“The stone is gone now,” finished Kell. “And the magic with it.”
The king slammed his fist against a banister. “The Danes will pay for what they’ve—”
“The Danes are dead,” said Kell. “I killed them myself.”
Lila cleared her throat.
Kell rolled his eyes. “With Lila’s help.”
The king seemed to notice Lila for the first time. “Who are you? What madness have you added to these plots?”
“My name is Delilah Bard,” she shot back. “We met, just earlier this evening. When I was trying to save your city, and you were standing there, all blank-eyed under some kind of spell.”
“Lila,” snapped Kell in horror.
“I’m half the reason your city is still standing.”
“Our city?” questioned the queen. “You’re not from here, then?”
Kell tensed. Lila opened her mouth, but before she could answer, he said, “No. She’s from afar.”
The king’s brow furrowed. “How far afar?”
And before Kell could answer, Lila threw her shoulders back. “My ship docked a few days ago,” she announced. “I came to London because I heard that your son’s festivities were not to be missed, and because I had business with a merchant named Calla in the market on the river. Kell and I have crossed paths once or twice before, and when it was clear that he needed help, I gave it.” Kell stared at Lila. She gave him a single raised a brow and added, “He promised me a reward, of course.”
The king and queen stared at Lila, too, as if trying to decide which piece of her story sounded least plausible (it was either the fact that she owned a ship, or the fact that a foreigner spoke such flawless English), but at last the queen’s composure faltered.
“Where is our son?” she pleaded. The way she said it, as if they had only one, made Kell flinch.
“Is Rhy alive?” demanded the king.
“Thanks to Kell,” cut in Lila. “We’ve spent the last day trying to save your kingdom, and you don’t even—”
“He’s alive,” said Kell, cutting her off. “And he will live,” he added, holding the king’s gaze. “As long as I do.” There was a faint challenge in the line.
“What do you mean?”
“Sir,” said Kell, breaking the gaze. “I did only what I had to do. If I could have given him my life, I would have. Instead, I could only share it.” He twisted in his bonds, the edge of the scar visible under his collar. The queen drew in a breath. The king’s face darkened.
“Where is he, Kell?” asked the king, his voice softening.
Kell’s shoulders loosened, the weight sliding from them. “Release us,” he said. “And I will bring him home.”
III
“Come in.”
Kell had never been so glad to hear his brother’s voice. He opened the door and stepped into Rhy’s room, trying not to picture the way it had been when he last left it, the prince’s blood streaked across the floor.
It had been three days since that night, and all signs of the chaos had since been erased. The balcony had been repaired, the blood polished out of the inlaid wood, the furniture and fabrics made new.
Now Rhy lay propped up in his bed. There were circles under his eyes, but he looked more bored than ill, and that was progress. The healers had fixed him up as best they could (they’d fixed Kell and Lila, too), but the prince wasn’t mending as quickly as he should have been. Kell knew why, of course. Rhy hadn’t simply been wounded, as they had been told. He’d been dead.
Two attendants stood at a table nearby, and a guard sat in a chair beside the door, and all three watched Kell as he entered. Part of Rhy’s dark mood came from the fact that the guard was neither Parrish nor Gen. Both had been found dead—one by sword, and the other by the black fever, as it was quickly named, that had raged through the city—a fact that troubled Rhy as much as his own condition.
The attendants and the guard watched Kell with new caution as he approached the prince’s bed.
“They will not let me up, the bastards,” grumbled Rhy, glaring at them. “If I cannot leave,” he said to them, “then be so kind as to leave yourselves.” The weight of loss and guilt, paired with the nuisance of injury and confinement, had put Rhy in a foul humor. “By all means,” he added as his servants rose, “stand guard outside. Make me feel like more of a prisoner than I already do.”
When they were gone, Rhy sighed and slumped back against the pillows.
“They mean only to help,” said Kell.
“Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad,” he said, “if they were prettier to look at.” But the boyish jab rang strangely hollow. His eyes found Kell’s, and his look darkened. “Tell me everything,” he said. “But start with this.” He touched the place over his heart, where he wore a scar that matched Kell’s own. “What foolish thing have you done, my brother?”
Kell looked down at the rich red linens on the bed and pulled aside his collar to show the mirroring scar. “I did only what you would have done, if you were me.”
Rhy frowned. “I love you, Kell, but I had no interest in matching tattoos.”