Kell shot the young guard a glance. “Of course,” he said, casually. And then, on a whim, he added, “But the queen does not. Her nerves couldn’t handle the strain.”
Hastra nodded knowingly. “She hasn’t been the same, has she?” he whispered. “Not since that night.”
Kell straightened, and quickened his step. “None of us have.”
When they reached the steps into the Basin, Kell paused. “You know the plan?”
“Yes, sir,” said Hastra. He flashed an excited smile and disappeared.
Kell shrugged off his coat and turned it inside out as he descended into the Basin, where he’d already drawn a shortcut on the glassy stone wall. His mask was sitting in its box atop the table, along with a note from his brother.
Keep this—and your head—on your shoulders.
Kell shrugged Kamerov’s silver jacket on and opened the box. The mask waited within, its surface polished to mirror clarity, sharpening Kell’s reflection until it looked like it belonged to someone else.
Beside the box sat a piece of rolled red fabric, and when Kell smoothed it out, he saw it was a new pennant. The two roses had been replaced by twin lions, black and white and lined with gold against the crimson ground.
Kell smiled and tugged the mask on over his head, his reddish hair and two-toned eyes vanishing behind the silvery surface.
“Master Kamerov,” said Staff when he stepped out into the morning air. “Are you ready?”
“I am,” he answered in Arnesian, the edges of his voice muffled and smoothed by the metal.
They started up the steps, and when they reached the top, Kell waited while the guard vanished, then reappeared a moment later to confirm the path was clear. Or rather, covered. The steps were sheltered by the palace’s foundation, running from river to street, and market stalls crowded the banks, obstructing the path. By the time Kell stepped out of the palace’s shadow, slipped between the tents and onto the main road, the Antari royal was left behind. Kamerov Loste had taken his place.
He might have been a different man, but he was still tall, lean, and dressed in silver, from mask to boot, and the eyes of the crowd quickly registered the magician in their midst. But after the first wave, Kell didn’t cringe from the attention. Instead of trying to embody Rhy, he embodied a version of himself—one who didn’t fear the public eye, one who had power, and nothing to hide—and soon he fell into an easy, confident stride.
As he made his way with the crowd toward the central stadium, Staff hung back, blending in with the other guards who lined the road at regular intervals and walked among the throngs of people.
Kell smiled as he mounted the bridge path from the banks to the largest of the three floating arenas. Last night he’d imagined feeling the ground move beneath him, but that might have been the wine, because this morning as he reached the archway to the arena floor, it felt solid as earth beneath his feet.
Half a dozen other men and women, all Arnesian, were already gathered in the corridor—the magicians from Faro and Vesk must be assembled in their own halls—waiting to make their grand entrance. Like Kell, they were decked out in their official tournament attire, with elegant coats or cloaks and, of course, helmets.
He recognized Kisimyr’s coiled hair behind a catlike mask, Losen a step behind her, as if he were an actual shadow. Beside them was Brost’s massive form, his features barely obscured by the simple strip of dark metal over his eyes. And there, behind a mask of scales trimmed in blue, stood Alucard.
The captain’s gaze drifted over Kell, and he felt himself tense, but of course, where Kell saw a foe, Alucard would have seen only a stranger in a silver mask. And one who’d obviously introduced himself at the Banner Night, because Alucard tipped his head with an arrogant smile.
Kell nodded back, secretly hoping their paths might cross in the ring.
Jinnar appeared on a gust of wind against Kell’s back, slipping past him with a breezy chuckle before knocking shoulders with Alucard.
More footsteps sounded in the tunnel, and Kell turned to see the last few Arnesians join the group, the dark shape of Stasion Elsor at the rear. He was long and lean, his face entirely hidden by a demon’s mask. For an instant, Kell’s breath caught, but Rhy was right: Kell was determined to see Lila Bard in every black-clad form, every smirking shadow.
Stasion Elsor’s eyes were shadowed by the mask, but up close, the demon’s face was different, the horns arcing back and a skeletal jawbone collaring mouth and throat. A lock of hair a shade darker than Lila’s traced a line like a crack between the magician’s shaded brown eyes. And though his mouth was visible between the demon’s teeth, Stasion didn’t smile, only stared at Kell. Kamerov.
“Fal chas,” said Kell. Good luck.
“And you,” replied Stasion simply, his voice nearly swallowed by the sudden flare of trumpets.
Kell twisted back to the archways as the gate swung open, and the ceremonies began.
II
“See, Parlo?” said Rhy, stepping out onto the stadium’s royal balcony. “I told you it wouldn’t sink.”
The attendant hugged the back wall, looking ill. “So far, so good, Your Highness,” he said, straining to be heard over the trumpets.
Rhy turned his smile on the waiting crowd. Thousands upon thousands had piled into the central stadium for the opening ceremonies. Above, the canvas birds dipped and soared on their silk tethers, and below, the polished stone of the arena floor stood empty save for three raised platforms. Poles mounted on each hung massive banners, each with an empire’s seal.
The Faroan Tree.
The Veskan Crow.
The Arnesian Chalice.
Atop each platform, twelve shorter poles stood with banners furled, waiting for their champions.
Everything was perfect. Everything was ready.
As the trumpets trailed off, a cold breeze rustled Rhy’s curls, and he touched the band of gold that hugged his temples. More gold glittered in his ears, at his throat, at collar and cuff, and as it caught the light, Alucard’s voice pressed against his skin.
I fear you haven’t enough….
Rhy stopped fidgeting. Behind him, the king and queen sat enthroned on gilded chairs, flanked by Lord Sol-in-Ar and the Taskon siblings. Master Tieren stood to the side.
“Shall I, Father?”
The king nodded, and Rhy stepped forward until he was front and center on the platform, overlooking the arena. The royal balcony sat not at the very top of the stadium, but embedded in the center of one sloping side, an elegant box halfway between the competitors’ entrances and directly across from the judge’s own platform.
The crowd began to hush, and Rhy grinned and held up a gold ring the size of a bracelet. When he spoke, the spelled metal amplified his words. The same charmed rings—albeit copper and steel—had been sent to taverns and courtyards across the city so that all could hear. During the matches, commentators would use the rings to keep the city apprised on various victories and defeats, but at this moment, the city’s attention belonged to Rhy.
“Good morning, to all who have gathered.”
A ripple of pleased surprise went through the gathered crowd when they realized he was speaking Arnesian. The last time the tournament had been held in London, Rhy’s father had stood above his people and spoken High Royal, while a translator on a platform below offered the words in the common tongue.
But this wasn’t just an affair of state, as his father claimed. It was a celebration for the people, the city, the empire. And so Rhy addressed his people, his city, his empire, in their tongue.