He’d worn a fourth ring, once, a lovely silver band, whose twin belonged to the queen, but Nadiya had taken it back, claiming he used the thing too often, and without proper respect for her work.
His wife, the inventor. He wasn’t threatened by Nadiya’s genius—on the contrary, he’d long accepted his lot in life as the handsome ruler, rather than the brilliant one. Of course, the queen was lovely, too, but with any luck, Rhy would age well, and she would not, and then his place would be secured. He had told her as much, before their wedding, savoring the way her left brow quirked.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she’d said, “I plan to be a hag.”
Rhy smiled at the memory, and let his hand sink below the water as he tipped his head back against the tiled rim of the bath. He let his mind wander, thoughts drifting past the merchant guild he’d seen that afternoon, and the head of the city guard with her list of offenses and offenders, and the missives from Faro, explaining why they were forgoing their visit, and the plans for Sel Fera Noche.
The Long Dark Night.
It was the city’s most important festival, the one that marked the passing of the coldest season, but also the years since the gates between the worlds were sealed, making it a celebration of the Maresh as well. It was, after all, the first Maresh king who saw the strange magic spilling from Black London, and used the Antari’s collective power to drive the cursed magic back, sealing the worlds off from the dark, and from each other, leaving Black London to consume itself behind its walls like a fire in a room with no windows, left to burn and then to die away to ash and nothing.
It had not died, of course. A fire needs only an ember to regain its heat, and embers had indeed survived. Embers like Vitari, a sliver of magic pressed into a stone. And Osaron, which was not an ember at all but the spark that started it all, waiting in Black London for a single breath to come and coax it back to life. Osaron, which had indeed burned again, hot enough to raze the world, and nearly had, before Kell and Lila and Holland had conquered it.
Not that the public knew. As far as they were concerned, Black London remained safely bound behind its wall and Sel Fera Noche was nothing but a time to celebrate. And with the three-hundred-year anniversary, the celebration would be even bigger. The entire city would be draped in red and gold, the chalice and sun of the royal seal, and in the streets and in the palace halls, all would toast to the Maresh.
And Alucard wanted to cancel it—not that Rhy could, not that he would—all because of the Hand.
The Hand, who claimed that magic was failing.
The Hand, who claimed that it was his fault.
Rhy Maresh, the king without magic. Poisoning the well.
Anger tightened around his ribs. Anger—and the fear that they were right.
Alucard claimed there was no truth to their words. Nadiya said there was no proof to be found. But the disquiet was only growing louder. They had to be stopped.
To do that, they had to be caught.
So Rhy spread his arms, and closed his eyes, and waited, until his thoughts finally quieted, and his mind floated away.
* * *
SEVEN YEARS AGO
Rhy couldn’t sleep, so he’d decided to get drunk instead.
It took some effort—his tolerance built over years of drinking Kell under the table—but he approached the task with dedication. He could picture his brother’s disapproving scowl, and it brought him a brief flicker of joy, dulled by the knowledge that Kell would start to feel unsteady, too, and that they would both suffer for it in the morning.
“Sorry,” Rhy murmured to his brother’s door as he went by. His hand drifted out, as if to knock, before he remembered Kell wasn’t actually there. Hadn’t been in weeks. No, he was off, sailing to saints knew where with Lila Bard. Shedding his old life and savoring his newfound freedom, as Rhy sank beneath the weight of his father’s crown.
Rhy took a long swig, to punish him for leaving.
He passed a gilded mirror and paused.
What a picture he made.
The new ruler of Arnes, barefoot and shirtless beneath his robe, his gold eyes glassy, his hair a mess of curls beneath the mourning crown. A starburst scar over his heart and a bottle of winter wine hanging from one hand.
He managed a weary smile, lifting his drink to the figure in the glass. At least he was still handsome.
His gaze dropped to the bottle. Summer wines were sweet and light, meant for sun-warmed days. But winter wines were bold and dark, spiced, and strong enough to stave off cold. They were usually kept in the cellars until the first night of the fall festival, which wasn’t for another month. He pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth. A perk of being king.
King.
The word hung like an ill-fitting shirt. Rhy knew how to be a prince, a rogue, a brother, a son. He had no idea how to be a king.
The guards stood still as statues as he passed, their gazes down, and he knew they only meant to grant him privacy, to let him grieve, and yet, their averted eyes made him feel like a specter. A ghost haunting the palace. Arnesians didn’t believe in ghosts, but Veskans did. Faroans, too. They spoke of restless spirits who haunted the ground where they fell, or lingered in the shadow of the living. He found himself wondering about the other worlds as well. In Lila’s city, they seemed obsessed with the idea of being haunted, devoted whole novels to the idea, even tried to summon the dead back into the room, as if they stood forever waiting, just beyond the door. He wondered whether Holland’s ghost was out there, too, walking its London, or finally at peace. And his own parents? Were they the weight he felt on his shoulders? Were they trailing in his wake?
He kept moving, past the royal chambers he couldn’t bring himself to look at, let alone open, down the carpeted stairs. It was so quiet, so hollow. He felt the sudden urge to scream.
Beyond the palace windows, the Isle glowed its steady red, but the banks were studded with yellow-white flames.
In the weeks since Osaron’s assault on the city, the pyres still burned day and night, returning bodies to the air and the earth, their life force to the current. Thousands dead. Souls who fought the darkness, and lost to it, their lives burned out like oil. Hundreds left scarred, veins scorched silver from having fought the poison in their blood. And countless more who survived the night unscathed, not because they were deserving, but because they chose not to fight at all. Untold masses who felt the darkness at their door and simply let it in.
“Do not hate them for living,” Alucard had said.
But Rhy did. Because in the end, they were cowards and they were rewarded for it. They were weak in the face of evil, and they lived.
They survived while Maxim Maresh had not. Emira Maresh had not.
His family was dead, their home was a tomb, and Rhy was buried alive inside it while Alucard, who had just lost his sister, was out there with half the royal guard helping with the repairs, putting their magic to good use. And Rhy knew he should be with them. Useless as he was, he should be with them.
“You are the sun of Arnes,” Alucard had said, kissing his forehead. “There is a time to rise, and a time to rest.”
But Alucard was wrong. Rhy couldn’t rest. He couldn’t—
“My king,” said a voice behind him, and he cringed at the title, as if cut, turned to find a young servant, his head bowed. “Is there anything I can get you?”
He let his head fall back, staring up at the vaulted ceilings of his tomb.
“My horse.”
So what if he had no magic. Rhy Maresh was now king. He would ride through the streets as he had that horrible night, and let the people of the city know that he was with them.
Worry clouded the servant’s face. “Your Majes—” he began, but Rhy’s gold eyes narrowed.
“Ready my horse,” he ordered, trying to summon a ghost of his father’s strength.
“Sir,” said the servant. “I have been told it is not safe.”