“That we needed it.” He grimaced a little when he said it.
Kell hesitated, meeting his brother’s gaze. “What do you mean?”
Rhy shoved himself up from the chair. “You’re not the only one who wants to crawl out of their skin, Kell,” he said, pacing. “I see the way this confinement is wearing on you.” He tapped his chest. “I feel it. You spend hours training in the Basin with no one to fight, and you have not been at peace a single day since Holland, since the Danes, since the Black Night. And if you want the honest truth, unless you find some release”—Rhy stopped pacing—“I’ll end up strangling you myself.”
Kell winced, and looked down at the mask in his lap. He ran his fingers over the smooth silver. It was simple and elegant, the silver polished to such a shine that it was nearly a mirror. His reflection stared back at him, distorted. It was madness, and it frightened him, how badly he wanted to agree to it. But he couldn’t.
He set the mask on the sofa. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Not if we’re careful,” insisted his brother.
“We’re tethered to each other, Rhy. My pain becomes your pain.”
“I’m well aware of our condition.”
“Then you know I can’t. I won’t.”
“I am not only your brother,” said Rhy. “I am your prince. And I command it. You will compete in the Essen Tasch. You will burn off some of this fire before it spreads.”
“And what about our bond? If I get hurt—”
“Then I will share your pain,” said Rhy levelly.
“You say that now, but—”
“Kell. My greatest fear in life isn’t dying. It’s being the source of someone else’s suffering. I know you feel trapped. I know I’m your cage. And I can’t—” His voice broke, and Kell could feel his brother’s pain, everything he tried to smother until dark and drown until morning. “You will do this,” said Rhy. “For me. For both of us.”
Kell held his brother’s gaze. “All right,” he said.
Rhy’s features faltered, and then he broke into a smile. Unlike the rest of his face, his grin was as boyish as ever. “You will?”
Kell felt a thrill go through him as he took up the mask again. “I will. But if I’m not competing as myself,” he said, “then who will I be?”
Rhy reached into the box and withdrew from among the wrappings a scroll of paper Kell hadn’t noticed. He held it out, and when Kell unfurled it he saw the Arnesian roster. Twelve names. The men and women representing their empire.
There was Kisimyr, of course, as well as Alucard (a thrill ran through Kell at the thought of having an excuse to fight him). He skimmed past them, searching.
“I picked out your name myself,” said Rhy. “You’ll be competing as—”
“Kamerov Loste,” answered Kell, reading the seventh name aloud.
Of course.
K. L.
The letters carved into the knife he wore on his forearm. The only things that had come with him from his previous life, whatever it was. Those letters had become his name—KL, Ka-El, Kell—but how many nights had he spent wondering what they stood for? How many nights had he dreamed up names for himself?
“Oh, come on,” chided Rhy, misreading Kell’s tension for annoyance. “It’s a good name! Rather princely, if I do say so.”
“It’ll do,” said Kell, fighting back a smile as he set the scroll aside.
“Well,” said Rhy, taking up the helmet and holding it out to Kell. “Try it on.”
Kell hesitated. The prince’s voice was light, the invitation casual, but there was more to the gesture, and they both knew it. If Kell put on the mask, this would cease to be a stupid, harmless idea and become something more. Something real. He reached out and took the helmet.
“I hope it fits,” said Rhy. “You’ve always had a big head.”
Kell slipped the helmet on, standing as he did. The inside was soft, the fit made snug by the padding. The visor cut all the way from ear to ear, so his vision and hearing were both clear.
“How do I look?” he asked, his voice muffled slightly by the metal.
“See for yourself,” said Rhy, nodding at the mirror. Kell turned toward the glass. It was eerie, the polished metal creating an almost tunneling reflection, and the cut of the visor hid his gaze so that even though he could see fine, no one would be able to see that one of his eyes was blue and the other black.
“I’m going to stand out,” he said.
“It’s the Essen Tasch,” said Rhy. “Everyone stands out.”
And while it was true that everyone wore masks and it was part of the drama, the tradition, this wasn’t just a mask. “Most competitors don’t dress as though they’re going to war.”
Rhy crossed his arms and gave him an appraising look. “Yes, well, most competitors don’t truly need to maintain their anonymity, but your features are … unique.”
“Are you calling me ugly?”
Rhy snorted. “We both know you’re the prettiest boy at the ball.”
Kell couldn’t stop cheating glances in the mirror. The silver helmet hovered over his simple black clothes, but something was missing….
His coat was still draped on the back of the couch. He took it up and shook it slightly as he turned it inside out, and as he did, his usual black jacket with silver buttons became something else. Something new.
“I’ve never seen that one before,” said Rhy. Neither had Kell, not until a few days earlier, when he’d gotten bored and decided to see what other sides the coat had tucked away (now and then, unused outfits seemed to disappear, new ones turning up in their place).
Kell had wondered at the sudden appearance of this one, so unlike the others, but now, as he shrugged it on, he realized that was because this coat didn’t belong to him.
It belonged to Kamerov.
The coat was knee-length and silver, trimmed in a patterned border of black and lined with bloodred silk. The sleeves were narrow and the bottom flared, the collar high enough to reach the base of his skull.
Kell slipped the coat on, fastening the clasps, which cut an asymmetrical line from shoulder to hip. Rhy had gone rooting around in Kell’s closet, and now he reemerged with a silver walking stick. He tossed it, and Kell plucked it out of the air, his fingers curled around the black lion’s head that shaped the handle.
And then he turned back to his reflection.
“Well, Master Loste,” said Rhy, stepping back, “you do look splendid.”
Kell didn’t recognize the man in the mirror, and not simply because the mask hid his face. No, it was his posture, too, shoulders straight and head up, his gaze level behind the visor.
Kamerov Loste was an impressive figure.
A breeze wove gently around him, ruffling his coat. Kell smiled.
“About that,” said Rhy, referring to the swirling air. “For obvious reasons, Kamerov can’t be an Antari. I suggest you pick an element and stick with it. Two if you must—I’ve heard there are quite a few duals this year—but triads are rare enough to draw attention….”
“Mmhmm,” said Kell, adjusting his pose.
“While I’m sympathetic to your sudden bout of narcissism,” said Rhy, “this is important, Kell. When you’re wearing that mask, you cannot be the most powerful magician in Ames.”
“I understand.” Kell tugged the helmet back off and struggled to smooth his hair. “Rhy,” he said, “are you certain …?” His heart was racing. He wanted this. He shouldn’t want this. It was a terrible idea. But he wanted it all the same. Kell’s blood sang at the idea of a fight. A good fight.
Rhy nodded.
“All right, then.”
“So you’ve come to your senses?”
Kell shook his head, dazed. “Or lost my mind.” But he was smiling now, so hard he felt his face might crack.