“It is not right for you to do that,” he reprimanded softly, “now that I am king.”
Alucard withdrew, trying to keep hurt and confusion from his face. But then Rhy’s dark lashes sank over his eyes, and his lips slid into a coy smile. “A king should be allowed to lead.”
Relief flooded through him, followed by a wave of heat as Rhy’s hand tangled in his hair, mussing the silver clasps. Lips brushed his throat, warmth grazed his jaw.
“Don’t you agree?” breathed the king, nipping at Alucard’s collarbone in a way that stole the air from his chest.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he managed, and then Rhy was kissing him, long and slow and savoring. The room moved beneath his tripping feet, the buttons of his shirt coming undone. By the time Rhy drew back, Alucard was against the bedpost, his shirt open. He let out a small, dazed laugh, resisting the urge to drag Rhy toward him, to press him down into the sheets.
The longing left him breathless.
“Is this how it’s to be now?” he asked. “Am I to be your bedmate as well as your guard?”
Rhy’s lips split into a dazzling smile. “So you admit it, then,” he said, closing the last of the distance to whisper in Alucard’s ear, “that you are mine.”
And with that, the king dragged him down onto the bed.
VII
Arnesians had a dozen ways to say hello, but no word for good-bye.
When it came to parting ways, they sometimes said vas ir, which meant in peace, but more often they chose to say anoshe—until another day.
Anoshe was a word for strangers in the street, and lovers between meetings, for parents and children, friends and family. It softened the blow of leaving. Eased the strain of parting. A careful nod to the certainty of today, the mystery of tomorrow. When a friend left, with little chance of seeing home, they said anoshe. When a loved one was dying, they said anoshe. When corpses were burned, bodies given back to the earth and souls to the stream, those left grieving said anoshe.
Anoshe brought solace. And hope. And the strength to let go.
When Kell Maresh and Lila Bard had first parted ways, he’d whispered the word in her wake, beneath his breath, full of the certainty—the hope—they’d meet again. He’d known it wasn’t an end. And this wasn’t an end, either, or if it was, then simply the end of a chapter, an interlude between two meetings, the beginning of something new.
And so Kell made his way up to his brother’s chambers—not the rooms he’d kept beside Kell’s own (though he still insisted on sleeping there), but the ones that had belonged to his mother and father.
Without Maxim and Emira, there were so few people for Kell to say good-bye to. Not the vestra or the ostra, not the servants or the guards who remained. He would have said farewell to Hastra, but Hastra, too, was dead.
Kell had already gone to the Basin that morning, and come across the flower the young guard had coaxed to life that day, withering in its pot. He’d carried it up to the orchard, where Tieren stood between the rows of winter and spring.
“Can you fix it?” asked Kell.
The priest’s eyes went to the shriveled little flower. “No,” he said gently, but when Kell started to protest, Tieren held up a gnarled hand. “There’s nothing to fix. That is an acina. They aren’t meant to last. They bloom a single time, and then they’re gone.”
Kell looked down helplessly at the withered white blossom. “What do I do?” he asked, the question so much bigger than the words.
Tieren smiled a soft, inward smile and shrugged in his usual way. “Leave it be. The blossom will crumble, the stem and leaves, too. That’s what they’re for. Acina strengthen the soil, so that other things can grow.”
*
Kell reached the top of the stairs, and slowed his step.
Royal guards lined the hall to the king’s chamber, and Alucard stood outside the doors, leaning back against the wood and flipping through the pages of a book.
“This is your idea of guarding him?” said Kell.
The man pointedly turned a page. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”
Kell took a steadying breath. “Get out of my way, Emery.”
Alucard’s storm-dark eyes flicked up from the book. “And what is your business with the king?”
“Personal.”
Alucard held up a hand. “Perhaps I should have you searched for weapo—”
“Touch me and I’ll break your fingers.”
“Who says I have to touch you?” His hand twitched, and Kell felt the knife on his sleeve shudder before he shoved the man back against the wood.
“Alucard!” called Rhy through the door. “Let my brother in before I have to find another guard.”
Alucard smirked, and gave a sweeping bow, and stepped aside.
“Ass,” muttered Kell as he shoved past him.
“Bastard,” called the magician in his wake.
*
Rhy waited on the balcony, leaning his elbows on the rail.
The air still held a chill, but the sun was warm on his skin, rich with the promise of spring. Kell came storming through the room.
“You two are getting along well, then?” asked Rhy.
“Splendidly,” muttered his brother, stepping through the doors and slumping forward over the rail beside him. A reflection of his own pose.
They stood like that for some time, taking in the day, and Rhy almost forgot that Kell had come to say good-bye, that he was leaving, and then a breeze cut through, sudden and biting, and the darkness whispered from the back of his mind, the sorrow of loss and the guilt of survival and the fear that he would keep outliving those he loved. That this borrowed life would be too long or too short, and there forever was the inevitable cusp, blessing or curse, blessing or curse, and the feeling of leaning forward into a gust of wind as it tried with every step to force him back.
Rhy’s fingers tightened on the rail.
And Kell, whose two-toned eyes had always seen right through him, said, “Do you wish I hadn’t done it?”
He opened his mouth to say Of course not, or Saints no, or any of the other things he should have said, had said a dozen times, with the mindless repetition of someone being asked how he is that day, and answering Fine, thank you, regardless of his true temperament. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. There were so many things Rhy hadn’t said since his return—wouldn’t let himself say—as if giving the words voice meant giving them weight, enough to tip the scale and crush him. But so many things had tried, and here he was, still standing.
“Rhy,” said Kell, his gaze heavy as stone. “Do you wish I hadn’t brought you back?”
He took a breath. “I don’t know,” he said. “Ask me in the morning, after I’ve spent hours weighed down by nightmares, drugged beyond reason just to hold back the memories of dying, which was not so bad as coming back, and I’d say yes. I wish you’d let me die.”
Kell looked ill. “I—”
“But ask me in the afternoon,” cut in Rhy, “when I’ve felt the sun cutting through the cold, or the warmth of Alucard’s smile, or the steady weight of your arm around my shoulders, and I would tell you it was worth it. It is worth it.”
Rhy turned his face to the sun. He closed his eyes, relishing the way the light still reached him. “Besides,” he added, managing a smile, “who doesn’t love a man with shadows? Who doesn’t want a king with scars?”
“Oh, yes,” said Kell dryly. “That’s really the reason I did it. To make you more appealing.”
Rhy felt his smile slip. “How long will you be gone?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know.”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know.”
Rhy bowed his head, suddenly tired. “I wish I could go with you.”
“So do I,” said Kell, “but the empire needs its king.”
Softly, Rhy said, “The king needs his brother.”
Kell looked stricken, and Rhy knew he could make him stay, and he knew he couldn’t bear to do it. He let out a long, shuddering sigh and straightened. “It’s about time you did something selfish, Kell. You make the rest of us look bad. Try to shrug that saint’s complex while you’re away.”