Gathering of Shadows (A Darker Shade of Magic)

by V. E. Schwab

She’d raided the man’s pockets and studied his papers, but if there was anything else to learn before she donned the role at nightfall, she figured she’d find it here.

  The room was simple. The bed was made. A looking glass leaned by the window and a silver folding frame sat on the narrow sill, a portrait of Elsor on one side, and a young woman on the other.

  Rifling through a trunk at the foot of the bed, she found a few more pieces of clothing, a notebook, a short sword, a pair of gloves. These last were peculiar, designed to cover the tops of the hands but expose the palms and fingertips. Perfect for a fireworker, she thought, pocketing them.

  The notebook held mostly sketches—including several of the young woman—as well as a few scribbled notes and a travel ledger. Elsor was scrupulous, and by all evidence, he had indeed come alone. Several letters and slips were tucked into the notebook, and Lila studied his signature, practicing first with her fingers and then a stub of a pencil until she’d gotten it right.

  She then began to empty the trunk, tossing the contents onto the bed one by one. A set of boxes near the bottom held an elongated hat that curled down over the brow, and a canvas that unfolded to reveal a set of toiletries.

  And then, in a box at the back of the trunk, she found Elsor’s mask.

  It was carved out of wood, and vaguely resembled a ram, with horns that hugged the sides of one’s head and curled against one’s cheeks. The only real facial coverage was a nose plate. That wouldn’t do. She returned it to the bottom of the chest, and closed the lid.

  Next she tried on each piece of clothing, testing her measurements against Elsor’s. As she’d hoped, they weren’t too far off. An examination of a pair of trousers confirmed she was an inch or two shorter than the man, but wedging some socks in the heels of her boots gave her the extra measure of height.

  Lastly, Lila took up the portrait from the sill, and examined the man’s face. He was wearing a hat like the one discarded on the bed, and dark hair spilled out beneath it, framing his angled face with near-black curls.

  Lila’s own hair was several shades lighter, but when she doused it with water from the basin, it looked close. Not a permanent solution, of course, especially in winter, but it helped her focus as she drew out one of her knives.

  She returned the portrait to the sill, studying it as she took up a chunk of hair and sawed at it with the blade. It had grown long in the months at sea, and there was something liberating about shearing it off again. Strands tumbled to the floor as she shortened the back and shaped the front, the abusive combination of cold and steel giving the ends a slight curl.

  Digging through Elsor’s meager supplies, she found a comb as well as a tub of something dark and glossy. It smelled like tree nuts, and when she worked it into her hair, she was relieved to see it hold the curl.

  His charcoal coat lay on the bed, and she shrugged it on. Taking up the hat from the bed, she set it gingerly on her styled head, and turned toward her reflection. A stranger, not quite Elsor but certainly not Bard, stared back at her. Something was missing. The pin. She dug in the pockets of his coat and pulled out the iridescent collar pin, fastening it at her throat. Then she cocked her head, adjusting her posture and mannerisms until the illusion came into sharper focus.

  Lila broke into a grin.

  This, she thought, adding Elsor’s short sword to her waist, is almost as fun as being a pirate.

  “Avan, ras Elsor,” said a portly woman when she descended the stairs. The innkeeper.

  Lila nodded, wishing she’d had a chance to hear the man speak. Hadn’t Alucard said that Stross was from the same part of the empire? His accent had rough edges, which Lila tried to mimic as she murmured, “Avan.”

  The illusion held. No one else paid her any mind, and Lila strode out into the morning light, not as a street thief, or a sailor, but a magician, ready for the Essen Tasch.

  I

  The day before the Essen Tasch, the Night Market roused itself around noon.

  Apparently the lure of festivities and foreigners eager to spend money was enough to amend the hours. With time to kill before the Banner Night, Lila wandered the stalls, her coins jingling in Elsor’s pockets; she bought a cup of spiced tea and some kind of sweet bun, and tried to make herself comfortable in her new persona.

  She didn’t dare go back to the Wandering Road, where she’d have to trade Elsor for Bard or else be recognized. Once the tournament began, it wouldn’t matter. Identities would disappear behind personas. But today she needed to be seen. Recognized. Remembered.

  It wasn’t hard. The stall owners were notorious gossips—all she had to do was strike up conversation as she shopped, drop a hint, a detail, once or twice a name, purposefully skirt the topic of the tournament, leave a parcel behind so someone trotted after her calling out, “Elsor! Master Elsor!”

  By the time she reached the palace edge of the market, the work was done, word weaving through the crowd. Stasion Elsor. One of the competitors. Handsome fellow. Too thin. Never seen him before. What can he do? Guess we’ll see. She felt their eyes on her as she shopped, caught the edges of their whispered conversation, and tried to smother her thief’s instinct to shake the gaze and disappear.

  Not yet, she thought as the sun finally began to sink.

  One thing was still missing.

  “Lila,” said Calla when she entered. “You’re early.”

  “You didn’t set a time.”

  The merchant stopped, taking in Lila’s new appearance.

  “How do I look?” she asked, shoving her hands in Elsor’s coat.

  Calla sighed. “Even less like a woman than usual.” She plucked the hat off Lila’s head and turned it over in her hands.

  “This is not bad,” said Calla, before noticing Lila’s shorn hair. She took a piece between her fingers. “But what is this?”

  Lila shrugged. “I wanted a change.”

  Calla tutted, but she didn’t prod. Instead, she disappeared through a curtain, and emerged a moment later with a box.

  Inside was Lila’s mask.

  She lifted it, and staggered at the weight. The interior had been lined with dark metal, so cleanly made and shaped that it looked poured instead of hammered. Calla hadn’t disposed of the leather demon mask, not entirely, but she’d taken it apart and made something new. The lines were clean, the angles sharp. Where simple black horns had once corkscrewed up over the head, now they curled back in an elegant way. The brow was sharper, jutting forward slightly like a visor, and the bottom of the mask, which had once ended on her cheekbones, now dipped lower at the sides, following the lines of her jaw. It was still a monster’s face, but it was a new breed of demon.

  Lila slid the mask over her head. She was still wondering at the beautiful, monstrous thing when Calla handed her something else. It was made of the same black leather, and lined with the same dark metal, and it shaped a kind of crown, or a smile, the sides taller than the center. Lila turned it over in her hands, wondering what it was for, until Calla retrieved it, swept around behind her, and fastened the plate around her throat.

  “To keep your head on your shoulders,” said the woman, who then proceeded to clasp the sides of the neck guard to small, hidden hinges on the tapered sides of the mask. It was like a jaw, and when Lila looked at her reflection, she saw her features nested within the two halves of the monster’s skull.

  She broke into a devilish grin, her teeth glinting within the mouth of the helmet.

  “You,” said Lila, “are brilliant.”

  “Anesh,” said Calla with a shrug, though Lila could see that the merchant was proud.

  She had the sudden and peculiar urge to hug the woman, but she resisted.

  The hinged jaw allowed her to raise the mask, which she did, the demon’s head resting on top of her own like a crown, the jaw still circling her throat. “How do I look?” she asked.

  “Strange,” said Calla. “And dangerous.”

  “Perfect.”

  Outside, the bells began
to toll, and Lila’s smile widened.

  It was time.

  * * *

  Kell crossed to the bed and examined the clothes—a set of black trousers and a high-collared black shirt, both trimmed with gold. On top of the shirt sat the gold pin Rhy had given him for the royal reception. His coat waited, thrown over the back of a chair, but he left it there. It was a traveler’s charm, and tonight he was confined to the palace.

  The clothes on the bed were Rhy’s choice, and they weren’t simply a gift.

  They were a message.

  Tomorrow, you can be Kamerov.

  Tonight, you are Kell.

  Hastra had appeared earlier, only to confiscate his mask, on Rhy’s orders.

  Kell had been reluctant to relinquish it.

  “You must be excited,” Hastra had said, reading his hesitation, “about the tournament. Don’t imagine you get to test your mettle very often.”

  Kell had frowned. “This isn’t a game,” he’d said, perhaps too sternly. “It’s about keeping the kingdom safe.” He felt a twinge of guilt as he watched Hastra go pale.

  “I’ve sworn an oath to protect the royal family.”

  “I’m sorry then,” said Kell ruefully, “that you’re stuck protecting me.”

  “It’s an honor, sir.” There was nothing in his tone but pure, simple truth. “I would defend you with my life.”

  “Well,” said Kell, surrendering Kamerov’s mask. “I hope you never have to.”

  The young guard managed a small, embarrassed smile. “Me too, sir.”

  Kell paced his room and tried to put tomorrow from his mind. First he had to survive tonight.

  A pitcher and bowl sat on the sideboard, and Kell poured water into the basin and pressed his palms to the sides until it steamed. Once clean, he dressed in Rhy’s chosen attire, willing to humor his brother. It was the least he could do—though Kell wondered, as he slipped on the tunic, how long Rhy would be calling in this payment. He could picture the prince a decade from now, telling Kell to fetch him tea.

  “Get it yourself,” he would say, and Rhy would tut and answer, “Remember Kamerov?”

  Kell’s evening clothes were tight, formfitting in the style Rhy favored, and made of a black fabric so fine it caught the light instead of swallowing it. The cut and fit forced him to stand at full height, erasing his usual slouch. He fastened the gold buttons, the cuffs and collar—saints, how many clasps did it take to clothe a man?—and lastly the royal pin over his heart.

  Kell checked himself in his mirror, and stiffened.

  Even with his fair skin and auburn hair, even with the black eye that shone like polished rock, Kell looked regal. He stared at his reflection for several long moments, mesmerized, before tearing his gaze away.

  He looked like a prince.

  * * *

  Rhy stood before the mirror, fastening the gleaming buttons of his tunic. Beyond the shuttered balcony, the sounds of celebration were rising off the cold night like steam. Carriages and laughter, footsteps and music.

  He was running late, and he knew it, but he couldn’t seem to get his nerves under control, wrangle his fears. It was getting dark, and the darkness leaned against the palace, and against him, the weight settling on his chest.

  He poured himself a drink—his third—and forced a smile at his reflection.

  Where was the prince who relished such festivities, who loved nothing better than to be the contagious joy at the center of the room?

  Dead, thought Rhy, drily, before he could stop himself, and he was glad, not for the first time, that Kell could not read his mind as well as feel his pain. Luckily, other people still seemed to look at Rhy and see what he’d been instead of what he was. He didn’t know if that meant he was good at hiding the difference, or that they weren’t paying attention to begin with. Kell looked, and Rhy was sure he saw the change, but he had the sense not to say anything. There was nothing to be said. Kell had given Rhy a life—his life—and it wasn’t his fault if Rhy didn’t like it as much as his own. He’d lost that one, forfeited by his own foolishness.

  He downed the drink, hoping it would render him in better spirits, but it dulled the world without ever touching his thoughts.

  He touched the gleaming buttons and adjusted his crown for the dozenth time, shivering as a gust of cold air brushed against his neck.

  “I fear you haven’t enough gold,” came a voice from the balcony doors.

  Rhy stiffened. “What are guards for,” he said slowly, “when they let even pirates pass?”

  The man took a step forward, and then another, silver on him ringing like muffled chimes. “Privateer’s the term these days.”

  Rhy swallowed and turned to face Alucard Emery. “As for the gold,” he said evenly, “it is a fine balance. The more I wear, the more likely one is to try and rob me of it.”

  “Such a dilemma,” said Alucard, stealing another stride. Rhy took him in. He was dressed in clothes that had clearly never seen the sea. A dark blue suit, accented by a silver cloak, his rich brown hair groomed and threaded with gems to match. A single sapphire sparkled over his right eye. Those eyes, like night lilies caught in moonlight. He used to smell like them, too. Now he smelled like sea breeze and spice, and other things Rhy could not place, from lands he’d never seen.

  “What brings a rogue like you to my chambers?” he asked.

  “A rogue,” Alucard rolled the word over his tongue. “Better a rogue than a bored royal.”

  Rhy felt Alucard’s eyes wandering slowly, hungrily, over him, and he blushed. The heat started in his face and spread down, through his collar, his chest, beneath shirt and belt. It was disconcerting; Rhy might not have magic, but when it came to conquests, he was used to holding the power—things happened at his whim, and at his pleasure. Now he felt that power falter, slip. In all of Ames, there was only one person capable of flustering the prince, of reducing him from a proud royal to a nervous youth, and that was Alucard Emery. Misfit. Rogue. Privateer. And royal. Removed from the throne by a stretch of tangled bloodlines, sure, but still. Alucard Emery could have had a crest and a place in court. Instead, he fled.

  “You’ve come for the tournament,” said Rhy, making small talk.

  Alucard pursed his lips at the attempt. “Among other things.”

  Rhy hesitated, unsure what to say next. With anyone else, he would have had a flirtatious retort, but standing there, a mere stride away from Alucard, he felt short of breath, let alone words. He turned away, fidgeting with his cuffs. He heard the chime of silver and a moment later, Alucard snaked an arm possessively around his shoulders and brought his lips to the prince’s neck, just below his ear. Rhy actually shivered.

  “You are far too familiar with your prince,” he warned.

  “So you confess it, then?” His brushed his lips against Rhy’s throat. “That you are mine.”

  He bit the lobe of Rhy’s ear, and the prince gasped, back arching. Alucard always did know what to say—what to do—to tilt the world beneath his feet.

  Rhy turned to say something, but Alucard’s mouth was already there on his. Hands tangled in hair, clutched at coats. They were a collision, spurred by the force of three years apart.

  “You missed me,” said Alucard. It was not a question, but there was a confession in it, because everything about Alucard—the tension in his back, the ways his hips pressed into Rhy’s, the race of his heart and the tremor in his voice—said that the missing had been mutual.

  “I’m a prince,” said Rhy, striving for composure. “I know how to keep myself entertained.”

  The sapphire glinted in Alucard’s brow. “I can be very entertaining.” He was already leaning in as he spoke, and Rhy found himself closing the distance, but at the last moment Alucard tangled his fingers in Rhy’s hair and pulled his head back, exposing the prince’s throat. He pressed his lips to the slope below Rhy’s jaw.

  Rhy clenched his teeth, fighting back a groan, but his stillness must have betrayed him; he felt Alucard
smile against his skin. The man’s fingers drifted to his tunic, deftly unbuttoning his collar so his kisses could continue downward, but Rhy felt him hesitate at the sight of the scar over his heart. “Someone has wounded you,” he whispered into Rhy’s collarbone. “Shall I make it better?”

  Rhy pulled Alucard’s face back to his, desperate to draw his attention from the mark, and the questions it might bring. He bit Alucard’s lip, and delighted in the small victory of the gasp it earned him as—

  The bells rang out.

  The Banner Night.

  He was late. They were late.

  Alucard laughed softly, sadly. Rhy closed his eyes and swallowed.

  “Sanct,” he cursed, hating the world that waited beyond his doors, and his place in it.

  Alucard was already pulling away, and for an instant all Rhy wanted to do was pull him back, hold fast, terrified that if he let go, Alucard would vanish again, not just from the room but from London, from him, slip out into the night and the sea as he’d done three years before. Alucard must have seen the panic in his eyes, because he turned back, and drew Rhy in, and pressed his lips to Rhy’s one last time, a gentle, lingering kiss.

  “Peace,” he said, pulling slowly free. “I am not a ghost.” And then he smiled, and smoothed his coat, and turned away. “Fix your crown, my prince,” he called back as he reached the door. “It’s crooked.”

  II

  Kell was halfway down the stairs when he was met by a short ostra with a trimmed beard and a frazzled look. Parlo, the prince’s shadow since the tournament preparations first began.

  “Master Kell,” he said, breathless. “The prince is not with you?”

  Kell cocked his head. “I assumed he was already downstairs.”

  Parlo shook his head. “Could something be wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” said Kell with certainty.

  “Well then, it’s about to be. The king is losing patience, most of the guests are here, and the prince has not yet made an entrance.”

  “Perhaps that’s exactly what he’s trying to make.” Parlo looked sick with panic. “If you’re worried, why don’t you go to his room and fetch him?” The ostra paled even further, as if Kell had just suggested something unfathomable. Obscene.