He rolled his eyes. “Only you would mourn the vessel instead of the sailors.”
“Well,” she said matter-of-factly, “the ship certainly didn’t do anything wrong. The people might have deserved it.”
II
When Kell was young and couldn’t sleep, he’d taken to wandering the palace.
The simple act of walking steadied something in him, calmed his nerves and stilled his thoughts. He’d lose track of time, but also space, look up and find himself in a strange part of the palace with no memory of getting there, his attention turned inward instead of out.
He couldn’t get nearly as lost on the Ghost—the whole of the ship was roughly the size of Rhy’s chambers—but he was still surprised when he looked up and realized he was standing outside Holland’s makeshift cell.
The old man, Ilo, was propped in a chair in the doorway, silently whittling a piece of black wood into the shape of a ship by feel alone, and doing a rather decent job. He seemed lost in his task, the way Kell had been moment before, but now Ilo rose, sensing his presence and reading in it a silent dismissal. He left the small wooden carving behind on the chair. Kell glanced into the small room, expecting to see Holland staring back, and frowned.
Holland was sitting on the cot with his back to the wall, his head resting on his drawn-up knees. One hand was cuffed to the wall, the chain hanging like a leash. His skin had taken on a greyish pallor—the sea clearly wasn’t agreeing with him—and his black hair, Kell realized, was streaked with new bright silver, as if shedding Osaron had cost him something vital.
But what surprised Kell most was the simple fact that Holland was asleep.
Kell had never seen Holland lower his guard, never seen him relaxed, let alone unconscious. And yet, he wasn’t entirely still. The muscles in the other Antari’s arms twitched, his breath hitching, as though he were trapped in a bad dream.
Kell held his breath as he lifted the chair out of the way and stepped into the room.
Holland didn’t stir when Kell neared, nor when he knelt in front of the bed.
“Holland?” said Kell quietly, but the man didn’t shift.
It wasn’t until Kell’s hand touched Holland’s arm that the man woke. His head snapped up and he pulled suddenly away, or tried to, his shoulders hitting the cabin wall. For a moment his gaze was wide and empty, his body coiled, his mind somewhere else. It lasted only a second, but in that sliver of time, Kell saw fear. A deep, trained fear, the kind beaten into animals who’d once bitten their masters, Holland’s careful composure slipping to reveal the tension beneath. And then he blinked, once, twice, eyes focusing.
“Kell.” He exhaled sharply, his posture shifting back into a mimicry of calm, control, as he wrestled with whatever demons haunted his sleep. “Vos och?” he demanded brusquely in his own tongue. What is it?
Kell resisted the urge to retreat under the man’s glare. They’d hardly spoken since he had arrived in front of Holland’s cell and told him to get up. Now he said only, “You look ill.”
Holland’s dark hair was plastered to his face with sweat, his eyes feverish. “Worried for my health?” he said hoarsely. “How touching.” He began to fiddle absently with the manacle around his wrist. Beneath the iron, his skin looked red, raw, and before Kell had fully decided, he was reaching for the metal.
Holland stilled. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” said Kell, producing the key. His fingers closed around the cuff, and the cold metal with its strange numbing weight made him think of White London, of the collar and the cage and his own voice screaming—
The chains fell away, manacle hitting the floor hard and heavy enough to mark the wood.
Holland stared down at his skin, at the place where the metal cuff had been. He flexed his fingers. “Is that a good idea?”
“I suppose we’ll see,” said Kell, retreating to sit in the chair against the opposite wall. He kept his guard up, hand hovering over a blade even now, but Holland made no motion to attack, only rubbed his wrist thoughtfully.
“It’s a strange feeling, isn’t it?” said Kell. “The king had me arrested. I spent some time in that cell. In those chains.”
Holland raised a single dark brow. “How long did you spend in chains, Kell?” he asked, voice dripping with scorn. “Was it a few hours, or an entire day?”
Kell went silent, and Holland shook his head ruefully, a mocking sound caught in his throat. The Ghost must have caught a wave, because it rocked, and Holland paled. “Why am I on this ship?” When Kell didn’t answer, he went on. “Or perhaps the better question is, why are you on this ship?”
Kell still said nothing. Knowledge was a weapon, and he had no intention of arming Holland, not yet. He expected the other magician to press the issue, but instead he settled back, face tipped to the open window.
“If you listen, you can hear the sea. And the ship. And the people on it.” Kell tensed, but Holland continued. “That Hastra, he has the kind of voice that carries. The captains, too, both of them like to talk. A black market, a container for magic … it won’t be long before I’ve pieced it all together.”
So he wasn’t dropping it.
“Enjoy the challenge,” said Kell, wondering why he was still there, why he’d come in the first place.
“If you’re planning an attack against Osaron, then let me help.” The other Antari’s voice had changed, and it took Kell a moment to realize what he heard threaded through it. Passion. Anger. Holland’s voice had always been as smooth and steady as a rock. Now, it had fissures.
“Help requires trust,” said Kell.
“Hardly,” countered Holland. “Only mutual interest.” His gaze burned through Kell. “Why did you bring me?” he asked again.
“I brought you along so you wouldn’t cause trouble in the palace. And I brought you as bait, in the hopes that Osaron would follow us.” It was a partial truth, but the telling of it and the look in Holland’s eyes loosened something in Kell. He relented. “That container you heard about—it’s called an Inheritor. And we’re going to use it to contain Osaron.”
“How?” demanded Holland, not incredulous, but intense.
“It’s a receptacle for power,” explained Kell. “Magicians used them once to pass on the entirety of their magic by transferring it into a container.”
Holland went quiet, but his eyes were still fever bright. After a long moment he spoke again, his voice low, composed. “If you want me to use this Inheritor—”
“That isn’t why I brought you,” cut in Kell, too fast, unsure if Holland’s guess was too far from or too close to the truth. He’d already considered the dilemma—in fact, had tried to think of nothing else since leaving London. The Inheritor required a sacrifice. It would be one of them. It had to be. But he didn’t trust it to be Holland, who’d fallen once before, and he didn’t want it to be Lila, who didn’t fear anything, even when she should, and he knew Osaron had his sights set on him, but he had Rhy, and Holland had no one, and Lila had lived without power, and he would rather die than lose his brother, himself … and around and around it went in his head.
“Kell,” said Holland sternly. “I own my shadows, and Osaron is one of them.”
“As Vitari was mine,” replied Kell.
Where does it start?
He got to his feet before he could say more, before he seriously began to entertain the notion. “We can argue over noble sacrifices when we have the device in hand. In the meantime …” He nodded at Holland’s chains. “Enjoy the taste of freedom. I’d give you leave to walk the ship, but—”
“Between Delilah and Jasta, I wouldn’t make it far.” Holland rubbed his wrists again. Flexed his fingers. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. At last he crossed his arms loosely over his chest, mimicking Kell’s own stance. Holland closed his eyes, but Kell could tell he wasn’t resting. His guard was up, his hackles raised.
“Who were they?” Kell asked softly.
Holland blinked. “What?”