“Well, that’s just rude,” muttered Lila, crossing her arms.
“Mas vares,” said the oldest guard, without looking up.
“Welcome back,” added the second, who looked to be his age.
The youngest of the three had clearly never seen Kell Maresh in the flesh, because he paled, and instead of bowing his head, looked straight at Kell’s eyes, his expression a rigid mix of awe and fear.
“Aven,” the young guard whispered under his breath, a blessing that might as well have been a curse.
Kell gestured for them all to rise, and said, “Where is the king?”
“In his rooms,” said the oldest, before turning to Lila. “Apologies, mas arna,” he added as they stood aside, and Kell could almost hear Lila’s teeth clenching at the term. My lady. The lights in the hall flared brighter.
Kell made it to the door first, knocking before Lila could barge in. Moments later, it swung open, and there stood Alucard Emery, slouched like a cat in the doorway, shirt open and brassy hair hanging loose around his face.
His dark blue eyes raked over Kell, and his mouth twitched into an arrogant smirk.
“I didn’t order this!” he called to the guards over Kell’s shoulder. “Send it back.”
Kell scowled, and it was a good thing then, that magic no longer rushed to meet his mood. Instead, his hand drifted to the blade at his hip as Alucard looked to Lila, the smirk blooming into a genuine smile. “Bard. You can come in.”
And then Rhy was there, pushing his lover aside, and flinging his arms around Kell’s shoulders.
“Brother,” said Rhy, holding him tight. And unlike the coat, and all the other trappings of Kell’s old life, this one, at least, still fit.
II
Rhy Maresh was on top of the world.
At least, that’s how it felt. In truth, he was perched on the sloping roof over his rooms, one leg drawn up, a bottle of silver wine balanced on his knee, and his brother at his side.
If he leaned forward far enough to look down over the edge, he’d be able to see his balcony below, the light spilling out his bedroom doors. If he looked straight out, he could see the entire city, a sprawling sea of glass and wood and stone divided by the brilliant crimson light of the Isle. And if he looked up, he saw only sky. Low clouds stained red, or the orb of the moon, or, on a dark night, the scattered light of stars.
Ask anyone in London, and they would tell you the best views of the city were those that looked onto the arching palace—but that was because they would never see this one.
A spire rose into a gleaming golden peak at his back, and beneath him, the roof splayed out like the bottom of a too-long cloak. It sloped, but gently—a bottle might roll off, but a body wouldn’t—and it was wide enough for two grown men to stretch out, side by side, without their heads touching the spire or their heels grazing air.
One night, when Rhy had been eleven or twelve, he’d persuaded Kell to modify his balcony’s wall, to draw grips out of the stone, handholds that could be hidden by the ivy that flowered on the wall. After that, this spot became their secret, their hidden escape.
Or so they thought, until Maxim Maresh’s voice boomed up from the balcony one night, promising that if the brothers valued their heads, they would climb down at once.
“I told you it was a bad idea,” Kell had muttered after, cheeks still burning from the king’s rebuke.
“Then why did you come?” Rhy had shot back.
“To make sure you didn’t break your neck.”
“You could have stopped me,” he’d said.
Kell had looked at him then with bald surprise. “Have you met you?”
But Rhy knew that secretly his brother liked their rooftop hideaway as much as he did. He saw the way Kell’s shoulders loosened and his hands relaxed whenever they were up here, that constant frown softening to something thoughtful.
He glanced at Kell now, and was surprised to find his brother staring back.
“Kers la?” he asked, slipping into Arnesian. They’d always spoken it, when they were alone, to keep their tongues fluent, their accents smooth. At least, that had been Rhy’s reason. Kell, he knew, preferred the common tongue.
“Nas ir,” said his brother, shaking his head. Nothing. “It’s just, you look well.”
“Of course I do,” quipped Rhy, adding, “So do you.”
Kell snorted. “Liar.”
Was it a lie? Rhy didn’t know. He studied his brother. He had always been able to read Kell, but he was starting to wonder if it was just that, growing up, Kell had always allowed himself to be read. But in their years apart, he’d changed, his face, once a pane of glass, now turned until the light bounced off instead of passing through. There was a coiled confidence in the way he held himself, even leaning back on one elbow, an edge that belonged more to a pirate than a prince. Not Kell, but Kay. As if he had to bury his past, their past, to live as he did now.