Hastra looked down, as if he hadn’t noticed, either, then held them out and uncurled his fingers. One hand was empty. The other clutched a small disk, spellwork scrawled across its surface.
“Huh,” said the guard. “That’s odd.”
But Rhy was already tearing down the hall, Lila a stride behind him, leaving Alucard in their wake.
* * *
Kell reached out and took Ojka’s hand.
“Thank you,” she said, voice flooding with happiness and relief as her fingers tightened around his. She pressed her free hand to the blood-marked tree.
“As Tascen,” she said, and a moment later, the palace courtyard was gone, replaced by the streets of Red London. Kell looked around. It took him a moment to register where they were … but it wasn’t where they were that mattered, but where they would be.
In this London, it was only a narrow road, flanked by a tavern and a garden wall.
But in White London, it was the castle gate.
Ojka pulled a trinket from beneath her white cloak, then pressed her still-bloody hand to the winter ivy clinging to the wall stones. She paused and looked to Kell, waiting for his permission, and Kell found himself glancing back through the streets, the royal palace still visible in the distance. Something rippled through him—guilt, panic, hesitation—but before he could pull back, Ojka said the words, and the world folded in around them. Red London disappeared, and Kell felt himself stepping forward, out of the street, and into the stone forest that stood before the castle.
Only it wasn’t a stone forest, not anymore.
It was just an ordinary one, filled with trees, bare winter branches giving way to a crisp blue sky. Kell started—since when did White London have such a color? This wasn’t the world he remembered, wasn’t the world she’d spoken of, one damaged and dying.
This world wasn’t broken at all.
Ojka stood near the gate, steadying herself against the wall. When she looked up, a feline smile curled across her face.
Kell had only a moment to process the changes—the grass beneath his feet, the sunlight, the sound of birds—and to realize he’d made a terrible mistake, before he heard footsteps, and spun to find himself face to face with the king.
He stood across from Kell, shoulders back and head high, revealing two eyes: one emerald, and the other black.
“Holland?”
The word came out as a question, because the man in front of him bore almost no resemblance to the Holland Kell had known, the one he had fought—had defeated, had cast into the abyss—four months ago. The last time Kell had seen Holland, he had been a few dragging pulses from death.
That Holland couldn’t be standing here.
That Holland could never have survived.
But it was Holland before him, and he hadn’t just survived.
He’d been transformed.
There was healthy color in his cheeks, the glow that only came in the prime of life, and his hair—which, despite his age, had always been a charcoal grey—was now straight and black and glossy, carving sharp lines where it fell against his temples and brow. And when Kell met Holland’s gaze, the man—magician—king—Antari—actually smiled, a gesture that did more to transform his face than the new clothes and the aura of health.
“Hello, Kell,” said Holland, and a small part of him was relieved to find that the Antari’s voice, at least, was still familiar. It wasn’t loud, had never been loud, but it was commanding, edged by that subtle gravel that made it sound like he’d been shouting. Or screaming.
“You shouldn’t be here,” said Kell.
Holland raised a single, black brow. “Neither should you.”
Kell felt the shadow at his back, the shift of weight just before a lunge. He was already reaching for his knife, but he was too late, and his fingers only found the hilt before something cold and heavy clamped around his throat, and the world exploded in pain.
* * *
Rhy burst through the courtyard doors, calling his brother’s name. There was no sign of him before the line of trees, no answer but the echo of Rhy’s own voice. Lila and Alucard were somewhere behind him, the pounding of boots lost beneath his raging pulse.
“Kell?” he called out again, surging into the orchard. He dug his nails into the wound at his arm, the pain a tether he tried to pull on as he passed the line of spring blossoms.
And then, halfway between the lines of summer green and autumn gold, Rhy collapsed with a scream.
One moment he was on his feet, and the next he was on his hands and knees, crying out in pain as something sharp and jagged tore through him.
“Rhy?” came a voice nearby as the prince folded in on himself, a sob tearing its way free.
Rhy.
Rhy.
Rhy.
His name echoed through the courtyard, but he was drowning in his own blood; he was sure he would see it painting the stones. His vision blurred, sliding out of focus as he fell, the way he had so many times when the darkness came, bringing forth the memories and the dreams.
This was a bad dream.
His mouth was filling with blood.
It had to be a bad dream.
He tried to get to his feet.
It—
He collapsed again with a scream as the pain ripped through his chest and buried itself between his ribs.
“Rhy?” shouted the voice.
He tried to answer, but his jaw locked. He couldn’t breathe. Tears were streaming down his face and the pain was too real, too familiar, a blade driven through flesh and muscle, scraping against bone. His heart raced, and then stuttered, skipped a beat, and his vision went black and he was back on the cot in the sanctuary again, falling through darkness, crashing down into—
* * *
Nothing.
Lila had run straight for the courtyard wall, sprinting through the strange orchard and out the other side. But there was no sign of them, no blood on the stones, no mark. She backed away, trying to think of where else to look. Then she heard the scream.
Rhy.
She found the prince on the ground, clawing at his chest. He was sobbing, pressing his arm to his ribs as if he’d been stabbed, but there was no blood. Not here. It hit her like a blow.
Whatever was happening to Rhy wasn’t happening to Rhy at all.
It was happening to Kell.
Alucard appeared, and went ashen at the sight of the prince. He called to the guards before folding to his knees as Rhy let out another sob. “What’s happening to him?” asked Alucard.
Rhy’s lips were stained with blood, and Lila didn’t know if he’d bitten them through, or if the damage was worse.
“Kell …” gasped the prince, shuddering in pain. “Something’s … wrong … can’t …”
“What does Kell have to do with this?” asked the captain.
Two royal guards appeared, the queen behind them, looking pale with fear.
“Where is Kell?” she cried as soon as she saw the prince.
“Get back!” called the guards when a handful of nobles tried to come near.
“Call for the king!”
“Hold on,” pleaded Alucard, talking to Rhy.
Lila backed away as the prince curled in on himself.
She started searching the trees for a sign of Kell, of the woman, of the way they had gone.
Rhy rolled onto his side, tried to rise, failed, and began coughing blood onto the orchard ground.
“Someone find Kell!” demanded the queen, her voice on the edge of hysteria.
Where had he gone?
“What can I do, Rhy?” whispered Alucard. “What can I do?”
* * *
Kell surfaced with the pain.
He was breaking into pieces, some vital part being torn away. Pain radiated from the metal collar at his throat, cutting off air, blood, thought, power. He tried desperately to summon magic, but nothing came. He gasped for air—it felt as if he were drowning, the taste of blood pooling in his mouth even though it was empty.