Gathering of Shadows (A Darker Shade of Magic)

by V. E. Schwab

  She scrambled for the knife she kept against her back, but the man caught her wrist and twisted it viciously up.

  Lila was trapped. She waited for the surge of power she’d felt in the arena, waited for the world to slow and her strength to return, but nothing happened.

  So she did something unexpected—she laughed.

  She didn’t feel like laughing—pain roared through her shoulder, and she could barely breathe—but she did it anyway, and was rewarded by confusion spreading like a stain across Ver-as-Is’s face.

  “You’re pathetic,” she spat. “You couldn’t beat me one-on-one, so you come at me with three? All you do is prove how weak you really are.”

  She reached for magic, for fire or earth, even for bone, but nothing came. Her head pounded, and blood continued to trickle from the wound at her side.

  “You think yours are the only people who can spell metal?” Ver-as-Is hissed, bringing the knife to her throat.

  Lila met his gaze. “You’re really going to kill me, just because you lost a match.”

  “No,” he said. “Like for like. You cheated. So will I.”

  “You’ve already lost!” she snapped. “What’s the fucking point?”

  “A country is not a man, but a man is a country,” he said, and then, to his men, “Get rid of him.”

  The other two began to drag her toward the docks.

  “Can’t even do it yourself,” she chided. If the jab landed, he didn’t let it show, just turned and began to walk away.

  “Ver-as-Is,” she called after him. “I’ll give you a choice.”

  “Oh?” He glanced back, pale-green eyes widening with amusement.

  “You can let me go right now, and walk away,” she said, slowly. “Or I will kill you all.”

  He smiled. “And if I let you go, I suppose we will part as friends?”

  “Oh no,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m going to kill you either way. But if your men let me go now, I won’t kill them as well.”

  For a moment, she thought she felt the arm at her throat loosen. But then it was back, twice as tight. Shit, she thought, as Ver-as-Is came toward her, spinning the knife in his hand.

  “If only words were weapons …” he said, bringing the blade down. The handle crashed against her temple, and everything went black.

  IV

  Lila woke like a drowning person breaking the surface of water.

  Her eyes shot open, but the world stayed pitch-black. She opened her mouth to shout, and realized it was already open, a cloth gag muffling the sound.

  There was a throbbing ache in the side of her head that sharpened with every motion, and she thought she might be sick. She tried to sit up, and she quickly discovered that she couldn’t.

  Panic flooded through her, the need to retch suddenly replaced by the need to breathe. She was in a box. A very small box.

  She went still, and she exhaled shakily when the box didn’t shift or sway. As far as she could tell, she was still on land. Unless, of course, she was under it.

  The air felt suddenly thinner.

  She couldn’t tell if the box was actually a coffin, because she couldn’t see the dimensions. She was lying on her side in the darkness. She tried again to move and realized why she couldn’t—her hands and feet had both been tied together, her arms wrenched behind her back. Her wrists ached from the coarse rope that circled them, her fingers numb, the knots tight enough that her skin was already rubbing raw. The slightest attempt to twist free caused a shudder of needle-sharp pain.

  I will kill them, she thought. I will kill them all. She didn’t say the words aloud because of the gag … and the fact that there wasn’t much air in the box. The knowledge made her want to gasp.

  Stay calm.

  Stay calm.

  Stay calm.

  Lila wasn’t afraid of many things. But she wasn’t fond of small, dark spaces. She tried to survey her body for knives, but they were gone. Her collected trinkets were gone. Her shard of stone was gone. Anger burned through Lila like fire.

  Fire.

  That’s what she needed. What could go wrong with fire in a wooden box? she wondered drily. Worst case, she would simply burn herself alive before she could get out. But if she was going to escape—and she was going to escape, if only to kill Ver-as-Is and his men—then she needed to be free of the rope. And rope burned.

  So Lila tried to summon fire.

  Tyger Tyger, burning bright …

  Nothing. Not even a spark. It couldn’t be the knife wound; that had dried, and the spell dried with it. That was how it worked. Was that how it worked? It seemed like it should work that way.

  Panic. More panic. Clawing panic.

  She closed her eyes, and swallowed, and tried again.

  And again.

  And again.

  * * *

  “Focus,” said Alucard.

  “Well it’s a little hard, considering.” Lila was standing in the middle of his cabin, blindfolded. The last time she’d seen him, he was sitting in his chair, ankle on knee, sipping a dark liquor. Judging by the sound of a bottle being lifted, a drink being poured, he was still there.

  “Eyes open, eyes shut,” he said, “it makes no difference.”

  Lila strongly disagreed. With her eyes open, she could summon fire. And with her eyes shut, well, she couldn’t. Plus, she felt like a fool. “What exactly is the point of this?”

  “The point, Bard, is that magic is a sense.”

  “Like sight,” she snapped.

  “Like sight,” said Alucard. “But not sight. You don’t need to see it. Just feel it.”

  “Feeling is a sense, too.”

  “Don’t be flippant.”

  Lila felt Esa twine around her leg, and resisted the urge to kick the cat. “I hate this.”

  Alucard ignored her. “Magic is all and none. It’s sight, and taste, and scent, and sound, and touch, and it’s also something else entirely. It is the power in all powers, and at the same time, it is its own. And once you know how to sense its presence, you will never be without it. Now stop whining and focus.”

  * * *

  Focus, thought Lila, struggling to stay calm. She could feel the magic, tangled in her pulse. She didn’t need to see it. All she needed to do was reach it.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to trick her mind into thinking that the darkness was a choice. She was an open door. She was in control.

  Burn, she thought, the word striking like a match inside her. She snapped her fingers and felt the familiar heat of fire licking the air above her skin. The rope caught, illuminating the dimensions of the box—small, very small, too small—and when she turned her head, a grisly face stared back at her, which resolved into the demon’s mask right before Lila was thrown by searing pain. When the fire hovered above her fingers, it didn’t hurt, but now, as it ate through the ropes, it burned.

  She bit back a scream as the flame licked her wrists before finally snapping the rope. As soon as her hands were free, she rolled over the fire, plunging herself back into darkness. She tugged the gag off and sat up to reach her ankles, smacking her head against the top of the box and swearing roundly as she fell back. Maneuvering carefully, she managed to reach the ropes at her feet and unknot them.

  Limbs free, she pushed against the lid of the box. It didn’t budge. She swore and brought her palms together, a tiny flame sparking between them. By its light she could see that the box had no latches. It was a cargo crate. And it was nailed shut. Lila doused the light, and let her aching head rest against the floor of the crate. She took a few steadying breaths—Emotion isn’t strength, she told herself, reciting one of Alucard’s many idioms—and then she pressed her palms to the wooden walls of the crate, and pushed.

  Not with her hands, but with her will. Will against wood, will against nail, will against air.

  The box shuddered.

  And exploded.

  Metal nails ground free, boards snapped, and the air within the box shoved e
verything out. She covered her head as debris rained back down on her, then got to her feet, dragging in air. The flesh of her wrists was angry and raw, her hands shaking from pain and fury as she fought to get her bearings.

  She’d been wrong. She was in a cargo hold. On a ship. But judging by the boat’s steadiness, it was still docked. Lila stared down at the remains of the crate. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on her; after all, she’d tried to do the same thing to Stasion Elsor. But she liked to believe that if she’d actually put him in a crate, she would have given him air holes.

  The devil’s mask winked at her from the wreckage, and she dug it free, pulling it down over her head. She knew where Ver-as-Is was staying. She’d seen his crew at the Sun Streak, an inn on the same street as the Wandering Road.

  “Hey,” called a man, as she climbed to the deck. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Lila didn’t slow. She crossed the ship briskly and descended the plank to the dock, ignoring the shouts from the deck, ignoring the morning sun and the distant sound of cheers.

  Lila had warned Ver-as-Is what would happen.

  And she was a girl of her word.

  * * *

  “What part of you need to lose don’t you understand?”

  Rhy was pacing Kell’s tent, looking furious.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” said Kell, rubbing his sore shoulder.

  He hadn’t meant to win. He’d just wanted it to be a good match. A close match. It wasn’t his fault that ‘Rul the Wolf’ had stumbled. It wasn’t his fault that the nines favored close combat. It wasn’t his fault that the Veskan had clearly had a little too much fun the night before. He’d seen the man fight, and he’d been brilliant. Why couldn’t he have been brilliant today?

  Kell ran a hand through his sweat-slicked hair. The silver helmet sat, cast off, on the cushions.

  “This is not the kind of trouble we need, Kell.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  Hastra stood against the wall, looking as if he wanted to disappear. Up in the central arena, they were still cheering Kamerov’s name.

  “Look at me,” snapped Rhy, pulling Kell’s jaw up so their eyes met. “You need to start losing now.” He started pacing again, his voice low even though he’d had Hastra clear the tent. “The nines is a point game,” he continued. “Top score in your group advances. With any luck, one of the others will take their match by a landslide, but as far as you’re concerned, Kamerov is going out.”

  “If I lose by too much, it will look suspicious.”

  “Well you need to lose by enough,” said Rhy. “The good news is, I’ve seen your next opponent, and he’s good enough to beat you.” Kell soured. “Fine,” amended Rhy, “he’s good enough to beat Kamerov. Which is exactly what he’s going to do.”

  Kell sighed. “Who am I up against?”

  Rhy finally stopped pacing. “His name is Stasion Elsor. And with any luck, he’ll slaughter you.”

  * * *

  Lila locked the door behind her.

  She found her knives in a bag at the foot of the bed, along with the trinkets and the shard of stone. The men themselves were still asleep. By the looks of it—the empty bottles, the tangled sheets—they’d had a late night. Lila chose her favorite knife, the one with the knuckled grip, and approached the beds, humming softly.

  How do you know when the Sarows is coming?

  (Is coming is coming is coming aboard?)

  She killed his two companions in their beds, but Ver-as-Is she woke, right before she slit his throat. She didn’t want him to beg; she simply wanted him to see.

  A strange thing happened when the Faroans died. The gems that marked their dark skin lost their hold and tumbled free. The gold beads slid from Ver-as-Is’s face, hitting the floor like rain. Lila picked up the largest one and pocketed it as payment before she left. Back the way she’d come with her coat pulled tight and her head down, fetching the mask from the bin where she’d stashed it. Her wrists still burned, and her head still ached, but she felt much better now, and as she made her way toward the Wandering Road, breathing in the cool air, letting sunlight warm her skin, a stillness washed over her—the calm that came from taking control, from making a threat and following through. Lila felt like herself again. But underneath it all was a twinge, not of guilt or regret, but the nagging pinch that she was forgetting something.

  When she heard the trumpets, it hit her.

  She craned her neck, scouring the sky for the sun, and finding only clouds. But she knew. Knew it was late. Knew she was late. Her stomach dropped like a stone, and she slammed the helmet on and ran.

  * * *

  Kell stood in the center of the arena, waiting.

  The trumpets rang out a second time. He squared his shoulders to the opposite tunnel, waiting for his opponent to emerge.

  But no one came.

  The day was cold, and his breath fogged in front of his mask. A minute passed, then two, and Kell found his attention flicking to the royal platform where Rhy stood, watching, waiting. Behind him, Lord Sol-in-Ar looked impassive, Princess Cora bored, Queen Emira lost in thought.

  The crowd was growing restless, their attention slipping.

  Kell’s excitement tensed, tightened, wavered.

  His banner—the mirrored lions on red—waved above the podium and in the crowd. The other banner—crossed knives on black—snapped in the breeze.

  But Stasion Elsor was nowhere to be found.

  * * *

  “You’re very late,” said Ister as Lila surged into the Arnesian tent.

  “I know,” she snapped.

  “You’ll never—”

  “Just help me, priest.”

  Ister sent a messenger to the stadium and enlisted two more attendants, and the three rushed to get Lila into her armor, a flurry of straps and pads and plates.

  Christ. She didn’t even know who she was set to fight.

  “Is that blood?” asked one attendant, pointing to her collar.

  “It’s not mine,” muttered Lila.

  “What happened to your wrists?” asked another.

  “Too many questions, not enough work.”

  Ister appeared with a large tray, the surface of which was covered in weapons. No, not weapons, exactly, only the hilts and handles.

  “I think they’re missing something.”

  “This is the nines,” said Ister. “You have to supply the rest.” She plucked a hilt up from the tray and curled her fingers around it. The priest’s lips began to move, and Lila watched as a gust of wind whipped up and spun tightly around and above the hilt until it formed a kind of blade.

  Lila’s eyes widened. The first two rounds had been fought at a distance, attacks lobbed across the arena like explosives. But weapons meant hand-to-hand combat, and close quarters were Lila’s specialty. She swiped two dagger hilts from the tray and slid them underneath the plates on her forearms.

  “Fal chas,” said Ister, just before the trumpets blared in warning, and Lila cinched the demon’s jaw and took off, the final buckles on her mask still streaming behind her.

  * * *

  Kell cocked his head at Rhy, wondering what the prince would do. If Elsor didn’t show, he would be forced to forfeit. If he was forced to forfeit, Kell would have the points to advance. Kell couldn’t advance. He watched the struggle play out across Rhy’s face, and then the king whispered something in his ear. The prince seemed to grow paler as he raised the gold ring to his mouth, ready to call the match. But before he could speak, an attendant appeared at the edge of the platform and spoke rapidly. Rhy hesitated, and then, mercifully, the trumpets rang.

  Moments later Stasion hurried into the stadium looking … disheveled. But when he saw Kell, he broke into a smile, his teeth shining white behind his devil’s mask. There was no warmth in that look. It was a predator’s grin.

  The crowds burst into excited applause as Kamerov Loste and Stasion Elsor took their
places at the center of the arena.

  Kell squinted through his visor at Elsor’s mask. Up close it was a nightmarish thing.

  “Tas renar,” said Kell. You are late.

  “I’m worth the wait,” answered Stasion. His voice caught Kell off guard. Husky and smooth, and sharp as a knife. And yet, undeniably female.

  He knew that voice.

  Lila.

  But this wasn’t Lila. This couldn’t be Lila. She was a human, a Grey-worlder—a Grey-worlder unlike any other, yes, but a Grey-worlder all the same—and she didn’t know how to do magic, and she would definitely never be crazy enough to enter the Essen Tasch.

  As soon as the thought ran through his head, Kell’s argument crumbled. Because if anyone was bullheaded enough to do something this stupid, this rash, this suicidal, it was the girl who’d picked his pocket that night in Grey London, who’d followed him through a door in the worlds—a door she should never have survived—and faced the black stone and the white royals and death itself with a sharpened smile.

  The same sharpened smile that glinted now, between the lips of the demon’s face.

  “Wait,” said Kell.

  The word was a whisper, but it was too late. The judge had already signaled, and Lila let go of her spheres. Kell dropped his own an instant later, but she was already on the attack.

  Kell hesitated, but she didn’t. He was still trying to process her presence when she iced the ground beneath his feet, then struck out at close range with a dagger made of flame. Kell lunged away, but not far enough, and a moment later he was on his back, light bursting from the plate across his stomach, and Lila Bard kneeling over him.