Gathering of Shadows (A Darker Shade of Magic) (11 page)

Stop
, a voice said, the word almost too soft to hear.

Stop.

And then suddenly, much louder, the voice was Rhy’s, the words tearing from his throat.
“KELL, STOP.”

And the night snapped back into focus and he realized he was standing there holding eight lives in his hand, and he’d almost ended them. Not to punish them for attacking Rhy (the prince had probably provoked them) and not because they were bad men (though several of them might have been). But just because he
could
, because it felt good to be in control, to be the strongest, to know that when it came down to it, he would be the one left standing.

Kell exhaled and lowered his hand, letting the shards of ice crash to the cobblestones, where they shattered. The men gasped, and swore, and stumbled back as one, the spell of the moment broken.

One sank to the ground, shaking.

Another looked like he might vomit.

“Get out of here,” said Kell quietly.

And the men listened. He watched them run.

They already thought he was a monster, and now he’d gone and given the fears weight, which would just make everything worse. But it didn’t matter; nothing he did seemed to make it better.

His steps crackled on the broken ice as he trudged over to where Rhy was sitting on his haunches against the wall. He looked dazed, but Kell thought it had less to do with the beating and more to do with the drink. The blood had stopped falling from his nose and lip, and his face was otherwise unhurt; when Kell quested through his own body in search of echoing pain, he felt only a couple of tender ribs.

Kell held out his hand and helped Rhy to his feet. The prince took a step forward, and swayed, but Kell caught him and kept him upright.

“There you go again,” murmured Rhy, leaning his head on Kell’s shoulder. “You never let me fall.”

“And let you take me down with you?” chided Kell, wrapping the prince’s arm around his shoulders. “Come on, Brother. I think we’ve had enough fun for one night.”

“Sorry,” whispered Rhy.

“I know.”

But the truth was, Kell couldn’t forget the way he’d felt during the fight, the small defiant part of him that had undeniably
enjoyed
it. He couldn’t forget the smile that had belonged to him and yet to someone else entirely.

Kell shivered, and helped his brother home.

IV

The guards were waiting for them in the hall.

Kell had gotten the prince all the way back to the palace and up the Basin steps before running into the men: two of them Rhy’s, the other two his, and all four looking put out.

“Vis, Tolners,” said Kell, feigning lightness. “Want to give me a hand?”

As if he were carrying a sack of wheat, and not the royal prince of Arnes.

Rhy’s guards looked pale with anger and worry, but neither stepped forward.

“Staff, Hastra?” he said, appealing to his own men. He was met with stony silence. “Fine, get out of the way, I’ll carry him myself.”

He pushed past the guards.

“Is that the prince’s blood?” asked Vis, pointing at Kell’s sleeve, which he’d used to wipe Rhy’s face clean.

“No,” he lied. “Only mine.”

Rhy’s men relaxed considerably at that, which Kell found disconcerting. Vis was a nervous sort, hackles always raised, and Tolners was utterly humorless, with the set jaw of an officer. They had both served King Maxim himself before being assigned to guard the young royal, and they took the prince’s defiance with far less nonchalance than Rhy’s previous men. As for Kell’s own guards, Hastra was young and eager, but Staff hardly ever said a word, either to Kell’s face or in his company. For the first month, Kell hadn’t been sure if the guard hated him, or feared him, or both. Then Rhy told him the truth—that Staff’s sister had died in the Black Night—so Kell knew that it was likely both.

“He’s a good guard,” said Rhy when Kell asked why they would assign him such a man. And then added grimly, “It was Father’s choice.”

Now, as the party reached the royal hall the brothers shared, Tolners produced a note and held it up for Kell to read. “This isn’t funny.” Apparently Rhy had had the grace to pin the note to his door, in case anyone in the palace should worry.

Not kidnapped.

Out for a drink with Kell.

Sit tight.

Rhy’s room was at the end of the hall, marked by two ornate doors. Kell kicked them open.

“Too loud,” muttered Rhy.

“Master Kell,” warned Vis, following him in. “I must insist you cease these—”

“I didn’t force him out.”

“But you
allowed
—”

“I’m his brother, not his
guard
,” snapped Kell. He knew he’d been raised as Rhy’s protection as much as his companion, but it was proving no small task, and besides, hadn’t he done enough?

Tolners scowled. “The king and queen—”

“Go away,” said Rhy, rousing himself. “Giving me a headache.”

“Your Highness,” started Vis, reaching for Rhy’s arm.

“Out,”
snapped the prince with sudden heat. The guards shied away, then looked uncertainly at Kell.

“You heard the prince,” he grumbled. “Get out.” His gaze went to his own men. “All of you.”

As the doors closed behind him, Kell half guided, half dragged Rhy into his bed. “I think I’m growing on them,” he muttered.

Rhy rolled groggily onto his back, an arm cast over his eyes.

“I’m sorry … sorry …” he said softly, and Kell shuddered, remembering that horrific night, the prince bleeding to death as he and Lila tried to drag him to safety, the soft
I’m sorrys
fading horribly into silence and stillness and—

“… all my fault …” Rhy’s voice dragged him back.

“Hush,” said Kell, sinking into a chair beside the bed.

“I just wanted … like it was before.”

“I know,” said Kell, rubbing his eyes. “I know.”

He sat there until Rhy fell quiet, safely wrapped in sleep, and then pushed himself back to his feet. The room rocked faintly, and Kell steadied himself for a moment on the carved bedpost before making his way back to his own rooms. Not via the hall and its contingent of guards, but the hidden corridor that ran between their chambers. The lanterns burned to life as Kell entered, the magic easy, effortless, but the light didn’t make the room feel more like home. The space had always felt strangely foreign. Stiff, like an ill-fitting suit.

It was a room for a royal. The ceiling was lined with billowing fabric, the colors of night, and an elegant desk hugged one wall. A sofa and chairs huddled around a silver tea set, and a pair of glass doors led onto a balcony now coated with a thin layer of snow. Kell shrugged off his coat and turned it inside out a few times, returning it to its royal red before draping it over an ottoman.

Kell missed his little room at the top of the stairs in the Ruby Fields, with its rough walls and its stiff cot and its constant noise, but the room and the inn and the woman who ran it had all been burned to nothing by Holland months before, and Kell could not bring himself to seek out another. The room had been a secret, and Kell had promised the crown—and Rhy—that he would stop keeping secrets.

He missed the room, and the privacy that came with it, but there was something to the missing. He supposed he deserved it. Others had lost far more because of him.

So Kell remained in the royal chambers.

The bed waited on a raised platform, a plush mattress with a sea of pillows, but Kell slumped down into his favorite chair instead. A battered thing by comparison, dragged from one of the palace’s studies, it faced the balcony doors and, beyond, the warm red glow of the Isle. He snapped his fingers, and the lanterns dimmed and then went dark.

Sitting there with only the river’s light, his tired mind drifted, as it invariably did, back to Delilah Bard. When Kell thought of her, she was not one girl, but three: the too-skinny street thief who’d robbed him in an alley, the blood-streaked partner who’d fought beside him, and the impossible girl who’d walked away and never looked back.

Where are you, Lila
, he mused.
And what kind of trouble are you getting into?

Kell dragged a kerchief from his back pocket: a small square of dark fabric first given to him by a girl dressed as a boy in a darkened alley, a sleight of hand so she could rob him. He’d used it to find her more than once, and he wondered if he could do it again, or if it now belonged more to him than to her. He wondered where it would take him, if it worked.

He knew with a bone-deep certainty that she was alive—had to be alive—and he envied her, envied the fact that this Grey London girl was out there somewhere, seeing parts of the world that Kell—a Red Londoner, an
Antari
—had never glimpsed.

He put the kerchief away, closed his eyes, and waited for sleep to drag him under.

When it did, he dreamed of her. Dreamed of her standing on his balcony, goading him to come out and play. He dreamed of her hand tangling in his, a pulse of power twining them together. He dreamed of them racing through foreign streets, not the London ones they’d navigated, but crooks and bends in places he’d never been, and ones he might never see. But there she was, at his side, pulling him toward freedom.

V

Ojka had always been graceful.

Graceful when she danced. Graceful when she killed.

Sunlight spilled across the stone floor as she spun, her knives licking the air as they arced and dipped, tethered to her hands and to one another by a single length of black cord.

Her hair, once pale, now shone red, a shock of color against her still porcelain skin, bold as blood. It skimmed her shoulders as she twirled, and bowed, a bright streak at the center of a deadly circle. Ojka danced, and the metal kept pace, the perfect partner to her fluid movements, and the entire time, she kept her eyes closed. She knew the dance by heart, a dance she’d first learned as a child on the streets in Kosik, in the worst part of London. A dance she’d mastered. You didn’t stay alive in this city on luck alone. Not if you had any promise of power. The scavengers would sniff it out, slit your throat so they could steal whatever dregs were in your blood. They didn’t care if you were little. That only made you easier to catch and kill.