A shiver ran through him, sudden and cold.
He’d always been sensitive to the balance of things. Could have been a priest, if he’d had a bit more magic. He knew when things were right—that wonderful feeling like warm sun on a cool day—and he knew when they were aven—like Lila, with her strange past and stranger power—and he knew when they were wrong.
And right now, something was wrong.
Lenos took a sip of ale to steady his nerves—his reflection a frowning amber smudge on its surface—and got to his feet. The Spire’s first mate caught his eye, and rose as well. (Stross knew about his moments, and unlike the rest of the crew, who called him odd, superstitious, Stross seemed to believe him. Or, at least, not disbelieve him outright.)
Lenos moved through the room in a kind of daze, caught up in the strange spell of the feeling, the cord of wrongness like a rope tugging him along. He was halfway to the door when the first shout came from the tavern window.
“There’s something in the river!”
“Yeah,” Tav called back, “big floating arenas. Been there all week.”
But Lenos was still moving toward the tavern’s entrance. He pushed open the door, unmoved by the sudden cut of cold wind.
The streets were emptier than usual, the first heads just poking out to see.
Lenos walked, Stross on his heels, until he rounded the corner and saw the edge of the night market, its crowd shifting to the riverbanks, tilting toward the red water like loose cargo on a ship.
His heart thudded in his chest as he pushed forward, his slim body slipping through where Stross’s broad form lodged and stuck. There, ahead, the crimson glow of the Isle, and—
Lenos stopped.
Something was spreading along the river’s surface, like an oil slick, blotting out the light, replacing it with something black, and glistening, and wrong. The darkness slipped onto the bank, sloshing up against the dead winter grass, the stone walk, leaving an iridescent streak with every lapping wave.
The sight tugged at Lenos’s limbs, that same downward pull, easy as gravity, and when he felt himself stepping forward, he tore his gaze away, forced himself to stop.
To his right, a man stumbled forward to the river’s edge. Lenos tried to catch his sleeve, but the man was already past him, with a woman following close behind. All around, the crowd was torn between staggering back and jostling forward, and Lenos, unable to move away, could only fight to hold his ground.
“Stop!” called a guard as the man who’d swept past Lenos sank to one knee and reached out, as if to touch the river’s surface. Instead, the river touched him, stretched out a hand made of blackish water and wrapped its fingers around the man’s arm, and pulled him in. Screams went up, swallowing the splash, the instant of struggle before the man went under.
The crowd recoiled as the oily sheen began to smooth, went silent as it waited for the man—or his body—to surface.
“Stand aside!” demanded another guard, forcing his way forward. He was almost to the bank when the man reappeared. The guard stumbled back in shock as the man came up, not gasping for air, or struggling against the river’s hold, but calm and slow, as if rising from a bath. Gasps and murmurs as the man climbed out of the river and onto the bank, oblivious to the waterlogged clothes weighing him down. Dripping from his skin, the water looked clean, clear, but when it pooled on the stones, it glistened and moved.
Stross’s hand was on Lenos’s shoulder, straining, but he couldn’t take his eyes from the man on the bank. There was something wrong with him. Something very wrong. Shadows swirled in his eyes, coiling like wisps of smoke, and his veins stood out against his tan skin, darkening to threads of black. But it was the rictus smile more than anything that made Lenos shiver.
The man spread his arms, streaming water, and announced boldly, “The king has come.”
He threw his head back and began to laugh as the darkness climbed the banks around him, tendrils of black fog that reached like fingers, clawing their way forward into the street. The crowd was thrown into panic, the ones close enough to see now scrambling to get away, only to be penned in by those behind. Lenos turned, looking for Stross, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Down the bank, another scream. Somewhere in the distance, an echo of the man’s words, now on a woman’s lips, now a child’s.
“The king has come.”
“The king has come.”
“The king has come,” said an old man, eyes shining, “and he is glorious.”
Lenos tried to get away, but the street was a roiling mass of bodies, crowded in by the shadow’s reach. Most fought to get free, but dotting the crowd were those who couldn’t tear their eyes from the black river. Those who stood, stiff as stone, transfixed by the glistening waves, the gravity of the spell pulling them down.
Lenos felt his own gaze drawn back into the murk and madness, stammered a prayer to the nameless saints even as his long limbs took a single step forward.
And then another.
His boots sank into the loamy soil of the riverbank, his thoughts quieting, vision narrowing to that mesmerizing dark. At the edge of his mind, he heard the rumble of hooves, like thunder, and then a voice, cutting through the chaos like a knife.
“Get back!” it shouted, and Lenos blinked, stumbling away from the reaching river right before a royal horse could crush him underfoot.
The massive steed reared up, but it was the figures mounted on top that held Lenos’s attention now.
The Antari prince sat astride the horse, disheveled, his crimson coat open to reveal bare skin, a streak of blood, a detailed scar. And behind the black-eyed prince, clinging to him for dear life, was Lila Bard.
“Fucking beast,” she muttered, nearly falling as she tried to free herself from the saddle. Kell Maresh—Aven Vares—hopped easily down, coat billowing around him, one hand resting on Bard’s shoulder, and Lenos couldn’t tell if the man was seeking balance or offering it. Bard’s eyes scanned the crowd—one of them was decidedly wrong, a starburst of glassy light—before landing on Lenos. She managed a quick, pained smile before someone screamed.
Nearby a woman collapsed, a tendril of shadow wrapping itself around her leg. She clawed at it, but her fingers went straight through. Lila spun toward her, but the Antari prince got there first. He tried to force the fog back with a gust of wind, and when that didn’t work, he produced a blade and carved a fresh line across his palm.
He knelt, hand hovering over the shadows that ran between the river and the woman’s skin.
“As Anasae,” he ordered, but the substance only parted around the blood. The air itself seemed to vibrate with laughter as the shadows seeped into the woman’s leg, staining skin before sinking into vein.
The Antari swore, and the woman shuddered, clutching at his sliced hand in fear. Blood streaked her fingers and, as Lenos watched, the shadows suddenly let go, recoiled from their host.
Kell Maresh was staring down at the place where his hand met hers.
“Lila!” he called, but she’d already seen, already had her own knife out. Blood welled across her skin as she shot toward a man on the bank, grabbing him a breath before the shadows could. Again, they recoiled.
The Antari and—no, the two Antari, thought Lenos, for that was what Bard was, that was what she had to be—began to grab everyone in reach, brushing stained fingers over hands and cheeks. But the blood did nothing to those already poisoned—they only snarled, and wiped it away, as if it were filth—and for every one they marked, two more fell before they could.
The royal Antari spun, breathless, taking in the scope, the scale. Instead of running from body to body, he held up his hands, palms a span apart. His lips moved and his blood pooled in the air, gathering itself into a ball. It reminded Lenos of the Isle itself, its red glow, an artery of magic, pulsing and vibrant.