“You have a reputation,” said Holland.
“Oh,” said Vortalis, exhaling, “we both have those. How many men and women walk the streets of London without weapons at hand? How many end fights without lifting a finger? How many refuse to join the gangs or the guard—”
“I’m not a thug.”
Vortalis cocked his head. His smile vanished. “What are you, then? What’s the point of you? All the magic in that little black eye, and what do you use it for? Emptying your veins into a frozen river? Dreaming of a nicer world? Surely there are better uses.”
“My power has never brought me anything but pain.”
“Then you’re using it wrong.” With that he stood and put the end of his taper out against the nearest tree.
Holland frowned. “This is a sacred—”
He didn’t get the chance to finish the admonition, for that was when Vortalis moved, so fast it had to be a spell, something scrawled somewhere beneath his clothes—but then again, spells only amplified power. They didn’t make it from scratch.
His fist was inches from Holland’s face when Holland’s will ground against flesh and bone, forcing Vortalis to a stop. But it wasn’t enough. The man’s fist trembled in the air, warring with the hold, and then it came crashing through, like a brick through glass, and slammed into Holland’s jaw. The pain was sudden, bright, Vortalis beaming as he danced backward out of Holland’s range. Or tried to. The stream shot up behind him and surged forward. But just before it caught Vortalis in the back, he moved again, sidestepping a blow he couldn’t have seen before Holland finally lost patience and sent two spears of ice careening toward the man from opposite sides.
He dodged the first, but the second took him in the stomach, the spear spinning on its axis so it shattered broadside across the man’s ribs instead of running him through.
Vortalis fell backward with a groan.
Holland stood, waiting to see if the man would get back up. He did, chuckling softly as he rocked forward to his knees.
“They told me you were good,” said Vortalis, rubbing his ribs. “I’ve a feeling you’re even better than they know.”
Holland’s fingers curled around his drying blood. Vortalis picked up a shard of ice, handling it less like a weapon than an artifact. “As it is, you could have killed me.”
And Holland could have. Easily. If he hadn’t turned the spear, it would have gone straight through flesh and muscle, broken against bone, but there was Alox in his head, stone body shattering against the floor, and Talya, slumping lifeless against her own knife.
Vortalis got to his feet, holding his side. “Why didn’t you do it?”
“You weren’t trying to kill me.”
“The men I sent were. But you didn’t kill them, either.”
Holland held his gaze.
“You got something against killing?” pressed Vortalis.
“I’ve taken lives,” answered Holland.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Holland fell silent. He clenched his fists, focused on the line of pain along his palm. At last, he said, “It’s too easy.”
“Killing? Of course it is,” said Vortalis. “Living with it, that’s the hard part. But sometimes, it’s worth it. Sometimes, it’s necessary.”
“It wasn’t necessary for me to kill your men.”
Vortalis raised a brow. “They could have come after you again.”
“They didn’t,” said Holland. “You just kept sending new ones.”
“And you kept letting them live.” Vortalis stretched, wincing faintly at his injured ribs. “I’d say you have a death wish, but you don’t seem all that keen to die.” He walked to the edge of the grove, his back to Holland as he looked out over the pale expanse of the city. He lit another taper, stuck the end between his teeth. “You know what I think?”
“I don’t care—”
“I think you’re a romantic. One of those fools waiting for the someday king to come. Waiting for the magic to return, for the world to wake up. But it doesn’t work like that, Holland. If you want change, you have to make it.” Vortalis waved dismissively at the stream. “You can empty your veins into that water, but it won’t change a thing.” He held out his hand. “If you really want to save this city, help me put that blood to better use.”
Holland stared at the man’s spell-covered hand. “And what use would that be?”
Vortalis smiled. “You can help me kill a king.”
I
The coffee tasted like muck, but it kept Alucard’s hands warm.
He hadn’t slept, nerves sharpened to knife points by the foreign ship and the traitor magician and the fact that every time he closed his eyes, he saw Anisa burning, saw Jinnar crumbling to ash, saw himself reaching out as if there were a damned thing he could do to save his sister, his friend. Anisa had always been so bright, Jinnar had always been so strong, and it had meant nothing in the end.
They were still dead.
Alucard climbed the steps to the deck and took another swig, forgetting how bad the brew really was. He spit the brown sludge over the rail and wiped his mouth.
Jasta was busy tying off a rope against the mainmast. Hastra and Hano were sitting on a crate in the shade of the mainsail, the young guard cross-legged and the sailor girl perched like a crow, leaning forward to see something cupped in his hands. It looked, of all things, like the leafy green beginnings of an acina blossom. Hano made a delighted sound as the thing slowly unfurled before her eyes. Hastra was surrounded by the thin white threads of light particular to those rare few who held the elements in balance. Alucard wondered briefly why the young guard was not instead a priest. The air around Hano was a nest of dark blue spirals: a wind magician in the making, like Jinnar— “Careful, now,” said a voice. “A sailor’s no good without a full set of fingers.”
It was Bard. She was standing near the prow, teaching Lenos a trick with one of her knives. The sailor watched, eyes wide, as she took the blade between her fingertips and flipped it up into the air, and by the time she caught it handle side, the knife’s edge was on fire. She gave a bow, and Lenos actually flashed a nervous smile.
Lenos, who’d come to Alucard on her first night aboard the Spire and warned that she was an omen. As if Alucard didn’t already know.
Lenos, who’d named her the Sarows.
The first time Alucard had seen Delilah Bard, she’d been standing on his ship, bound at the wrists and frizzing the air with silver. He’d only ever met one magician who glowed like that, and that one had a black eye and an air of general disdain that spoke louder than any words. Lila Bard, however, had two average brown eyes, and nothing to say for herself, nothing to say for the corpse of Alucard’s crewmember, stretched out there on the plank. Had offered a single broken sentence: Is en ranes gast.
I am the best thief.
And as he’d stood there, taking in her dagger smile, her silver lines of light, Alucard had thought, Well, you’re certainly the strangest.
The first bad decision he’d made was taking her aboard.
The second was letting her stay.
From there, the bad decisions seemed to multiply like drinks during a game of Sanct.
That first night, in his cabin, Lila sat across from Alucard, her magic tangled, a snarled knot of power never used. And when she asked him to teach her, he’d nearly choked on his wine. Teach an Antari magic? But Alucard had. He’d groomed the coil of power, smoothed it as best he could, and watched the magic flow through clear channels, brighter than anything he’d ever seen.
He’d had his moments of clarity, of course.
He’d thought of selling her to Maris at the Ferase Stras.
Thought of killing her before she decided to kill him.
Thought of leaving her, betraying her, dreamed up a dozen ways to wash his hands of her. She was trouble—even the crew knew it, and they couldn’t see the word written in knotted silver above her head.