“For years these letters have been riddled with formalities, anecdotes instead of history, warnings in place of explanation, useless bits of information when we could be sharing real knowledge,” pressed the king.
Kell slipped the letter into the pocket of his coat. “If that’s all …”
“Actually, it’s not,” said George. “I’ve something for you.”
Kell cringed as the man set a small box on the table. He didn’t reach for it. “That is kind of you, Your Majesty, but I must decline.”
George’s shallow smile faded. “You would refuse a gift from the King of England?”
“I would refuse a gift from anyone,” said Kell, “especially when I can tell it’s meant as payment. Though I know not for what.”
“It’s simple enough,” said George. “The next time you come, I would have you bring me something in return.”
Kell grimaced inwardly. “Transference is treason,” he said, reciting a rule he’d broken so many times.
“You would be well compensated.”
Kell pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your Majesty, there was a time when I might have considered your request.” Well, not yours, he thought, but someone’s. “But that time has passed. Petition my king for knowledge if you will. Ask of him a gift, and if he concedes, I shall bring it to you. But I bear nothing of my own free will.” The words hurt to say, a wound not quite healed, the skin still tender. He bowed and turned to go, even though the king had not dismissed him.
“Very well,” said George, standing, his cheeks ruddy. “I will see you out.”
“No,” said Kell, turning back. “I would not inconvenience you so,” he added. “You have guests to attend to.” The words were cordial. Their tone was not. “I will go back the way I came.”
And you will not follow.
Kell left George red-faced beside the desk, and retraced his steps to the old king’s chamber. He wished he could lock the door behind him. But of course, the locks were on the outside of this room. Another reminder that this room had been more prison than palace.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember the last time he’d seen the man alive. The old king hadn’t looked well. He hadn’t looked well at all, but he’d still known Kell, still brightened at his presence, still smiled and brought the royal letter to his nose, inhaling its scent.
Roses, he’d murmured softly. Always roses.
Kell opened his eyes. Part of him—a weary, grieving part—simply wanted to go home. But the rest of him wanted to get out of this blasted castle, go someplace where he wouldn’t be a royal messenger or an Antari, a prisoner or a prince, and wander the streets of Grey London until he became simply a shadow, one of thousands.
He crossed to the far wall, where heavy curtains framed the window. It was so cold in here that the glass hadn’t frosted over. He drew the curtain back, revealing the patterned wallpaper beneath, the design marred by a faded symbol, little more than a smudge in the low light. It was a circle with a single line through it, a transfer mark leading from Windsor to St. James. He shifted the heavy curtain back even farther, revealing a mark that would have been lost long ago, if it hadn’t been shielded entirely from time and light.
A six-pointed star. One of the first marks Kell had made, years ago, when the king had been brought to Windsor. He’d drawn the same mark on the stones of a garden wall that ran beside Westminster. The second mark had been long lost, washed away by rain or buried by moss, but it didn’t matter. It had been drawn once, and even if the lines were no longer visible, a blood sigil didn’t fade from the world as quickly as it did from sight.
Kell pushed up his sleeve and drew his knife. He carved a shallow line across the back of his arm, touched his fingers to the blood, and retraced the symbol. He pressed his palm to it and cast a last glance back at the empty room, at the light seeping beneath the door, listening to the far-off sounds of laughter.
Damned kings, thought Kell, leaving Windsor once and for all.
III
THE EDGE OF ARNES
Lila’s boots hit land for the first time in months.
The last time they’d docked had been at Korma three weeks past, and Lila had drawn the bad lot and been forced to stay aboard with the ship. Before that, there was Sol, and Rinar, but both times Emery insisted she keep to the Spire. She probably wouldn’t have listened, but there was something in the captain’s voice that made her stay. She’d stepped off in the port town of Elon, but that had been for half a night more than two months ago.
Now she scuffed a boot, marveling at how solid the world felt beneath her feet. At sea, everything moved. Even on still days when the wind was down and the tide even, you stood on a thing that stood on the water. The world had give and sway. Sailors talked about sea legs, the way they threw you, both when you first came aboard, and then later when you disembarked.
But as Lila strode down the dock, she didn’t feel off-balance. If anything, she felt centered, grounded. Like a weight hung in the middle of her being, and nothing could knock her over now.