Gathering of Shadows (A Darker Shade of Magic)

by V. E. Schwab

  The crowd gasped, and the voice in the gold ring announced the damage.

  Four plates.

  “Get up,” growled Kell as he watched her stagger to her feet, one hand gripping her ribs. She took a step and nearly fell, obviously shaken, but Rul was still on the attack. The massive disk flew back into his hand, and in a single fluid move he spun and launched it again, adding momentum to the force of magic.

  Lila must have seen the attack, noticed the stone careening toward her, yet to Kell’s horror, she didn’t dodge. Instead she dropped both daggers and threw her hands up instead of her forearms to block the blow.

  It was madness.

  It wouldn’t work—couldn’t work—and yet, somehow the rock shield slowed.

  Shock went through the crowd as they realized Stasion Elsor wasn’t a dual magician after all. He had to be a triad.

  The shield dragged through the air, as if fighting a current, and came to a stop inches from Lila’s outstretched hands. It hovered there, suspended.

  But Kell knew it wasn’t simply hanging.

  Lila was pushing against it. Trying to overpower Rul’s element the way she had with his. But he’d let her then, he’d stopped fighting; Rul, momentarily stunned, now redoubled his efforts. Lila’s boots slid back along the stone ground as she pushed on the disk with all her force.

  The arena itself seemed to tremble, and the wind picked up as the magicians fought will to will.

  Between Lila and Rul, the earthen disk shuddered. Through the looking scope, Kell could see her limbs shaking, her body curved forward with the strain.

  Let go! He wanted to shout. But Lila kept pushing.

  You stubborn fool, he thought as Rul summoned a burst of strength, lifted his fiery sword, and threw it. The blade went wide, but the flame must have snagged Lila’s attention because she faltered, just enough, and the still-suspended rock shield stuttered forward and caught her in the leg. A glancing blow, but hard enough.

  The tenth plate shattered.

  The match was over.

  The crowd erupted, and Rul let out a howl of victory, but Kell’s attention was still on Lila, who stood there, arms at her side, head tipped back, looking strangely peaceful.

  Until the moment she swayed, and collapsed.

  IV

  Kell was already moving through his room when the judge’s voice spilled through the ring, calling for a medic.

  He’d warned her. Over and over, he’d warned her.

  Kell had his knife in his hand before he reached the door to the second chamber, Hastra on his heels. Staff tried to block the way, but Kell was faster, stronger, and he was in the alcove before the guards could stop him.

  “As Staro,” he said, sealing the door shut behind him and drawing the symbol while Staff pounded on the wood.

  “As Tascen.”

  The palace fell away, replaced by the tournament tent.

  “The victory goes to Rul,” announced the judge as Kell surged out of Kamerov’s quarters and into Lila’s. He got there as two attendants lowered her onto a sofa, a third working to undo her helmet. They started at the sight of him and went pale.

  “Out,” said Kell. “All of you.”

  The first two retreated instantly, but the third—a female priest—ignored him as she freed the hinged pieces of the demon’s mask from Lila’s head and set them aside. Beneath, her face was ghostly white, dark veins tracing her temples and twin streams of blackish red running from her nose. The priest rested a hand against her face, and a moment later her eyes fluttered open. A dozen oaths bubbled up, but Kell held his tongue. He held it as she drew a stilted breath and dragged herself into a sitting position, held it as she rolled her head and flexed her fingers, and lifted a cloth to her nose.

  “You can go, Ister,” she said, wiping away the blood.

  Kell held his tongue as long as he could, but the moment the priest was gone, he lost it.

  “I warned you!” he shouted. Lila winced, touching a hand to her temple.

  “I’m fine,” she muttered.

  Kell made a stifled sound. “You collapsed in the ring!”

  “It was a hard match,” she said getting to her feet, trying and failing to hide her unsteadiness.

  “How could you be so stupid?” he snapped, his voice rising. “You’re bleeding black. You play with magic as if it were a game. You don’t even understand the rules. Or worse, you decide there are none. You go stomping through the world, doing whatever the hell you please. You’re careless. Senseless. Reckless.”

  “Keep it down, you two,” said Rhy, striding in, Vis and Tolners at his back. “Kell, you shouldn’t be here.”

  Kell ignored him and addressed the guards. “Lock her up.”

  “For what?” growled Lila.

  “Calm down, Kell,” said Rhy.

  “For being an impostor.”

  Lila scoffed. “Oh, you’re one to tal—”

  Kell slammed her back into the tent pole, crushing her mouth with his hand. “Don’t you dare.” Lila didn’t fight back. She went still as stone, mismatched eyes boring into him. There was a wildness to them, and he thought she might actually be afraid, or at least shocked. And then he felt the knife pressed against his side.

  And the look in her eyes said that if it weren’t for Rhy, she would have stabbed him.

  The prince held up his hand. “Stasion,” he said, addressing Lila as he took Kell’s shoulder. “Please.” She lowered the knife, and Rhy wrenched Kell backward with Tolners’ help.

  “You never listen. You never think. Having power is a responsibility, Lila, one you clearly don’t deserve.”

  “Kell,” warned Rhy.

  “Why are you defending her?” he snapped, rounding on his brother. “Why am I the only one in this fucking world to be held accountable for my actions?”

  They just stared at him, the prince and the guards, and Lila, she had the nerve to smile. It was a grim, defiant smile, marred by the dark blood still streaking her face.

  Kell threw up his hands and stormed out.

  He heard the sound of Rhy’s boots on the cobbles coming after him, but Kell needed space, needed air, and before he knew what he was doing, he had the knife free from its sheath, the coins free from his collar.

  The last thing he heard before he pressed his bloody fingers to the nearest wall was Rhy’s voice calling for him to stop, but then the spell was on Kell’s lips, and the world was falling away, taking everything with it.

  V

  One moment Kell was there, and the next he was gone, nothing but a dab of blood on the wall to mark his passing.

  Rhy stood outside the tent, staring at the place where his brother had been, his chest aching not from physical pain but the sudden, horrible realization that Kell had purposefully gone where Rhy couldn’t follow.

  Tolners and Vis appeared like shadows behind him. A crowd was gathering, oblivious to the quarrel in the tent, oblivious to everything but the presence of a prince in their midst. Rhy knew he should be wrestling his features into form, fixing his smile, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the streak of blood.

  Maxim strode into sight, Kell’s guards on his heels. The crowd parted around the king, who smiled and nodded and waved even as he took Rhy’s arm and guided him back toward the palace, talking about the final round and the three champions and the evening events, filling the silence with useless chatter until the doors of the palace closed behind them.

  “What happened?” snapped the king, dragging him into a private chamber. “Where is Kell?”

  Rhy slumped into a chair. “I don’t know. He was in his rooms, but when he saw the match go south, he went down to the tents. He was just worried, Father.”

  “About what?” Not about what, Rhy thought. Who. But he couldn’t exactly tell the king about the girl parading as Stasion Elsor, the same girl who’d dragged the Black Night across the city at Kell’s side (and saved the world, too, of course, but that wouldn’t matter), so instead he simply said
, “We had a fight.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know.” Rhy put his head in his hands, fatigue folding over him.

  “Get up,” ordered his father. “Go get ready.”

  Rhy dragged his head up. “For what?”

  “Tonight’s festivities, of course.”

  “But Kell—”

  “Is not here,” said the king, his voice as heavy as a stone. “He may have abandoned his duties, but you have not. You will not.” Maxim was already heading for the door. “When Kell returns, he will be dealt with, but in the meantime, you are still the Prince of Ames. And as such, you will act like it.”

  * * *

  Kell sagged back against the cold stone wall as the bells of Westminster rang out the hour.

  His heart pounded frantically with what he’d done.

  He’d left. Left Red London. Left Rhy. Left Lila. Left a city—and a mess—in his wake.

  All of it only a step away. A world apart.

  If you don’t want to be here, then go.

  Run.

  He hadn’t meant to—he’d just wanted a moment of peace, a moment to think—and now he was here, fresh blood dripping to the icy street, his brother’s voice still echoing in his head. Guilt pulled at him, but he shoved it away. This was no different from the hundreds of trips he’d made abroad, each and every one placing him out of reach.

  This time it had simply been his choice.

  Kell straightened and set off down the street. He didn’t know where he was going, only that the first step had not been enough; he needed to keep moving before the guilt caught up. Or the cold. Grey London’s winter had a bitter dampness to it, and he pulled his coat tight, and bent his head, and walked.

  Five minutes later, he was standing outside the Five Points.

  He could have gone anywhere, but he always ended up there. Muscle memory, that was the only real explanation. His feet carried him along the paths worn into the world, the cosmic slope, a gravitational bend drawing things of mass and magic to the fixed point.

  Inside, a familiar face looked up from behind the bar. Not Barron’s wide brow and dark beard, but Ned Tuttle’s large eyes, his long jaw, his broad, surprised, delighted smile.

  “Master Kell!”

  At least the young Enthusiast didn’t launch himself over the counter when Kell came in. He only dropped three glasses and knocked over a bottle of port. The glasses Kell let fall, but the port he stopped an inch above the floor, the gesture lost on all but Ned himself.

  He slid onto a stool, and a moment later a glass of dark whisky appeared before him. Not magic, just Ned. When he finished the first glass in a single swig, the bottle appeared at his elbow.

  The Enthusiast pretended to busy himself with the handful of other patrons while Kell drank. On the third glass, he slowed down; after all, it wasn’t his body alone he was trashing. But how many nights had Kell borne Rhy’s drinking; how many mornings had he woken with the stale taste of wine and elixirs coating his tongue?

  Kell tipped a little more into his tumbler.

  He could feel the eyes of the patrons drifting toward him, and he wondered if they were being drawn by magic or rumor. Could they feel the pull, the tip of gravity, or was it simply word of mouth? What had Ned told them? Anything? Everything?

  Right then, Kell didn’t care. He just wanted to smother the feelings before they could smother him. Blot out the image of Lila’s bloody face before it ruined the memory of her mouth against his.

  It was only a matter of time before Ned reappeared, but when he did, it wasn’t with questions or mindless chatter. Instead, the lanky young man poured himself a drink from the same bottle, folded his arms on the edge of the counter, and set something down in front of Kell. It glinted in the lamplight.

  A Red London lin.

  The coin Kell had left behind on his last visit.

  “I believe this is yours,” he said.

  “It is.”

  “It smells like tulips.”

  Kell tilted his head; the room tilted with it. “The King of England always said roses.”

  Ned gaped. “George the fourth said that?”

  “No, the third,” said Kell absently, adding, “the fourth is an ass.”

  Ned nearly choked on his drink, letting out a simple, startled laugh. Kell flicked his fingers, and the Red London lin leaped up onto its side and began to spin in lazy circles. Ned’s eyes widened. “Will I ever be able to do that?”

  “I hope not,” said Kell, glancing up. “You shouldn’t be able to do anything.”

  The man’s narrow features contorted. “Why’s that?”

  “A long time ago, this world—your world—had magic of its own.”

  Ned leaned in, a child waiting for the monster in the story. “What happened?”

  Kell shook his head, the whisky muddling his thoughts. “A lot of very bad things.” The coin made its slow revolutions. “It’s all about balance, Ned.” Why couldn’t Lila understand? “Chaos needs order. Magic needs moderation. It’s like a fire. It doesn’t have self-control. It feeds off whatever you give it, and if you give it too much, it burns and burns until there’s nothing left.

  “Your world had fire, once,” said Kell. “Not much—it was too far from the source—but enough to burn. We cut it off before it could, and what was left began to dwindle. Eventually, it went out.”

  “But how do you know we would have burned?” asked Ned, eyes fever bright.

  Kell knocked the coin over with a brush of his fingers. “Because too little of something is just as dangerous as too much.” He straightened on his stool. “The point is, magic shouldn’t exist here anymore. It shouldn’t be possible.”

  “Impossibility is a thing that begs to be disproven,” said Ned brightly. “Perhaps it hasn’t been possible for years, perhaps it’s not even possible right now, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be. It doesn’t mean it won’t be. You say the magic guttered, the flame went out. But what if it simply needed to be stoked?”

  Kell poured himself another drink. “Maybe you’re right.”

  But I hope you’re wrong, he thought. For all our sakes.

  * * *

  Rhy was not in the mood.

  Not in the mood to be at the ball.

  Not in the mood to play host.

  Not in the mood to smile and joke and pretend that everything was all right. His father cast warning looks his way, and his mother stole glances, as if she thought he would break. He wanted to yell at both of them, for driving his brother away.

  Instead, he stood between the king and queen while the three champions cast off their masks.

  First came the Veskan, Rul, his rough hair trailing down his jaw, still preening from his victory over Elsor.

  Then Tos-an-Mir, one half of the favored Faroan twins, her gems tracing fiery patterns from brow to chin.

  And of course, Alucard Emery. Rogue, rake, royal, and renewed darling of the Arnesian empire.

  Rhy congratulated Lord Sol-in-Ar and Prince Col on the excellent showing, marveled aloud at the balanced field—an Arnesian, a Faroan, and a Veskan in the finals! What were the odds?—and then retreated to a pillar to drink in peace.

  Tonight’s festivities were being held in the Jewel Hall, a ballroom made entirely of glass. For a place so open, it made Rhy feel entombed.

  All around him, people drank. People danced. Music played.

  Across the ballroom, Princess Cora flirted with half a dozen Arnesian nobles, all while casting glances in search of Kell.

  Rhy closed his eyes and focused on his brother’s pulse, the echo of his own; he tried to reach through that beat and convey … what? That he was angry? That he was sorry? That he couldn’t do any of this without Kell? That he didn’t blame him for leaving? That he did?

  Come home, he thought selfishly. Please.

  Refined applause rang through the glass chamber, and he dragged his eyes open and saw the three champions returning in fresh attire, their masks t
ucked under their arms, their faces on display.

  The wolfish Rul went straight for the nearest table of food, where his Veskan comrades were already deep in their cups.

  Tos-an-Mir maneuvered the crowd, trailed by her sister, Tas-on-Mir, the first magician to fall to Kell. Rhy could only tell them apart by the gems set into their dark skin, Tos-an-Mir’s a fiery orange where Tas-on-Mir’s were pearlescent blue.

  Alucard was the center of his own private universe. Rhy watched as a pretty ostra brought her painted lips to Alucard’s ear to whisper something, and felt his grip tighten on his glass.

  Someone slouched against the pillar beside him. A slim figure dressed in black. Lila looked better than she had that afternoon: still drawn, with shadows like bruises beneath her eyes, and yet spry enough to swipe two fresh glasses from a passing tray. She offered one to Rhy. He took it absently. “You came back.”

  “Well,” she said, tipping her drink toward the ballroom, “you do know how to throw a party.”

  “To London,” clarified Rhy.

  “Ah,” she said. “That.”

  “Are you all right?” he asked, thinking of her match that afternoon.

  She swallowed, kept her eyes on the crowd. “I don’t know.”

  A silence formed around them, a raft of quiet in the sea of sound.

  “I’m sorry,” she said at last, the words so soft Rhy almost didn’t hear.

  He rolled his shoulder toward her. “For what?”

  “I don’t really know. It seemed like the right thing to say.”

  Rhy took a long drink and considered this strange girl, her sharp edges, her guarded face. “Kell only has two faces,” he said.

  Lila raised a brow. “Only two? Don’t most people have one?”

  “On the contrary, Miss Bard—and you are Bard again, judging by your clothes? I assume Stasion has been left somewhere to recuperate? Most people have far more than two. I myself have an entire wardrobe.” He didn’t smile when he said it. His gaze drifted past his parents, the Arnesian nobles, Alucard Emery. “But Kell has only two. The one he wears for the world at large, and the one he wears for those he loves.” He sipped his wine. “For us.”