“To keep your head on your shoulders,” said the woman, who then proceeded to clasp the sides of the neck guard to small, hidden hinges on the tapered sides of the mask. It was like a jaw, and when Lila looked at her reflection, she saw her features nested within the two halves of the monster’s skull.
She broke into a devilish grin, her teeth glinting within the mouth of the helmet.
“You,” said Lila, “are brilliant.”
“Anesh,” said Calla with a shrug, though Lila could see that the merchant was proud.
She had the sudden and peculiar urge to hug the woman, but she resisted.
The hinged jaw allowed her to raise the mask, which she did, the demon’s head resting on top of her own like a crown, the jaw still circling her throat. “How do I look?” she asked.
“Strange,” said Calla. “And dangerous.”
“Perfect.”
Outside, the bells began to toll, and Lila’s smile widened.
It was time.
* * *
Kell crossed to the bed and examined the clothes—a set of black trousers and a high-collared black shirt, both trimmed with gold. On top of the shirt sat the gold pin Rhy had given him for the royal reception. His coat waited, thrown over the back of a chair, but he left it there. It was a traveler’s charm, and tonight he was confined to the palace.
The clothes on the bed were Rhy’s choice, and they weren’t simply a gift.
They were a message.
Tomorrow, you can be Kamerov.
Tonight, you are Kell.
Hastra had appeared earlier, only to confiscate his mask, on Rhy’s orders.
Kell had been reluctant to relinquish it.
“You must be excited,” Hastra had said, reading his hesitation, “about the tournament. Don’t imagine you get to test your mettle very often.”
Kell had frowned. “This isn’t a game,” he’d said, perhaps too sternly. “It’s about keeping the kingdom safe.” He felt a twinge of guilt as he watched Hastra go pale.
“I’ve sworn an oath to protect the royal family.”
“I’m sorry then,” said Kell ruefully, “that you’re stuck protecting me.”
“It’s an honor, sir.” There was nothing in his tone but pure, simple truth. “I would defend you with my life.”
“Well,” said Kell, surrendering Kamerov’s mask. “I hope you never have to.”
The young guard managed a small, embarrassed smile. “Me too, sir.”
Kell paced his room and tried to put tomorrow from his mind. First he had to survive tonight.
A pitcher and bowl sat on the sideboard, and Kell poured water into the basin and pressed his palms to the sides until it steamed. Once clean, he dressed in Rhy’s chosen attire, willing to humor his brother. It was the least he could do—though Kell wondered, as he slipped on the tunic, how long Rhy would be calling in this payment. He could picture the prince a decade from now, telling Kell to fetch him tea.
“Get it yourself,” he would say, and Rhy would tut and answer, “Remember Kamerov?”
Kell’s evening clothes were tight, formfitting in the style Rhy favored, and made of a black fabric so fine it caught the light instead of swallowing it. The cut and fit forced him to stand at full height, erasing his usual slouch. He fastened the gold buttons, the cuffs and collar—saints, how many clasps did it take to clothe a man?—and lastly the royal pin over his heart.
Kell checked himself in his mirror, and stiffened.
Even with his fair skin and auburn hair, even with the black eye that shone like polished rock, Kell looked regal. He stared at his reflection for several long moments, mesmerized, before tearing his gaze away.
He looked like a prince.
* * *
Rhy stood before the mirror, fastening the gleaming buttons of his tunic. Beyond the shuttered balcony, the sounds of celebration were rising off the cold night like steam. Carriages and laughter, footsteps and music.
He was running late, and he knew it, but he couldn’t seem to get his nerves under control, wrangle his fears. It was getting dark, and the darkness leaned against the palace, and against him, the weight settling on his chest.
He poured himself a drink—his third—and forced a smile at his reflection.
Where was the prince who relished such festivities, who loved nothing better than to be the contagious joy at the center of the room?
Dead, thought Rhy, drily, before he could stop himself, and he was glad, not for the first time, that Kell could not read his mind as well as feel his pain. Luckily, other people still seemed to look at Rhy and see what he’d been instead of what he was. He didn’t know if that meant he was good at hiding the difference, or that they weren’t paying attention to begin with. Kell looked, and Rhy was sure he saw the change, but he had the sense not to say anything. There was nothing to be said. Kell had given Rhy a life—his life—and it wasn’t his fault if Rhy didn’t like it as much as his own. He’d lost that one, forfeited by his own foolishness.
He downed the drink, hoping it would render him in better spirits, but it dulled the world without ever touching his thoughts.
He touched the gleaming buttons and adjusted his crown for the dozenth time, shivering as a gust of cold air brushed against his neck.
“I fear you haven’t enough gold,” came a voice from the balcony doors.
Rhy stiffened. “What are guards for,” he said slowly, “when they let even pirates pass?”
The man took a step forward, and then another, silver on him ringing like muffled chimes. “Privateer’s the term these days.”
Rhy swallowed and turned to face Alucard Emery. “As for the gold,” he said evenly, “it is a fine balance. The more I wear, the more likely one is to try and rob me of it.”
“Such a dilemma,” said Alucard, stealing another stride. Rhy took him in. He was dressed in clothes that had clearly never seen the sea. A dark blue suit, accented by a silver cloak, his rich brown hair groomed and threaded with gems to match. A single sapphire sparkled over his right eye. Those eyes, like night lilies caught in moonlight. He used to smell like them, too. Now he smelled like sea breeze and spice, and other things Rhy could not place, from lands he’d never seen.
“What brings a rogue like you to my chambers?” he asked.
“A rogue,” Alucard rolled the word over his tongue. “Better a rogue than a bored royal.”
Rhy felt Alucard’s eyes wandering slowly, hungrily, over him, and he blushed. The heat started in his face and spread down, through his collar, his chest, beneath shirt and belt. It was disconcerting; Rhy might not have magic, but when it came to conquests, he was used to holding the power—things happened at his whim, and at his pleasure. Now he felt that power falter, slip. In all of Ames, there was only one person capable of flustering the prince, of reducing him from a proud royal to a nervous youth, and that was Alucard Emery. Misfit. Rogue. Privateer. And royal. Removed from the throne by a stretch of tangled bloodlines, sure, but still. Alucard Emery could have had a crest and a place in court. Instead, he fled.
“You’ve come for the tournament,” said Rhy, making small talk.
Alucard pursed his lips at the attempt. “Among other things.”
Rhy hesitated, unsure what to say next. With anyone else, he would have had a flirtatious retort, but standing there, a mere stride away from Alucard, he felt short of breath, let alone words. He turned away, fidgeting with his cuffs. He heard the chime of silver and a moment later, Alucard snaked an arm possessively around his shoulders and brought his lips to the prince’s neck, just below his ear. Rhy actually shivered.