A sheen of frost was settling over his people, making them look more like statues than men and women and children. The prince had seen fallen trees slowly swallowed by moss, pieces of the world slowly reclaimed, and as he moved through the crowd of fallen, he wondered what would happen if London stayed under this spell a month, a season, a year.
Would the world climb up over the sleeping bodies?
Would it claim them, inch by inch?
It began to snow in earnest (strange, close as they were to spring, but not the strangest thing befalling London, then), and so Rhy brushed the ice from still cheeks, tore canvas down from the ghostly bones of the night market, and took blankets from homes now haunted only with the memories of breath. And patiently, the prince covered each and every person he found, though they did not seem to feel the cold beneath their shrouded safety of spellwork and sleep.
The chill ate at the prince’s fingers. It seeped through armor and into aching skin, but Rhy did not turn back, did not break his vigil until the first light of day broke the shell of darkness and the dawn thinned the frost. Only then did the prince return to the palace, and fall into bed, and sleep.
I
Dawn broke in silence over the Ghost.
They’d dumped the bodies overboard—Hano, with her throat cut, and Ilo, whom they’d found dead below, Jasta, who’d betrayed them all, and every last one of the Serpents.
Hastra alone had been wrapped in a blanket. Kell fastened the fabric carefully around the boy’s legs, waist, shoulders, sparing his face—the shy smile gone, the glossy curls now lank—as long as possible.
Sailors went into the sea, but Hastra wasn’t a sailor. He was a royal guard.
If they’d had flowers on the ship, Kell would have laid one on the rent over Hastra’s heart—that was the custom, in Arnes, to mark a mortal wound.
He thought of the blossom waiting back in the Basin, the one Hastra had made for Kell that day, coaxing life from a clod of dirt, a drop of water, a seed, the sum more than its parts, a sliver of light in a darkening world. Would it still be there, when they returned home? Or had it already withered?
If Lenos were there, he could have said something, sent a prayer to the nameless saints, but Lenos was gone too, lost to the tide, and Kell didn’t have any flowers, didn’t have any prayers, didn’t have anything but the hollow anger swimming in his heart.
“Anoshe,” he murmured as the body went over the side.
They should have cleaned the deck, but there seemed no point. The Ghost—what was left of it—would reach Tanek within the day.
His body swayed with fatigue.
He hadn’t slept. None of them had.
Holland was focused on keeping wind in the sails while Alucard stood numbly at the wheel—power was precious, but Lila had insisted on healing the captain’s wounds. Kell supposed he couldn’t fault her. Alucard Emery had done his share to keep the ship afloat.
Lila herself stood nearby, tipping the Faroan gems from hand to hand, staring down at the blue chips, her brow furrowed in thought.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I killed a Faroan once,” she mused, tipping the gems back into her first hand. “During the tournament.”
“You what?” started Kell, hoping he’d misheard, that he wouldn’t feel compelled to mention this to Rhy—or worse, Maxim—once they docked. “When would you have—”
“That’s not the point of the story,” she chided, letting the gems tumble between her fingers. “Have you ever seen a Faroan part with these? Ever seen one trade in anything but coin?”
Kell frowned a little. “No.”
“That’s because the gems are set into their skin. Couldn’t pluck one off if you wanted to, not without a knife.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
Lila shrugged, holding her hand out over a crate. “It’s the kind of thing you think about, when you’re a thief.”
She tipped her hand, and the gems clattered onto the wooden top. “And when I killed that Faroan, the gems in his face came free. Fell away, like whatever was holding them in place was gone.”
Kell’s eyes widened. “You don’t think these came from a Faroan.”
“Oh, I’m sure they did,” said Lila, taking up a single gem. “But I doubt they had a choice.”
II
Maxim finished his spell sometime after dawn.
He slumped back against the table and admired his work, the faceless men standing in formation, their armored chests locked over steel hearts. Twelve deep cuts ran along the inside of the king’s arm, some healing and others fresh. Twelve pieces of steel-clad spellwork bound together before him, forged and welded and made whole.
The strain of binding the magic was grueling, a constant pull on his power, amplifying with every added shell. His body trembled faintly with the weight, but it would not take long, once the task was started. Maxim would manage.
He straightened—the room spun dangerously for several seconds before it settled—and went downstairs to share a last meal with his wife, his son. A farewell without the words. Emira would understand, and Rhy, he hoped, would forgive him. The book would help.
As Maxim walked, he imagined sitting with them in the grand salon, the table covered in pots of tea and fresh-baked bread. Emira’s hand on his. Rhy’s laughter spilling over. And Kell, where he had always been, sitting at his brother’s side.
Maxim let his tired mind live within this dream, this memory, let it carry him forward.
Just one last meal.
One last time.
“Your Majesty!”
Maxim sighed, turning. His last dream died at the sight of the royal guards holding a man between them. The captive wore the purple-and-white wraps of the Faroan entourage, silver veins running like molten metal between the gems on his dark skin. Sol-in-Ar stormed down the hall after the men, closing the distance with every stride.
“Unhand him,” ordered the Faroan lord.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked Maxim, fatigue wearing down every muscle, every bone.
One of the guards held out a letter. “We stopped him, Your Majesty, trying to slip out of the palace.”
“A messenger?” demanded Maxim, rounding on Sol-in-Ar.
“Are we not permitted to send letters?” challenged the Faroan lord. “I did not realize we were prisoners here.”
Maxim moved to tear the letter open, but Sol-in-Ar caught his wrist.
“Do not make an enemy of allies,” he warned in his sibilant way. “You have enough of the former already.”
Maxim drew his wrist free and sliced open the letter in a single, fluid gesture, eyes flitting over the Faroan script. “You called for reinforcements.”
“We are in need of them,” said Sol-in-Ar.
“No.” Maxim’s head pounded. “You will only draw more lives into the fray—”
“Perhaps if you had told us about your priests’ spell—”
“—more lives for Osaron to claim and use against us all.”
The Veskan prince had arrived by now, and Maxim turned his ire on him, too. “And you? Have the Veskans sent word beyond the city, too?”
Col paled. “And risk their lives as well? Of course not.”
Sol-in-Ar glared at the Veskan prince. “You are lying.”
Maxim didn’t have the energy for this. He didn’t have the time.
“Confine Lord Sol-in-Ar and his entourage to their rooms.”
The Faroan stared at him, aghast. “King Maresh—”
“You have two choices,” cut in Maxim, “your rooms, or the royal prison. And for your sake, and ours, I hope you only sent one man.”
When Maxim’s men led Sol-in-Ar away, he didn’t protest, didn’t fight. He said only one thing, the words soft, strained.
“You’re making a mistake.”
*
The Maresh family wasn’t sitting in the grand salon. The chairs stood empty. The table hadn’t been set—it wouldn’t be for hours, he realized. The sun wasn’t even up.
Maxim’s body was beginning to shake.
He didn’t have the strength to keep searching, so he returned to the royal chambers, hoping vainly that Emira would be there, waiting for him. His heart sank when he found the room empty, even as some small part of him exhaled, relieved at being spared the drawn-out pain of parting.
With trembling hands, he began setting his affairs in order. He finished dressing, cleared his desk, set the text he’d written for his son in the center.