* * *
Rhy stumbled into his room, waving off Tolner’s questions about where he’d been and shutting the door in the guard’s face. It was dark, and he made it three unsteady strides before knocking his shin against a low table, and swearing roundly.
The room swam, a mess of shadows lit only by the pale light of the low-burning fire in the hearth and the candles in the corners, only half of which had been lit. Rhy retreated until his back found the nearest wall, and waited for the room to settle.
Downstairs, the party had finally dissipated, the royals retreating to their wings, the nobles to their homes. Tomorrow. Tomorrow the tournament would finally be here.
Rhy knew Kell’s true hesitation, and it wasn’t getting caught, or starting trouble; it was the fear of causing him pain. Every day Kell moved like Rhy was made of glass, and it was driving them both mad. But once the tournament started, once he saw that Rhy was fine, that he could take it, survive it—hell, he could survive anything, wasn’t that the point?—then maybe Kell would finally let go, stop holding his breath, stop trying to protect him, and just live.
Because Rhy didn’t need his protection, not anymore, and he’d only told a partial truth when he said they both needed this.
The whole truth was, Rhy needed it more.
Because Kell had given him a gift he did not want, could never repay.
He’d always envied his brother’s strength.
And now, in a horrible way, it was his.
He was immortal.
And he hated it.
And he hated that he hated it. Hated that he’d become the thing he never wanted to be, a burden to his brother, a source of pain and suffering, a prison. Hated that if he’d had a choice, he would have said no. Hated that he was grateful he hadn’t had a choice, because he wanted to live, even if he didn’t deserve to.
But most of all, Rhy hated the way his living changed how Kell lived, the way his brother moved through life as if it were suddenly fragile. The black stone, and whatever lived inside it, and for a time in Kell, had changed his brother, woken something restless, something reckless. Rhy wanted to shout, to shake Kell and tell him not to shy away from danger on his account, but charge toward it, even if it meant getting hurt.
Because Rhy deserved that pain.
He could see his brother suffocating beneath the weight of it. Of him.
And he hated it.
And this gesture—this foolish, mad, dangerous gesture—was the best he could do.
The most he could do.
The room had steadied, and suddenly, desperately, Rhy needed another drink.
A sideboard stood along the wall, an ornate thing of wood and inlaid gold. Short glass goblets huddled beside a tray with a dozen different bottles of fine liquor, and Rhy squinted in the dimness, surveying the selection before reaching for the thin vial at the back, hidden by the taller, brighter bottles. The tonic in the vial was milky white, the stopper trailing a thin stem.
One for calm. Two for quiet. Three for sleep.
That’s what Tieren said when he prescribed it.
Rhy’s fingers trembled as he reached for the vial, jostling the other glasses.
It was late, and he didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts.
He could call for someone—he’d never had trouble finding company—but he wasn’t in the mood to smile and laugh and charm. If Gen and Parrish were here, they’d play Sanct with him, help him keep the thoughts at bay. But Gen and Parrish were dead, and it was Rhy’s fault.
You shouldn’t be alive.
He shook his head, trying to clear the voices, but they clung.
You let everyone down.
“Stop,” he growled under his breath. He hated the darkness, the wave of shadows that always caught up with him. He’d hoped the party would wear him down, help him sleep, but his tired body did nothing to quiet his raging thoughts.
You are weak.
He let three drops fall into an empty glass, followed by a splash of honeyed water.
A failure.
Rhy tossed back the contents (Murderer) and began to count, in part to mark the effects and in part to drown out the voices. He stood at the bar, staring down into the empty glass and measuring seconds until his thoughts and vision began to blur.
Rhy pushed away from the sideboard, and nearly fell as the room tipped around him. He caught himself against the bedpost and closed his eyes (You shouldn’t be alive), tugging off his boots and feeling his way into bed. He curled around himself as the thoughts beat on: of Holland’s voice, of the amulet, distorted now, twisting into memories of the night Rhy died.
He didn’t remember everything, but he remembered Holland holding out the gift.
For strength.
He remembered standing in his chambers, slipping the pendant’s cord over his head, being halfway down the hall, and then—nothing. Nothing until a searing heat tore through his chest, and he looked down to see his hand wrapped around the hilt of a dagger, the blade buried between his ribs.
He remembered the pain, and the blood, and the fear, and finally the quiet and the dark. The surrender of letting go, of sinking down, away, and the shock of being dragged back, the force of it like falling, a terrible, jarring pain when he hit the ground. Only he wasn’t falling down. He was falling up. Surging back to the surface of himself, and then, and then.
And then the tonic finally took hold, the memories silenced as the past and present both mercifully faded and Rhy slipped feverishly down into sleep.
V
WHITE LONDON
Holland paced the royal chamber.
It was as vast and vaulting as the throne room, with broad windows to every side. Built into the castle’s western spire, it overlooked the entire city. From here he could see the glow from the Sijlt dance like moonlight against the low clouds, see lamps burn pale but steady, diffused by windowpanes and low mist, see the city—his city—sleep and wake, rest and stir, and return to life.
His head snapped up as something landed on the sill—power surged reflexively to the surface—but it was just a bird. White and grey with a pale gold crest, and eyes that shone as black as Holland’s. He exhaled.
A bird.
How long had it been since he’d seen one? Animals had fled with the magic long ago, rooting out the distant places where the world wasn’t dying, burrowing down to reach the retreating life. Any creature foolish enough to stray within reach was slaughtered for sustenance or spellwork, or both. The Danes had kept two horses, pristine white beasts, and even those had fallen in the days after their deaths, when the city plunged into chaos and slaughter for the crown. Holland had missed those early days, of course. He’d spent them clinging to life in a garden a world away.
But here, now, was a bird.
He didn’t realize he was reaching toward it until it ruffled and took wing, his fingertips grazing its feathers before it was out of reach.
A single bird. But it was a sign. The world was changing.
Osaron could summon many things, but not this. Nothing with a heartbeat, nothing with a soul. Holland supposed that was for the best. After all, if Osaron could make a body of his own, he would have no need for Holland. And as much as Holland needed Osaron’s magic, the thought of the oshoc moving freely sent a shiver through him. No, Holland was not only Osaron’s partner, he was Osaron’s prison.
And his prisoner was growing restless.
More.
The voice echoed in his head.
Holland took up a book and began to read, but he was only two pages in when the paper shuddered, as if caught by a wind, and the whole thing—from parchment to cover—turned to glass in his hands.