by V. E. Schwab
Kell watched as the prince stretched his arms along the back of the sofa, his pale gold eyes glittering as he surveyed the room. This was Rhy at his most understated, and it was still dreadfully conspicuous.
The attendant returned holding a decanter of ruby liquor and a single dark blue blossom; Rhy accepted the drink and tucked the flower behind her ear with a smile. Kell rolled his eyes. Some things didn’t change.
As Rhy filled his glass, Kell caught a swell of whispers as more eyes wandered their way. He felt the inevitable weight as the collective gaze shifted from the prince to his companion. Kell’s skin crawled under the attention, but instead of ducking his head, he forced himself to meet their eyes.
“This would be a good deal more fun,” observed Rhy, “if you’d stop scowling at everyone.”
Kell gave him a withering look. “They fear me.”
“They worship you,” said Rhy with a wave of his hand. “The majority of this city thinks you’re a god.”
Kell cringed at the word. Antari magicians were rare—so rare that they were seen by some as divine, chosen. “And the rest think I’m a devil.”
Rhy sat forward. “Did you know that in Vesk, they believe you turn the seasons and control the tide, and bless the empire?”
“If you’re appealing to my ego—”
“I’m simply reminding you that you will always be singular.”
Kell stilled, thinking of Holland. He told himself that a new Antari would be born, or found, eventually, but he wasn’t sure if he believed it. He and Holland had been two of a disappearing kind. They had always been rare, but they were rapidly approaching extinct. What if he really was the last one?
Kell frowned. “I would rather be normal.”
Now it was Rhy’s turn to wear the withering look. “Poor thing. I wonder what it feels like, to be put on a pedestal.”
“The difference,” said Kell, “is that the people love you.”
“For every ten who love me,” said Rhy, gesturing at the sprawling room, “one would like to see me dead.”
A memory surfaced, of the Shadows, the men and women who had tried to take Rhy’s life six years before, simply to send a message to the crown that they were wasting precious resources on frivolous affairs, ignoring the needs of their people. Thinking of Splendor, Kell could almost understand.
“My point,” continued Rhy, “is that for every ten who worship you, one wants to see you burn. Those are simply the odds when it comes to people like us.”
Kell poured himself a drink. “This place is horrible,” he mused.
“Well …” said Rhy, emptying his own glass in one swallow and setting it down with a click on the table, “we could always leave.”
And there it was, in Rhy’s eye, that glint, and Kell suddenly understood the prince’s outfit. Rhy wasn’t dressed for Splendor because it wasn’t his true destination. “You chose this place on purpose.”
A languorous smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You chose it because you knew I would be miserable here and more likely to cave when you offered to take me someplace else.”
“And?”
“And you greatly underestimate my capacity for suffering.”
“Suit yourself,” said the prince, rising to his feet with his usual lazy grace. “I’m going to take a turn around the room.”
Kell glowered but did not rise. He watched Rhy go, trying to emulate the prince’s practiced nonchalance as he sat back with his glass.
He watched his brother maneuver through the field of people, smiling cheerfully, clasping hands and kissing cheeks and occasionally gesturing to his outfit with a self-deprecating laugh; despite his earlier remark, the fact was, Rhy fit in effortlessly. As he should, Kell supposed.
And yet, Kell loathed the greedy way the ostra eyed the prince. The women’s batting lashes held too little warmth and too much cunning. The men’s appraising looks now held too little kindness and too much hunger. One or two shot a glance toward Kell, a ghost of that same hunger, but none were brave enough to approach. Good. Let them whisper, let them look. He felt the strange and sudden urge to make a scene, to watch their amusement harden into terror at the sight of his true power.
Kell’s grip tightened on his glass, and he was about to rise when he caught the edge of conversation from a nearby party.
He didn’t mean to eavesdrop; the practice just came naturally. Perhaps the magic in his veins gave him strong ears, or perhaps he’d simply learned to tune them over the years. It became habit, when you were so often the topic of whispered debate.
“… I could have entered,” said a nobleman, reclining on a hill of cushions.
“Come,” chided a woman at his elbow, “even if you had the skills, which you do not, you’re too late by a measure. The roster has been set.”
“Has it now?”
Like most of the city, they were talking of the Essen Tasch—the Element Games—and Kell paid them little mind at first, since the ostra were usually more concerned with the balls and banquets than the competitors. And when they did speak of the magicians, it was in the way people talked of exotic beasts.
“Well, of course, the list hasn’t been posted,” continued the woman in a conspiratorial tone, “but my brother has his methods.”
“Anyone we know?” asked another man in an airy, unconcerned way.
“I’ve heard the victor, Kisimyr, is in again.”
“And what of Emery?”
At that, Kell stiffened, his grip going knuckles-white on his glass. Surely it is a mistake, he thought at the same time a woman said, “Alucard Emery?”
“Yes. I’ve heard he’s coming back to compete.”
Kell’s pulse thudded in his ears, and the wine in his cup began to swirl.
“That’s nonsense,” insisted one of the men.
“You do have an ear for gossip. Emery hasn’t set foot on London soil in three years.”
“That may be,” insisted the woman, “but his name is on the roster. My brother’s friend has a sister who is messenger to the Aven Essen, and she said—”
A sudden pain lanced through Kell’s shoulder, and he nearly fumbled the glass. His head snapped up, searching for the source of the attack as his hand went to his shoulder blade. It took him a moment to register that the pain wasn’t actually his. It was an echo.
Rhy.
Where was Rhy?
Kell surged to his feet, upsetting the things on the table as he scanned the room for the prince’s onyx hair, his blue coat. He was nowhere to be seen. Kell’s heart pounded in his chest, and he resisted the urge to shout Rhy’s name across the lawn. He could feel eyes shifting toward him, and he didn’t care. He didn’t give a damn about any of them. The only person in this place—in this city—he cared about was somewhere nearby, and he was in pain.
Kell squinted across the too-bright field of Splendor. The sun lanterns were glaring overhead, but in the distance, the afternoon light of the open chamber tapered off into hallways of darker forest. Kell swore and plunged across the field, ignoring the looks from the other patrons.
The pain came again, this time in his lower back, and Kell’s knife was out of its sheath as he stormed into the shadowed canopy, cursing the dense trees, the star-lights in the branches the only source of light. The only other things in these woods were couples entwined.
Dammit, he cursed, his pulse raging as he doubled back.
He’d learned to keep one of Rhy’s tokens on him, just in case, and he was about to draw blood and summon a finding spell when his scar throbbed in a way that told him the prince was close. He twisted around and could hear a muffled voice through the nearest copse, one that might be Rhy’s; Kell shoved through, expecting a fight, and found something else entirely.
There, on a mossy slope, a half-dressed Rhy was hovering over the girl in white, the blue flower still in her hair, his face buried in her shoulder. Across his bare back, Kell could see scratch marks deep enough to draw
blood, and a fresh echo of pain blossomed near Kell’s hips as her nails dug into Rhy’s flesh.
Kell exhaled sharply, in discomfort and relief, and the girl saw him standing there and gasped. Rhy dragged his head up, breathless, and had the audacity to smile.
“You bastard,” hissed Kell.
“Lover?” wondered the girl.
Rhy sank back onto his heels, and then twisted with a languid grace, reclining on the moss. “Brother,” he explained.
“Go,” Kell ordered the girl. She looked disconcerted, but she gathered her dress around her and left all the same, while Rhy got unsteadily to his feet and cast about for his shirt. “I thought you were being attacked!”
“Well …” Rhy slipped the tunic gingerly over his head. “In a way, I was.”
Kell found Rhy’s coat slung over a low branch and thrust it at him. And then he led the prince back through the woods and across the field, past the silver doors, and out into the night. It was a silent procession, but the moment they were free of Splendor, Kell spun on his brother.
“What were you thinking?”
“Must you ask?”
Kell shook his head in disbelief. “You are an incomparable ass.”
Rhy only chuckled. “How was I to know she would be so rough with me?”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“You can’t,” said Rhy simply, spreading his arms. “You made sure of it.”
And for an instant, as the words hung in the cloud of his winter breath, the prince seemed genuinely upset. But then the smile was back. “Come on,” he said, slinging an arm around Kell’s shoulders. “I’d had enough of Splendor anyway. Let’s find somewhere more agreeable to drink.”
A light snow began to fall around them, and Rhy sighed. “I don’t suppose you thought to grab my hat?”
III
“Saints,” cursed Rhy, “do all the Londons get this cold?”
“As cold,” said Kell as he followed the prince away from the bright beating heart of the city, and down a series of narrower roads. “And colder still.”
As they walked, Kell imagined this London ghosted against the others. Here, they would be coming upon Westminster. There, the stone courtyard where a statue of the Danes once stood.
Rhy’s steps came to a halt ahead, and Kell looked up to see the prince holding open a tavern door. A wooden sign overhead read IS AVEN STRAS.
The Blessed Waters.
Kell swore under his breath. He knew enough about this place to know that they shouldn’t be here. Rhy shouldn’t be here. It wasn’t as bad as the Three of Knives in the heart of the shal, where the black brands of limiters shone on almost every wrist, or the Jack and All, which had caused so much trouble on their last outing, but the Waters had its own rowdy reputation.
“Tac,” chided Kell in Arnesian, because this wasn’t the kind of place to speak High Royal.
“What?” asked Rhy innocently, snatching the cap off Kell’s head. “It isn’t Rachenast. And I have business here.”
“What kind of business?” demanded Kell as Rhy settled the hat over his curls, but the prince only winked and went in, and Kell had no choice but to freeze or follow.
Inside, the place smelled of sea and ale. Where Splendor had been open, with bold colors and bright light, the Waters was made of dark corners and low-burning hearths, tables and booths sprawled like bodies across the room. The air was thick with smoke and loud with raucous laughter and drunken threats.
At least this place is honest with itself, thought Kell. No pretense. No illusion. It reminded him of the Stone’s Throw, and the Setting Sun, and the Scorched Bone. Fixed points in the world, places where Kell had done business back when his business was less savory. When he’d traded in trinkets from faraway places, the kind only he could reach.
Rhy tugged the brim of the cap down over his light eyes as he approached the bar. He signaled to a shadow behind the barkeep, and slid a slip of paper and a single silver lish across the wood. “For the Essen Tasch,” said the prince under his breath.
“Competitor?” asked the shadow with a voice like stones.
“Kamerov Loste.”
“To win?”
Rhy shook his head. “No. Only to the nines.” The shadow gave him a wary look, but he took the bet with a flick of his fingers and retreated into the corner of the bar.
Kell shook his head in disbelief. “You came here to place a bet. On the tournament you’re running.”
There was a glint in Rhy’s eye. “Indeed.”
“That’s hardly legal,” said Kell.
“Which is why we’re here.”
“And remind me why we couldn’t have started the night here?”
“Because,” said Rhy, flagging down the barkeep, “you were in an ornery mood when I dragged you from that palace—which is nothing unusual, but still—and you were determined to despise the first destination of the night on principle. I merely came prepared.”
The barkeep came over, but he kept his gaze on the glass he was polishing. If he registered Kell’s red hair, his black eye, he didn’t show it.
“Two Black Sallies,” said Rhy in Arnesian, and he was wise enough to pay in petty lin instead of lish or the gold rish carried by nobles. The barkeep nodded and served up two glasses of something thick and dark.
Kell lifted the glass—it was too dense to see through—and then took a cautious drink. He nearly gagged, and a handful of men down the bar chuckled. It was rough stock, syrupy but strong, and it clung to Kell’s throat as it filled his head.
“That is vile,” he choked out. “What’s in it?”
“Trust me, Brother, you don’t want to know.” Rhy turned back toward the barkeep. “We’ll take two winter ales as well.”
“Who drinks this?” Kell coughed.
“People who want to get drunk,” said Rhy, taking a long, pained sip.
Kell felt his own head swim as he shoved his glass away. “Slow down,” he said, but the prince seemed determined to finish the draft, and he slammed the empty glass down with a shudder. The men at the end of the bar banged their own cups in approval, and Rhy gave an unsteady bow.
“Impressive,” muttered Kell, at the same time that someone behind them spat, “If you ask me, the prince is a spoiled shit.”
Kell and Rhy both tensed. The man was slumped at a table with two others, their backs to the bar.
“Watch yer tone,” warned the second. “That’s royalty yer smearing.” But before Kell could feel any relief, they all burst into laughter.
Rhy gripped the counter, knuckles white, and Kell squeezed his brother’s shoulder hard enough to feel the pain echo in his own. The last thing he needed was the crown prince involved in a brawl at the Blessed Waters. “What was it you said,” he hissed in the Rhy’s ear, “about the ones who wanted to watch us burn?”
“They say he hasn’t got a lick of magic in him,” continued the first man, obviously drunk. No sober man would speak such things so loudly.
“Figures,” muttered the second.
“S’unfair,” said the third. “‘Cause you know if he weren’t up in that pretty palace, he’d be beggin’ like a dog.”
The sickening thing was, the man was probably right. This world was ruled by magic, but power followed no clear line or lineage; it flowed thick in some and thin in others. And yet, if magic denied a person power, the people took it as a judgment. The weak were shunned, left to fend for themselves. Sometimes they took to the sea—where elemental strength mattered less than simple muscle—but more often they stayed, and stole, and ended up with even less than they’d had to start with. It was a side of life Rhy had been spared only by his birth.
“What right’s he got to sit up on that throne?” grumbled the second.
“None, that’s what …”
Kell had had enough. He was about to turn toward the table when Rhy held out a hand. The gesture was relaxed, the touch unconcerned. “Don’t bother,” he said, taking up the ales and heading for the othe
r side of the room. One of the men was leaning back in his chair, two wooden legs off the floor, and Kell tipped the balance as he passed. He didn’t look back, but relished the sound of the body crashing to the floor.
“Bad dog,” whispered Rhy, but Kell could hear the smile in his voice. The prince wove through the tables to a booth on the far wall, and Kell was about to follow him in when something across the tavern caught his eye. Or rather, someone. She stood out, not simply because she was one of the only women, but because he knew her. They had only met twice, but he recognized her instantly, from the catlike smile to the black hair twisted into coiling ropes behind her head, each woven through with gold. It was a bold thing, to wear such precious metal in a place of thugs and thieves.
But Kisimyr Vasrin was bolder than most.
She was also the reigning champion of the Essen Tasch, and the reason the tournament was being held in London. The Games weren’t for a fortnight, but there she was, holding court in a corner of the Blessed Waters, surrounded by her usual handsome entourage. The fighter spent most of the year traveling the empire, putting on displays and mentoring young magicians, if their pockets were deep enough. She’d first earned a spot on the coveted roster when she was only sixteen, and over the last twelve years and four tournaments, she’d climbed the ranks to victor.
At only twenty-eight, she might even do it again.
Kisimyr tugged lazily at a stone earring, one of three in each ear, a wolfish smile on her face. And then her gaze drifted up, past her table and the room, and landed on Kell. Her eyes were a dozen colors, and some insisted she could see inside a person’s soul. While Kell doubted her unique irises endowed her with any extraordinary powers (then again, who was he to talk, with the mark of magic drawn like ink across one eye?), the gaze was still unnerving.
He tipped his chin up and let the tavern light catch the glossy black of his right eye. Kisimyr didn’t even look surprised. She simply toasted him, an almost imperceptible motion as she brought a glass of that pitch-black liquid to her lips.
“Are you going to sit,” asked Rhy, “or stand sentry?”
Kell broke the gaze and turned toward his brother. Rhy was stretched across the bench, his feet up, fingering the brim of Kell’s hat and muttering about how much he’d liked his own. Kell knocked the prince’s boots aside so he could sit.