“You can go, Ister,” she said, wiping away the blood.
Kell held his tongue as long as he could, but the moment the priest was gone, he lost it.
“I warned you!” he shouted. Lila winced, touching a hand to her temple.
“I’m fine,” she muttered.
Kell made a stifled sound. “You collapsed in the ring!”
“It was a hard match,” she said getting to her feet, trying and failing to hide her unsteadiness.
“How could you be so stupid?” he snapped, his voice rising. “You’re bleeding black. You play with magic as if it were a game. You don’t even understand the rules. Or worse, you decide there are none. You go stomping through the world, doing whatever the hell you please. You’re careless. Senseless. Reckless.”
“Keep it down, you two,” said Rhy, striding in, Vis and Tolners at his back. “Kell, you shouldn’t be here.”
Kell ignored him and addressed the guards. “Lock her up.”
“For what?” growled Lila.
“Calm down, Kell,” said Rhy.
“For being an impostor.”
Lila scoffed. “Oh, you’re one to tal—”
Kell slammed her back into the tent pole, crushing her mouth with his hand. “Don’t you dare.” Lila didn’t fight back. She went still as stone, mismatched eyes boring into him. There was a wildness to them, and he thought she might actually be afraid, or at least shocked. And then he felt the knife pressed against his side.
And the look in her eyes said that if it weren’t for Rhy, she would have stabbed him.
The prince held up his hand. “Stasion,” he said, addressing Lila as he took Kell’s shoulder. “Please.” She lowered the knife, and Rhy wrenched Kell backward with Tolners’ help.
“You never listen. You never think. Having power is a responsibility, Lila, one you clearly don’t deserve.”
“Kell,” warned Rhy.
“Why are you defending her?” he snapped, rounding on his brother. “Why am I the only one in this fucking world to be held accountable for my actions?”
They just stared at him, the prince and the guards, and Lila, she had the nerve to smile. It was a grim, defiant smile, marred by the dark blood still streaking her face.
Kell threw up his hands and stormed out.
He heard the sound of Rhy’s boots on the cobbles coming after him, but Kell needed space, needed air, and before he knew what he was doing, he had the knife free from its sheath, the coins free from his collar.
The last thing he heard before he pressed his bloody fingers to the nearest wall was Rhy’s voice calling for him to stop, but then the spell was on Kell’s lips, and the world was falling away, taking everything with it.
V
One moment Kell was there, and the next he was gone, nothing but a dab of blood on the wall to mark his passing.
Rhy stood outside the tent, staring at the place where his brother had been, his chest aching not from physical pain but the sudden, horrible realization that Kell had purposefully gone where Rhy couldn’t follow.
Tolners and Vis appeared like shadows behind him. A crowd was gathering, oblivious to the quarrel in the tent, oblivious to everything but the presence of a prince in their midst. Rhy knew he should be wrestling his features into form, fixing his smile, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the streak of blood.
Maxim strode into sight, Kell’s guards on his heels. The crowd parted around the king, who smiled and nodded and waved even as he took Rhy’s arm and guided him back toward the palace, talking about the final round and the three champions and the evening events, filling the silence with useless chatter until the doors of the palace closed behind them.
“What happened?” snapped the king, dragging him into a private chamber. “Where is Kell?”
Rhy slumped into a chair. “I don’t know. He was in his rooms, but when he saw the match go south, he went down to the tents. He was just worried, Father.”
“About what?” Not about what, Rhy thought. Who. But he couldn’t exactly tell the king about the girl parading as Stasion Elsor, the same girl who’d dragged the Black Night across the city at Kell’s side (and saved the world, too, of course, but that wouldn’t matter), so instead he simply said, “We had a fight.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.” Rhy put his head in his hands, fatigue folding over him.
“Get up,” ordered his father. “Go get ready.”
Rhy dragged his head up. “For what?”
“Tonight’s festivities, of course.”
“But Kell—”
“Is not here,” said the king, his voice as heavy as a stone. “He may have abandoned his duties, but you have not. You will not.” Maxim was already heading for the door. “When Kell returns, he will be dealt with, but in the meantime, you are still the Prince of Ames. And as such, you will act like it.”
* * *
Kell sagged back against the cold stone wall as the bells of Westminster rang out the hour.
His heart pounded frantically with what he’d done.
He’d left. Left Red London. Left Rhy. Left Lila. Left a city—and a mess—in his wake.
All of it only a step away. A world apart.
If you don’t want to be here, then go.
Run.
He hadn’t meant to—he’d just wanted a moment of peace, a moment to think—and now he was here, fresh blood dripping to the icy street, his brother’s voice still echoing in his head. Guilt pulled at him, but he shoved it away. This was no different from the hundreds of trips he’d made abroad, each and every one placing him out of reach.
This time it had simply been his choice.
Kell straightened and set off down the street. He didn’t know where he was going, only that the first step had not been enough; he needed to keep moving before the guilt caught up. Or the cold. Grey London’s winter had a bitter dampness to it, and he pulled his coat tight, and bent his head, and walked.
Five minutes later, he was standing outside the Five Points.
He could have gone anywhere, but he always ended up there. Muscle memory, that was the only real explanation. His feet carried him along the paths worn into the world, the cosmic slope, a gravitational bend drawing things of mass and magic to the fixed point.
Inside, a familiar face looked up from behind the bar. Not Barron’s wide brow and dark beard, but Ned Tuttle’s large eyes, his long jaw, his broad, surprised, delighted smile.
“Master Kell!”
At least the young Enthusiast didn’t launch himself over the counter when Kell came in. He only dropped three glasses and knocked over a bottle of port. The glasses Kell let fall, but the port he stopped an inch above the floor, the gesture lost on all but Ned himself.
He slid onto a stool, and a moment later a glass of dark whisky appeared before him. Not magic, just Ned. When he finished the first glass in a single swig, the bottle appeared at his elbow.
The Enthusiast pretended to busy himself with the handful of other patrons while Kell drank. On the third glass, he slowed down; after all, it wasn’t his body alone he was trashing. But how many nights had Kell borne Rhy’s drinking; how many mornings had he woken with the stale taste of wine and elixirs coating his tongue?
Kell tipped a little more into his tumbler.