They were standing side by side on the castle balcony while the banners—the open hand turned out on its dark field—snapped in the wind. The gates stood open, the grounds filling edge to edge as people gathered to see the new king, and waited for the castle doors to open so they could make their cases and their claims. The air buzzed with excitement. Fresh blood on the throne meant new chances for the streets. The hope that this ruler would succeed where so many had failed before him, that he would be the one to restore what was lost—what began to die when the doors first closed—and breathe life back into the embers.
Vortalis wore a single ring of burnished steel in his hair to match the circle on his banner. Beyond that, he looked like the same man who’d come to Holland months ago, deep in the Silver Wood.
“The outfit suits you,” said the Winter King, gesturing to Holland’s half cloak, the silver pin bearing Vortalis’s seal.
Holland took a step back from the balcony’s edge. “Last time I checked, you are king. So why am I on display?”
“Because, Holland, ruling is a balance between hope and fear. I may have a way with people, but you have a way of frightening them. I draw them like flies, but you keep that at bay. Together we are a welcome and a warning, and I would have each and every one of them know that my black-eyed knight, my sharpest sword, stands firmly beside me.” He shot Holland a sidelong glance. “I’m quite aware of our city’s penchant for regicide, including the bloody pattern we continued in order to stand here today, but, selfish as it seems, I’m not keen to go out as Gorst did.”
“Gorst didn’t have me,” said Holland, and the king broke into a smile.
“Thank the gods for that.”
“Am I supposed to call you king now?” asked Holland.
Vortalis blew out a breath. “You are supposed to call me friend.”
“As you wish …” A smile stole across Holland’s lips at the memory of their meeting in the Silver Wood. “Vor.”
The king smiled at that, a broad, bright gesture so at odds with the city around them. “And to think, Holland, all it took was a crown and—”
“K?t Vortalis,” cut in a guard behind them.
Vor’s face closed, the open light replaced by the hardened planes befitting a new king. “What is it?”
“There is a boy requesting an audience.”
Holland frowned. “We haven’t opened the doors yet.”
“I know, sir,” said the guard. “He didn’t come by the door. He just … appeared.”
*
The first thing Holland noticed was the boy’s red coat.
He was standing in the throne hall, craning his head toward the vaulted bones of the castle ceiling, and that coat—it was such a vivid color, not a faded red like the sun at dusk, or the fabrics worn in summer, but a vibrant crimson, the color of fresh blood.
His hair was a softer shade, like autumn leaves, muted, but not faded by any stretch, and he wore crisp black boots—true black, as dark as winter nights—with gold clasps that matched his cuffs, every inch of him sharp and bright as a glare on new steel. Even stranger than his appearance was the scent that drifted off him, something sweet, almost cloying, like crushed blossoms left to rot.
Vortalis gave a low whistle at the sight of him, and the boy turned, revealing a pair of mismatched eyes. Holland stilled. The boy’s left eye was a light blue. The right was solid black. Their gazes met, and a strange vibration lanced through Holland’s head. The stranger couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen, with the unmarked skin of a royal and the imperious posture to match, but he was undeniably Antari.
The boy stepped forward and started speaking briskly, in a foreign tongue, the accent smooth and lilting. Vortalis bore a translation rune at the base of his throat, the product of times abroad, but Holland bore nothing save an ear for tone, and at the blankness in his gaze the boy stopped and started again, this time in Holland’s native tongue.
“Apologies,” he said. “My Mahktahn is not perfect. I learned it from a book. My name is Kell, and I come bearing a message from my king.”
His hand went into his coat, and across the room the guards surged forward, Holland already shifting in front of Vor, when the boy drew out, of all things, a letter. That same sweet scent drifted off the envelope.
Vortalis looked down at the paper and said, “I am the only king here.”
“Of course,” said the boy Antari. “My king is in another London.”
The room went still. Everyone knew, of course, about the other Londons, and the worlds that went with them. There was the one far away, a place where magic held no sway. There was the broken one, where magic had devoured everything. And then there was the cruel one, the place that had sealed its doors, forcing Holland’s world to face the dark alone.
Holland had never been to this other place—he knew the spell to go there, had found the words buried in his mind like treasure in the months after he’d turned Alox to stone—but travel needed a token the way a lock needed a key, and he’d never had anything with which to cast the spell, to buy his way through.
And yet, Holland had always assumed that other world was like his. After all, both cities had been powerful. Both had been vibrant. Both had been cut off when the doors sealed. But as Holland took in this Kell, with his bright attire, his healthy glow, he saw the hall as the boy must—dingy, coated with the film of frostlike neglect, the mark of years fighting for every drop of magic, and felt a surge of anger. Was this how the other London lived?
“You are a long way from home,” said Vor coolly.
“A long way,” said the boy, “and a single step.” His gaze kept flicking back toward Holland, as if fascinated by the sight of another Antari. So they were rare in his world, too.
“What does your king want?” asked Vor, declining to take the letter.
“King Maresh wishes to restore communication between your world and mine.”
“Does he wish to open the doors?”
The boy hesitated. “No,” he said carefully. “The doors cannot be opened. But this could be the first step in rebuilding the relationships—”
“I don’t give a damn about relationships,” snapped the Winter King. “I am trying to rebuild a city. Can this Maresh help me with that?”
“I do not know,” said Kell. “I am only the messenger. If you write it down—”
“Hang the message.” Vortalis turned away. “You found your way in,” he said. “Find it back out.”
Kell lifted his chin. “Is that your final answer?” he asked. “Perhaps I should return in a few weeks, when the next king takes the throne.”
“Careful, boy,” warned Holland.
Kell turned his attention—and those unnerving eyes, so strange and so familiar—toward him. He produced a coin, small and red, with a gold star at the center. A token. A key. “Here,” he said. “In case your king changes his mind.”
Holland said nothing, but flexed his hand, and the coin whipped out of the boy’s grip and into his own, his fingers closing silently over the metal.
“It’s As Travars,” added Kell. “In case you didn’t know.”
“Holland,” said Vortalis from the door.
Holland was still holding Kell’s gaze. “Coming, my king,” he said pointedly, breaking away.
“Wait,” called the boy, and Holland could tell by his tone that the words were meant not for Vor, but for him. The Antari jogged toward him, steps ringing like bells from his gold clasps.
“What?” demanded Holland.
“It’s nice,” said Kell, “to meet someone like me.”
Holland frowned. “I am not like you,” he said, and walked away.
VII
For a while, Lila held her own.
Flame and steel against blind strength, a thief’s cunning against a pirate’s might.
She might have even been winning.
And then, quite suddenly, she wasn’t.
Six men became four, but four was still a good deal more than one.
A knife slid along her skin.
A hand wrapped around her throat.
Her back slammed against the wall.
No, not a wall, she realized, a door. She had hit it hard enough to crack the wood, bolts and pins jangling in their grooves. An idea. She threw up her hands, and the nails shuddered free. Some struck only air or stone, but others found flesh, and two of the Copper Thieves staggered back, clutching their arms, stomachs, heads.