And the great hall wasn’t empty. Far from it: a dozen members of the guard lined the walls, and servants dotted the space where three Vir were holding court with a handful of nobles. And maybe the room had been bustling with motion before her sudden, unexpected arrival, but now it lurched to a stop. A servant dropped their tray. Glass shattered. The three Vir turned, and the four nearest soldiers lunged forward, hands going to their hilts before they realized the ashen figure in the center of the hall was in fact their queen.
Kosika couldn’t blame them.
A small cloud of soot swirled up around her, and a few drops of blood fell from her hand where she had gripped the blade, and for a single, horrible moment, she thought she might faint. But the moment passed, and Kosika stayed on her feet.
The soldiers dropped into a bow, but the Vir started toward her, and she could see the questions in their eyes as they went from her face to the blood dripping from her hand. And Kosika knew she could not tell them where she’d been.
But then she remembered that she did not have to. She was not some child, in need of scolding. She was an Antari. She was their queen. She owed them no explanation, so she turned in silence, and headed for the stairs, leaving a trail of ash and blood in her wake.
IV
RED LONDON
NOW
Berras Emery sat forward as the carriage rolled through the gates.
The horses slowed, drawing to a stop before the house.
Once upon a time, it had belonged to a reclusive nobleman named Astel, but Astel had perished in his bed during the Tide seven years before. Not that anyone save Berras seemed to care—though, admittedly, his concern was more for the property than its previous owner.
He had descended on the house one night, much the way the Veil did now, but unlike the pleasure garden, Berras hadn’t disappeared at dawn. If anyone had noticed his arrival, perhaps they assumed he was a distant nephew come to see to his uncle’s affairs, a man as private and unfriendly as Astel had been. The Emery heir brought nothing from his old life, and hired only one servant, the driver, who was paid well to be incurious.
The same driver now opened the carriage door, bowing deeply as Berras stepped out. He looked up at the house. He hadn’t just chosen it because it was empty, with no apparent heir. It was also tall—three stories—and from the study windows on the top floor, he had a view not only of this street, but the one directly to the north, and the Emery estate.
What was left of it.
For months it had sat, little more than a ruin, but then, from those study windows, he’d seen movement. Berras had watched as it was painstakingly restored, as if by a loving hand. Only to then sit dark, neglected. Waiting.
It taunted Berras, a brazen baited trap. For he was sure that if he stepped back into that house—by right, his house—he would wake to a knife at his throat, to guards dragging him from his bed and into a palace cell, forcing him to kneel on the cold stone and beg forgiveness from his brother, or mercy from his king.
Berras Emery had no intention of doing either.
* * *
Inside the stolen house, the lamps had been lit. Their pale glow spilled out of his office, along with the soft crackle of a fire he hadn’t started.
Berras sighed, rolling his neck as he crossed the hall. He could see Bex in his chair, her legs up on his desk, and Calin sprawled on the sofa, arms stretched along its back. Berras paused only to brush his fingers down the doorframe before he entered.
“Get your feet off my table,” he said, shrugging out of his coat.
Bex sat up, her boots thudding as they hit the floor. Calin’s pale eyes drifted open. He looked tired, or bored.
“Tac?” Berras gave a cursory look around the room. “I take it your presence here means you have it.”
Bex glanced at Calin. Calin didn’t look back. She shifted her weight, and Berras knew before she had the nerve to say the words.
“We don’t.”
He closed his eyes. The Hand was gathering in less than a day. The bitch in the white mask was right. Without the persalis, this plan—his plan—wouldn’t work.
“I hope you mean not yet,” he said through clenched teeth. Judging by their faces, they did not. “What happened?”
“It’s not our fault,” offered Calin, chewing on the words before he spat them out.
“One of your thieves fucked up,” said Bex. “He broke the persalis getting it off the ship, and then, instead of bringing it to us, he took it to a repair shop in the shal, gave it to some girl to fix. A tinkerer.”
Berras felt his muscles tighten. It happened that way. A stiffening, like frost, that spread over his skin. Other people went hot. Berras went cold. “Where is this girl?”