Gathering of Shadows (A Darker Shade of Magic) (7 page)

Fire licked along the metal, and Lila smiled.

This she hadn’t seen Lenos do.

The flames spread until they coated the blades from hilt to tip, burning with golden light.

This she hadn’t seen
anyone
do.

What am I? One of a kind.

They said the same thing about Kell.

The Red messenger.

The black-eyed prince.

The last
Antari.

But as she twirled the fire-slicked knives in her fingers, she couldn’t help but wonder …

Were they really one of a kind, or two?

She carved a fiery arc through the air, marveling at the path of light trailing like a comet’s tail, and remembered the feeling of his eyes on her back as she walked away. Waiting. Lila smiled at the memory. She had no doubt their paths would cross again.

And when they did, she would
show
him what she could do.

I

Kell knelt in the center of the Basin.

The large circular room was hollowed out of one of the bridge pillars that held up the palace. Set beneath the Isle’s current, the faintest red glow from the river permeated the glassy stone walls with eerie light. A concentration circle had been etched into the stone floor, its pattern designed to channel power, and the whole space, wall and air alike, hummed with energy, a deep resonant sound like the inside of a bell.

Kell felt the power welling in him, wanting out—felt all the energy and the tension and the anger and the fear clawing for escape—but he forced himself to focus on his breathing, to find his center, to make a conscious act of the process that had become so natural. He wound back the mental clock until he was ten again, sitting on the floor of the monastic cell in the London Sanctuary, Master Tieren’s steady voice in his head.

Magic is tangled, so you must be smooth.

Magic is wild, so you must be tame.

Magic is chaos, so you must be calm.

Are you calm, Kell?

Kell rose slowly to his feet, and raised his head. Beyond the concentration circle, the darkness twisted and the shadows loomed. In the flickering torchlight, sparring forms seemed to take the faces of enemies.

Tieren’s soothing voice faded from his head, and Holland’s cold tone took its place.

Do you know what makes you weak?

The
Antari’s
voice echoed in his head.

Kell stared into the shadows beyond the circle, imagining a flutter of cloak, a glint of steel.

You’ve never had to be strong.

The torchlight wavered, and Kell inhaled, exhaled, and struck.

He slammed into the first form, toppling it. By the time the shadow fell, Kell was already turning on the second one at his back.

You’ve never had to try.

Kell threw out his hand; water leaped to circle it and then, in one motion, sailed toward the figure, turning to ice the instant before it crashed into the form’s head.

You’ve never had to fight.

Kell spun and found himself face to face with a shadow that took the shape of Holland.

And you’ve certainly never had to fight for your
life.

Once he would have hesitated—once he
had
hesitated—but not this time. With a flick of his hand, metal spikes slid from the sheath at his wrist and into his palm. They rose into the air and shot forward, burying themselves in the specter’s throat, his heart, his head.

But there were still more shadows. Always more.

Kell pressed himself against the Basin’s curved wall and raised his hands. A small triangle of sharpened metal glinted on the back of his wrist; when he flexed his hand down it became a point, and Kell sliced his palm across with it, drawing blood. He pressed his hands together, then pulled them apart.

“As Osoro,”
he told the blood.

Darken.

The command rang out, echoing through the chamber, and between his palms the air began to thicken and swirl into shadows as thick as smoke. It billowed forth, and in moments the room was engulfed in darkness.

Kell sagged back into the cold stone wall of the room, breathless and dizzy from the force of so much magic. Sweat trickled into his eyes—one blue, the other solid black—as he let the silence of the space settle over him.

“Did you kill them all?”

The voice came from somewhere behind him, not a phantom but flesh and blood, and threaded with amusement.

“I’m not sure,” said Kell. He collapsed the space between his palms, and the veil of darkness dissolved instantly, revealing the room for what it was: an empty stone cylinder clearly designed for meditation, not combat. The sparring forms were scattered, one burning merrily, another shot full of metal lances. The others—bashed, battered, broken—could hardly be called training dummies anymore. He closed his hand into a fist, and the fire on the burning dummy went out.

“Show-off,” muttered Rhy. The prince was leaning in the arched entryway, his amber eyes caught like a cat’s by the torchlight. Kell ran a bloody hand through his copper hair as his brother stepped forward, his boots echoing on the stone floor of the Basin.

Rhy and Kell were not actually brothers, not by blood. One year Rhy’s senior, Kell had been brought to the Arnesian royal family when he was five, with no family and no memory. Indeed, with nothing but a dagger and an all-black eye: the mark of an
Antari
magician. But Rhy was the closest thing to a brother Kell had ever known. He would give his life for the prince. And—very recently—he had.

Rhy raised a brow at the remains of Kell’s training. “I always thought being an
Antari
meant you didn’t need to practice, that it all came”—he gestured absently—“naturally.”

“The
ability
comes naturally,” replied Kell. “The
proficiency
takes work. Just as I explained during every one of your lessons.”

The prince shrugged. “Who needs magic when you look this good?”

Kell rolled his eyes. A table stood at the mouth of the alcove, littered with containers—some held earth, others sand and oil—and a large bowl of water; he plunged his hands into the latter and splashed his face before his blood could stain the water red.

Rhy passed him a cloth. “Better?”

“Better.”

Neither was referring to the refreshing properties of the water. The truth was, Kell’s blood pulsed with a restless beat, while the thing that coursed within it longed for activity. Something had been roused in him, and it didn’t seem intent on going back to sleep. They both knew Kell’s visits down to the Basin were increasing, both in frequency and length. The practice soothed his nerves and calmed the energy in his blood, but only for a little while. It was like a fever that broke, only to build again.

Rhy was fidgeting now, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and when Kell gave him a once-over, he noticed that the prince had traded his usual red and gold for emerald and grey, fine silk for wool and worn cotton, his gold-buckled boots replaced by a pair of black leather.

“What are you supposed to be?” he asked.

There was a glint of mischief in Rhy’s eyes as he bowed with a flourish. “A commoner, of course.”

Kell shook his head. It was a superficial ruse. Despite the clothing, Rhy’s black hair was glossy and combed, his fingers dotted with rings, his emerald coat clasped with pearlescent buttons. Everything about him registered as royal. “You still look like a prince.”

“Well, obviously,” replied Rhy. “Just because I’m in disguise, doesn’t mean I don’t want to be recognized.”

Kell sighed. “Actually,” he said. “That’s exactly what it means. Or
would
mean, to anyone but you.” Rhy only smiled, as if it were a compliment. “Do I want to know
why
you are dressed like that?”

“Ah,” said the prince. “Because we’re going out.”

Kell shook his head. “I’ll pass.” All he wanted was a bath and a drink, both of which were available in the peace of his own chambers.

“Fine,” said Rhy. “
I’m
going out. And when I’m robbed and left in an alley,
you
can tell our parents what happened. Don’t forget to include the part where you stayed home instead of ensuring my safety.”

Kell groaned. “Rhy, the last time—”

But the prince waved off
the last time
as if it hadn’t involved a broken nose, several bribes, and a thousand lin in damages.

“This will be different,” he insisted. “No mischief. No mayhem. Just a drink at a place befitting our station. Come on, Kell, for me? I can’t spend another minute cooped up planning tournaments while Mother second guesses my every choice, and Father worries about Faro and Vesk.”

Kell didn’t trust his brother to stay out of trouble, but he could see in the set of Rhy’s jaw and the glint in his eyes, he was going out. Which meant
they
were going out. Kell sighed and nodded at the stairs. “Can I at least stop by my rooms and change?”

“No need,” said Rhy cheerfully. “I’ve brought you a fresh tunic.” He produced a soft shirt the color of wheat. Clearly he meant to usher Kell out of the palace before he could change his mind.

“How thoughtful,” muttered Kell, shrugging out of his shirt. He saw the prince’s gaze settle on the scar scrawled across his chest. The mirror image of the one over Rhy’s own heart. A piece of forbidden, irreversible magic.

My life is his life. His life is mine. Bring him back.

Kell swallowed. He still wasn’t used to the design—once black, now silver—that tethered them together. Their pain. Their pleasure. Their lives.

He pulled on the fresh tunic, exhaling as the mark disappeared beneath the cotton. He slicked his hair back out of his face and turned to Rhy. “Happy?”

The prince started to nod, then stopped. “Almost forgot,” he said, pulling something from his pocket. “I brought hats.” He placed a pale grey cap gingerly on his black curls, taking care to set it at a slight angle so the scattering of green gems shone across the brim.

“Wonderful,” grumbled Kell as the prince reached out and deposited a charcoal-colored cap over Kell’s reddish hair. His coat hung from a hook in the alcove, and he fetched it down and shrugged it on.

Rhy tutted. “You’ll never blend in looking like that,” he said, and Kell resisted the urge to point out that with his fair skin, red hair, and black eye—not to mention the word
Antari
following him wherever he went, half prayer and half curse—he would never blend in anywhere.

Instead he said, “Neither will you. I thought that was the point.”

“I mean the coat,” pressed Rhy. “Black isn’t the fashion this winter. Haven’t you got something indigo or cerulean hidden away in there?”

How many coats do you suppose there are inside that one?

The memory caught him like a blow. Lila.

“I prefer this one,” he said, pushing the memory of her away, a pickpocket’s hand swatted from the folds of a coat.

“Fine, fine.” Rhy shifted his weight again. The prince had never been skilled at standing still, but Kell thought he’d gotten worse. There was a new restlessness to his motions, a taut energy that mirrored Kell’s. And yet, Rhy’s was different. Manic. Dangerous. His moods were darker and their turn sharper, cutting the span of a second. It was all Kell could do to keep up. “Are we ready, then?”