‘I said pull it out!’ Jannick took a stride towards James as though to yank the horn out himself.
‘No.’ Cyprian stopped him. ‘Will, don’t.’ He was holding his father back by the arm. ‘It’s about Marcus.’
‘Will Kempen,’ said High Janissary Jannick, ‘you will pull out that horn.’
Will’s hand, slippery with blood, slid on the shaft, but he didn’t pull it out. His heart was pounding. James’s goading eyes fixed on his father.
‘The Cup of the Stewards.’ James spoke in a clear voice, letting the whole Hall hear. ‘Simon first found mention of it in a dig in the forests of Calabria. Calice del Re, the locals called it. The Stewards drink from it when they take their oath, but it never belonged to them … It was a gift that was given to their king.’
The Cup of the Stewards, Justice had told them. We drink from it when we take our whites. Will’s skin crawled as James spoke the words of a familiar story:
‘Four kings of the old world, offered great power in exchange for a price. And to seal the bargain? Drink. Drink from the Cup. Three drank and one refused. Those who drank gained extraordinary physical abilities, for a time. But when their time was done—’
‘They transformed,’ whispered Will. And went cold.
In his mind he saw four kings darkly transparent, and a stone so black all light seemed to disappear into it.
The Shadow Kings.
‘No one asked what happened to the Cup,’ said James. ‘Just like no one asks where the Stewards get their strength. Why they watch in pairs, for any sign. Why they train to always keep control. Why their lives are short. It’s because of their oath. The oath they swear when they drink from the Cup.’ James’s eyes were fever bright as he delivered the words. ‘To kill themselves before they start to turn.’
Will looked out in horror at all the familiar faces – Leda – Farah – Carver – and even – his skin crawled – Justice.
Every Steward. Every single Steward had drunk from the Cup.
‘Tell us you’re not,’ he heard a novitiate demand. ‘Tell us you’re not shadows.’ Janissaries and novitiates were staring at Stewards as if all they could see now were potential shadows, surrounding them, outnumbering them. Too late, Will yanked the horn out, and James collapsed forward, laughing breathlessly.
‘Is it true?’ said Cyprian, and James’s laugh turned strange.
‘Is it true?’ said James, his shirt and jacket soaked with blood, still panting in pain from the horn. Truth was the point, even if its splinter had been wrenched from him now. He looked back at his father. ‘You don’t tell the novitiates before they drink? Not even your precious little adopted son?’
Holding the white shaft that looked like it had been dipped in red paint, Will’s mind was already travelling from one truth to another, far darker. Simon seeks to conjure a shadow of his own, the Elder Steward had said. He saw the yawning pit of his own realisation begin to open in Cyprian’s eyes.
‘You said Simon had learned how to conjure a shadow. What did you mean?’ Cyprian pushed his father out of the way to stand in front of James. ‘What did you mean?’
James didn’t answer; he just gazed back at Cyprian and slowly smiled.
‘He meant Marcus,’ said Will, knowing it in his bones. ‘It’s why they’re so desperate to get him back. Simon doesn’t need the Cup to make shadows. All he needs—’ Simon’s plan was terrible in its simplicity. ‘All he needs is a Steward.’
He looked up at Violet, their eyes meeting. Because there was another truth too. Simon wouldn’t take a prisoner that he’d need to keep alive for years. No. Simon would have chosen someone who was half shadow already. Wherever Marcus was, he would not have long before the shadow inside him took over.
Will said, ‘Capture a Steward without much time, keep him alive, and wait for him to turn.’
And watched the Hall around him erupt into chaos.
Torch aloft, Will descended the stairs to the underground cells, the flame he held sending shadows flickering out ahead of him.
He wasn’t two steps down before the thick, oppressive feel of the cells stifled him, and he had to force himself not to shake his head to clear it, or rub at his temple. He already knew that didn’t work.
Upstairs, a tumult of arguments and shouting. The novitiates and the janissaries were turning on the Stewards, with the High Janissary desperately trying to keep order. Here in the shiny obsidian depths of the cells, those seemed like the concerns of a different world.