“I will,” growled the man, in a tone as dark as his mask.
The Master of the Veil took his seat. “Let’s pretend for a moment that you do.” He turned his attention to the woman. “And you are able to put the key inside the palace.”
“The king trusts me,” she assured him, unsmiling behind the white mask.
“And look at what that trust will get him.”
She considered her hands and said, “All that lives must die.”
“I heard the king cannot be killed,” goaded the man in gold.
“Then he will be removed,” she said.
“We can say he fled, and left his family to the wolves.” The humor in his voice was clear. “I do wish I could be there. It is only so much fun to watch.” He rolled his empty glass. “I take it no one should be spared.”
At that, the man in the black mask spoke up again. “Let them do what they want with the queen and heir, but the consort is mine.”
“It would be cleaner,” began the woman, “to let them—”
“I don’t care,” he cut in, fist clenching. “The persalis will carry them beyond the palace wards. They will slaughter the household, incapacitate the king, and bring Alucard to me.” He turned on the last member of their group. “Are we clear, boy?”
The Master of the Veil sat back in his chair, his eyes hidden behind the glinting gold mask. “You mistake your host for a servant.”
“A servant would be useful.”
The man in the gold mask rose, and as he did, the spritely humor melted like candle wax, revealing something hard beneath.
“Do not forget, old man, the persalis might be your idea, but the Hand were my invention. You make plans that crumble under weight, but I make weapons that will hold. And they may be blunt, but they are ours to wield. They will cause their havoc. They will take the credit, and the blame. And when the Maresh are all dead, and the throne is empty, and the city is reeling, looking for guidance—” Their host spread his arms. “—we will be there to guide them. We will hunt down the vile servants of the Hand, deliver them in the name of justice. And then we will not have to take the throne. It will be given to us. And when that happens, I want you to remember which of us was most useful.”
He tossed a coin onto the table, like a patron paying for a drink. It was an ordinary lin, or so it seemed, but on its edge, an address was etched—the following night’s address. “In case you forget where you are going.”
He gave a sweeping bow.
“In the meantime, enjoy the Veil.”
And with that, their host was gone, out into the hall, vanishing into the cloud of music and laughter that spilled through the house. The man in the black mask watched the door as it swung shut. In his scarred hand, the glass splintered, the contents leaking through the cracks.
“I will not sit on a throne beside him,” he said under his breath.
The woman in the white mask sighed and rose from her chair. She went to him, resting her hand on his sleeve. On someone else, the gesture might have read as gentle, even warm. But her touch was a passing breeze, meant only to get his attention.
“Fight over the corpse when it is dead,” she said, and then she, too, was gone.
The man in the black mask stood, silent and still, until the door swung shut, until he knew he was alone. Then he cast the broken glass aside, shards littering the plush rug of the borrowed house. He tore off his mask, and flung it onto the table, scraping a hand through his dark hair. He went to the lamp, and lit his pipe a final time, smoking until there was nothing left, and he trusted his temper to hold. Then he tucked the pipe back into his coat, and went to the table.
He plucked up the coin, and held it to the light, though he knew the words printed on its edge: 6 Helarin Way—Eleventh Hour. Still, he pocketed the altered lin, swept up the black mask, and settled it back over his face before leaving the room.
He descended the stairs, into the foyer of black and white masks, and returned his to the wall like any other patron, then stepped out into the night. A handful of carriages dotted the street, their patrons still inside. He walked past them to his own, a block away, and as he neared, he drew a silver ring from his pocket and slid it back over his thumb. Two horses stood lashed before his carriage, pale as cream. He ran a hand along one’s side, and as he did, the lamplight caught on the grooves in his ring. The edge was uneven, the band not a band at all but the impression of a feather.
The driver stepped down and opened the carriage door.
The interior was a lush and midnight blue.
“Where to, my lord?” asked the driver, and Berras Emery’s hand fell from the horse’s flank.
“Home,” he said, climbing up into the dark.
* * *
SEVENTEEN YEARS BEFORE
Everything hurt.
As the carriage rolled along, every rattle and bump made his body tense, his muscles cringe. Berras Emery sucked in a breath, let it out through his teeth. He could feel the bruises blooming across his chest, along his ribs, the ache taking shape at his jaw, in his skull.
The worst of it, at least, was hidden beneath the tunic, with its high collar and long sleeves. A noble’s garments hiding a fighter’s form. Only his hands showed the damage. His knuckles were raw, blood seeping through the bandages that wrapped them. He had won the fight.
These days, he won them all.
Nineteen, and they roared his name when he entered the ring. Of course, there were no arenas constructed for matches like these, no tournaments attended by vestra and kings. Not in Arnes, where the greatest insult one could show a fellow man was to strike him, not with fire or ice, but one’s own hand.
It was base, they said. Brutal.
And they were right.
These were not element games, graceful bouts adorned with magic. The very use of magic was forbidden, the buildings warded to keep it out. As it should be. A man did not choose his magic. It was a gift, a luck-made thing. But a man chose what to do in its absence, when they were nothing but flesh and bone and brute force. The will to get back up, to keep going.
That was a different kind of strength.
The carriage pulled through the gates of the Emery estate, and Berras took a last, low breath, steeling himself. A servant opened the door and he stepped down and crossed the stone drive, his back straight and his head up.
He would not let the pain show.
And he didn’t, not as he climbed the steps, not as he slipped inside, not as he peeled off his coat and tossed it to a servant and strode down the hall. There were tonics and balms, he knew, to smooth the cuts and ease the ache, but they would soften the skin as they healed it, and the next time he struck, or was struck, it would hurt just as much. No, better to let the skin harden, the tissue scar.
The study door stood open, a handful of voices spilling out. His father, clearly holding court. Berras didn’t dare stop, but he slowed enough to pick up pieces as he neared.
“… eight years old, and not a drop of magic…”
“… the Antari follows him like a pet…”
“… Maxim should be ashamed…”
“… a son so weak…”
And then Berras was passing the door. He saw three men with their backs to him, but his father sat as he always did, facing out. Reson Emery didn’t pause his speech, but his eyes latched onto Berras. They dropped to his hands, before cutting away, his attention returning to his guests.
Berras kept walking, the pain replaced by something worse.
He was tall and broad, the picture of strength, while his father was old, sinew on a shrinking frame, and yet, Reson could still make him feel small with a single blue-eyed glare. In that moment, he missed his mother, dead six years, missed her cool touch, her gentle voice. It was a weak thought, small and soft, and he clenched his fists until the injured knuckles wept, and continued down the hall.