Kell hissed at the sudden burning in his skin.
He was used to dull aches, shallow pains, echoes of Rhy’s various mishaps, but this was sharp and bright, deliberate in a way that a glancing blow to the ribs or a banged knee never was. The pain dragged itself along the inside of his left arm, and he forced up the sleeve, expecting to see blood staining his tunic, angry red marks across his skin, but there was nothing. The pain stopped, and then started again, drawing itself down his arm in waves. No, lines.
He stared down at the skin, trying to make sense of the searing pain.
And then, suddenly, he understood.
He couldn’t see the lines, but when he closed his eyes, he could feel them trace their way over his skin the way Rhy used to trace letters with his fingertip, writing out secret messages on Kell’s arm. It was a game they’d played when they were young, stuck side by side at some event or a boring dinner.
This wasn’t a game, not now. And yet Kell could feel the letters blazing down his arm, marked with something far sharper than a fingernail.
S
S-O
S-O-R
S-O-R-R
S-O-R-R-Y.
*
Kell was on his feet by the second R, cursing at himself for leaving as he drew the coins from around his throat and abandoned the ashen dawn of one London for the vibrant morning of another.
As he made his way to the palace, he thought of everything he wanted to say to the king, but when he climbed the grand stairs and stepped into the foyer, the royal family was already there. So were the Veskan prince and princess, the Faroan lord.
Rhy’s gaze met Kell’s, and his expression blazed with relief, but Kell kept his guard up as he stepped forward. He could feel the storm coming, the energy in the air thick with everything unsaid. He was braced for the fight, the harsh words, the accusations, the orders, but when the king spoke, his voice was warm. “Ah, there he is. We were about to leave without you.”
Kell couldn’t hide his surprise. He’d assumed he would be bound to the palace, perhaps indefinitely. Not welcomed back without the slightest reprimand. He hesitated, meeting the king’s gaze. It was steady, but he could see the warning in it.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, straining to keep his voice airy. “I was on an errand, and I lost track of time.”
“You’re here now,” said the king, bringing a hand to Kell’s shoulder. “That is what matters.” The hand squeezed, hard, and for an instant Kell thought he wouldn’t let go. But then the procession set out, and Maxim’s hand fell away, and Rhy came to Kell’s side, whether out of solidarity or desperation, he didn’t know.
The central arena was filled to capacity, onlookers spilling out into the streets despite the early hour. In a clever touch, the dragons of the eastern arena and the lions of the western one had been moved, and were now converging on the central stadium, icy beasts in the river, lions posted on the stone supports, and the central’s birds in flight overhead. The stadium floor was a tangle of obstacles, columns and boulders and rock shelves, and the stands above swarmed with life and color; Alucard’s pennant with its silver feather waved from every side, dotted here and there with Rul’s blue wolf, and Tos-an-Mir’s black spiral.
When the three magicians finally emerged from their respective tunnels and took their places in the center of the floor, the roar was deafening; Kell and Rhy both cringed at the noise.
In the broad light of morning, the prince looked terrible (Kell could only assume he looked the same). Dark circles stood out beneath Rhy’s pale eyes, and he held his left arm gingerly, shielding the letters freshly scarred into his skin. To every side, the stadium was alive with energy and noise, but the royal box was perilously quiet, the air heavy with things unsaid.
The king kept his eyes on the arena floor. The queen finally shot a glance at Kell, but it was laced with scorn. Prince Col seemed to sense the tension, and watched it all with hawkish blue eyes, while Cora seemed oblivious to the dangerous mood, still sulking from Kell’s subtle rebuff.
Only Lord Sol-in-Ar appeared immune to the atmosphere of dissent. If anything his mood had improved.
Kell scanned the masses below. He didn’t realize he was searching for Lila, not until he found her in the crowd. It should have been impossible in such a massive space, but he could feel the shift of gravity, the pull of her presence, and his eyes found hers across the stadium. From here he couldn’t see her features, couldn’t tell if her lips were moving, but he imagined them forming the word hello.