“Lord Sol-in-Ar,” said the king coolly. “I did not call for you.”
“You should have,” countered the Faroan as Prince Col appeared at his heels. “Since this matter concerns not only Arnes.”
“Do you think this darkness will stop at your borders?” added the Veskan prince.
“If we stop it first,” said Maxim.
“And if you do not,” said Sol-in-Ar as his dark eyes fell on the map, “it will not matter who fell first.”
Who fell first. An idea flickered at the edge of Kell’s mind, fighting to take shape amid the noise. The feel of Lila’s body sagging against his. Staring at the empty cup cradled in Hastra’s hand.
“Very well,” said the king. He nodded at Isra to continue.
“The jails are full of those who’ve fallen,” reported the captain. “We’ve commandeered the plaza, and the port cells, but we’re running out of places to put them. We’re already using the Rose Hall for those with fever.”
“What about the tournament arenas?” offered Kell.
Isra shook her head. “My men won’t go onto the river, sir. Not safe. A few tried, and they didn’t come back.”
“The blood sigils are not lasting,” added Tieren. “They fade within hours, and the fallen seem to have discovered their purpose. We’ve already lost a portion of the guards.”
“Call the rest back at once,” said the king.
Call the rest.
There it was. “I have an idea,” said Kell, softly, the threads of it still drawing together.
“We are caged in,” said the Faroan general, sweeping a hand over the map. “And this creature will pick over our bones unless we find a way to fight back.”
Make him still. Force him to be reckless.
“I have an idea,” said Kell again, louder. This time the room went quiet.
“Speak,” said the king.
Kell swallowed. “What if we take away the people?”
“Which people?”
“All of them.”
“We can’t evacuate,” said Maxim. “There are too many poisoned by Osaron’s magic. If they were to leave, they’d simply spread the illness faster. No, it must be contained. We still don’t know if those lost can be regained, but we must hope it is a sickness and not a sentence.”
“No, we can’t evacuate them,” confirmed Kell. “But every waking body is a potential weapon, and if we want a chance at defeating Osaron, we need him disarmed.”
“Speak plainly,” ordered Maxim.
Kell drew breath, but was cut off by a voice from the door.
“What’s this? No vigil by my bed? I’m offended.”
Kell spun to see his brother standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets and shoulder tipped casually against the frame as if nothing were wrong. As if he hadn’t spent the better part of the night trapped between the living and the dead. None of it showed, at least, not on the surface. His amber eyes were bright, his hair combed, the ring of burnished gold back where it belonged atop his curls.
Kell’s pulse surged at the sight of him, while the king hid his relief almost as well as the prince hid his ordeal.
“Rhy,” said Maxim, voice nearly betraying him.
“Your Highness,” said Sol-in-Ar slowly, “we heard you were hurt in the attack.”
“We heard you fell victim to the shadow fog,” said Prince Col.
“We heard you’d taken ill before the winner’s ball,” added Lord Casin.
Rhy managed a lazy smile. “Goodness, the rumors fly when one is indisposed.” He gestured to himself. “As you can see …” A glance at Kell. “I’m surprisingly resilient. Now, what have I missed?”
“Kell was just about to tell us,” said the king, “how to defeat this monster.”
Rhy’s eyes widened even as a ghost of fatigue flitted across his face. He’d only just returned. Is this going to hurt? his gaze seemed to ask. Or maybe even, Are we going to die? But all he said was, “Go on.”
Kell fumbled for his thoughts. “We can’t evacuate the city,” he said again, turning toward the head priest. “But could we put it to sleep?”
Tieren frowned, knocking his bony knuckles on the table’s edge. “You want to cast a spell over London?”
“Over its people,” clarified Kell.
“For how long?” asked Rhy.
“As long as we must,” retorted Kell, turning back toward the priest. “Osaron has done it.”
“He’s a god,” observed Isra.
“No,” said Kell sharply. “He’s not.”
“Then what exactly are we facing?” demanded the king.
“It’s an oshoc,” said Kell, using Holland’s word. Only Tieren seemed to understand.
“A kind of incarnation,” explained the priest. “Magic in its natural form has no self, no consciousness. It simply is. The Isle river, for instance, is a source of immense power, but it has no identity. When magic gains a self, it gains motive, desire, will.”
“So Osaron is just a piece of magic with an ego?” asked Rhy. “A spell gone awry?”
Kell nodded. “And according to Holland, he feeds on chaos. Right now Osaron has ten thousand sources. But if we took them all away, if he had nothing but his own magic—”
“Which is still considerable—” cut in Isra.
“We could lure him into a fight.”
Rhy crossed his arms. “And how do you plan to fight him?”
Kell had an idea, but he couldn’t bring himself to voice it, not yet, when Rhy had just recovered.
Tieren spared him. “It could be done,” said the priest thoughtfully. “In a fashion. We’ll never be able to cast a spell that broad, but we could make a network of many smaller incantations,” he rambled, half to himself, “and with an anchor, it could be done.” He looked up, pale eyes brightening. “But I’ll need some things from the Sanctuary.”
A dozen eyes flicked to the map room’s only window, where the fingers of Osaron’s spell still scratched to get in, despite the morning light. Prince Col stiffened. Lady Rosec fixed her gaze on the floor. Kell started to offer, but a look from Rhy made him pause. The look wasn’t refusal. Not at all. It was permission. Unflinching trust.
Go, it said. Do whatever you must.
“What a coincidence,” said a voice from the door. They turned as one to see Lila, hands on her hips and very much awake. “I could use some fresh air.”
IV
Lila made her way down the hall, an empty satchel in one hand and Tieren’s list of supplies in the other. She’d had the luxury of seeing Kell’s shock and Tieren’s displeasure register at the same time, for whatever that was worth. Her head was still aching dully from whatever she’d been slipped, but the stiff drink had done its part, and the solid plan—or at least a step—had done the rest.
Your tea, Miss Bard.
It wasn’t the first time she’d been drugged, but most of her experience had been of a more … investigative nature. She’d spent a month aboard the Spire collecting powder for the tapers and ale she intended to take onto the Copper Thief, enough to bring down an entire crew. She’d inhaled her share, at first by accident, and then with a kind of purpose, training her senses to recognize and endure a certain portion because the last thing she needed was to faint in the middle of the task.
This time, she’d tasted the powder in the tea the moment it hit her tongue, even managed to spit most of it back into the cup, but by then her senses were going numb, winking out like lights in a strong wind, and she knew what was coming—the shallow, almost pleasant slide before the drop. One minute she’d been in the hall with Kell, and the next her balance was going, floor tipping like a ship in a storm. She’d heard the lilt of his voice, felt the heat of his arms, and then she was gone, down, down, down, and the next thing she knew she was bolting upright on a couch with a headache and a wide-eyed boy watching from the wall.