue, and in the reflection of the polished stone floor, she could see the dark emblem of the king’s mark retreating across her brow and cheek, withdrawing until it was nothing but a smudge in the center of her yellow eyes.
Ojka had always had a temper, quick to flame, her power surging with her mood. But now, as panic and fear tore through her, nothing rose to match it. She couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t drag herself from the shock and terror and fear. She was weak. Empty. Flesh and blood and nothing more. And it was terrible.
“Please,” she whispered to the throne room floor while Holland stood over her, watching. “Please, my king. I have always … been loyal. I will always … be loyal. Please …”
Holland knelt before her and took her chin in his gloved hand, guiding it gently up. She could see the magic swirling in his eyes, but she couldn’t feel it in his touch.
“Tell me,” he said. “What do you feel?”
The word escaped in a shudder. “I … I can’t … feel … anything.”
The king smiled grimly then.
“Please,” whispered Ojka, hating the word. “You chose me….”
The king’s thumb brushed her chin. “I chose you,” he said, his fingers slipping down her throat. “And I still do.”
An instant later, the collar was gone.
Ojka gasped, magic flooding back like air into starved veins. A welcome pain, bright and vivid and alive. She tipped her head against the cold stone.
“Thank you,” she whispered, watching the mark trace its way through her eye, across her brow and cheek. “Thank you.”
It took her several long seconds to get to her feet, but she forced herself up as Holland returned the horrible collar to its silver bowl, the gloves melting from his fingers into shadow around the metal.
“Your Majesty,” said Ojka, hating the quiver in her voice. “Who is the collar for?”
Holland brought his fingers to his heart, his expression unreadable.
“An old friend.”
If that is for a friend, she thought, what does Holland do to enemies?
“Go,” he said, returning to his throne. “Recover your strength. You’re going to need it.”
I
When Lila woke up the next day, it took her a moment to remember where she was, and, more importantly, why everything hurt.
She remembered retreating to Elsor’s room the night before, resisting the urge to collapse onto his bed still fully dressed. She’d somehow gotten back into her own clothes, her own room at the Wandering Road, though she didn’t remember much of the journey. It was now well into morning. Lila couldn’t recall the last time she’d slept so long, or so deeply. Wasn’t sleep supposed to make you feel rested? She only felt exhausted.
Her boot was trapped beneath something that turned out to be Alucard’s cat. Lila didn’t know how the creature had gotten into her room. She didn’t care. And the cat didn’t seem to care about her either. She barely moved when Lila dragged her foot free, and sat up.
Every part of her protested.
It wasn’t just the wear and tear of the match—she’d gotten in some bad fights before, but nothing felt like this. The only thing that even came close was the aftermath of the black stone. The talisman’s repercussions had been hollowing and sudden, where this was subtle but deep. Proof that magic wasn’t an inexhaustible resource.
Lila dragged herself off the cot, stifling a grunt of pain, grateful that the room was empty. She tugged off her clothes as gingerly as possible, wincing at the bruises that had started to blossom across her ribs. The thought of fighting again today made her cringe, and yet some part of her thrilled at the idea. Admittedly, it was a very small part of her.
Dangerous.
Reckless.
Foolish.
Mad.
The words were beginning to feel more like badges of pride than blows.
Downstairs, the main room was sparsely populated, but she spotted Alucard at a table along the wall. She crossed the room, boots scuffing until she reached him and sank into a chair.
He was looking over a paper, and he didn’t look up when she put her head down on the table with a soft thud.
“Not much of a morning person?”
She grumbled something unkind. He poured her a cup of rich black tea, spices weaving through the steam.
“Such a useless time of day,” she said, dragging herself upright and taking the cup. “Can’t sleep. Can’t steal.”
“There is more to life.”
“Like what?”
“Like eating. And drinking. And dancing. You missed quite a ball last night.”
She groaned at the thought. It was too early to imagine herself as Stasion Elsor performing in an arena, let alone in a palace. “Do they celebrate every night?”
“Believe it or not, some people actually come to the tournament just for the parties.”
“Doesn’t it get tiresome, all that …” She waved her hand, as if the whole thing could be summed up with a single gesture. In truth, Lila had only been to one ball in her entire life, and that night had started with a demon’s mask and a glorious new coat, and ended with both covered in a prince’s blood and the stony remains of a foreign queen.
Alucard shrugged, offering her some kind of pastry. “I can think of less pleasant ways to pass a night.”
She took the bread-thing and nibbled on the corner. “I keep forgetting you’re a part of that world.”
His look cooled. “I’m not.”
The breakfast was reviving; her vision started to focus, and as it did, her attention narrowed on the paper in his hands. It was a copy of the bracket, the eighteen victors now paired off into nine new sets. She’d been so tired, she hadn’t even checked.
“What does the field look like today?”
“Well, I have the luxury of going up against one of my oldest friends, not to mention the best wind magician I’ve ever met—”
“Jinnar?” asked Lila, suddenly interested. That would be quite a match.
Alucard nodded grimly, “And you’ve only got to face …” He trailed his finger across the page. “…Ver-as-Is.”
“What do you know about him?” she asked.
Alucard’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, have you mistaken me for a comrade? The last time I checked we were on opposite sides of the bracket.”
“Come on, Captain. If I die in this, you’ll have to find yourself a new thief.”
The words were out before she remembered she’d already lost her place aboard the Night Spire. She tried a second time. “My witty banter is one of a kind. You know you’ll miss it when I’m gone.” Again, it was the wrong thing to say, and a heavy silence settled in its wake. “Fine,” she said, exasperated. “Two more questions, two more answers, in exchange for whatever you know.”
Alucard’s lips quirked. He folded the roster and set it aside, lacing his fingers with exaggerated patience. “When did you first come to our London?”
“Four months ago,” she said. “I needed a change of scenery.” She meant to stop there, but the words kept coming. “I got pulled into something I didn’t expect, and once it started, I wanted to see it through. And th
en it was over, and I was here, and I had a chance to start fresh. Not every past is worth holding onto.”
That got a look of interest, and she expected him to continue down his line of inquiry, but instead he changed directions.
“What were you running from, the night you joined my crew?”
Lila frowned, her gaze escaping down to the cup of black tea. “Who said I was running?” she murmured. Alucard raised a brow, patient as a cat. She took a long, scalding sip, let it burn all the way down before she spoke. “Look, everyone talks about the unknown like it’s some big scary thing, but it’s the familiar that’s always bothered me. It’s heavy, builds up around you like rocks, until it’s walls and a ceiling and a cell.”
“Is that why you were so determined to take Stasion’s spot?” he asked icily. “Because my company had become a burden?”
Lila set her cup down. Swallowed the urge to apologize. “You had your two questions, Captain. It’s my turn.”
Alucard cleared his throat. “Very well. Ver-as-Is. Obviously Faroan, and not a nice fellow, from what I’ve heard. An earth mage with a temper. You two should get along splendidly. It’s the second round, so you’re allowed to use a second element, if you’re able.”
Lila rapped her fingers on the table. “Water.”
“Fire and water? That’s an unusual pairing. Most dual magicians pick adjacent elements. Fire and water are on opposite sides of the spectrum.”
“What can I say, I’ve always been contrary.” She winked her good eye. “And I had such a good teacher.”
“Flatterer,” he muttered.
“Arse.”
He touched his breast, as if offended. “You’re up this afternoon,” he said, pushing to his feet, “and I’m up soon.” He didn’t seem thrilled.
“Are you worried?” she asked. “About your match?”
Alucard took up his tea cup. “Jinnar’s the best at what he does. But he only does one thing.”
“And you’re a man of many talents.”
Alucard finished his drink and set the cup back on the table. “I’ve been told.” He shrugged on his coat. “See you on the other side.”
* * *
The stadium was packed.
Jinnar’s banner flew, sunset purple on a silver ground, Alucard’s silver on midnight blue.
Two Arnesians.
Two favorites.
Two friends.
Rhy was up on the royal platform, but Lila saw no sign of the king or queen, or Kell for that matter, though she spotted Alucard’s siblings on a balcony below. Berras scowled while Anisa clapped and cheered and waved her brother’s pennant.
The arena was a blur of motion and light, and the entire crowd held its breath as the two favorites danced around each other. Jinnar moved like air, Alucard like steel.
Lila fidgeted with the sliver of pale stone—turning the White London keepsake over in her fingers as she watched, trying to keep up with the competitors’ movements, read the lines of attack, predict what they would do, and understand how they did it.
It was a close match.
Jinnar was a thing of beauty when it came to wind, but Alucard was right; it was his only element. He could render it into a wall or a wave, use it to cut like a knife, and with its help he could practically fly. But Alucard held earth and water, and everything they made between them—blades as solid as metal, shields of stone and ice—and in the end, his two elements triumphed over Jinnar’s one, and Alucard won, breaking ten plates of armor to Jinnar’s seven.
The silver-eyed magician withdrew, a smile visible through the metal wisps of his mask, and Alucard tipped his scale-plated chin to the royal platform and offered a deep bow to the prince before disappearing into the corridor.
The audience started to file out, but Lila lingered. The walk to the arena had loosened her limbs, but she wasn’t keen on moving again, not before she had to, so she hung back, watching the crowds ebb and flow as some left for other matches, and others came. The blue and silver pennants disappeared, replaced by a flaming red cat on a golden ground—that was Kisimyr’s banner—and a pair of lions on red.
Kamerov.
Lila pocketed the shard of white stone and settled in. This should be interesting.
She had Kisimyr pinned as a fireworker, but the Arnesian champion came out—prowled, really, that mane of black hair spilling out in ropes below her feline mask—holding spheres of water and earth.
To the crowd’s delight, Kamerov appeared with the same.
An equal match, then, at least as far the elements went. It wasn’t even Lila’s fight—thank god it wasn’t her fight—but she felt her pulse tick up in excitement.
The orbs fell, and the match crashed into motion.
They were well paired—it took almost five full minutes for Kisimyr to land the first hit, a glancing blow to Kamerov’s thigh. It took another eight for Kamerov to land the second.
Lila’s eyes narrowed as she watched, picking up on something even before she knew what it was.
Kisimyr moved in a way that was elegant, but almost animal. But Kamerov … there was something familiar about the fluid way he fought. It was graceful, almost effortless, the flourishes tacked on in a way that looked unnecessary. Before the tournament, she’d truly only seen a handful of fights using magic. But it was like déjà vu, watching him down there on the arena floor.
Lila rapped her fingers on the rail and leaned forward.
Why did he seem so familiar?
* * *
Kell ducked, and rolled, and dodged, trying to pace his speed to Kisimyr’s, which was hard because she was fast. Faster than his first opponent, and stronger than anyone he’d fought, save Holland. The champion matched him measure for measure, point for point. That first blow had been a mistake, clumsy, clumsy—but saints, he felt good. Alive.
Behind Kisimyr’s mask, Kell caught the hint of a smile, and behind his own, he grinned back.
Earth hovered in a disk above his right hand, water swirling around his left. He twisted out from behind the shelter of a pillar, but she was already gone. Behind him. Kell spun, throwing the disk. Too slow. The two collided, attacked, and dove apart, as if they were fighting with swords instead of water and earth. Thrust. Parry. Strike.
A spear of hardened earth passed inches from Kell’s armored cheek as he rolled, came up onto one knee, and attacked with both elements at the same time.
Both connected, blinding them in light.
The crowd went wild, but Kisimyr didn’t even hesitate.
Her water, tinted red, had been orbiting her in a loop. Kell’s attack had brought him close, into her sphere, and now she pushed hard against part of the circle, and it shot forward without breaking the ring, freezing as it did into an icy spike.
Kell jumped back, but not fast enough; the ice slammed into his shoulder, shattering the plate and piercing the flesh beneath.
The crowd gasped.
Kell hissed in pain and pressed his palm against the wound. When he drew his hand away from his shoulder, blood stained his fingers, jewel-red. Magic whispered through him—As Travars. As Orense. As Osaro. As Hasari. As Steno. As Staro—and his lips nearly formed a spell, but he caught himself just in time, wiped the blood on his sleeve instead, and attacked again.
* * *
Lila’s eyes widened.
The rest of the crowd was fixated on Kamerov, but she happened to look up right after the blow and saw Prince Rhy in the royal box, his face contorted in pain. He hid it quickly, wiped the tension from his features, but his knuckles gripped the banister, head bowed, and Lila saw, and understood. She’d been there that night, when the princes were bound together, blood to blood, pain to pain, life to life.
Her attention snapped back to the arena.
It was suddenly obvious. The height, the posture, the fluid motions, the impossible grace.
She broke in a savage grin.
Kell.
It was him. It had to be. She had met Kamerov Loste at the Bann
er Night, had marked his grey eyes, his foxlike smile. But she’d also marked his height, the way he moved, and there was no question, no doubt in her mind—the man in the arena wasn’t the one who’d wished her luck in the Rose Hall. It was the man she’d fought beside in three different Londons. The one she’d stolen from and threatened and saved. It was Kell.
“What are you smiling about?” asked Tieren, appearing at her side.
“Just enjoying the match,” she said.
The Aven Essen made a small, skeptical hum.
“Tell me,” she added, keeping her eyes on the fight. “Did you at least try to dissuade him from this madness? Or do you simply plan to feign ignorance with him, too?”
There was a pause, and when Tieren answered, his voice was even. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t, Aven Essen.” She turned toward him. “I bet if Kamerov down there were to take off his helmet, he’d look like the man he was on the Banner Night, and not a certain black-eyed—”
“This kind of talk makes me wish I’d turned you in,” said the priest, cutting her off. “Rumors are dangerous things, Stasion, especially when they stem from someone guilty of her own crimes. So I’ll ask you again,” he said. “What are you smiling about?”
Lila held his eyes, her features set.
“Nothing,” she said, turning back to the match. “Nothing at all.”
II
In the end, Kamerov won.
Kell won.
It had been a staggeringly close match between the reigning champion and the so-called silver knight. The crowd looked dizzy from holding its breath, the arena a mess of broken stone and black ice, half the obstacles cracked or chipped or in ruins.
The way he’d moved. The way he’d fought. Even in their short time together, Lila had never seen him fight like that. A single point—he’d won by a single point, unseated the champion, and all she could think was, He’s holding back.
Even now he’s holding back.
“Stasion! Stasion!”
Lila dragged her thoughts away from Kell; she had her own, more pressing concerns.
