Pain reminds us that we’re alive.
That’s what Rhy had said to him, when he first woke to find their lives tethered. When Kell caught him with his hand over the flame. When he learned of the binding ring, the cost of its magic.
Pain reminds us.
Kell dreaded the pain, which seemed to worsen every time, felt ill at the thought of it, but he would not deny Holland this last request. Kell owed him that much, and so he said nothing.
Instead, he looked around at the rise, the city beneath them. “Where are we now, in your world? Where will we be, once we step through?”
A flicker of relief crossed Holland’s face, quick as light on water.
“The Silver Wood,” he said. “Some say it was the place where magic died.” After a moment he added, “Others think it’s nothing, has never been anything but an old grove of trees.”
Kell waited for the man to say more, but he just rose slowly to his feet, leaning ever so slightly on a cane, only his tense white knuckles betraying how much it took for him to stand.
Holland put his other hand on Kell’s arm, signaling his readiness, and so Kell drew his knife and cut his free hand, the discomfort so simple compared to the pain that waited. He pulled the White London token from around his neck, staining the coin red, and reached out to rest his hand on the bench.
“As Travars,” he said, Holland’s voice echoing softly beneath his as they both stepped through.
*
Pain reminds us …
Kell clenched his teeth against the spasm, reaching out to brace himself against the nearest thing, which was not a bench or a wall but the trunk of a tree, its bark smooth as metal. He leaned against the cool surface, waiting for the wave to pass, and when it did, he dragged his head up to see a small grove, and Holland, a few feet away, alive, intact. A stream cut into the ground before him, little more than a ribbon of water, and beyond the grove, White London rose in stony spires.
In Holland’s absence—and Osaron’s—the color had begun to leach back out of the world. The sky and river were a pale grey once more, the ground bare. This was the White London Kell had always known. That other version—the one he’d glimpsed in the castle yard, in the moments before Ojka closed the collar around his throat—was like something from a dream. And yet Kell’s heart ached to see it lost, and to see Holland bear that loss, the smooth planes of his mask finally cracking, the sadness showing through.
“Thank you, Kell,” he said, and Kell knew the words for what they were: a dismissal.
Yet he felt rooted to the spot.
Magic made everything feel so impermanent, it was easy to forget that some things, once changed, could never be undone. That not everything was either changeable or infinite. Some roads kept going, and others had an end.
For a long moment the two men stood in silence, Holland unable to move forward, Kell unable to step back.
At last, the earth released its hold.
“You’re welcome, Holland,” said Kell, dragging himself free.
He reached the edge of the grove before he turned back, looking at Holland for a last time, the other Antari standing there at the center of the Silver Wood, his head tipped back, his green eyes closed. The winter breeze tousled white hair, ruffled ash-black clothes.
Kell lingered, digging in the pockets of his many-sided coat, and when at last he turned to go, he set a single red lin on a tree stump. A reminder, an invitation, a parting gift, for a man Kell would never see again.
VI
Alucard Emery paced outside the Rose Hall, dressed in a blue so dark it registered as black until it caught the light just so. It was the color of the sails on his ship. The color of the sea at midnight. No hat, no sash, no rings, but his brown hair was washed and pinned back with silver. His cuffs and buttons shone as well, polished to beads of light.
He was a summer sky at night, speckled with stars.
And he had spent the better part of an hour assembling the outfit. He couldn’t decide between Alucard, the captain, and Emery, the noble. In the end, he had chosen neither. Today he was Alucard Emery, the man courting a king.
He’d lost the sapphire above his eye and gained a new scar in its place. It didn’t wink in the sun, but it suited him anyway. The silver threads that traced over his skin, relics of the shadow king’s poison, shone with their own faint light.
I rather like the silver, Rhy had said.
Alucard rather liked it, too.
His fingers felt bare without his rings, but the only absence that mattered was the silver feather he’d worn wrapped around his thumb. The mark of House Emery.
Berras had survived the fog unscathed—which was to say he’d fallen to it—and woken in the street with the rest, claiming he had no memory of what he’d said or done under the shadow king’s spell. Alucard didn’t believe a word of it, had kept his brother’s company only long enough to tell him of the estate’s destruction and Anisa’s death.
After a long silence, Berras had said only, “To think, the line comes down to us.”
Alucard had shaken his head, disgusted. “You can have it,” he’d said, and walked away. He didn’t throw the ring at his brother, as good as that would have felt. Instead he simply dropped it in the bushes on his way out. The moment it was gone, he felt lighter.
Now, as the doors to the Rose Hall swung open, he felt dizzy.
“The king will see you,” said the royal guard, and Alucard forced himself forward, the velvet bag hanging from his fingers.
*
The hall wasn’t full, but it wasn’t empty, either, and Alucard suddenly wished he’d requested a private meeting with the prince—the king.
Vestra and ostra were gathered, some waiting for an audience, others simply waiting for the world to return to normal. The Veskan entourage was still confined to its quarters, while the Faroan assembly had divided, half sailing home with Lord Sol-in-Ar, the others lingering in the palace. Councilors, once loyal aides to Maxim, stood ready to advise, while members of the royal guard lined the hall and flanked the dais.
King Rhy Maresh sat on his father’s throne, his mother’s empty seat beside him. Kell stood at his side, head bowed over his brother in quiet conversation. Master Tieren was at Rhy’s other side, looking older than ever, but his pale blue eyes were sharp among the hollows and wrinkles of his face. He rested a hand on Rhy’s shoulder as he spoke, the gesture simple, warm.
Rhy’s own head was tipped down as he listened, the crown a heavy band of gold in his hair. There was sadness in his shoulders, but then Kell’s lips moved, and Rhy managed a fleeting smile, like light through clouds.
Alucard’s heart lifted.
He scanned the room quickly and saw Bard leaning against one of the stone planters, cocking her head the way she always did when she was eavesdropping. He wondered if she’d picked any pockets yet this morning, or if those days were over.
Kell cleared his throat, and Alucard was startled to realize that his feet had carried him all the way to the dais. He met the king’s amber eyes, and saw them soften briefly with, what—happiness? concern?—before Rhy spoke.
“Captain Emery,” he said, his voice the same, and yet different, distant. “You requested an audience.”
“As you promised I might, Your Majesty, if I returned”—Alucard’s gaze flicked to Kell, the shadow at the king’s shoulder—“without killing your brother.”
A murmur of amusement went through the hall. Kell scowled, and Alucard immediately felt better. Rhy’s eyes widened a fraction—he’d realized where this was going, and he had obviously assumed Alucard would request a private meeting.
But what they’d had—it was more than stolen kisses between silk sheets, more than secrets shared only by starlight, more than a youthful dalliance, a summer fling.