Gathering of Shadows (A Darker Shade of Magic)

by V. E. Schwab

  Sar braced herself for an attack as soon as Lila’s boots struck stone, which was why Lila launched the fire before she landed. The meteor caught the Veskan’s shin, shattering another plate.

  Four to six.

  Lila was catching up.

  She rolled behind a barrier to recover as Sar stretched out her thick fingers, and the earth strewn across the arena shuddered and drew itself back toward her.

  Lila saw a large clod of dirt and dropped to one knee, fingers curling around the earth the moment before Sar’s invisible force took hold and pulled, hard enough to draw the element, and Lila with it. She didn’t let go, boots sliding along the smooth stone floor as Sar reeled her in without realizing it, Lila herself still hidden by the various obstacles. The boulders and columns and walls ended, and the instant they did, Sar saw Lila, saw her let go of the ball of earth, now coated in flame. It careened back toward the Veskan, driven first by her pull and then by Lila’s will, crashing into her chest and shattering two more plates.

  Good. Now they were even.

  Sar attacked again, and Lila dodged casually—or at least, she meant to, but her boot held fast to the floor, and she looked down to see a band of earth turned hard and dark as rock and fused to the ground. Sar’s teeth flashed in a grin behind her mask, and it was all Lila could do to get her arms up in time to block the next attack.

  Pain rang through her like a tuning fork as the plates across her stomach, hip, and thigh all shattered. Lila tasted blood, and hoped she’d simply bitten her tongue. She was one plate shy of losing the whole damn thing, and Sar was gearing up to strike again, and the earth that pinned her boot was still holding firm.

  Lila couldn’t pull her foot free, and her fire was scattered across the arena, dying right along with her chances. Her heart raced and her head spun, the noise in the arena drowning everything as Sar’s ultimate attack crashed toward Lila.

  There was no point in blocking, so she threw out her hands, heat scorching the air as she drew the last of her fire into a shield.

  Protect me, she thought, abandoning poetry and spell in favor of supplication.

  She didn’t expect it to work.

  But it did.

  A wave of energy swept down her arms, meeting the meager flame, and an instant later, the fire exploded in front of her. A wall of flame erupted, dividing the arena and rendering Sar a shadow on the opposite side, her earthen attack burning to ash.

  Lila’s eyes widened behind her mask.

  She’d never spoken to the magic, not directly. Sure, she’d cursed at it, and grumbled, and asked a slew of rhetorical questions. But she’d never commanded it, not the way Kell did with blood. Not the way she had with the stone, before she discovered the cost.

  If the fire claimed a price, she couldn’t feel it yet. Her pulse was raging in her head as her muscles ached and her thoughts raced, and the wall of flame burned merrily before her. Fire licked her outstretched fingers, the heat brushing her skin but never settling long enough to burn.

  Lila didn’t try to be a wave, or a door. She simply pushed, not with force, but with will, and the wall of fire shot forward, barreling toward Sar. To Lila, the whole thing seemed to take forever. She didn’t understand why Sar was standing still, not until time snapped back into focus, and she realized that the wall’s appearance, its transformation, had been the work of an instant.

  The fire twisted in on itself, like a kerchief drawn through a hand, as it launched toward Sar, compressing, gaining force and heat and speed.

  The Veskan was many things, but she wasn’t fast—not as fast as Lila, and definitely not as fast as fire. She got her arms up, but she couldn’t block the blast. It shattered every remaining plate across her front in a blaze of light.

  Sar tumbled backward, the wood of her mask singed, and at last the earth crumbled around Lila’s boot, releasing her.

  The match was over.

  And she had won.

  Lila’s legs went weak, and she fought the urge to sink to the cold stone floor.

  Sweat streamed down her neck, and her hands were scraped raw. Her head buzzed with energy, and she knew that as soon as the high faded, everything would hurt like hell, but right now, she felt incredible.

  Invincible.

  Sar got to her feet, took a step toward her, and held out a hand that swallowed Lila’s when she took it. Then the Veskan vanished into her tunnel, and Lila turned toward the royal platform to offer the prince a bow.

  The gesture caught halfway when she saw Kell at Rhy’s shoulder, looking windblown and flushed. Lila managed to finish the bow, one hand folded against her heart. The prince applauded. Kell only cocked his head. And then she was ushered out on a wave of cheers and the echo of “Stasion! Stasion! Stasion!”

  Lila crossed the arena with slow, even steps, escaping into the darkened corridor.

  And there she sank to her knees and laughed until her chest hurt.

  VI

  “You missed quite a match,” said Rhy. Stasion Elsor had vanished, and the stadium began to empty. The first round was over. Thirty-six had become eighteen, and tomorrow, eighteen would become nine.

  “Sorry,” said Kell. “It’s been a busy day.”

  Rhy swung his arm around his brother’s shoulders, then winced. “Did you have to let that last blow through?” he whispered beneath the sounds of the crowd.

  Kell shrugged. “I wanted to give the people a show.” But he was smiling.

  “You better put that grin away,” chided Rhy. “If anyone sees you beaming like that, they’ll think you’ve gone mad.”

  Kell tried to wrestle his features into their usual stem order, and lost. He couldn’t help it. The last time he’d felt this alive, someone was trying to kill him.

  His body ached in a dozen different places. He’d lost six plates to the Faroan’s ten. It was far harder than he’d thought it would be, using only one element. Normally he let the lines between them blur, drawing on whichever he needed, knowing he could reach for any, and they would answer. In the end, it had taken half Kell’s focus not to break the rules.

  But he’d done it.

  Rhy’s arm fell away, and he nodded at the arena floor where the Arnesian had been. “That one might give the others a run for their money.”

  “I thought the odds were in Alucard’s favor.”

  “Oh, they still are. But this one’s something. You should see his next match, if you can find the time.”

  “I’ll check my schedule.”

  A man cleared his throat. “Your Highness. Master Kell.” It was Rhy’s guard, Tolners. He led their escort out of the stadium, and Staff fell in step behind them on the way to the palace. It had only been hours since Kell left, but he felt like a different man. The walls weren’t as suffocating, and even the looks didn’t bother him as much.

  It had felt so good to fight. The exhilaration was paired with a strange relief, a loosening in his limbs and chest, like a craving sated. For the first time in months, he was able to stretch his power. Not all the way, of course, and every moment he was constantly aware of the need for discretion, disguise, but it was something. Something he’d desperately needed.

  “You’re coming tonight, of course,” said Rhy as they climbed the stairs to the royal hall. “To the ball?”

  “Another one?” complained Kell. “Doesn’t it get tiresome?”

  “The politics are exhausting, but the company can be pleasant. And I can’t hide you from Cora forever.”

  “Talk of exhausting,” muttered Kell as they reached their hall. He stopped at his room, while Rhy continued toward the doors with the gold inlaid R at the end.

  “The sacrifices we make,” Rhy called back.

  Kell rolled his eyes as the prince disappeared. He brought his hand to his own door, and paused. A bruise was coming out against his wrist, and he could feel the other places he’d been hit coloring beneath his clothes.

  He couldn’t wait for tomorrow’s match.

  He pushed open the
door, and he was already shrugging out of his coat when he saw the king standing at his balcony doors, looking out through the frosted glass. Kell’s spirits sank.

  “Sir,” he said gingerly.

  “Kell,” said the king in way of greeting. His attention went to Staff, who stood in the doorway. “Please wait outside.” And then, to Kell, “Sit.”

  Kell lowered himself onto a sofa, his bruises suddenly feeling less like victories, and more like traitors.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Kell when they were alone.

  “No,” said the king. “But I’ve been thinking about what you said this morning.”

  This morning? This morning was years away. “About what, sir?”

  “About your proximity to Rhy during the Essen Tasch. With so many foreigners flooding the city, I’d prefer if you kept to the palace.”

  Kell’s chest tightened. “Have I done something wrong? Am I being punished?”

  King Maxim shook his head. “I’m not doing this to punish you. I’m doing it to protect Rhy.”

  “Your Majesty, I’m the one who protects Rhy. If anything were to—”

  “But Rhy doesn’t need your protection,” cut in the king, “not anymore. The only way to keep him safe is to keep you safe.” Kell’s mouth went dry. “Come, Kell,” continued the king, “you can’t care that much. I haven’t seen you at the tournament all day.”

  Kell shook his head. “That’s not the point. This isn’t—”

  “The central arena is visible from the palace balconies. You can watch the tournament from here.” The king set a golden ring the size of his palm on the table. “You can even listen to it.”

  Kell opened his mouth, but the protests died on his tongue. He swallowed and clenched his hands. “Very well, sir,” he said, pushing to his feet. “Am I banished from the balls, too?”

  “No,” said the king, ignoring the edge in Kell’s voice. “We keep track of all those who come and go. I see no reason to keep you from those, so long as you are careful. Besides, we wouldn’t want our guests to wonder where you were.”

  “Of course,” murmured Kell.

  As soon as the king was gone, Kell crossed into the small room off the main chamber and shut the door. Candles came to life on the shelf walls, and by their light he could see the back of the door, its wood marked by a dozen symbols, each a portal to another place in London. It would be so easy to go. They could not keep him. Kell drew his knife and cut a shallow line against his arm. When the blood welled, he touched his fingers to the cut, but instead of tracing an existing symbol, he drew a fresh mark on a bare stretch of wood: a vertical bar with two horizontal accents, one on top leading right, one on bottom leading left.

  The same symbol he’d made in Kamerov’s tent that morning.

  Kell had no intention of missing the tournament, but if a lie would ease the king’s mind, so be it. As far as breaking the king’s trust, it didn’t matter. The king hadn’t trusted him in months.

  Kell smiled grimly at the door, and went to join his brother.

  VII

  WHITE LONDON

  Ojka stood beneath the trees, wiping the blood from her knives.

  She’d spent the morning patrolling the streets of Kosik, her old stomping ground, where trouble still flared like fire through dry fields. Holland said it was to be expected, that change would always bring unrest, but Ojka was less forgiving. Her blades found the throats of traitors and disbelievers, silencing their dissent one voice at a time. They didn’t deserve to be a part of this new world.

  Ojka holstered the weapons and breathed deeply. The castle grounds, once littered with statues, were now filled with trees, each blossoming despite the winter chill. For as long as Ojka could remember, her world had smelled like ash and blood, but now it smelled of fresh air and fallen leaves, of forests and raging fires, of life and death, of sweet and damp and clean, of promise, of change, of power.

  Her hand drifted to the nearest tree, and when she placed her palm flat against the trunk she could feel a pulse. She didn’t know if it was hers, or the king’s, or the tree’s. Holland had told her that it was the pulse of the world, that when magic behaved the way it should, it belonged to no one and everyone, nothing and everything. It was a shared thing.

  Ojka didn’t understand that, but she wanted to.

  The bark was rough, and when she chipped away a piece with her nail, she was surprised to see the wood beneath mottled with the silver threads of spellwork. A bird cawed overhead, and Ojka drew nearer, but before she could examine the tree, she felt the pulse of heat behind her eye, the king’s voice humming through her head, resonant and welcome.

  Come to me, he said.

  Ojka’s hand fell away from the tree.

  * * *

  She was surprised to find her king alone.

  Holland was sitting forward on his throne, elbows on knees and head bowed over a silver bowl, its surface brimming with twisting smoke. She held her breath when she realized he was in the middle of a spell. The king’s hands were raised to either side of the bowl, his face a mask of concentration. His mouth was a firm line, but shadows wove through both of his eyes, coiling through the black of the left one before overtaking the green of the right. The shadows were alive, snaking through his sight as the smoke did in the bowl, where it coiled around something she couldn’t see. Lines of light traced themselves like lightning through the darkness, and Ojka’s skin prickled with the strength of the magic before the spell finished, the air around her shivered, and everything went still.

  The king’s hands fell away from the bowl, but several long moments passed before the living darkness retreated from the king’s right eye, leaving a vivid emerald in its wake.

  “Your Majesty,” said Ojka carefully.

  He did not look up.

  “Holland.”

  At that, his head rose. For an instant his two-toned gaze was still strangely empty, his focus far away, and then it sharpened, and she felt the weight of his attention settle on her.

  “Ojka,” he said, in his smooth, reverberating way.

  “You summoned me.”

  “I did.”

  He stood and gestured to the floor beside the dais.

  That was when she saw the bodies.

  There were two of them, swept aside like dirt, and to be fair, they looked less like corpses than like crumbling piles of ash, flesh withered black on bone frames, bodies contorted as if in pain, what was left of hands raised to what was left of throats. One looked much worse than the other. She didn’t know what had happened to them. Wasn’t sure she wanted to know. And yet she felt compelled to ask. The question tumbled out, her voice tearing the quiet.

  “Calculations,” answered the king, almost to himself. “I was mistaken. I thought the collar was too strong, but it is not. The people were just too weak.”

  Dread spread through Ojka like a chill as her attention returned to the silver bowl. “Collar?”

  Holland reached inside the bowl—for an instant, something in him seemed to recoil, resist the motion, but the king persisted—and as he did, shadow spilled over his skin, up his fingers, his hands, his wrists, becoming a pair of black gloves, smooth and strong, their surfaces subtly patterned with spellwork. Protection from whatever waited in the dark.

  From the depths of the silver bowl, the king withdrew a circlet of dark metal, hinged on one side, symbols etched and glowing on its surface. Ojka tried to read the markings, but her vision kept slipping, unable to find purchase. The space inside the circlet seemed to swallow light, energy, the air within turning pale and colorless and as thin as paper. There was something wrong with the metal collar, wrong in a way that bent the world around it, and that wrongness plucked at Ojka’s senses, made her feel dizzy and ill.

  Holland turned the circlet over in his gloved hands, as if inspecting a piece of craftsmanship. “It must be strong enough,” he said.

  Ojka braved a step forward. “You summoned me,” she repeated, her attention flic
king from the corpses to the king.

  “Yes,” he said, looking up. “I need to know if it works.”

  Fear prickled through her, the old, instinctual bite of panic, but she held her ground. “Your Majesty—”

  “Do you trust me?”

  Ojka tensed. Trust. Trust was a hard-won thing in a world like theirs. A world where people starved for magic and killed for power. Ojka had stayed alive so long by blade and trick and bald distrust, and it was true that things were changing now, because of Holland, but fear and caution still whispered warnings.

  “Ojka.” He considered her levelly, with eyes of emerald and ink.

  “I trust you,” she said, forcing the words out, making them real, before they could climb back down her throat.

  “Then come here.” Holland held up the collar as if it were a crown, and Ojka felt herself recoil. No. She had earned this place beside him. She had earned her power. Been strong enough to survive the transfer, the test. She had proven herself worthy. Beneath her skin, the magic tapped out its strong and steady beat. She wasn’t ready to let go, to relinquish the power and return to being an ordinary cutthroat. Or worse, she thought, glancing at the bodies.

  Come here.

  This time the command rang through her head, pulled on muscle, bone, magic.

  Ojka’s feet moved forward, one step, two, three, until she was standing right before the king. Her king. He had given her so much, and he had yet to claim his price. No boon came without a cost. She would have paid him in deed, in blood. If this was the cost—whatever this was—then so be it.

  Holland lowered the collar. His hands were so sure, his eyes so steady. She should have bowed her head, but instead, she held his gaze, and there she found balance, found calm. There she felt safe.

  And then the metal closed around her throat.

  The first thing she felt was the sharp cold of metal on skin. Surprise, but not pain. Then the cold sharpened into a knife. It slid under her skin, tore her open, magic spilling like blood from the wounds.

  Ojka gasped and staggered to her knees as ice shot through her head and down into her chest, frozen spikes splaying out through muscle and flesh, bone and marrow.