by V. E. Schwab
He’d turned to go, but she’d called him back.
“Tieren.” She had to know, before she gave up another life. “You told me once that you saw something in me. Power.”
“I did.”
“What is it?” she’d asked. “What am I?”
Tieren had given her one of his long, level looks. “You are asking whether or not I believe you to be an Antari.”
Lila had nodded.
“That I cannot answer,” said Tieren simply. “I do not know.”
“I thought you were supposed to be wise,” she’d grumbled.
“Whoever told you that?” But then his face turned sober. “You are something, Delilah Bard. As to what, I cannot say. But one way or another, I imagine we’ll find out.”
Somewhere a glass shattered, and Lila’s attention snapped back to the tavern, and Alucard up on the table.
“Hey, Captain,” called out Vasry. “I have a question! What are you planning to do with all those winnings?”
“Buy a better crew,” said Alucard, the sapphire winking again at his brow.
Tav swung an arm around Lila’s shoulders. “Where you been, Bard? Hardly seen you!”
“I get enough of you all aboard the Spire,” she grumbled.
“You talk tough,” said Vasry, eyes glassy from drink, “but you’re soft at heart.”
“Soft as a knife.”
“You know, a knife’s only a bad thing if you’re on the wrong side.”
“Good thing you’re one of us.”
Her chest tightened. They didn’t know—about her ruse, about the real Stasion Elsor somewhere on the sea, about the fact that Alucard had cut her from the crew.
Her eyes found Lenos across the table, and there was something in that look of his that made her think he knew. Knew she was leaving, at least, even if he didn’t know the why of it.
Lila got to her feet. “I need some air,” she muttered, but when she made it out the door, she didn’t stop.
She was halfway to the palace before she realized it, and then she kept going until she climbed the steps and found Master Tieren on the landing and saw in his eyes that something was wrong.
“What is it?” she asked.
The Aven Essen swallowed. “It’s Kell.”
* * *
The royal prison was reserved for special cases.
At the moment, Kell appeared to be the only one. His cell was bare except for a cot and a pair of iron rings set into the wall. The rings were clearly meant to hold chains, but at present there were none, only the cuffs clamped around his wrists, the bindings cold and cut with magic. Every piece of metal in the cell was incised with marks, enchanted to dull and dampen power. He should know. He’d helped to spell them.
Kell sat on the cot, ankles crossed, his head tipped back against the cold stone wall. The prison was housed in the base of the palace, one pillar over from the Basin where he trained, but unlike the Basin the walls were reinforced, and none of the river’s red light seeped through. Only the winter chill.
Kell shivered slightly; they’d taken his coat, along with the traveling tokens around his neck, hung them on the wall beyond the cell. He hadn’t fought the men off. He’d been too stunned to move as the guards closed in, slamming the iron cuffs around his wrists. By the time he believed what was happening, it was too late.
In the hours since, Kell’s anger had cooled and hardened.
Two guards stood outside the cell, watching him with a mixture of fear and wonder, as if he might perform a trick. He closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Who would it be?
Tieren had already come. Kell had only one question for the old man.
“Did you know about Lila?”
The look in Tieren’s eyes told him all he needed to know.
The footsteps drew closer, and Kell looked up, expecting the king, or Rhy. But instead Kell beheld the queen.
Emira stood on the opposite side of the bars, resplendent in her royal red and gold, her face a careful mask. If she was glad to see him caged—or saddened at all by the sight—it didn’t show. He tried to meet her eyes, but they escaped to the wall behind his head.
“Do you have everything you need?” she asked, as if he were a guest in a plush palace wing, and not a cell. A laugh tried to claw its way up Kell’s throat. He swallowed it and said nothing.
Emira brought a hand to the bars, as if testing their strength. “It shouldn’t have come to this.”
She turned to go, but Kell sat forward. “Do you hate me, my queen?”
“Kell,” she said softly, “how could I?” Something in him softened. Her dark eyes finally found his. And then she said, “You gave me back my son.”
The words cut. There had been a time when she insisted that she had two sons, not one. If he had not lost all her love, he had lost that.
“Did you ever know her?” asked Kell.
“Who?” asked the queen.
“My real mother.”
Emira’s features tightened. Her lips pursed.
A door crashed open overhead.
“Where is he?” Rhy came storming down the stairs.
Kell could hear him coming a mile away, could feel the prince’s anger twining through his own, molten hot where Kell’s ran cold. Rhy reached the prison, took one look at Kell behind the cell bars, and blanched.
“Let him out now,” demanded the prince.
The guards bowed their heads, but held their places, gauntleted hands at their sides.
“Rhy,” started Emira, reaching for her son’s arm.
“Get off me, Mother,” he snapped, turning his back on her. “If you won’t let him out,” he told the guards, “then I order you to let me in.”
Still they did not move.
“What are the charges?” he snarled.
“Treason,” said Emira, at the same time the guard answered, “Disobeying the king.”
“I disobey the king all the time,” said Rhy. “You haven’t arrested me.” He offered up his hands. Kell watched them bicker, focusing on the cold, letting it spread like frost, overtaking everything. He was so tired of caring.
“This will not stand.” Rhy gripped the bar, exposing his gold sleeve. Blood had soaked through, dotting the fabric where he’d carved the word.
Emira paled. “Rhy, you’re hurt!” Her eyes immediately went to Kell, so full of accusation. “What—”
More boots sounded on the stairs and a moment later the king was there, his frame filling the doorway. Maxim took one look at his wife and son, and said, “Get out.”
“How could you do this?” demanded Rhy.
“He broke the law,” said the queen.
“He is my brother.”
“He is not—”
“Go,” bellowed the king. The queen fell silent, and Rhy’s hands slumped back to his side as he looked to Kell, who nodded grimly. “Go.”
Rhy shook his head and went, Emira a silent specter in his wake, and Kell was left to face the king alone.
* * *
The prince stormed past Lila in a blur.
A few seconds later she heard a crash, and she turned to see Rhy gripping the nearest sideboard, a shattered vase at his feet. Water wicked into the rug and spread across the stone floor, flowers strewn amid the broken glass. Rhy’s crown was gone, his curls wild. His shoulders were shaking with anger, and his knuckles were white on the shelf.
Lila knew she should probably go, slip away before Rhy noticed her, but her feet were already carrying her toward the prince. She stepped over the mess of petals, the shards of glass.
“What did that vase ever do to you?” she asked, tipping her shoulder against the wall.
Rhy looked up, his amber eyes rimmed with red.
“An innocent bystander, I’m afraid,” he said. The words came out hollow, humorless.
He ducked his head and let out a shuddering sigh. Lila hesitated. She knew she should probably bow, kiss his hand, or swoon—at th
e very least explain what she was doing there, in the private palace halls, as close to the prison as anyone would let her—but instead she flicked her fingers, producing a small blade. “Who do I need to kill?”
Rhy let out a stifled sound, half sob, half laugh, and sank onto his haunches, still gripping the wooden edge of the table. Lila crouched beside him, then shifted gingerly and put her back to the sideboard. She stretched out her legs, scuffed black boots sinking into the plush carpet.
A moment later, Rhy slumped onto the carpet beside her. Dried blood stained his sleeve, but he folded his forearm against his stomach. He obviously didn’t want to talk about it, so she didn’t ask. There were more pressing questions.
“Did your father really arrest Kell?”
Rhy swallowed. Nodded.
“Christ,” she muttered. “What now?”
“The king will let him go, when his temper cools.”
“And then?”
Rhy shook his head. “I honestly don’t know.”
Lila let her head fall back against the sideboard, then winced.
“It’s my fault, you know,” said the prince, rubbing his bloodied arm. “I asked him to come back.”
Lila snorted. “Well, I told him to leave. I guess we’re both at fault.” She took a deep breath and shoved herself up to her feet. “Come on?”
“Where are we going?”
“We got him in there,” she said. “We’re going to get him out.”
* * *
“This isn’t what I wanted,” said the king.
He took up the keys and unlocked Kell’s cell, then stepped inside and unfastened the iron cuffs. Kell rubbed his wrists but made no other move as the king retreated through the open cell door, pulled up a chair, and sat down.
Maxim looked tired. Wisps of silver had appeared at his temples, and they shone in the lantern light. Kell crossed his arms and waited for the monarch to meet his eye.
“Thank you,” said the king.
“For what?”
“For not leaving.”
“I did.”
“I meant here.”
“I’m in a cell,” said Kell drily.
“We both know it wouldn’t stop you.”
Kell closed his eyes, and heard the king slump back in his chair.
“I will admit I lost my temper,” said Maxim.
“You had me arrested,” growled Kell, his voice so low the king might have missed it, had there been any other noises in the cell. Instead the words rang out, echoed.
“You disobeyed me.”
“I did.” Kell forced his eyes open. “I have been loyal to this crown, to this family, my entire life. I have given everything I have, everything I am, and you treat me like …” His voice faltered. “I can’t keep doing this. At least when you treated me like a son, I could pretend. But now …” He shook his head. “The queen treats me as a traitor, and you treat me as a prisoner.”
The king’s look darkened. “You made this prison, Kell. When you tied your life to Rhy’s.”
“Would you have had him die?” snapped Kell. “I saved his life. And before you go blaming me for putting it in danger, we both know he managed that much himself. When will you stop punishing me alone for a family’s worth of fault?”
“You both put this whole kingdom in danger with your folly. But at least Rhy is trying to atone. To prove that he deserves my trust. All you’ve done—”
“I brought your son back from the dead!” shouted Kell, lunging to his feet. “I did it knowing it would bind our lives, knowing what it would mean for me, what I would become, knowing that the resurrection of his life would mean the end of mine, and I did it anyway, because he is my brother and your son and the future King of Ames.” Kell gasped for breath, tears streaming down his face. “What more could I possibly do?”
They were both on their feet now. Maxim caught his elbow and forced him close. Kell tried to pull free, but Maxim was built like a tree, and his massive hand gripped the back of Kell’s neck.
“I can’t keep atoning,” Kell whispered into the king’s shoulder. “I gave him my life, but you cannot ask me to stop living.”
“Kell,” he said, voice softening. “I am sorry. But I cannot let you go.” The air lodged in Kell’s chest. The king’s grip loosened, and he tore free. “This is bigger than you and Rhy. Faro and Vesk—”
“I do not care about their superstitions!”
“You should. People act on them, Kell. Our enemies scour the world for another Antari. Our allies would have you for themselves. The Veskans are convinced you are the key to our kingdom’s power. Sol-in-Ar thinks you are a weapon, an edge to be turned against foes.”
“Little do these people know I’m just a pawn,” spat Kell, retreating from the king’s grip.
“This is the card you’ve been dealt,” said Maxim. “It is only a matter of time before someone tries to take you for themselves, and if they cannot have your strength, I believe they will try to snuff it out. The Veskans are right, Kell. If you die, so does Ames.”
“I am not the key to this kingdom!”
“But you are the key to my son. My heir.”
Kell felt ill.
“Please,” begged Maxim. “Hear reason.” But Kell was sick of reason, sick of excuses. “We all must sacrifice.”
“No,” snarled Kell. “I am done making sacrifices. When this is over, and the lords and ladies and royals are all gone, I am leaving.”
“I cannot let you go.”
“You said it yourself, Your Majesty. You do not have the power to stop me.” And with that, Kell turned his back on the king, took his coat from the wall, and walked out.
* * *
When Kell was a child, he used to stand in the royal courtyard, with its palace orchard, and close his eyes and listen—to the music, to the wind, to the river—and imagine he was somewhere else.
Somewhere without buildings, without palaces, without people.
He stood there now, among the trees—trees caught in the throes not only of winter, but of spring, summer, fall—and squeezed his eyes shut, and listened, waiting for the old sense of calm to find him. He waited. And waited. And—
“Master Kell.”
He turned to see Hastra waiting a few paces back. Something was off, and at first Kell couldn’t place it; then he realized that Hastra wasn’t wearing the uniform of a royal guard. Kell knew it was because of him. One more failure to add to the stack. “I’m sorry, Hastra. I know how much you wanted this.”
“I wanted an adventure, sir. And I’ve had one. It’s not so bad. Rhy spoke to the king, and he’s agreed to let me train with Master Tieren. Better the sanctuary than a cell.” And then his eyes widened. “Oh, sorry.”
Kell only shook his head. “And Staff?”
Hastra grimaced. “Afraid you’re stuck with him. Staff’s the one who fetched the king when you first left.”
“Thank you, Hastra,” he said. “If you’re half as good a priest as you were a royal guard, the Aven Essen better watch his job.”
Hastra broke into a grin, and slipped away. Kell listened to the sounds of his steps retreating across the courtyard, the distant sound of the courtyard doors closing, and turned his attention back to the trees. The wind picked up, and the rustling of the leaves was almost loud enough to drown out the sounds of the palace, to help him forget the world that waited back inside the doors.
I am leaving, he thought. You do not have the power to stop me.
“Master Kell.”
“What now?” he asked, turning back. His brow furrowed. “Who are you?”
A woman stood there, between two of the trees, hands clasped behind her back and head bowed as if she’d been waiting for some time, though Kell hadn’t even heard her approach. Her red hair floated like a flame above her crisp white cape, and he wondered why she felt so strange and so familiar at the same time. As if they’d already met, though he was sure they hadn’t.
And then the woman straightened and looke
d up, revealing her face. Fair skin, and red lips, and a scar beneath two different-colored eyes, one yellow and the other impossibly black.
Both eyes narrowed, even as a smile passed her lips.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
VIII
The air caught in Kell’s chest. An Antari’s mark was confined to the edges of one’s eye, but the black of the woman’s iris spilled over like tears down her cheek, inky lines running into her red hair. It was unnatural.
“Who are you?”
“My name,” she said, “is Ojka.”
“What are you?” he asked.
She cocked her head. “I am a messenger.” She was speaking Royal, but her accent was thick, and he could see the language rune jutting from her cuff. So she was from White London.
“You’re an Antari?” But that wasn’t possible. Kell was the last of those. His head spun. “You can’t be.”
“I am only a messenger.”
Kell shook his head. Something was wrong. She didn’t feel like an Antari. The magic felt stranger, darker. She took a step forward, and he found himself stepping back. The trees thickened overhead, from spring to summer.
“Who sent you?”
“My king.”
So someone had clawed his way to the White London throne. It was only a matter of time.
She stole another slow step forward, and Kell kept his distance, slipping from summer to fall.
“I’m glad I found you,” she said. “I’ve been looking.”
Kell’s gaze flicked past her, to the palace doors. “Why?”
She caught the look, and smiled. “To deliver a message.”
“If you have a message for the crown,” he said, “deliver it yourself.”
“My message is not for the crown,” she pressed. “It is for you.”
A shiver went through him. “What could you have to say to me?”
“My king needs your help. My city needs your help.”
“Why me?” he asked.
Her expression shifted, saddened. “Because it’s all your fault.”