Gathering of Shadows (A Darker Shade of Magic) (42 page)

“The princes? They seem well enough. And yet …” Tieren sounded genuinely concerned.

“What is it?” she prompted.

“Things have not been the same since the Black Night. Prince Rhy is himself, and yet he isn’t. He takes to the streets less often, and garners more trouble when he does.”

“And Kell?”

Tieren hesitated. “Some think him responsible for the shadow that crossed our city.”

“That’s not fair,” snapped Lila. “We saved the city.”

Tieren gave a shrug as if to say, such is the nature of fear and doubt. They breed too easily. Kell and Rhy had seemed happy on that balcony, but she could see it, the fraying edges of the disguise. The darkness just beyond.

“You better go,” said the
Aven Essen.
“Tomorrow will be … well, it will be something.”

“Will you cheer for me?” she asked, forcing herself to keep her voice light.

“I’ll pray you don’t get yourself killed.”

Lila smirked and started down the steps. She was halfway to the street when she heard someone say, “Wait.”

But it wasn’t Tieren. The voice was younger, one she hadn’t heard in four months. Sharp and low, with a touch of strain, as if he were out of breath, or holding back.

Kell.

She hesitated on the stairs, head bowed, fingers aching where they gripped the helmet. She was about to turn around, but he spoke again, calling a name. It wasn’t hers.

“Tieren,” said Kell. “Please wait.”

Lila swallowed, her back to the head priest and the black-eyed prince.

It took all of her strength to start walking again.

And when she did, she didn’t look back.

* * *

“What is it, Master Kell?” asked Tieren.

Kell felt the words dry up in his throat. Finally, he managed a single petulant sentence. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

The old man’s eyes glittered, but he didn’t deny the claim. “I have many talents, Kell,” he said, “but believe it or not, deception has never been among them. I suspect it’s why I’ve never won a game of Sanct….”

Kell raised a brow. He couldn’t picture the
Aven Essen
playing in the first place. “I wanted to thank you. For letting Rhy, and for letting me—”

“I haven’t let you do anything,” cut in Tieren. Kell cringed. “I simply haven’t stopped you, because if I’ve learned one thing about you both, it’s that if you want to do a thing, you’ll do it, the world be damned.”

“You think I’m being selfish.”

“No, Master Kell.” The priest rubbed his eyes. “I think you’re being human.”

Kell didn’t know if that was a slight coming from the
Aven Essen
, who was supposed to think him
blessed.

“I sometimes think I’ve gone mad.”

Tieren sighed. “Truth be told, I think everyone is mad. I think Rhy is mad for putting this scheme together, madder still for planning it so well.” His voice fell a measure. “I think the king and queen are mad for blaming one son above the other.”

Kell swallowed. “Will they never forgive me?”

“Which would you rather have? Their forgiveness, or Rhy’s life?”

“I shouldn’t have to choose,” he snapped.

Tieren’s gaze drifted away to the steps and the Isle and the glittering city. “The world is neither fair nor right, but it has a way of balancing itself. Magic teaches us that much. But I want you to promise me something.”

“What?”

That shrewd blue gaze swiveled back. “That you’ll be careful.”

“I’ll do my best. You know I don’t wish to cause Rhy pain, but—”

“I’m not asking you to mind Rhy’s life, you stupid boy. I’m asking you to mind your own.” Master Tieren brought his hand to Kell’s face, a familiar calm transferring like heat.

Just then, Rhy appeared, looking cheerfully drunk. “There you are!” he called, wrapping his arm around Kell’s shoulders and hissing in his ear. “
Hide.
Princess Cora is hunting princes….”

Kell let Rhy drag him back inside, casting one last glance at Tieren, who stood on the steps, his back to the palace and his eyes on the night.

IV

“What are we doing here?”

“Hiding.”

“Surely we could have hidden in the palace.”

“Really, Kell. You’ve no imagination.”

“Is it going to sink?”

The bottle sloshed in Rhy’s hand. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I think it’s a valid question,” retorted Kell.

“They told me it couldn’t be done,” Rhy said, toasting the arena.

“Couldn’t, or shouldn’t?” asked Kell, treading on the stadium floor as if it were made of glass. “Because if it’s the latter—”

“You’re such a nag—ow.” Rhy stubbed his foot on something, a dull pain echoing through Kell’s toes.

“Here,” he grumbled, summoning a palmful of fire.

“No.” Rhy lunged at him, forcing his hand closed and dousing the light. “We are sneaking. Sneaking is meant to be done in the dark.”

“Well then, watch where you’re going.”

Rhy must have decided they’d gone far enough, because he slumped onto the polished stone floor of the arena. In the moonlight, Kell could see his brother’s eyes, the circlet of gold in his hair, the bottle of spiced wine as he pulled out the stopper.

Kell lowered himself to the ground beside the prince and rested against a something—a platform, a wall, a set of stairs? He tipped his head back and marveled at the stadium, what little he could see—the stands soon to be filled, the ruse soon to play out, and the idea that the whole thing could actually work.

“Are you sure about this?” asked Kell.

“A little late to change our minds,” mused the prince.

“I’m serious, Rhy. There’s still time.”

The prince took a sip of wine and set the bottle down between them, clearly considering his answer. “Do you remember what I told you?” he asked gently. “After that night. About why I took the pendant from Holland.”

Kell nodded. “You wanted strength.”

“I still want it,” Rhy whispered. “Every day. I wake up wanting to be a stronger person. A better prince. A worthy king. That want, it’s like a fire in my chest. And then, there are these moments, these horrible, icy moments when I remember what I did …” His hand drifted to his heart. “To myself. To you. To my kingdom. And it hurts….” His voice trembled. “More than dying ever did. There are days when I don’t feel like I deserve this.” He tapped the soul seal. “I deserve to be …” He trailed off, but Kell could feel his brother’s pain, as though it were a physical thing.

“I guess what I’m trying to say,” said Rhy, “is that I need this, too.” His eyes finally found Kell’s. “Okay?”

Kell swallowed. “Okay.” He took up the bottle.

“That said, do try not to get us both killed.”

Kell groaned, and Rhy chuckled.

“To clever plans,” said Kell, toasting his brother. “And dashing princes.”

“To masked magicians,” said Rhy, swiping the wine.

“To mad ideas.”

“To the
Essen Tasch
.”

“Wouldn’t it be amazing,” murmured Rhy later, when the bottle was empty, “if we got away with it?”

“Who knows,” said Kell. “We just might.”

* * *

Rhy stumbled into his room, waving off Tolner’s questions about where he’d been and shutting the door in the guard’s face. It was dark, and he made it three unsteady strides before knocking his shin against a low table, and swearing roundly.

The room swam, a mess of shadows lit only by the pale light of the low-burning fire in the hearth and the candles in the corners, only half of which had been lit. Rhy retreated until his back found the nearest wall, and waited for the room to settle.

Downstairs, the party had finally dissipated, the royals retreating to their wings, the nobles to their homes. Tomorrow. Tomorrow the tournament would finally be here.

Rhy knew Kell’s true hesitation, and it wasn’t getting caught, or starting trouble; it was the fear of causing him pain. Every day Kell moved like Rhy was made of glass, and it was driving them both mad. But once the tournament started, once he saw that Rhy was fine, that he could take it, survive it—hell, he could survive
anything
, wasn’t that the point?—then maybe Kell would finally let go, stop holding his breath, stop trying to protect him, and just
live.

Because Rhy didn’t need his protection, not anymore, and he’d only told a partial truth when he said they both needed this.

The whole truth was, Rhy needed it
more.

Because Kell had given him a gift he did not want, could never repay.

He’d always envied his brother’s strength.

And now, in a horrible way, it was his.

He was immortal.

And he
hated
it.

And he hated that he hated it. Hated that he’d become the thing he never wanted to be, a burden to his brother, a source of pain and suffering, a prison. Hated that if he’d had a choice, he would have said no. Hated that he was grateful he hadn’t had a choice, because he wanted to live, even if he didn’t deserve to.

But most of all, Rhy hated the way his living changed how
Kell
lived, the way his brother moved through life as if it were suddenly fragile. The black stone, and whatever lived inside it, and for a time in Kell, had changed his brother, woken something restless, something reckless. Rhy wanted to shout, to shake Kell and tell him not to shy away from danger on his account, but charge toward it, even if it meant getting hurt.

Because Rhy deserved that pain.

He could see his brother suffocating beneath the weight of it. Of him.

And he hated it.

And this gesture—this foolish, mad, dangerous gesture—was the best he could do.

The most he could do.

The room had steadied, and suddenly, desperately, Rhy needed another drink.

A sideboard stood along the wall, an ornate thing of wood and inlaid gold. Short glass goblets huddled beside a tray with a dozen different bottles of fine liquor, and Rhy squinted in the dimness, surveying the selection before reaching for the thin vial at the back, hidden by the taller, brighter bottles. The tonic in the vial was milky white, the stopper trailing a thin stem.

One for calm. Two for quiet. Three for sleep.

That’s what Tieren said when he prescribed it.

Rhy’s fingers trembled as he reached for the vial, jostling the other glasses.

It was late, and he didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts.

He could call for someone—he’d never had trouble finding company—but he wasn’t in the mood to smile and laugh and charm. If Gen and Parrish were here, they’d play Sanct with him, help him keep the thoughts at bay. But Gen and Parrish were dead, and it was Rhy’s fault.

You shouldn’t be alive.

He shook his head, trying to clear the voices, but they clung.

You let everyone down.

“Stop,” he growled under his breath. He hated the darkness, the wave of shadows that always caught up with him. He’d hoped the party would wear him down, help him sleep, but his tired body did nothing to quiet his raging thoughts.

You are weak.

He let three drops fall into an empty glass, followed by a splash of honeyed water.

A failure.

Rhy tossed back the contents (
Murderer
) and began to count, in part to mark the effects and in part to drown out the voices. He stood at the bar, staring down into the empty glass and measuring seconds until his thoughts and vision began to blur.

Rhy pushed away from the sideboard, and nearly fell as the room tipped around him. He caught himself against the bedpost and closed his eyes (
You shouldn’t be alive
), tugging off his boots and feeling his way into bed. He curled around himself as the thoughts beat on: of Holland’s voice, of the amulet, distorted now, twisting into memories of the night Rhy died.

He didn’t remember everything, but he remembered Holland holding out the gift.

For strength.

He remembered standing in his chambers, slipping the pendant’s cord over his head, being halfway down the hall, and then—nothing. Nothing until a searing heat tore through his chest, and he looked down to see his hand wrapped around the hilt of a dagger, the blade buried between his ribs.