Gathering of Shadows (A Darker Shade of Magic)

by V. E. Schwab

  The cold air helped cool the fire in her cheeks, but the energy still surged beneath her skin. She glared at the sea, and imagined reaching out and shoving the water with all her strength. Like a child in a bath.

  She didn’t bother summoning any poems, didn’t expect the desire to actually take shape, but a second later she felt energy flood through her, and the water bucked and surged, the ship tilting violently on a sudden wave.

  Cries of concern went up across the Spire as the men tried to figure out what had happened, and Lila smirked viciously, hoping that down below she’d toppled a few more of Alucard’s finest wines. And then it hit her, what she’d done. She’d moved the ocean—or at least a ship-sized piece of it. She touched a hand to her nose, expecting to find blood, but there was none. She was fine. Unharmed. She let out a small, dazed chuckle.

  What are you?

  Lila shivered, the cold having finally reached her bones. She was suddenly tired, and she didn’t know if it was the backlash of expended magic or simply her frustration burning out.

  What was it Barron used to say?

  Something about tempers and candles and powder kegs.

  The fact that she couldn’t remember the exact words hit her like a dull blow to the chest. Barron was one of her only tethers, and he was gone now. And what right did she have to mourn? She’d wanted to be free of him, hadn’t she? And this was why. People could only hurt you if you cared enough to let them.

  Lila was about to turn away from the rail when she heard a muffled sniff, and realized she wasn’t alone. Of course, no one was ever truly alone, not on a ship, but someone was standing against the rigging nearby, holding their breath. She squinted at the shadows, and then, when the figure looked more willing to collapse than step forward, she snapped her fingers and summoned a small, vibrant flame—a gesture managed with nonchalance, even though she’d been practicing it for weeks.

  The light, which struggled against the sea breeze, illuminated the scarecrow shape of Lenos, Alucard’s second mate. He squeaked, and she sighed and extinguished the fire, plunging them both back into comfortable darkness.

  “Lenos,” she said, trying to sound friendly. Had he seen what she’d done with the ship and the sea? The look on his face was one of caution, if not outright fear, but that was his usual expression around her. After all, he’d been the one to start the rumor that she was the Sarows, haunting the Spire.

  The man stepped forward, and she saw that he was holding something out for her. His coat.

  A refusal rose to her lips, automatic, but then good sense made her reach out and take it. She’d survived magic doors and evil queens; she’d be damned if she died of catching cold.

  He let go of the coat the instant her fingers found purchase, as if afraid of being burned, and she shrugged it on, the lining still warm from Lenos’s body. She turned up the collar and shoved her hands into the pockets, flexing her fingers for warmth.

  “Are you afraid of me?” she asked in Arnesian.

  “A little,” he admitted, looking away.

  “Because you don’t trust me?”

  He shook his head. “Not that,” he mumbled. “You’re just different from us….”

  She gave him a crooked smile. “So I’ve been told.”

  “Not cause you’re a, well, you know, a girl. S’not that.”

  “Because I’m the Sarows, then? You really think that?”

  He shrugged. “S’not that, not exactly. But you’re aven.”

  Lila frowned. The word he used was blessed. But Lila had learned that there was no English equivalent. In Arnesian blessed wasn’t always a good thing. Some said it meant chosen. Others said favored. But some said cursed. Other. Apart.

  “Aven can be a good thing, too,” she said, “so long as they’re on your side.”

  “Are you on our side?” he asked quietly.

  Lila was on her own side. But she supposed she was on the Spire’s side, too. “Sure.”

  He wrapped his arms around himself and turned his attention past her to the water. A fog was rolling in, and as he stared intently at it, Lila wondered what he saw in the mist.

  “I grew up in this little place called Casta,” he said. “On the southern cliffs. Castans think that sometimes magic chooses people.”

  “Like Master Kell,” she said, adding, “the black-eyed prince.”

  Lenos nodded. “Yes, magic chose Master Kell. But what he is—Antari—that’s only one kind of aven. Maybe the strongest, but it depends on your definition of strong. The priests are another. Some people think that they’re the strongest, because they have just enough of every element to use them all in balance, so they can heal and grow and make life. There used to be all kinds of aven. Ones who could master all the elements. Ones who could only master one, but were so powerful, they could change the tides, or the wind, or the seasons. Ones who could hear what magic had to say. Aven isn’t just one thing, because magic isn’t just one thing. It’s everything, old and new and always changing. The Castans think that when someone aven appears, it’s for a reason. It’s because the magic is trying to tell us something….” He trailed off. Lila stared at him. It was the most Lenos had ever said to her. The most she’d ever heard him say to anyone, for that matter.

  “So you think I’m here for a reason?” she asked.

  Lenos rocked from heel to toe. “We’re all here for a reason, Bard. Some reasons are just bigger than others. So I guess I’m not scared of who you are, or even what you are. I’m scared of why you are.”

  He shivered and turned away.

  “Wait,” she said, shrugging out of his coat. “Here.”

  He reached for it, and to Lila’s relief, when their hands nearly brushed, he didn’t jerk back. She watched the man retreat across the dock, then rolled her neck and made her way below.

  She found her own coat hanging on her cabin door, along with an unopened bottle of purple wine, and a note that read Solase.

  Sorry.

  Lila sighed and took up the bottle, her thoughts churning and her body aching for sleep.

  And then she heard the call go up overhead.

  “Hals!” shouted a voice from the deck above.

  Land.

  IV

  The bells rang out a dozen times, and then a dozen more. They went on and on until Kell lost count, far past the hours in a day, a week, a month.

  The persistent sound could only mean one thing: the royals had arrived.

  Kell stood on his balcony and watched them come. It had been six years since London last played host to the Essen Tasch, but he still remembered watching the procession of ships and people, trying to imagine where they’d come from, what they’d seen. He couldn’t go to the world, but on these rare occasions, it seemed to come to him.

  Now, as he watched the ships drift up the Isle (as far as Rhy’s floating stadiums would allow), he found himself wondering which one Lila would choose for herself. There were a handful of smaller, private crafts, but most were massive vessels, luxury boats designed to transport wealthy merchants and nobles from Faro and Vesk to the festivities in the Arnesian capital. All ships bore a mark of origin, on either sail or side, the painted symbol of their crown. That, along with a scroll of approval, would grant them access to the docks for the length of the Essen Tasch.

  Would Lila prefer an elegant silver wood ship, like the one bearing the Faroan mark? Or something bolder, like the vibrantly painted Veskan vessel now approaching? Or a proud Arnesian craft, with dark polished wood and crisp sails? Come to think of it, did Lila even know how to sail? Probably not, but if anyone could make the strange seem ordinary, the impossible look easy, it was Delilah Bard.

  “What are you smirking at?” asked Rhy, appearing beside him.

  “Your stadiums are making a mess of the river.”

  “Nonsense,” said Rhy. “I’ve had temporary docks erected on the northern and southern banks on both sides of the city. There’s plenty of room.”

  Kell nodded at the Isle
. “Tell that to our guests.”

  Below, the other vessels had parted to make way for the Veskan fleet as it came up the river, stopping only when it reached the barricade. The Veskan royal barge, a splendid rig made of redwood with dark sails bearing the royal emblem of the crow in flight against a white moon, was flanked by two military ships.

  Minutes later the Faroans’ imperial vessel followed, its ships all skeletal and silver-white, the crest of the black tree scorched into their sails.

  “We should get going,” said the prince. “We’ll have to be there to welcome them.”

  “We?” echoed Kell, even though the king had already made it clear that his presence was required. Not because Kell was family, he thought bitterly, but because he was aven. A symbol of Arnesian power.

  “They’ll want to see you,” the king had said, and Kell had understood. When Maxim said you he didn’t mean Kell the person. He meant Kell the Antari. He bristled. Why did he feel like a trophy? Or worse, a trinket—

  “Stop that,” chided Rhy.

  “Stop what?”

  “Whatever’s going through your head that has you frowning even more than usual. You’ll give us both wrinkles.” Kell sighed. “Come,” pressed Rhy. “There’s no way I’m facing them on my own.”

  “Which one are you afraid of? Lord Sol-in-Ar?”

  “Cora.”

  “The Veskan princess?” Kell laughed. “She’s just a child.”

  “She was just a child—and a nightmarish one at that—but I’ve heard she’s grown into something truly fearsome.”

  Kell shook his head. “Come on, then,” he said, slinging his arm around the prince’s shoulder. “I’ll defend you.”

  “My hero.”

  * * *

  The Red Palace had five halls: the Grand, an extravagant three-story ballroom made of polished wood and sculpted crystal; the Gold, a sprawling reception hall, all stone and precious metal; the Jewel, seated at the palace heart and made entirely of glass; the Sky on the roof, its mosaic floor glittering under the sun and stars; and the Rose. The last of these, positioned near the front of the palace and accessed through its own hall and doors, possessed a stately elegance. It had been built in a wing of the palace with nothing overhead, and light shone through windows set into the ceiling. The walls and floor were royal marble, pale stone threaded with garnet and gold, crafted by mineral mages for the crown’s use alone. In place of columns, bouquets of flowers in massive urns cut parallel lines through the chamber. Between these columns, a gold runner ran from doorway to dais and throne.

  The Rose Hall was where the crown held court with its people, and where it intended to greet its neighboring royals.

  If they ever showed up.

  Kell and Rhy stood on either side of the thrones, Rhy leaning against his father’s chair, Kell at attention beside the queen’s.

  Master Tieren stood at the foot of the dais, but he wouldn’t meet Kell’s gaze. Was it his imagination, or had the Aven Essen been avoiding him? The royal guards stood statuesque in their gleaming armor, while a select assembly of ostra and vestra milled about, having drifted into clusters to chat. It had been more than an hour since the royal ships had docked and an escort had been sent to accompany them to the palace. Sparkling wine sat on trays, going flat with the wait.

  Rhy shifted from foot to foot, clearly tense. This was, after all, his first time at the helm of a royal affair, and while he’d always been one for details, they usually centered around his clothing, or his hair. The Essen Tasch was on another scale entirely. Kell watched him fidget with the gleaming gold seal of the Maresh—a chalice and rising sun—over his heart. He’d produced a second one, for Kell, which he had reluctantly pinned on the breast of his red coat.

  King Maxim fiddled with a coin, something Kell only saw him do when he couldn’t sit still. Like his father before him, Maxim Maresh was a metalworker, a strong magician in his own right, though he had little need of it now. Still, Kell had heard the stories of Maxim’s youth, tales of the “steel prince” who forged armies and melted hearts, and he knew that even now the king traveled twice a year to the borders to stoke the fires of his men.

  “I hope nothing has happened to our guests,” said King Maxim.

  “Perhaps they got lost,” mused Rhy.

  “We could only be so lucky,” murmured Kell.

  Queen Emira shot them both a look, and Kell almost laughed. It was such simple, motherly scorn.

  At last, the trumpets sounded, and the doors swung open.

  “Finally,” muttered Rhy.

  “Prince Col and Princess Cora,” announced a servant, his voice echoing through the hall, “of the House Taskon, ruling family of Vesk.”

  The Taskon siblings entered, flanked by a dozen attendants. They were striking, dressed loosely in green and silver, with elegant cloaks trailing behind. Col was eighteen now, Cora two years his junior.

  “Your Majesties,” said Prince Col, a burly youth, in heavily accented Arnesian.

  “We are welcomed to your city,” added Princess Cora with a curtsy and a cherubic smile.

  Kell shot Rhy a look that said, Honestly? This is the girl you’re so afraid of?

  Rhy shot him one back that said, You should be, too.

  Kell gave Princess Cora another, more appraising glance. The princess hardly looked strong enough to hold a wine flute. Her cascades of honey-blond hair were done up in an elaborate braid that circled her head like a crown, woven through with emeralds.

  She was slight for a Veskan—tall, yes, but narrow-waisted, willowy in a way that would have better suited the Arnesian court. Rhy had been allowed to accompany his mother to the Essen Tasch in Vesk three years before, so he’d seen her grow. But Kell, confined to the city, had only seen the tournament on years when Ames was called to host. When the Games were held there six years ago, Prince Col had come, along with one of his other brothers.

  The last time Kell had seen Cora, twelve years ago, she’d been a small child.

  Now her pale blue eyes traveled up, landed on his two-toned gaze, and stuck. He was so accustomed to people avoiding his eyes, their own glancing off, finding safer ground, that the intensity caught him off guard, and he fought the sudden urge to look away.

  Meanwhile an attendant carried a large object, shrouded in heavy green cloth, to the throne dais, and set it down on the step. Whisking the cloth away with a dramatic flair, the attendant revealed a bird inside a cage—not a multicolored mimic, or a songbird, both favored by the Arnesian court, but something more … predatory. It was massive and silvery grey, save for its head, which had a plume and collar of black. Its beak looked razor sharp.

  “A thank you,” announced Prince Col, “for inviting us into your home.” Col shared Cora’s coloring, but nothing else. Where she was tall, he was taller. Where she was narrow, he was built like an ox. A handsome one, but still, there was something bullish about his attitude and expression.

  “Gratitude,” said the king, nodding to Master Tieren, who strode forward and lifted the cage. It would go to the sanctuary, Kell supposed, or be set free. A palace was no place for wild animals.

  Kell tracked the exchange out of the corner of his eye, his attention still leveled on the princess, whose gaze was still leveled on him, too, as if transfixed by his black eye. She looked like the kind of girl who would point to something—or someone—and say, “I want one of those.” The thought was almost amusing until he remembered Astrid’s words—I would own you, flower boy—and then the humor turned cold. Kell took a slight, almost imperceptible step back.

  “Our home shall be yours,” King Maxim was saying. It all felt like a script.

  “And if the gods favor us,” said Prince Col with a grin, “so shall your tournament.”

  Rhy bristled, but the king simply laughed. “We shall see about that,” he said with a hearty smile that Kell knew was false. The king didn’t care for Prince Col, or any of the Veskan royal family for that matter. But the real danger lay with Faro.
With Lord Sol-in-Ar.

  As if on cue, the trumpets sounded again, and the Veskan entourage took up their glasses of wine and stepped aside.

  “Lord Sol-in-Ar, Regent of Faro,” announced the attendant as the doors opened.

  Unlike the Veskans, whose entourage surrounded them, Sol-in-Ar strode in at the front, his men filing behind him in formation. They were all dressed in Faroan style, a single piece of fabric intricately folded around them, the tail end cast back over one shoulder like a cape. His men all wore rich purple, accented in black and white, while Sol-in-Ar wore white, the very edges of the fabric trimmed in indigo.

  Like all ranking Faroans, he was clean-shaven, affording a full view of the beads set into his face, but unlike most, who favored glass or precious gems, Lord Sol-in-Ar’s ornamentation appeared to be white gold, diamond-shaped slivers that traced curved paths from temples to throat. His black hair was trimmed short, and a single larger teardrop of white gold stood out against his forehead, just above his brows, marking him as royal.

  “How do they choose?” Rhy had wondered aloud, years before, holding a ruby to his forehead. “I mean, Father says the number of gems is a social signifier, but apparently the color is a mystery. I doubt it’s arbitrary—if it were the Veskans, maybe, but nothing about the Faroans seems arbitrary—which means the colors must mean something.”

  “Does it matter?” Kell had asked wearily.

  “Of course it matters,” snapped Rhy. “It’s like knowing there’s a language you don’t speak, and having no one willing to teach it to you.”

  “Maybe it’s private.”

  Rhy tipped his head and furrowed his brow to keep the ruby from falling. “How do I look?”

  Kell had snorted. “Ridiculous.”

  But there was nothing ridiculous about Lord Sol-in-Ar. He was tall—several inches taller than the men of his guard—with a chiseled jaw and rigid gate. His skin was the color of charcoal, his eyes pale green, and sharp as cut glass. Older brother to the king of Faro, commander of the Faroan fleet, responsible for the unification of the once dispersed territories, and considered to be the majority of the actual thinking behind the throne.