“We believe there is a threat in the tournament.” Rhy shot Kell a knowing look, though Kell honestly had no idea where he was going with this. “In order to determine the nature of this threat, Kell will be competing in the Essen Tasch, disguised as an ordinary entrant, Kamerov Loste.”
The guards frowned, cheating looks toward Kell, who managed a stiff nod. “The secrecy of my identity,” he cut in, “is paramount. If either Faro or Vesk discovers my involvement, they’ll assume we’ve rigged the game.”
“My father already knows of Kell’s inclusion,” added Rhy. “He has his own matters to attend to. If you see anything during the tournament, you will tell Kell himself, or me.”
“But how are we supposed to guard him?” asked Staff. “If he’s pretending to be someone else?”
Rhy didn’t miss a beat. “One of you will pose as his second—every competitor needs an attendant—and the other will continue to guard him from a safe distance.”
“I’ve always wanted to be in a plot,” whispered Hastra. And then, raising his voice, “Your Highness, could I be the one in disguise?” His eagerness was a barely contained thing.
Rhy looked to Kell, who nodded. Hastra beamed, and Rhy brought his hands together in a soft, decisive clap. “So it’s settled. As long as Kell is Kell, you will guard him with your usual attentiveness. But when dealing with Kamerov, the illusion must be flawless, the secret held.”
The two guards nodded solemnly and were dismissed. Saints, thought Kell as the doors swung shut. He’s actually done it.
“There,” said Rhy, slouching onto the couch. “That wasn’t so hard.”
Kell looked at his brother with a mixture of surprise and awe. “You know,” he said, taking up the mask, “if you can rule half as well as you can lie, you’re going to make an incredible king.”
Rhy’s smile was a dazzling thing. “Thank you.”
IV
SASENROCHE
It was late by the time Lila made her way back to the Night Spire. Sasenroche had quieted, and it had started to sleet, an icy mix that turned to slush on the deck and had to be swept away before it froze solid.
Back in her London—old London—Lila had always hated winter.
Longer nights meant more hours in which to steal, but the people who ventured out usually didn’t have a choice, which made them poor marks. Worse than that, in winter, everything was damp and grey and bitter cold.
So many nights in her past life, she had gone to bed shivering. Nights she couldn’t afford wood or coal, so she’d put on every piece of clothing she owned and huddled down and froze. Heat cost money, but so did food and shelter and every other blasted thing you needed to survive, and sometimes you had to choose.
But here, if Lila practiced, she could summon fire with her fingertips, could keep it burning on nothing but magic and will. She was determined to master it, not just because fire was useful or dangerous, but because it was warm, and no matter what happened, Lila Bard never wanted to be cold again.
That was why Lila favored fire.
She blew out a puff of air. Most of the men stayed behind to enjoy the night on land, but Lila preferred her room on the ship, and she wanted to be alone so she could think.
London. Her pulse lifted at the thought. It had been four months since she first boarded the Night Spire. Four months since she said good-bye to a city she didn’t even know, its name the only tether to her old life. She’d planned to go back, of course. Eventually. What would Kell say, when he saw her? Not that that was her first thought. It wasn’t. It was sixth, or maybe seventh, somewhere below all the ones about Alucard and the Essen Tasch. But it was still there, swimming in her head.
Lila sighed, her breath clouding as she leaned her elbows on the ship’s slush-covered rail and looked down at the tide as it sloshed up against the hull. Lila favored fire, but it wasn’t her only trick.
Her focus narrowed on the water below, and as it did, she tried to push the current back, away. The nearest wave stuttered, but the rest kept coming. Lila’s head had begun to hurt, pounding in time with the waves, but she gripped the splintered rail, determined. She imagined she could feel the water—not only the shudder traveling up the boat, but the energy coursing through it. Wasn’t magic supposed to be the thing in all things? If that was true, then it wasn’t about moving the water, it was about moving the magic.
She thought of “The Tyger,” the poem she used to focus her mind, with its strong and steady beat … but it was a song for fire. No, she wanted something else. Something that flowed.
“Sweet dreams,” she murmured, summoning a line from another Blake poem, trying to get the feeling right. “Of pleasant streams …” She said the line over and over again until the water filled her vision, until the sound of the sloshing waves was all she could hear, and the beat of them matched the beat of her pulse and she could feel the current in her veins, and the water up and down the dock began to still, and …
A dark drop hit the rail between her hands.
Lila lifted her fingers to her nose; they came away stained with blood.