Gathering of Shadows (A Darker Shade of Magic)

by V. E. Schwab

  He’d always envied his brother’s strength.

  And now, in a horrible way, it was his.

  He was immortal.

  And he hated it.

  And he hated that he hated it. Hated that he’d become the thing he never wanted to be, a burden to his brother, a source of pain and suffering, a prison. Hated that if he’d had a choice, he would have said no. Hated that he was grateful he hadn’t had a choice, because he wanted to live, even if he didn’t deserve to.

  But most of all, Rhy hated the way his living changed how Kell lived, the way his brother moved through life as if it were suddenly fragile. The black stone, and whatever lived inside it, and for a time in Kell, had changed his brother, woken something restless, something reckless. Rhy wanted to shout, to shake Kell and tell him not to shy away from danger on his account, but charge toward it, even if it meant getting hurt.

  Because Rhy deserved that pain.

  He could see his brother suffocating beneath the weight of it. Of him.

  And he hated it.

  And this gesture—this foolish, mad, dangerous gesture—was the best he could do.

  The most he could do.

  The room had steadied, and suddenly, desperately, Rhy needed another drink.

  A sideboard stood along the wall, an ornate thing of wood and inlaid gold. Short glass goblets huddled beside a tray with a dozen different bottles of fine liquor, and Rhy squinted in the dimness, surveying the selection before reaching for the thin vial at the back, hidden by the taller, brighter bottles. The tonic in the vial was milky white, the stopper trailing a thin stem.

  One for calm. Two for quiet. Three for sleep.

  That’s what Tieren said when he prescribed it.

  Rhy’s fingers trembled as he reached for the vial, jostling the other glasses.

  It was late, and he didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts.

  He could call for someone—he’d never had trouble finding company—but he wasn’t in the mood to smile and laugh and charm. If Gen and Parrish were here, they’d play Sanct with him, help him keep the thoughts at bay. But Gen and Parrish were dead, and it was Rhy’s fault.

  You shouldn’t be alive.

  He shook his head, trying to clear the voices, but they clung.

  You let everyone down.

  “Stop,” he growled under his breath. He hated the darkness, the wave of shadows that always caught up with him. He’d hoped the party would wear him down, help him sleep, but his tired body did nothing to quiet his raging thoughts.

  You are weak.

  He let three drops fall into an empty glass, followed by a splash of honeyed water.

  A failure.

  Rhy tossed back the contents (Murderer) and began to count, in part to mark the effects and in part to drown out the voices. He stood at the bar, staring down into the empty glass and measuring seconds until his thoughts and vision began to blur.

  Rhy pushed away from the sideboard, and nearly fell as the room tipped around him. He caught himself against the bedpost and closed his eyes (You shouldn’t be alive), tugging off his boots and feeling his way into bed. He curled around himself as the thoughts beat on: of Holland’s voice, of the amulet, distorted now, twisting into memories of the night Rhy died.

  He didn’t remember everything, but he remembered Holland holding out the gift.

  For strength.

  He remembered standing in his chambers, slipping the pendant’s cord over his head, being halfway down the hall, and then—nothing. Nothing until a searing heat tore through his chest, and he looked down to see his hand wrapped around the hilt of a dagger, the blade buried between his ribs.

  He remembered the pain, and the blood, and the fear, and finally the quiet and the dark. The surrender of letting go, of sinking down, away, and the shock of being dragged back, the force of it like falling, a terrible, jarring pain when he hit the ground. Only he wasn’t falling down. He was falling up. Surging back to the surface of himself, and then, and then.

  And then the tonic finally took hold, the memories silenced as the past and present both mercifully faded and Rhy slipped feverishly down into sleep.

  V

  WHITE LONDON

  Holland paced the royal chamber.

  It was as vast and vaulting as the throne room, with broad windows to every side. Built into the castle’s western spire, it overlooked the entire city. From here he could see the glow from the Sijlt dance like moonlight against the low clouds, see lamps burn pale but steady, diffused by windowpanes and low mist, see the city—his city—sleep and wake, rest and stir, and return to life.

  His head snapped up as something landed on the sill—power surged reflexively to the surface—but it was just a bird. White and grey with a pale gold crest, and eyes that shone as black as Holland’s. He exhaled.

  A bird.

  How long had it been since he’d seen one? Animals had fled with the magic long ago, rooting out the distant places where the world wasn’t dying, burrowing down to reach the retreating life. Any creature foolish enough to stray within reach was slaughtered for sustenance or spellwork, or both. The Danes had kept two horses, pristine white beasts, and even those had fallen in the days after their deaths, when the city plunged into chaos and slaughter for the crown. Holland had missed those early days, of course. He’d spent them clinging to life in a garden a world away.

  But here, now, was a bird.

  He didn’t realize he was reaching toward it until it ruffled and took wing, his fingertips grazing its feathers before it was out of reach.

  A single bird. But it was a sign. The world was changing.

  Osaron could summon many things, but not this. Nothing with a heartbeat, nothing with a soul. Holland supposed that was for the best. After all, if Osaron could make a body of his own, he would have no need for Holland. And as much as Holland needed Osaron’s magic, the thought of the oshoc moving freely sent a shiver through him. No, Holland was not only Osaron’s partner, he was Osaron’s prison.

  And his prisoner was growing restless.

  More.

  The voice echoed in his head.

  Holland took up a book and began to read, but he was only two pages in when the paper shuddered, as if caught by a wind, and the whole thing—from parchment to cover—turned to glass in his hands.

  “This is childish,” he murmured, setting the ruined book aside and splaying his hands across the sill.

  More.

  He felt a tremor beneath his palms and looked down to find tendrils of fog sprawling over the stone and leaving frost, flowers, ivy, fire in their wake.

  Holland wrenched his hands away as if burned.

  “Stop this,” he said, turning his gaze on the looking glass, a tall, elegant mirror between two windows. He looked at his reflection and saw Osaron’s impatient, impetuous gaze.

  We could do more.

  We could be more.

  We could have more.

  We could have anything.

  And instead …

  The magic slithered forth, snaked out from Holland’s own hands, a hundred wisp-thin lines that swept and arced around him, threading from wall to wall and ceiling to floor until he stood in the center of a cage.

  Holland shook his head and dispelled the illusion. “This is my world,” he said. “It is not a canvas for your whims.”

  You have no vision, sulked Osaron from the reflection.

  “I have vision,” replied Holland. “I have seen what happened to your world.”

  Osaron said nothing, but Holland could feel his restlessness. Could feel the oshoc pacing the edges of the Antari’s self, wearing grooves into his mind. Osaron was as old as the world, and as wild.

  Holland closed his eyes and tried to force calm like a blanket over them both. He needed sleep. A large bed sat in the very center of the room, elegant but untouched. Holland didn’t sleep. Not well. Athos had spent too many years carving—cutting, burning, breaking—the distrust of peace into his body. His muscles
refused to unclench; his mind wouldn’t unwind; the walls he’d built hadn’t been built to come down. Athos might be dead, but Holland couldn’t shake the fear that when his eyes closed, Osaron’s might open. Couldn’t bear the thought of surrendering control again.

  He’d stationed guards beyond his room to make sure he didn’t wander, but every time he woke, the chamber looked different. A spray of roses climbing the window, a chandelier of ice, a carpet of moss or some exotic fabric—some small change wrought in the night.

  We had a deal.

  He could feel the oshoc’s will warring with his own, growing stronger every day, and though Holland was still in control, he didn’t know for how much longer. Something would have to be sacrificed. Or someone.

  Holland opened his eyes, and met the oshoc’s gaze.

  “I want to make a new deal.”

  In the mirror, Osaron inclined his head, waiting, listening.

  “I will find you another body.”

  Osaron’s expression soured. They are too weak to sustain me. Even Ojka would crumble under my true touch.

  “I will find you a body as strong as mine,” said Holland carefully.

  Osaron looked intrigued. An Antari?

  Holland pressed on. “And his world. To make your own. And in return, you will leave this world to me. Not as it was, but as it can be. Restored.”

  Another body, another world, mused Osaron. So keen to be rid of me?

  “You want more freedom,” said Holland. “I am offering it.”

  Osaron turned the offer over. Holland tried to keep his mind calm and clear, knowing the oshoc would feel his feelings and know his thoughts. You offer me an Antari vessel. You know I cannot take such a body without permission.

  “That is my concern,” said Holland. “Accept my offer, and you will have a new body and a new world to do with as you please. But you will not take this world. You will not ruin it.”

  Hmmm, the sound was a vibration through Holland’s head. Very well, said the oshoc at last. Bring me another body, and the deal is struck. I will take their world instead.

  Holland nodded.

  But, added Osaron, if they cannot be persuaded, I will keep your body as my own.

  Holland growled. Osaron waited.

  Well? A slow smile crept over the reflection. Do you still wish to make the deal?

  Holland swallowed, and looked out his window as a second bird soared past.

  “I do.”

  I

  Kell sat up, a scream still lodged in his throat.

  Sweat traced the lines of his face as he blinked away the nightmare.

  In his dreams, Red London was burning. He could still smell the smoke now that he was awake, and it took him a moment to realize that it wasn’t simply an echo, trailing him out of sleep. The bedsheets were singed where he was gripping them—he had somehow summoned fire in his sleep. Kell stared down at his hands, the knuckles white. It had been years since his control had faltered.

  Kell threw off the covers, and he was halfway to his feet when he heard the cascade of sound beyond the windows, the trumpets and bells, the carriages and shouts.

  The tournament.

  His blood hummed as he dressed, turning his coat inside out several times—assuring himself that Kamerov’s silver jacket hadn’t been swallowed up by the infinite folds of fabric—before returning it to its royal red and heading downstairs.

  He put in a cursory appearance at breakfast, nodding to the king and queen and wishing Rhy luck as a flurry of attendants swirled around the prince with final plans, notes, and questions.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” asked the king as Kell palmed a sweet bun and turned toward the door.

  “Sir?” he asked, glancing back.

  “This is a royal event, Kell. You are expected to attend.”

  “Of course.” He swallowed. Rhy shot him a look that said, I’ve gotten you this far. Don’t blow it now. And if he did? Would Rhy have to call Castars back in to make another appearance? It would be too risky, trading the roles again in time for the fights, and Kell had a feeling Castars’s charm wouldn’t save him in the ring. Kell fumbled for an excuse. “It’s just … I didn’t think it wise for me to stand with the royal family.”

  “And why is that?” demanded King Maxim. The queen’s gaze drifted in his direction, glancing off his shoulder, and Kell had to bite back the urge to point out that he wasn’t actually a member of the royal family, as the last four months had made abundantly clear. But Rhy’s look was a warning.

  “Well,” said Kell, scrambling for an explanation, “for the prince’s safety. It’s one thing to put me on display with dignitaries and champions in the company of royals, Your Highness, but you’ve said yourself that I’m a target.” The prince gave a small, encouraging nod, and Kell pressed on. “Is it really wise to put me so close to Rhy in such a public forum? I was hoping to stake out a less conspicuous place, in case I’m needed. Somewhere with a good view of the royal podium, but not upon it.”

  The king’s gaze narrowed in thought. The queen’s gaze returned to her tea.

  “Well thought,” said Maxim grudgingly. “But keep Staff or Hastra with you at all times,” he warned. “No wandering off.”

  Kell managed a smile. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

  And with that, he slipped out.

  “The king does know about your role,” said Hastra as they walked down the hall. “Doesn’t he?”

  Kell shot the young guard a glance. “Of course,” he said, casually. And then, on a whim, he added, “But the queen does not. Her nerves couldn’t handle the strain.”

  Hastra nodded knowingly. “She hasn’t been the same, has she?” he whispered. “Not since that night.”

  Kell straightened, and quickened his step. “None of us have.”

  When they reached the steps into the Basin, Kell paused. “You know the plan?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hastra. He flashed an excited smile and disappeared.

  Kell shrugged off his coat and turned it inside out as he descended into the Basin, where he’d already drawn a shortcut on the glassy stone wall. His mask was sitting in its box atop the table, along with a note from his brother.

  Keep this—and your head—on your shoulders.

  Kell shrugged Kamerov’s silver jacket on and opened the box. The mask waited within, its surface polished to mirror clarity, sharpening Kell’s reflection until it looked like it belonged to someone else.

  Beside the box sat a piece of rolled red fabric, and when Kell smoothed it out, he saw it was a new pennant. The two roses had been replaced by twin lions, black and white and lined with gold against the crimson ground.

  Kell smiled and tugged the mask on over his head, his reddish hair and two-toned eyes vanishing behind the silvery surface.

  “Master Kamerov,” said Staff when he stepped out into the morning air. “Are you ready?”

  “I am,” he answered in Arnesian, the edges of his voice muffled and smoothed by the metal.

  They started up the steps, and when they reached the top, Kell waited while the guard vanished, then reappeared a moment later to confirm the path was clear. Or rather, covered. The steps were sheltered by the palace’s foundation, running from river to street, and market stalls crowded the banks, obstructing the path. By the time Kell stepped out of the palace’s shadow, slipped between the tents and onto the main road, the Antari royal was left behind. Kamerov Loste had taken his place.

  He might have been a different man, but he was still tall, lean, and dressed in silver, from mask to boot, and the eyes of the crowd quickly registered the magician in their midst. But after the first wave, Kell didn’t cringe from the attention. Instead of trying to embody Rhy, he embodied a version of himself—one who didn’t fear the public eye, one who had power, and nothing to hide—and soon he fell into an easy, confident stride.

  As he made his way with the crowd toward the central stadium, Staff hung back, blending in with the other gua
rds who lined the road at regular intervals and walked among the throngs of people.

  Kell smiled as he mounted the bridge path from the banks to the largest of the three floating arenas. Last night he’d imagined feeling the ground move beneath him, but that might have been the wine, because this morning as he reached the archway to the arena floor, it felt solid as earth beneath his feet.

  Half a dozen other men and women, all Arnesian, were already gathered in the corridor—the magicians from Faro and Vesk must be assembled in their own halls—waiting to make their grand entrance. Like Kell, they were decked out in their official tournament attire, with elegant coats or cloaks and, of course, helmets.

  He recognized Kisimyr’s coiled hair behind a catlike mask, Losen a step behind her, as if he were an actual shadow. Beside them was Brost’s massive form, his features barely obscured by the simple strip of dark metal over his eyes. And there, behind a mask of scales trimmed in blue, stood Alucard.

  The captain’s gaze drifted over Kell, and he felt himself tense, but of course, where Kell saw a foe, Alucard would have seen only a stranger in a silver mask. And one who’d obviously introduced himself at the Banner Night, because Alucard tipped his head with an arrogant smile.

  Kell nodded back, secretly hoping their paths might cross in the ring.

  Jinnar appeared on a gust of wind against Kell’s back, slipping past him with a breezy chuckle before knocking shoulders with Alucard.

  More footsteps sounded in the tunnel, and Kell turned to see the last few Arnesians join the group, the dark shape of Stasion Elsor at the rear. He was long and lean, his face entirely hidden by a demon’s mask. For an instant, Kell’s breath caught, but Rhy was right: Kell was determined to see Lila Bard in every black-clad form, every smirking shadow.

  Stasion Elsor’s eyes were shadowed by the mask, but up close, the demon’s face was different, the horns arcing back and a skeletal jawbone collaring mouth and throat. A lock of hair a shade darker than Lila’s traced a line like a crack between the magician’s shaded brown eyes. And though his mouth was visible between the demon’s teeth, Stasion didn’t smile, only stared at Kell. Kamerov.