That’s how it felt, as he stood in the center of the cabin, shirt open and sleeves rolled, sweat dripping down his skin. His coat had been flung over a chair, and a wine bottle lay empty on the floor nearby. A candle sat on the table, the small flame staring at him, steady and waiting.
Kell kept his own quarters on the ship. Unlike the captain’s chamber, this one was small and sparse, little more than a bed and a chest and a basin. But it was his, as the upstairs room in the Setting Sun had been, a place to be alone. With his thoughts. With his power.
He took a deep breath, held his hand out, and dragged the fire toward him.
The moment it answered, so did the pain. As bright and brutal as a white-hot knife, slicing into his skin. Carving a path behind his ribs. Telling him to stop.
He might have, if not for himself, then for his brother, Rhy, whose life was bound to his, who felt every ounce of hurt as if it were his own. Their suffering was a shared cord. Wound one of them, and the other suffered, too, and Kell could never bring himself to cause his brother hurt.
But he had quickly learned that this particular pain belonged to him alone. It was not a physical thing. It did not live in his body, but the fabric of his soul. And so, he pressed on, as he had every night since they’d visited Fresa and the lightless fair.
He held the fire in his palm, teeth gritted in pain as he reached out with his other hand, toward a glass, calling the water inside it. It rose, drifting in a ribbon toward him, but Kell’s limbs had begun to shake, his copper hair plastered to his skin with sweat.
He could do this.
He had to do this.
He was Kell Maresh. Antari magician and adopted prince. He had traveled across worlds, been known and feared by the rulers of Grey London, and Red, and White. He had faced Vitari and the darkness it tried to breed inside him, had bested all but Lila in the Essen Tasch, had fought against Holland, and then beside him, had watched the other Antari sacrifice everything he had, everything he was, to save their cities. Holland, who had not survived the battle. But Kell had.
He had survived all those horrors.
And he would survive this. He—
He staggered and lost his hold. The flame extinguished, the water fell in drops like rain, and his legs buckled beneath him, one knee cracking against the wooden floor.
“Get up,” he hissed through gritted teeth.
His muscles trembled, but after a moment, he rose, bracing himself against the table. He reached for the empty glass, but instead of taking it up, he swept it from the table. Watched it shatter as it hit the floor.
“Pick it up,” he told himself, wrapping his will around the shards.
The pieces shivered.
“Pick it up,” he growled as they rose, slowly, haltingly, into the air. Kell’s chest hitched. His hands trembled.
Put it back together, he thought.
Put yourself back together.
The shards floated toward each other, rattling like chimes when they knocked together, drifted apart. The white-hot knife drove between his ribs, and Kell’s hold faltered. He overcorrected, flinging all his will at the shards of glass. They crashed together, crumbling to sand, and Kell sagged, gasping, to the floor.
He let out a ragged sob, and bowed his head against the wood.
He told himself he would grow accustomed to the pain. That its edges would eventually wear smooth. That at some point, the pain would fade—it had to fade. It was a wound, and all wounds healed. Skin knitted and scarred, and yet, every time this wound felt fresh. It was not a tear in his flesh. Something at the very heart of him had splintered, frayed, and he was beginning to suspect—to fear—that it would never heal. Never get easier. Never hurt less.
If it were a ruined limb he would have cut it off, but there was no faulty limb. The ruin was everywhere. In his darkest moments, when he could not see a life without magic, or a future without pain, he thought, I cannot live like this. But he had to. This pain may be his own, but his life was not. Never would be.
And so he dragged his broken spirit forward, felt it shred again with every step, waited for the moment when his magic failed entirely, knowing it would be a mercy when it did.
But for now, it was still there. Frayed, and torn, and waiting to be called.
He forced himself back up onto his hands and knees as a drop of red hit the ground. Blood was dripping from his nose, his body pleading with him to stop. Instead, he wiped his hand across his face and pressed his stained palm to the damp floor, and summoned his Antari power.
“As Isera,” he said, bracing for what happened next. Magic bloomed between the blood and the command. A sheen of ice spread beneath his hand, coating the wooden planks, and Kell felt a bright, brief flare of relief that the power still worked. And then his vision dropped away, and his world went black as the white-hot horror carved beneath his skin.
He fought the urge to scream, and failed, the sound tearing free as he collapsed, his burning cheek against the icy patch of floor, and sobbed in pain, and anger, and grief.
Who was he without magic?
What was he worth?
His sight flickered back, but the room was spinning now, and he squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to force air back into his aching lungs. He was still lying there when he heard the door open, boots stomping across the wooden floor. The world darkened behind his eyes as a shadow fell across his face.
“Enough,” said Lila, and he could hear the anger in her voice.
But it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t stop, not until the magic spoke to him again. Not until it remembered who and what he was. Not until he was strong enough to take it back.
“You’re scaring the crew.”
“My apologies,” he murmured.
If she were someone else, she might have stroked his hair, might have even lain down there beside him on the cabin floor, tangled her fingers with his, and told him it would be all right, they would get through this, they would find a way, he would be whole again.
Instead, she took out a knife.
He heard the scrape of the weapon sliding free from its sheath, and a moment later, the steel dropped to the floor beside him, the edge within reach. The message seemed rather clear.
“If I could put myself out of my misery, I would,” he muttered, and in that moment, it felt true. But Lila only hissed through her teeth.
“Idiot,” she said, dropping into a nearby chair. “Do you know what else you are, Kell?”
“Tired?”
“Spoiled,” she said. “And lazy.”
“I’m already down,” he said with a wince. “You don’t have to kick me.”
Lila sighed and leaned back in the chair. “There was a sellsword, back in London.”
She never called it Grey London, but he knew that’s what she meant. Her voice took on a different quality whenever she spoke of her other life, the one before.
Kell took a questing breath. The pain had faded, leaving exhaustion in its wake. He tried to sit up, but couldn’t manage yet, so he summoned the strength to roll onto his back, and looked at the ceiling instead of her. “What was his name?”
“Jack? Jones?” Lila shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. He was the best at what he did. A genius with a blade. Could fight three at once, or slit a man’s throat before he even felt the kiss of the knife. And then they caught him.”
“Who?” asked Kell.
He could feel her annoyance. “What? It doesn’t matter who. Someone that good is always in danger of being caught. So they caught him. Didn’t kill him, but they did take his life. You know how?” She didn’t wait for Kell to answer. “They took his sword hand. Cut it off right at the wrist. Even burned the wound so he wouldn’t bleed out. They thought that living like that was a fate worse than death. And do you know what he did?”
Lila sat forward in the chair, and Kell looked at her. He couldn’t help it.
“He found those men, and he used his sword to cut their throats. Every single one.”
“How?” asked Kell, and Lila flashed him a wicked smile, and rose to her feet again.
“Isn’t it obvious?” she said, walking past Kell, and the blade she’d left beside him. “He learned to use his other hand.”
VI
NOW