The stories ran in the veins of every Londoner. Even when the people grew thin and pale, even when they began to rot inside and out, even when they had no food, no strength, no power, the stories survived. And when Holland was young, he believed them, too. Even believed, when his eye went black, that he might be the hero. The good king. The strong king. The savior.
But on his knees before Athos Dane, Holland had seen the stories for what they were: desperate tales for starving souls.
And yet.
And yet.
Now he stood in the square at the heart of the city, with his name on every tongue and a god’s power running in his veins. Everywhere he stepped, the frost withdrew. Everything he touched regained its color. All around him, the city was thawing (the day the Siljt unfroze, the people went mad. Holland had led uprisings, had witnessed riots, but never in his life had he seen celebration). Of course, there was tension. The people had starved too long, survived only on violence and greed. He couldn’t blame them. But they would learn. Would see. Hope, faith, change: these were fragile things, and they had to be tended.
“Køt!” they called out—King—while the voice in his head, that constant companion, hummed with pleasure.
The day was bright, the air alive, and the people crowded to see Holland’s latest feat, held at bay by the Iron Guard. Ojka stood beside him, her hair on fire in the sun, a knife in hand.
King! King! King!
It was called the Blood Square, where they stood. An execution site, the stones beneath his boots stained black and streaked where desperate fingers had scrounged at the spilled life in case it held a taste of magic. Eight years ago, the Danes had dragged him from a fast death here, and granted him a slow one.
The Blood Square.
It was time to give the name another meaning.
Holland held out his hands, and Ojka brought the blade to rest against his palms. The crowd quieted in anticipation.
“My king?” said Ojka, her yellow eye asking for permission. So many times the hand had been his, but not the will. This time the hand was his servant’s, the will his own.
Holland nodded, and the blade bit down. Blood welled and spilled to the ruined stones, and where it struck, it broke the surface of the world, like a stone cast in a pool. The ground rippled, and behind his eyes Holland saw the square reborn. Clean, and whole. As the ripples spread, they swallowed the stains, mended the cracks, turned the broken pavers to polished marble, the abandoned basin of a well to a fountain, the fallen columns to vaulting archways.
We can do more, said the god in his head.
And before Holland could sort the oshoc’s thoughts from his own, the magic was spreading.
The archways of the Blood Square rippled and reformed, melting from stone into water before hardening to glass. Beyond them, the streets shuddered, and the ground beneath the crowd’s feet dissolved from rock into rich, dark soil. The people fell to their knees, sinking to the loamy earth and digging their fingers in up to the wrists.
Enough, Osaron, thought Holland. He closed his bloody hands, but the ripples went on, the shells of ruined buildings collapsing into sand, the fountain overflowing not with water but with amber-colored wine.
The pillars morphed into apple trees, their trunks still marbled stone, and Holland’s chest began to ache, his heart pounding as the magic poured like blood from his veins, each beat forcing more power into the world.
Enough!
The ripples died.
The world fell still.
The magic tapered off, the square a shimmering monstrosity of elements, the edges a wavering shore. The people were caked with earth, and wet from the fountain’s rain, their faces bright, their eyes wide—not with hunger, but with awe.
“King! King! King!” they all called, while in his head, Osaron’s own word echoed.
More. More. More.
II
RED LONDON
Back at the Wandering Road, the crowd had thinned, but the wolfhound was still sprawled in the exact same position by fire. Lila couldn’t help but wonder if it was alive. She crossed to the hearth, and knelt slowly, hand hovering over the creature’s chest.
“I already checked,” said a voice behind her. Lila looked up to see Lenos fidgeting nervously. “He’s okay.”
Lila straightened. “Where is everybody?”
Lenos cocked his head toward a corner table. “Stross and Tav have got a game going.”
The men were playing Sanct, and from what she could tell, they hadn’t been playing long, because neither looked that angry and both still had all their weapons and most of their clothes. Lila wasn’t a fan of the game, mostly because after four months of watching the sailors win and lose, she felt no closer to understanding the rules well enough to play, let alone cheat.
“Vasry went out,” Lenos continued as Lila ambled toward the table. “Kobis went to bed.”
“And Alucard?” she asked, trying to keep her tone flat with disinterest. She took up Stross’s drink and downed it, ignoring the first mate’s muttered protests.
Stross threw down a card with a hooded figure holding two chalices. “Too late,” he said to her, keeping his eyes on the table and the cards. “Captain said he was retiring.”
“Awfully early,” mused Lila.
Tav chuckled and mumbled something, but she couldn’t decipher it. He was from somewhere at the edge of the empire, and the more he drank, the less intelligible his accent became. And since Lila’s default when she didn’t understand something was to keep her mouth shut, she simply walked away. After a few steps she stopped and turned back to Lenos, drawing the palm fire from her coat. The light was already fading, and she hadn’t thought to ask if there was a way to restore it, or if it was a one-time-use kind of charm, which seemed wasteful.
“Here,” she said, tossing Lenos the orb.
“What’s this for?” he asked, surprised.
“Keeps the shadows at bay,” she said, heading for the stairs. Lenos stood there, staring down at the orb, perplexed by either the sphere itself or the fact that the Sarows had just given him a gift.
Why had she given it to him?
Getting soft, grumbled a voice in her head. Not Kell’s, or Barron’s. No, this voice was all hers.
As Lila climbed the stairs, she produced a narrow bottle of wine she’d nicked, not from the inn or the market—she knew better than to steal from warded tents—but from Alucard’s own stash aboard the Spire.
The captain’s room sat across from hers, the doors facing like duelers. Which seemed fitting. But when she reached the doors, she paused between them, presented with the question of which she’d come for, and which she planned to open.
Lila hovered there in the hall.
She wasn’t sure why she was drawn to his room more than hers. Perhaps because she was restless, being back in this city for the first time, a place at once strange and familiar. Perhaps because she wanted to slip back into the comfort of English. Perhaps because she wanted to learn more about the tournament, and Alucard’s participation. Or perhaps out of simple habit. This was how they spent most nights at sea, after all, a bottle of wine and a magical fire, each trying to pry secrets from the other without giving up any of their own. Had Lila become so accustomed to the dance that she actually missed it?