He’d wake up.
The merchant’s son didn’t realize he was smiling until Bex shot him a strange look.
“What are you grinning at?” she said, as she turned her hand up, and the metal unfolded from her skin, re-forming into a shining spike.
“I’m still asleep,” he said, closing his eyes, sinking back against the pillow.
Her voice, when it reached him, was soft, and far away.
“Sure you are,” it said, and then he heard the metal whistle through the air, felt the brief, cold kiss of it against his throat.
He never woke up.
IV
There was a side to Kell few people ever saw.
It was like one of his coats, not the red one or the black one or any of the other sides he favored, but a shiny frock kept tucked away beneath so many turns that no one ever found it.
Except for Rhy.
It had always been a challenge, unwinding his brother.
Before—that was how Rhy thought of twenty-one years of life, as simply before; before Black London leaked into their world, before his parents died, before he became king—before, he’d drag Kell out into the city, under cover of night and common clothes, and ply him with drink until he found that rare and precious side. Until he stopped fighting so hard to hold on, and loosened his grip on the world. Until he let go. When that happened, the lines around Kell’s eyes—lines that had nothing to do with age, lines he’d had since he was five—would soften, and he would smile, and laugh, and Rhy would marvel at this other version of his brother, and mourn the fact it was so hard to draw him out.
Now, on the roof, that side was shining through.
The bottle in Rhy’s hand was long empty, and only a finger sloshed in the bottom of Kell’s, and though pain had always traveled louder than pleasure, they’d drunk enough that one’s light-headedness added to the other’s. Kell’s blue eye was bright, his free hand gesturing broadly as he recounted a story involving Lila Bard and a stolen ship that turned out to be carrying nothing but chickens. Which was made funnier by the fact that the Arnesian word for chicken—corsa—was so close to the word for swords—orsa: the only reason Bard had wanted aboard in the first place.
“You should have seen her face,” said Kell. He straightened, just a little, injecting a Lila-esque edge in his voice. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with these?” Kell shook his head, remembering. “Vasry wanted to set them free. He even opened a crate, tried to shoo them over the side before he realized—”
“Chickens can’t fly,” said Rhy.
“No, they cannot,” said Kell.
They met each other’s eyes, and laughter bubbled up between them. After a moment, Rhy said, “The pirate life clearly suits you.”
Kell raised a brow. “Excuse me,” he said with feigned indignance, “I’m a privateer,” and it was such an eerily perfect impression of Alucard, from the quirk of his mouth to the lift of his chin and the tone of his voice, that Rhy lost the last dregs of his composure, and threw back his head and laughed, and then he was on his back, the night sky sliding in and out of focus.
“I’m going to roll off,” he said, gasping for breath.
“I’ll catch you,” said Kell without so much as a pause.
Rhy’s laughter died away. “I know.”
Kell lay down beside him, looking up. Silence settled over them again, but it was like a silk sheet on a summer night, cool and welcome. And as his heart slowed in his chest, Rhy realized he was happy. For a breath, it was the loudest thing. But then the guilt rushed in. How could he be happy, when the empire stood on a knife’s edge, and the specter of violence hung over his head? How, when his parents were gone, and his brother was broken? And then, right on the heels of that guilt—fear.
Fear, not for his own life—that was an abstract thing, death impossible, and pain endurable—but the lives of those he loved. Fear that he could not shelter their flames as Kell had sheltered his. Fear that beat inside his chest, wrapped itself around his heart and lungs until he could not breathe. Fear that fed on his happiness, grew strong because of it. And that was the madness, the cruelty, that life was fragile, and he had so much to love, and spent all his time mourning the loss before he suffered it.
“Love and loss,” he murmured.
“Are like a ship and the sea,” finished Kell. It was one of Tieren’s favorite sayings. The thought of the Aven Essen made Rhy’s eyes burn.
Above, the moon was almost full, and when his vision blurred, it looked like one of the paper lamps they launched during Sel Fera Noche.