“It’s complicated,” said Lila.
“As esta narash,” she murmured to herself, and Lila now knew enough to know what she said. All things are.
VII
Kell strolled the Night Market for the first time in weeks.
He’d taken to avoiding such public appearances, his moments of defiance too rare compared to those of self-consciousness. Let them think what they want was a thought that visited him with far less frequency and force than They see you as a monster.
But he was in need of air and Rhy, for once in his life, was too busy to entertain him. Which was fine. In the growing madness of the approaching games, Kell simply wanted to move, to wander, and so he found himself strolling through the market under the heavy cover of the crowds. The influx of strangers in the city afforded him shelter. There were so many foreigners here for the locals to look at, they were far less likely to notice him. Especially as Kell had taken Rhy’s advice and traded his stark black high coat for a dusty blue one more in fashion, and pulled a winter hood up over his reddish hair.
Hastra walked beside him in common clothes. He hadn’t tried to ditch his guard tonight, and in return, the young man had agreed to change his red and gold cloak and armor for something less conspicuous, even if the royal sword still hung sheathed at his side.
Now, as initial hesitation gave way to relief, Kell found himself enjoying the market for the first time in ages, moving through the crowd with a blissful degree of anonymity. It made him impatient to don the competitor’s mask, to become someone else entirely.
Kamerov.
Hastra vanished and reappeared a few minutes later with a cup of spiced wine, offering it to Kell.
“Where is yours?” asked Kell, taking the cup.
Hastra shook his head. “Isn’t proper, sir, to drink on guard.”
Kell sighed. He didn’t care for the idea of drinking alone, but he was in dire need of the wine. His first stop hadn’t been to the market. It had been to the docks.
And there he’d found the inevitable: dark hull, silver trim, blue sails.
The Night Spire had returned to London.
Which meant that Alucard Emery was here. Somewhere.
Kell had half a mind to sink the ship, but that would only cause trouble, and if Rhy found out, he’d probably throw a tantrum or stab himself out of spite.
So he had settled for glaring at the Spire, and letting his imagination do the rest.
“Are we on a mission, sir?” Hastra had whispered (the young guard was taking his new role as confidant and accomplice very seriously).
“We are,” muttered Kell, feigning severity.
He’d lingered in the shadowed overhang of a shop and scowled at the ship for several long and uneventful minutes before announcing that he needed a drink.
Which was how Kell ended up in the market, sipping his wine and absently scanning the crowds.
“Where’s Staff?” he asked. “Did he get tired of being left behind?”
“Actually, I think he’s been sent to see to Lord Sol-in-Ar.”
See to? thought Kell. Was the king that nervous about the Faroan lord?
He set off again through the market, with Hastra a few strides behind.
The crowds grew thicker as Kell walked, swirling around him like a tide. Faroans with their bright, intricately folded fabrics and jeweled skin. Veskans adorned by silver and gold bands, tall and made taller by their manes of hair. And of course, Arnesians, in their rich cowls and cloaks.
And then, some Kell couldn’t place. A few fair enough to be Veskans, but in Arnesian clothes. A dark-skinned figure with a coil of Veskan braids.
The nightmare floated to the surface of his mind—so many strange faces, so many almost familiar ones—but he forced it down. A stranger brushed his arm as they crossed paths, and Kell found his hands going into his pockets to check for missing things, even though there was nothing there to steal.
So many people, he thought. Lila would pick every pocket here.
Just as he thought it, he caught sight of a shadow amid the color and light.
A thin figure.
A black coat.
A sharp smile.
Kell caught his breath, but by the time he blinked, the shadow was gone. Just another phantom made by the crowd. A trick of the eye.
Still, the glimpse, even false, made him feel unsteady, and his pace slowed enough to interrupt the foot traffic around him.
Hastra was there again at his side. “Are you all right, sir?”
Kell waved off his concern. “I’m fine,” he said. “But we’d better head back.”
He set off toward the palace end of the market, stopping only when he reached Calla’s stall. “Wait here,” he told Hastra before ducking inside.
Calla’s shop was always changing, it seemed, to suit the city’s festive needs. His gaze wandered over the various winter accessories that now lined the walls and covered the tables.
“Avan!” called the merchant as she appeared from a curtained area near the back of the tent, holding a piece of black leather in one hand. Calla was short and round, with the shrewd eye of a businesswoman and the warmth of a wood fire. Her face lit up when she saw him. “Master Kell!” she said, folding herself into deep curtsy.
“Come now, Calla,” he said, guiding her up, “there’s no need for that.”
Her eyes danced with even more mischief than usual. “What brings you to my shop tonight, mas vares?”
She said the words—my prince—with such kindness that he didn’t bother correcting her. Instead he fidgeted with a box on the table, a pretty inlaid thing. “Oh, I found myself in the market, and thought I would come and see that you are well.”
“You do me too much honor,” she said, smile widening. “And if you were coming to see about that debt,” she went on, eyes bright, “you should know that it has recently been paid.”
Kell’s chest tightened. “What? When?”
“Indeed,” continued Calla. “Only a few minutes ago.”
Kell didn’t even say good-bye.
He lunged out of the tent and into the churning market, scanning the currents of people streaming past.
“Sir,” asked Hastra, clearly worried. “What’s wrong?”
Kell didn’t answer. He turned in a slow circle, scouring the crowd for the thin shadow, the black coat, the sharp smile.
She’d been real. She’d been here. And of course, she was already gone.
Kell knew he was beginning to draw attention, even with the cover of the masses. A few Arnesians started to whisper. He could feel their gazes.
“Let’s go,” he said, forcing himself back toward the palace. But as he walked, heart pounding, he replayed the moment in his mind, the glimpse of a ghost.
But it hadn’t been a ghost. Or a trick of the eye.
Delilah Bard was back in London.
I
WHITE LONDON
Holland knew the stories by heart.
He’d grown up with them—stories of a bad king, a mad king, a curse; of a good king, a strong king, a savior. Stories of why the magic went away, and who would bring it back. And every time a new ruler the throne with blood and the dregs of power in their veins, the people would say now. Now the magic will come back. Now the world will wake. Now it will get better, now we will get stronger.