Gathering of Shadows (A Darker Shade of Magic)

by V. E. Schwab

Kell pulled back, as if struck. “What?”

  She continued toward him, and he continued back, and soon they stood in winter, a nest of bare branches scratching in the wind. “It is your fault. You struck down the Danes. You killed our last true Antari. But you can help us. Our city needs you. Please come. Meet with my king. Help him rebuild.”

  “I cannot simply leave,” he said, the words automatic.

  “Can’t you?” asked the messenger, as if she’d heard his thoughts.

  I am leaving.

  The woman—Ojka—gestured to a nearby tree, and Kell noticed the spiral, already drawn in blood. A door.

  His eyes went to the palace.

  Stay.

  You made this prison.

  I cannot let you go.

  Run.

  You are an Antari.

  No one can stop you.

  “Well?” asked Ojka, holding out her hand, the veins black against her skin. “Will you come?”

  * * *

  “What do you mean he’s been released?” snapped Rhy.

  He and Lila were standing in the royal prison, staring past a guard at the now empty cell. He’d been ready to storm the men and free Kell with Lila’s help, but there was no Kell to free. “When?”

  “King’s orders,” said the guard. “Not ten minutes ago. Can’t have gotten far.”

  Rhy laughed, a sick, hysterical sound clawing up his throat, and then he was gone again, racing back up the stairs to Kell’s rooms with Lila in tow.

  He reached Kell’s room and flung open the doors, but the chamber was empty.

  He fought to quell the rising panic as he backed out into the hall.

  “What are you two doing?” asked Alucard, coming up the stairs.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Rhy.

  “Looking for you,” said Alucard at the same time Lila asked, “Have you seen Kell?”

  Alucard raised a brow. “We make a point of avoiding each other.”

  Rhy let out an exasperated sound and surged past the captain, only to collide with a young man on the stairs. He almost didn’t recognize the guard without his armor. “Hastra,” he said, breathlessly. “Have you seen Kell?”

  Hastra nodded. “Yes, sir. I just left him in the courtyard.”

  The prince wilted with relief. He was about to start off down the stairs again when Hastra added, “There’s someone with him now. I think. A woman.”

  Lila prickled visibly. “What kind of woman?”

  “You think?” asked Alucard.

  Hastra looked a little dazed. “I … I can’t remember her face.” A crease formed between his brows. “It’s strange, I’ve always been so good with faces…. There was something about her face though … something off …”

  “Hastra,” said Alucard, his voice tense. “Open your hands.”

  Rhy hadn’t even noticed that the young guard’s hands were clenched at his sides.

  Hastra looked down, as if he hadn’t noticed, either, then held them out and uncurled his fingers. One hand was empty. The other clutched a small disk, spellwork scrawled across its surface.

  “Huh,” said the guard. “That’s odd.”

  But Rhy was already tearing down the hall, Lila a stride behind him, leaving Alucard in their wake.

  * * *

  Kell reached out and took Ojka’s hand.

  “Thank you,” she said, voice flooding with happiness and relief as her fingers tightened around his. She pressed her free hand to the blood-marked tree.

  “As Tascen,” she said, and a moment later, the palace courtyard was gone, replaced by the streets of Red London. Kell looked around. It took him a moment to register where they were … but it wasn’t where they were that mattered, but where they would be.

  In this London, it was only a narrow road, flanked by a tavern and a garden wall.

  But in White London, it was the castle gate.

  Ojka pulled a trinket from beneath her white cloak, then pressed her still-bloody hand to the winter ivy clinging to the wall stones. She paused and looked to Kell, waiting for his permission, and Kell found himself glancing back through the streets, the royal palace still visible in the distance. Something rippled through him—guilt, panic, hesitation—but before he could pull back, Ojka said the words, and the world folded in around them. Red London disappeared, and Kell felt himself stepping forward, out of the street, and into the stone forest that stood before the castle.

  Only it wasn’t a stone forest, not anymore.

  It was just an ordinary one, filled with trees, bare winter branches giving way to a crisp blue sky. Kell started—since when did White London have such a color? This wasn’t the world he remembered, wasn’t the world she’d spoken of, one damaged and dying.

  This world wasn’t broken at all.

  Ojka stood near the gate, steadying herself against the wall. When she looked up, a feline smile curled across her face.

  Kell had only a moment to process the changes—the grass beneath his feet, the sunlight, the sound of birds—and to realize he’d made a terrible mistake, before he heard footsteps, and spun to find himself face to face with the king.

  He stood across from Kell, shoulders back and head high, revealing two eyes: one emerald, and the other black.

  “Holland?”

  The word came out as a question, because the man in front of him bore almost no resemblance to the Holland Kell had known, the one he had fought—had defeated, had cast into the abyss—four months ago. The last time Kell had seen Holland, he had been a few dragging pulses from death.

  That Holland couldn’t be standing here.

  That Holland could never have survived.

  But it was Holland before him, and he hadn’t just survived.

  He’d been transformed.

  There was healthy color in his cheeks, the glow that only came in the prime of life, and his hair—which, despite his age, had always been a charcoal grey—was now straight and black and glossy, carving sharp lines where it fell against his temples and brow. And when Kell met Holland’s gaze, the man—magician—king—Antari—actually smiled, a gesture that did more to transform his face than the new clothes and the aura of health.

  “Hello, Kell,” said Holland, and a small part of him was relieved to find that the Antari’s voice, at least, was still familiar. It wasn’t loud, had never been loud, but it was commanding, edged by that subtle gravel that made it sound like he’d been shouting. Or screaming.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” said Kell.

  Holland raised a single, black brow. “Neither should you.”

  Kell felt the shadow at his back, the shift of weight just before a lunge. He was already reaching for his knife, but he was too late, and his fingers only found the hilt before something cold and heavy clamped around his throat, and the world exploded in pain.

  * * *

  Rhy burst through the courtyard doors, calling his brother’s name. There was no sign of him before the line of trees, no answer but the echo of Rhy’s own voice. Lila and Alucard were somewhere behind him, the pounding of boots lost beneath his raging pulse.

  “Kell?” he called out again, surging into the orchard. He dug his nails into the wound at his arm, the pain a tether he tried to pull on as he passed the line of spring blossoms.

  And then, halfway between the lines of summer green and autumn gold, Rhy collapsed with a scream.

  One moment he was on his feet, and the next he was on his hands and knees, crying out in pain as something sharp and jagged tore through him.

  “Rhy?” came a voice nearby as the prince folded in on himself, a sob tearing its way free.

  Rhy.

  Rhy.

  Rhy.

  His name echoed through the courtyard, but he was drowning in his own blood; he was sure he would see it painting the stones. His vision blurred, sliding out of focus as he fell, the way he had so many times when the darkness came, bringing forth the memories and the dreams.

  This was a bad dream.
r />   His mouth was filling with blood.

  It had to be a bad dream.

  He tried to get to his feet.

  It—

  He collapsed again with a scream as the pain ripped through his chest and buried itself between his ribs.

  “Rhy?” shouted the voice.

  He tried to answer, but his jaw locked. He couldn’t breathe. Tears were streaming down his face and the pain was too real, too familiar, a blade driven through flesh and muscle, scraping against bone. His heart raced, and then stuttered, skipped a beat, and his vision went black and he was back on the cot in the sanctuary again, falling through darkness, crashing down into—

  * * *

  Nothing.

  Lila had run straight for the courtyard wall, sprinting through the strange orchard and out the other side. But there was no sign of them, no blood on the stones, no mark. She backed away, trying to think of where else to look. Then she heard the scream.

  Rhy.

  She found the prince on the ground, clawing at his chest. He was sobbing, pressing his arm to his ribs as if he’d been stabbed, but there was no blood. Not here. It hit her like a blow.

  Whatever was happening to Rhy wasn’t happening to Rhy at all.

  It was happening to Kell.

  Alucard appeared, and went ashen at the sight of the prince. He called to the guards before folding to his knees as Rhy let out another sob. “What’s happening to him?” asked Alucard.

  Rhy’s lips were stained with blood, and Lila didn’t know if he’d bitten them through, or if the damage was worse.

  “Kell …” gasped the prince, shuddering in pain. “Something’s … wrong … can’t …”

  “What does Kell have to do with this?” asked the captain.

  Two royal guards appeared, the queen behind them, looking pale with fear.

  “Where is Kell?” she cried as soon as she saw the prince.

  “Get back!” called the guards when a handful of nobles tried to come near.

  “Call for the king!”

  “Hold on,” pleaded Alucard, talking to Rhy.

  Lila backed away as the prince curled in on himself.

  She started searching the trees for a sign of Kell, of the woman, of the way they had gone.

  Rhy rolled onto his side, tried to rise, failed, and began coughing blood onto the orchard ground.

  “Someone find Kell!” demanded the queen, her voice on the edge of hysteria.

  Where had he gone?

  “What can I do, Rhy?” whispered Alucard. “What can I do?”

  * * *

  Kell surfaced with the pain.

  He was breaking into pieces, some vital part being torn away. Pain radiated from the metal collar at his throat, cutting off air, blood, thought, power. He tried desperately to summon magic, but nothing came. He gasped for air—it felt as if he were drowning, the taste of blood pooling in his mouth even though it was empty.

  The forest was gone, the room around him barren. Kell shivered—his coat and shirt were gone—the bare skin of his back and shoulders pressed against something cold and metal. He couldn’t move; he was standing upright, but not by his own strength. His body was being held in a kind of frame, his arms forced wide to either side, his hands bound to the vertical bars of the structure. He could feel a horizontal bar against his shoulders, a vertical one against his head and spine.

  “A relic,” said an even voice, and Kell dragged his vision into focus and saw Holland standing before him. “From my predecessors.”

  The Antari’s gaze was steady, his whole form still, as if sculpted from stone instead of flesh, but his black eye swirled, silvery shadows twisting through it like serpents in oil.

  “What have you done?” choked Kell.

  Holland tipped his head. “What should I have done?”

  Kell set his teeth, forced himself to think beyond the collar’s icy pain. “You should … have stayed in Black London. You should … have died.”

  “And let my people die, too? Let my city plunge into yet another war, let my world sink farther and farther toward death, knowing I could save it?” Holland shook his head. “No. My world has sacrificed enough for yours.”

  Kell opened his mouth to speak, but the pain knifed through him, sharpening over his heart. He looked down and saw the seal fracturing. No. No.

  “Holland,” he gasped. “Please. You have to take this collar off.”

  “I will,” said Holland slowly. “When you agree.”

  Panic tore through him. “To what?”

  “When I was in Black London—after you sent me there—I made a deal. My body for his power.”

  “His?”

  But there could be only one thing waiting in that darkness to make a deal. The same thing that had crushed a world, that had tried to escape in a shard of stone. The same thing that had torn a path through his city, tried to devour Kell’s soul.

  “You fool,” he snarled. “You’re the one … who told me that to let dark magic in was to lose …” His teeth were chattering. “That you were either the master … or the servant. And look … what you’ve done. You may be free of Athos’s spell … but you’ve just traded one master for another.”

  Holland took Kell by the jaw and slammed his head back against the metal beam. Pain rang through his skull. The collar tightened, and the seal above his heart cracked and split.

  “Listen to me,” begged Kell, the second pulse faltering in his chest. “I know this magic.”

  “You knew a shadow. A sliver of its power.”

  “That power destroyed one world already.”

  “And healed another,” said Holland.

  Kell couldn’t stop shaking. The pain was fading, replaced by something worse. A horrible, deadening cold. “Please. Take this off. I won’t fight back. I—”

  “You’ve had your perfect world,” said Holland. “Now I want mine.”

  Kell swallowed, closed his eyes, tried to keep his thoughts from fraying.

  Let me in.

  Kell blinked. The words had come from Holland’s mouth, but the voice wasn’t his. It was softer, more resonant, and even as it spoke, Holland’s face began to change. Shadow bled from one eyes into the other, consuming the emerald green and staining it black. A wisp of silver smoke curled through those eyes, and someone—something—looked out, but it wasn’t Holland.

  “Hello, Antari.”

  Holland’s expression continued to shift, the features of his face rearranging from hard edges into soft, almost gentle ones. The lines of his forehead and cheeks smoothed to polished stone, and his mouth contorted into a beatific smile. And when the creature spoke, it had two voices; one filling the air, a smoother version of Holland’s own, while the other echoed in Kell’s head, low and rich as smoke. That second voice twined behind Kell’s eyes, and spread through his mind, searching.

  “I can save you,” it said, plucking at his thoughts. “I can save your brother. I can save everything.” The creature reached up and touched a strand of Kell’s sweat-slicked hair, as if fascinated. “Just let me in.”

  “You are a monster,” growled Kell.

  Holland’s fingers tightened around Kell’s throat. “I am a god.” Kell felt the creature’s will pressing against his own, felt it forcing its way into his mind with icy fingers and cold precision.

  “Get out of my head.” Kell slammed forward against the binds with all his strength, cracking his forehead against Holland’s. Pain lanced through him, hot and bright, and blood trickled down his nose, but the thing in Holland’s body only smiled.

  “I am in everyone’s head,” it said. “I am in everything. I am as old as creation itself. I am life and death and power. I am inevitable.”

  Kell’s heart was pounding, but Rhy’s was slipping. One beat for every two. And then three. And then—

  The creature flashed its teeth. “Let me in.”

  But Kell couldn’t. He thought of his world, of setting this creature loose upon it wearing his skin. He saw
the palace crumble and the river go dark, saw the bodies fall to ash in the streets, the color bleed out until there was only black, and saw himself standing at the center, just as he had in every nightmare. Helpless.

  Tears streamed down his face.

  He couldn’t. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t be that.

  I’m sorry, Rhy, he thought, knowing he’d just damned them both.

  “No,” he said aloud, the word scraping his throat.

  But to his surprise, the monster’s smile widened. “I was hoping you would say that.”

  Kell didn’t understand the creature’s joy, not until it stepped back and held up its hands. “I like this skin. And now that you have refused me, I get to keep it.”

  Something shifted in the creature’s eyes, a pulse of light, a sliver of green, flaring, fighting, only to be swallowed again by the darkness. The monster shook its head almost ruefully. “Holland, Holland …” it purred.

  “Bring him back,” demanded Kell. “We are not done.” But the creature kept shaking its head as it reached for Kell’s throat. He tried to pull away, but there was no escape.

  “You were right, Antari,” it said, running its fingertips along the metal collar. “Magic is either a servant or a master.”

  Kell fought against the metal frame, the cuffs cutting into his wrists. “Holland!” he shouted, the word echoing through the stone room. “Holland, you bastard, fight back!”

  The demon only stood and watched, its black eyes amused, unblinking.

  “Show me you’re not weak!” screamed Kell. “Prove you’re not still a slave to someone else’s will! Did you really come all the way back to lose like this? Holland!”

  Kell sagged back against the metal frame, wrists bloody and voice hoarse as the monster turned and walked away.

  “Wait, demon,” choked Kell, straining against the pressing darkness, the cold, the fading echo of Rhy’s pulse.

  The creature glanced back. “My name,” it said, “is Osaron.”

  Kell fought against the metal frame as his vision blurred, refocused, and then began to tunnel. “Where are you going?”

  The demon held something up for him to see, and Kell’s heart lurched. It was a single crimson coin, marked by a gold star in its center. A Red London lin.

  “No,” he pleaded, twisting against the cuffs until they shredded his skin and blood streamed down his wrists. “Osaron, you can’t.”