“It will come back,” she’d said, with a child’s confidence.
And to everyone’s surprise but hers, it had. Things simply chose Ren’s company. Even at four, she had a steady nature that put living things at ease, and while some at the palace had been wary of the princess’s steadily growing menagerie, Rhy was charmed, and Alucard was certain that the animals in the palace lived better lives than most of the city’s nobles, and did even less work to earn their keep.
Ren poked his cheek with her finger. “Luca.”
“Yes?”
“Did you bring me a gift?”
Alucard sighed. He had made the terrible mistake of going on a trip the year before and returning with a small carved ship that sang whenever it was put on water. Now, every time he so much as returned from a walk, the princess expected some reward.
He was still searching his pockets for an offering when the child’s nurse, Sasha, rounded the corner, a robe slung over her arm, a pair of slippers in one hand, and a golden circlet in the other. Without missing a step, she scooped up the rabbit as if it were another fallen toy.
Sasha was old enough to be a mother twice, but she moved with the sturdiness of a soldier. Her silver hair was up, but so much had escaped its braided crown that it formed a storm cloud around her head, marked by tiny streaks of lightning.
“There you are,” she said matter-of-factly. “The water’s getting cold.”
Ren cast a forlorn look back at Alucard. “I wanted to take a bath with Father,” she said, shoulders slumping. “But he said he wanted to be alone.”
Alucard knelt face-to-face with the young royal. He met Ren’s eyes, and wondered when the girl had grown so tall, when he’d stopped needing to look down.
“You don’t want to share a bath with your father,” he said. “He takes up too much space, and hoards all the bubbles.”
“But the bubbles are my favorite part!” said Ren, aghast.
“I know!” said Alucard. “But when you take a bath with someone else, you have to share.”
Ren looked to Sasha then, for confirmation. She nodded soberly. The princess chewed her lip, as if considering. And then she cleared his throat. “Tonight,” she said with all the diplomacy a four-year-old could muster, “I will take my bath alone.” She held out her hand, and Sasha took it.
“Very well, mas vares,” she said, leading Ren away.
Alucard watched them go, and then turned, and went to find Rhy, certain that he could convince the king to share his bubbles.
IV
Rhy sighed and sank deeper in the bath.
He lay perfectly still, until his thoughts emptied, until the surface of the water turned to glass, until the only sounds were the quiet rush of his breath, the faint rustle of fabric.
And the whisper of steel.
The king’s eyes shot open as the blade came down.
He twisted out of the way of the assassin’s thrust just in time, the sword grazing his cheek instead of burying itself in his throat. The metal rang against the tile as he surged around and under, grabbing the attacker’s arm and hauling him into the bath—where Rhy had hidden his knife beneath the tiled lip.
His hand closed around the hilt, the metal hot against his palm as he turned to face his attacker. The other man was on his feet again, the water sloshing around his chest.
He was young. Younger than Rhy. He didn’t look like a murderer, or a rebel, or a rogue. He looked like a member of the palace staff, which was exactly what he was. Rhy recognized him, behind the red that ran in ribbons down the young man’s face. At first glance it looked like blood, but Rhy knew it was paint, had glimpsed the handprint pressed against his brow and cheeks the instant before the man’s blade came singing down.
Rhy touched his own face, and his fingers came away red. That was blood. He clicked his tongue.
“It is a crime,” he said, “to wound a king.” Not that it would last. He could feel his skin already knitting. His body, held together by Kell’s magic.
For so long it had haunted him, the way he healed, made him wonder if he was still a person, or just the illusion of one. But here and now, he was grateful.
“The Hand gives and the Hand takes,” recited the man, stalking toward him through the water.
“Oh, now you have a speech,” muttered Rhy.
“The Hand builds and the Hand tears down.”
He slashed out with his sword, and Rhy’s blade came up to block the blow.
“I’ve always wondered…” mused the king. “Does that make you a finger? A knuckle? A hangnail?”