Rhy’s hand dropped to his chest. He didn’t have to look down, didn’t have to see the scar on his dark skin, the elaborate tracery of spellwork that circled his heart. He had long memorized the whorls, the same pattern branded into Kell’s pale skin.
Alucard hated to see Rhy hurt, but the truth was, he welcomed his brother’s pain. He would have taken it entirely, if he could, stripped it away from Kell, and held it all himself, but that wasn’t how the spell worked. Kell had dragged Rhy out of death, used his own life to keep him there, and now all he could do was share the burden of that living. If Kell died, so would he. Until then, they were bound—whatever harm came to one, the other felt as well.
But the bond, it turned out, only went so far. These days, he knew, Kell’s pain ran deeper, a taproot to a source Rhy couldn’t—had never been able to—reach. So he welcomed the dull ache in his shoulder as he sank deeper into the bath. Perhaps, he thought, the water would ease his brother’s limbs as well. But even as he thought it, he knew better. It was a strange thing, their connection, and pleasure never seemed to carry half as well as pain.
Tendrils of steam rose off the water, and Rhy held out a ringed hand and watched the pale curls bend around his fingers. When he was young, he’d pretended it was magic, would squint at the steam and try to guide it into patterns. But the air never so much as stirred.
He flexed his hand, and the three rings caught the light.
The first was red, its surface stamped with the chalice and sun, and tethered him to Kell. The second, gold and marked with a crown and heart, belonged to Alucard. The third, marble white, embossed with a tree, bound him to the Aven Essen, the high priest assigned to comfort and advise the throne.
He’d worn a fourth ring, once, a lovely silver band, whose twin belonged to the queen, but Nadiya had taken it back, claiming he used the thing too often, and without proper respect for her work.
His wife, the inventor. He wasn’t threatened by Nadiya’s genius—on the contrary, he’d long accepted his lot in life as the handsome ruler, rather than the brilliant one. Of course, the queen was lovely, too, but with any luck, Rhy would age well, and she would not, and then his place would be secured. He had told her as much, before their wedding, savoring the way her left brow quirked.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she’d said, “I plan to be a hag.”
Rhy smiled at the memory, and let his hand sink below the water as he tipped his head back against the tiled rim of the bath. He let his mind wander, thoughts drifting past the merchant guild he’d seen that afternoon, and the head of the city guard with her list of offenses and offenders, and the missives from Faro, explaining why they were forgoing their visit, and the plans for Sel Fera Noche.
The Long Dark Night.
It was the city’s most important festival, the one that marked the passing of the coldest season, but also the years since the gates between the worlds were sealed, making it a celebration of the Maresh as well. It was, after all, the first Maresh king who saw the strange magic spilling from Black London, and used the Antari’s collective power to drive the cursed magic back, sealing the worlds off from the dark, and from each other, leaving Black London to consume itself behind its walls like a fire in a room with no windows, left to burn and then to die away to ash and nothing.
It had not died, of course. A fire needs only an ember to regain its heat, and embers had indeed survived. Embers like Vitari, a sliver of magic pressed into a stone. And Osaron, which was not an ember at all but the spark that started it all, waiting in Black London for a single breath to come and coax it back to life. Osaron, which had indeed burned again, hot enough to raze the world, and nearly had, before Kell and Lila and Holland had conquered it.
Not that the public knew. As far as they were concerned, Black London remained safely bound behind its wall and Sel Fera Noche was nothing but a time to celebrate. And with the three-hundred-year anniversary, the celebration would be even bigger. The entire city would be draped in red and gold, the chalice and sun of the royal seal, and in the streets and in the palace halls, all would toast to the Maresh.
And Alucard wanted to cancel it—not that Rhy could, not that he would—all because of the Hand.
The Hand, who claimed that magic was failing.
The Hand, who claimed that it was his fault.
Rhy Maresh, the king without magic. Poisoning the well.
Anger tightened around his ribs. Anger—and the fear that they were right.
Alucard claimed there was no truth to their words. Nadiya said there was no proof to be found. But the disquiet was only growing louder. They had to be stopped.