He stood there now, among the trees—trees caught in the throes not only of winter, but of spring, summer, fall—and squeezed his eyes shut, and listened, waiting for the old sense of calm to find him. He waited. And waited. And— “Master Kell.”
He turned to see Hastra waiting a few paces back. Something was off, and at first Kell couldn’t place it; then he realized that Hastra wasn’t wearing the uniform of a royal guard. Kell knew it was because of him. One more failure to add to the stack. “I’m sorry, Hastra. I know how much you wanted this.”
“I wanted an adventure, sir. And I’ve had one. It’s not so bad. Rhy spoke to the king, and he’s agreed to let me train with Master Tieren. Better the sanctuary than a cell.” And then his eyes widened. “Oh, sorry.”
Kell only shook his head. “And Staff?”
Hastra grimaced. “Afraid you’re stuck with him. Staff’s the one who fetched the king when you first left.”
“Thank you, Hastra,” he said. “If you’re half as good a priest as you were a royal guard, the Aven Essen better watch his job.”
Hastra broke into a grin, and slipped away. Kell listened to the sounds of his steps retreating across the courtyard, the distant sound of the courtyard doors closing, and turned his attention back to the trees. The wind picked up, and the rustling of the leaves was almost loud enough to drown out the sounds of the palace, to help him forget the world that waited back inside the doors.
I am leaving, he thought. You do not have the power to stop me.
“Master Kell.”
“What now?” he asked, turning back. His brow furrowed. “Who are you?”
A woman stood there, between two of the trees, hands clasped behind her back and head bowed as if she’d been waiting for some time, though Kell hadn’t even heard her approach. Her red hair floated like a flame above her crisp white cape, and he wondered why she felt so strange and so familiar at the same time. As if they’d already met, though he was sure they hadn’t.
And then the woman straightened and looked up, revealing her face. Fair skin, and red lips, and a scar beneath two different-colored eyes, one yellow and the other impossibly black.
Both eyes narrowed, even as a smile passed her lips.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
VIII
The air caught in Kell’s chest. An Antari’s mark was confined to the edges of one’s eye, but the black of the woman’s iris spilled over like tears down her cheek, inky lines running into her red hair. It was unnatural.
“Who are you?”
“My name,” she said, “is Ojka.”
“What are you?” he asked.
She cocked her head. “I am a messenger.” She was speaking Royal, but her accent was thick, and he could see the language rune jutting from her cuff. So she was from White London.
“You’re an Antari?” But that wasn’t possible. Kell was the last of those. His head spun. “You can’t be.”
“I am only a messenger.”
Kell shook his head. Something was wrong. She didn’t feel like an Antari. The magic felt stranger, darker. She took a step forward, and he found himself stepping back. The trees thickened overhead, from spring to summer.
“Who sent you?”
“My king.”
So someone had clawed his way to the White London throne. It was only a matter of time.
She stole another slow step forward, and Kell kept his distance, slipping from summer to fall.
“I’m glad I found you,” she said. “I’ve been looking.”
Kell’s gaze flicked past her, to the palace doors. “Why?”
She caught the look, and smiled. “To deliver a message.”
“If you have a message for the crown,” he said, “deliver it yourself.”
“My message is not for the crown,” she pressed. “It is for you.”
A shiver went through him. “What could you have to say to me?”
“My king needs your help. My city needs your help.”
“Why me?” he asked.
Her expression shifted, saddened. “Because it’s all your fault.”
Kell pulled back, as if struck. “What?”
She continued toward him, and he continued back, and soon they stood in winter, a nest of bare branches scratching in the wind. “It is your fault. You struck down the Danes. You killed our last true Antari. But you can help us. Our city needs you. Please come. Meet with my king. Help him rebuild.”
“I cannot simply leave,” he said, the words automatic.
“Can’t you?” asked the messenger, as if she’d heard his thoughts.
I am leaving.
The woman—Ojka—gestured to a nearby tree, and Kell noticed the spiral, already drawn in blood. A door.
His eyes went to the palace.
Stay.
You made this prison.
I cannot let you go.
Run.
You are an Antari.
No one can stop you.
“Well?” asked Ojka, holding out her hand, the veins black against her skin. “Will you come?”
*
“What do you mean he’s been released?” snapped Rhy.
He and Lila were standing in the royal prison, staring past a guard at the now empty cell. He’d been ready to storm the men and free Kell with Lila’s help, but there was no Kell to free. “When?”