“Am I really that good-looking?” asked Rhy without meeting his gaze, while glassy laughter chimed through the room.
“You know you are,” answered Kell, dragging his attention to the carpet of grass beneath their feet.
No one approached their couch save for an attendant, a young woman in a white dress, who asked if there was anything she could do to make their evening more enjoyable. Rhy flashed his smile and sent her in search of stronger drink and a flower.
Kell watched as the prince stretched his arms along the back of the sofa, his pale gold eyes glittering as he surveyed the room. This was Rhy at his most understated, and it was still dreadfully conspicuous.
The attendant returned holding a decanter of ruby liquor and a single dark blue blossom; Rhy accepted the drink and tucked the flower behind her ear with a smile. Kell rolled his eyes. Some things didn’t change.
As Rhy filled his glass, Kell caught a swell of whispers as more eyes wandered their way. He felt the inevitable weight as the collective gaze shifted from the prince to his companion. Kell’s skin crawled under the attention, but instead of ducking his head, he forced himself to meet their eyes.
“This would be a good deal more fun,” observed Rhy, “if you’d stop scowling at everyone.”
Kell gave him a withering look. “They fear me.”
“They worship you,” said Rhy with a wave of his hand. “The majority of this city thinks you’re a god.”
Kell cringed at the word. Antari magicians were rare—so rare that they were seen by some as divine, chosen. “And the rest think I’m a devil.”
Rhy sat forward. “Did you know that in Vesk, they believe you turn the seasons and control the tide, and bless the empire?”
“If you’re appealing to my ego—”
“I’m simply reminding you that you will always be singular.”
Kell stilled, thinking of Holland. He told himself that a new Antari would be born, or found, eventually, but he wasn’t sure if he believed it. He and Holland had been two of a disappearing kind. They had always been rare, but they were rapidly approaching extinct. What if he really was the last one?
Kell frowned. “I would rather be normal.”
Now it was Rhy’s turn to wear the withering look. “Poor thing. I wonder what it feels like, to be put on a pedestal.”
“The difference,” said Kell, “is that the people love you.”
“For every ten who love me,” said Rhy, gesturing at the sprawling room, “one would like to see me dead.”
A memory surfaced, of the Shadows, the men and women who had tried to take Rhy’s life six years before, simply to send a message to the crown that they were wasting precious resources on frivolous affairs, ignoring the needs of their people. Thinking of Splendor, Kell could almost understand.
“My point,” continued Rhy, “is that for every ten who worship you, one wants to see you burn. Those are simply the odds when it comes to people like us.”
Kell poured himself a drink. “This place is horrible,” he mused.
“Well …” said Rhy, emptying his own glass in one swallow and setting it down with a click on the table, “we could always leave.”
And there it was, in Rhy’s eye, that glint, and Kell suddenly understood the prince’s outfit. Rhy wasn’t dressed for Splendor because it wasn’t his true destination. “You chose this place on purpose.”
A languorous smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You chose it because you knew I would be miserable here and more likely to cave when you offered to take me someplace else.”
“And?”
“And you greatly underestimate my capacity for suffering.”
“Suit yourself,” said the prince, rising to his feet with his usual lazy grace. “I’m going to take a turn around the room.”
Kell glowered but did not rise. He watched Rhy go, trying to emulate the prince’s practiced nonchalance as he sat back with his glass.
He watched his brother maneuver through the field of people, smiling cheerfully, clasping hands and kissing cheeks and occasionally gesturing to his outfit with a self-deprecating laugh; despite his earlier remark, the fact was, Rhy fit in effortlessly. As he should, Kell supposed.
And yet, Kell loathed the greedy way the ostra eyed the prince. The women’s batting lashes held too little warmth and too much cunning. The men’s appraising looks now held too little kindness and too much hunger. One or two shot a glance toward Kell, a ghost of that same hunger, but none were brave enough to approach. Good. Let them whisper, let them look. He felt the strange and sudden urge to make a scene, to watch their amusement harden into terror at the sight of his true power.
Kell’s grip tightened on his glass, and he was about to rise when he caught the edge of conversation from a nearby party.
He didn’t mean to eavesdrop; the practice just came naturally. Perhaps the magic in his veins gave him strong ears, or perhaps he’d simply learned to tune them over the years. It became habit, when you were so often the topic of whispered debate.
“… I could have entered,” said a nobleman, reclining on a hill of cushions.
“Come,” chided a woman at his elbow, “even if you had the skills, which you do not, you’re too late by a measure. The roster has been set.”
“Has it now?”
Like most of the city, they were talking of the Essen Tasch—the Element Games—and Kell paid them little mind at first, since the ostra were usually more concerned with the balls and banquets than the competitors. And when they did speak of the magicians, it was in the way people talked of exotic beasts.
“Well, of course, the list hasn’t been posted,” continued the woman in a conspiratorial tone, “but my brother has his methods.”
“Anyone we know?” asked another man in an airy, unconcerned way.
“I’ve heard the victor, Kisimyr, is in again.”
“And what of Emery?”
At that, Kell stiffened, his grip going knuckles-white on his glass. Surely it is a mistake, he thought at the same time a woman said, “Alucard Emery?”
“Yes. I’ve heard he’s coming back to compete.”
Kell’s pulse thudded in his ears, and the wine in his cup began to swirl.
“That’s nonsense,” insisted one of the men.
“You do have an ear for gossip. Emery hasn’t set foot on London soil in three years.”
“That may be,” insisted the woman, “but his name is on the roster. My brother’s friend has a sister who is messenger to the Aven Essen, and she said—”
A sudden pain lanced through Kell’s shoulder, and he nearly fumbled the glass. His head snapped up, searching for the source of the attack as his hand went to his shoulder blade. It took him a moment to register that the pain wasn’t actually his. It was an echo.
Rhy.
Where was Rhy?
Kell surged to his feet, upsetting the things on the table as he scanned the room for the prince’s onyx hair, his blue coat. He was nowhere to be seen. Kell’s heart pounded in his chest, and he resisted the urge to shout Rhy’s name across the lawn. He could feel eyes shifting toward him, and he didn’t care. He didn’t give a damn about any of them. The only person in this place—in this city—he cared about was somewhere nearby, and he was in pain.
Kell squinted across the too-bright field of Splendor. The sun lanterns were glaring overhead, but in the distance, the afternoon light of the open chamber tapered off into hallways of darker forest. Kell swore and plunged across the field, ignoring the looks from the other patrons.