“The view from up here,” said a man behind him, “it is … magnificent.” The words were High Royal, but their edges were smoothed out by the ostra’s Arnesian accent.
“It is indeed, Master Parlo,” said Rhy, turning toward the man. He had to bite back a smile. Parlo looked positively miserable, half frozen and obviously uncomfortable with the distance between the balcony and the red river far below, clutching the scrolls to the flowery pattern of his vest as if they were a rope. Almost as bad as Vis; the guard stood with his armored back pressed against the wall, looking pale.
Rhy was tempted to lean back against the railing, just to make the ostra and the guard nervous. It was something Kell would do. Instead he stepped away from the edge, and Parlo gratefully mirrored his action by retreating a pace into the doorway.
“What brings you to the roof?” asked Rhy.
Parlo drew a roll of parchment from under his arm. “The arrangements for the opening ceremonies, Your Highness.”
“Of course.” He accepted the plans but didn’t unroll them. Parlo still stood there, as if waiting for something—a tip? a treat?—and Rhy finally said, “You can go now.”
The ostra looked wounded, so Rhy dredged up his most princely smile. “Come now, Master Parlo, you’ve been excused, not banished. The view up here may be magnificent, but the weather is not, and you look in need of tea and a fire. You’ll find both in the gallery downstairs.”
“I suppose that does sound nice … but the plans …”
“Hopefully I won’t need help deciphering a scheme I made myself. And if I do, I know where to find you.”
After a moment, Parlo finally nodded and retreated. Rhy sighed and set the plans on a small glass table by the door. He unrolled the parchment, wincing as sunlight made the page glow white, his head still throbbing dully from the night before. The nights had grown harder for Rhy. He’d never been afraid of the dark—even after the Shadows came and tried to kill him in the night—but that was because the dark itself used to be empty. Now it was not. He could feel it, whatever it was, hovering in the air around him, waiting until the sun went down and the world got quiet. Quiet enough to think. Thoughts, those were the waiting things, and once they started up, he couldn’t seem to silence them.
Saints, how he tried.
He poured himself a glass of tea and dragged his attention back to the plans, setting weights at the corners against the wind. And there it was, laid out before him, the thing he focused on in a desperate attempt to keep the thoughts at bay.
Is Essen Tasch.
The Element Games.
An international tournament between the three empires—Vesk, Faro, and, of course, Ames. It was no modest affair. The Essen Tasch was made up of thirty-six magicians, a thousand wealthy spectators willing to make the journey, and of course, the royal guests. The prince and princess from Vesk. The king’s brother from Faro. By tradition, the tournament was hosted by the capital of the previous winner. And thanks to Kisimyr Vasrin’s prowess, and Rhy’s vision, London would be the dazzling centerpiece of this year’s games.
And at the center, Rhy’s crowning achievements: the first ever floating arenas.
Tents and stages blossomed all across the city, but Rhy’s deepest pride was reserved for those three stages being erected not on the banks, but on the river itself. They were temporary, yes, and would be torn down again when the tournament was over. But they were also glorious, works of art, statues on the scale of stadiums. Rhy had commissioned the best metal- and earthworkers in the kingdom to build his magnificent arenas. Bridges and walkways were being crafted around the palace, and from above they resembled golden ripples across the Isle’s red water. Each stadium was an octagon, canvas stretched like sails over a skeleton of stone. On top of this body, the arenas were covered: the first in sculpted scales, the second in fabric feathers, the third in grassy fur.
As Rhy watched, massive dragons carved of ice were being lowered into the river to circle the eastern arena, while canvas birds flew like kites above the central one, caught in a perpetual wind. And to the west, eight magnificent stone lions marked the stadium’s posts, each caught in a different pose, a captured moment in the narrative of predator and prey.
He could have simply numbered the platforms, Rhy supposed, but that would have been woefully predictable. No, the Essen Tasch demanded more.
Spectacle.
That’s what everyone expected. And spectacle was certainly something Rhy knew how to deliver. But this wasn’t just about putting on a show. Kell could tease all he liked, but Rhy did care about his kingdom’s future. When his father put him in charge of the tournament, he’d been insulted. He’d thought the Essen Tasch a glorified party, and as good as Rhy was at entertaining, he’d wanted more. More responsibility. More power. And he’d told the king as much.
“Ruling is a delicate affair,” his father had chided. “Every gesture carries purpose and meaning. This tournament is not only a game. It helps to maintain peace with our neighboring empires, and it allows us to show them our resources without implying any threat.” The king had laced his fingers. “Politics is a dance until the moment it becomes a war. And we control the music.”
And the more Rhy thought on it, the more he understood.
The Maresh had been in power for more than a hundred years. Since before the War of the Empires. The ostra elite loved them, and none of the royal vestra were bold enough to challenge their reign, solid as it was. That was the benefit of ruling for more than a century; none could remember what life was like before the Maresh came to power. It was easy to believe the dynasty would never end.
But what of the other empires? No one spoke of war—no one ever spoke of war—but whispers of discontent reached like fog across the borders. With seven children, the Veskans were reaching for power, and the king’s brother was hungry; it was only a matter of time before Lord Sol-in-Ar muscled his way onto the Faroan throne, and even if Vesk and Faro had their sights on each other, the fact remained that Ames sat squarely between them.
And then there was Kell.
As much as Rhy joked with his brother about his reputation, it was no joke to Faro or Vesk. Some were convinced Kell was the keystone of the Arnesian empire, that it would crumble and fall without him at its center.
It didn’t matter if it was true—their neighbors were always searching for a weakness, because ruling an empire was about strength. Which was really the image of strength. The Essen Tasch was the perfect pedestal for such a display.
A chance for Arnes to shine.
A chance for Rhy to shine, not only as a jewel, but as a sword. He had always been a symbol of wealth. He wanted to be a symbol of power. Magic was power, of course, but it wasn’t the only kind. Rhy told himself he could still be strong without it.
His fingers tightened on the balcony’s rail.
The memory of Holland’s gift flickered through his mind. Months ago he had done something foolish—so foolish, it had nearly cost him and his city everything—just to be strong in the way Kell was. His people would never know how close he’d come to failing them. And more than anything else, Rhy Maresh wanted to be what his people needed. For a long time he thought they needed the cheerful, rakish royal. He wasn’t ignorant enough to think that his city was free of suffering, but he used to think—or perhaps he only wanted to think—that he could bring a measure of happiness to his people by being happy himself. After all, they loved him. But what befitted a prince would not befit a king.
Don’t be morbid, he thought. His parents were both in good health. But people lived and died. That was the nature of the world. Or at least, that was how it should be.
The memories rose like bile in his throat. The pain, the blood, the fear, and finally the quiet and the dark. The surrender of letting go, and being dragged back, the force of it like falling, a terrible, jarring pain when he hit the ground. Only he wasn’t falling down. He was falling up. Surging back to the surface of himself, and—
“Prince Rhy.”
He blinked and saw his guard, Tolners, standing in the doorway, tall and stiff and official.
Rhy’s fingers ached as he pried them from the icy railing. He opened his mouth to speak, and tasted blood. He must have bitten his tongue. Sorry, Kell, he thought. It was such a peculiar thing, to know your pain was tethered to someone else’s, that every time you hurt, they felt it, and every time they hurt, it was because of you. These days, Rhy always seemed to be the source of Kell’s suffering, while Kell himself walked around as if the world were suddenly made of glass, all because of Rhy. It wasn’t even in the end, wasn’t balanced, wasn’t fair. Rhy held Kell’s pain in his hands, while Kell held Rhy’s life in his.
“Are you all right?” pressed the guard. “You look pale.”
Rhy took up a glass of tea—now cold—and rinsed the metallic taste from his mouth, setting the cup aside with shaking fingers.
“Tell me, Tolners,” he said, feigning lightness. “Am I in so much danger that I need not one but two men guarding my life?” Rhy gestured to the first guard, who still stood pressed against the cold stone exterior. “Or have you come to relieve poor Vis before he faints on us?”
Tolners looked to Vis, and jerked his head. The other guard gratefully ducked back through the patio doors and into the safety of the room. Tolners didn’t take up a spot along the wall, but stood before Rhy at attention. He was dressed, as he always was, in full armor, his red cape billowing behind him in the cold wind, gold helmet tucked under his arm. He looked more like a statue than a man, and in that moment—as in many moments—Rhy missed his old guards, Gen and Parrish. Missed their humor and their casual banter and the way he could make them forget that he was a prince. And sometimes, the way they could make him forget, too.
Don’t be contrary, thought Rhy. You cannot be the symbol of power and an ordinary man at the same time. You have to choose. Choose right.
The balcony suddenly felt crowded. Rhy freed the blueprints from the table and retreated into the warmth of his chambers. He dumped the papers on a sofa, and he was crossing to the sideboard for a stronger drink when he noticed the letter sitting on the table. How long had it been there?
Rhy’s gaze flicked to his guards. Vis was standing by the dark wood doors, busying himself with a loose thread on his cape. Tolners was still on the balcony, looking down at the tournament construction with a faint crease between his brows.
Rhy took up the paper and unfolded it. The message scrawled in small black script wasn’t in English or Arnesian, but Kas-Avnes, a rare border dialect Rhy had been taught several years before.
He’d always had a way with languages, as long as they belonged to men and not magic.
Rhy smiled at the sight of the dialect. As clever as using code, and far less noticeable.
The note read:
Prince Rhy,
I disapprove wholeheartedly, and maintain the hope, however thin, that you will both regain your senses. In the event that you do not, I’ve made the necessary arrangements—may they not come to haunt me. We will discuss the cost of your endeavors this afternoon. Maybe the steams will prove clarifying. Regardless of your decision, I expect a substantial donation will be made to the London Sanctuary when this is over.
Your servant, elder, and Aven Essen,
Tieren Serense
Rhy smiled and set the note aside as bells chimed through the city, ringing out from the sanctuary itself across the river.
Maybe the steams will prove clarifying.
Rhy clapped his hands, startling the guards.
“Gentlemen,” he said, taking up a robe. “I think I’m in the mood for a bath.”
II
The world beneath the water was warm and still.
Rhy stayed under as long as he could, until his head swam, and his pulse thudded, and his chest began to ache, and then, and only then, he surfaced, filling his lungs with air.
He loved the royal baths, had spent many languorous afternoons—evenings, mornings—in them, but rarely alone. He was used to the laughter of boisterous company echoing off the stones, the playful embrace of a companion, kisses splashing on skin, but today the baths were silent save for the gentle drip of water. His guards stood on either side of the door, and a pair of attendants perched, waiting with pitchers of soap and oil, brushes, robes, and towels while Rhy strode through the waist-high water of the basin.
It took up half the room, a wide, deep pool of polished black rock, its edges trimmed in glass and gold. Light danced across the arched ceilings and the outer wall broken only by high, thin windows filled with colored glass.
The water around him was still sloshing from his ascent, and he splayed his fingers across the surface, waiting for the ripples to smooth again.
It was a game he used to play when he was young, trying to see if he could still the surface of the water. Not with magic, just with patience. Growing up, he’d been even worse at waiting than he was at summoning elements, but these days, he was getting better. He stood in the very center of the bath and slowed his breathing, watched the water go still and smooth as glass. Soon his reflection resolved in its surface, mirror-clear, and Rhy considered his black hair and amber eyes before his gaze invariably drifted down over his brown shoulders to the mark on his chest.
The circles wound together in a way that was both intuitive and foreign. A symbol of death and life. He focused and became aware of the pulse in his ears, the echo of Kell’s own, both beats growing louder and louder, until Rhy expected the sound to ruin the glassy stillness of the water.
A subtle aura of peace broke the mounting pulse.
“Your Highness,” said Vis from his place at the door. “You have a—”
“Let him pass,” said the prince, his back to the guard. He closed his eyes and listened to the hushed tread of bare feet, the whisper of robes against stone: quiet, and yet loud enough to drown out his brother’s heart.
“Good afternoon, Prince Rhy.” The Aven Essen’s voice was a low thrum, softer than the king’s but just as strong. Sonorous.
Rhy turned in a slow circle to face the priest, a smile alighting on his face. “Tieren. What a pleasant surprise.”
The head priest of the London Sanctuary was not a large man, but his white robes hardly swallowed him. If anything, he grew to fill them, the fabric swishing faintly around him, even when he stood still. The air in the room changed with his presence, a calm settling over everything like snow. Which was good, because it counteracted the visible discomfort most seemed to feel around the man himself, shying away as if Tieren could see through them, straight past skin and bone to thought and want and soul. Which was probably why Vis was now studying his boots.
The Aven Essen was an intimidating figure to most—much like Kell, Rhy supposed—but to him, Master Serense had always been Tieren.
“If this is a bad time …” the priest began, folding his hands into his sleeves.
“Not at all,” said Rhy, ascending the glass stairs that lined the bath on every side. He could feel the eyes in the room drift to his chest: not only the symbol seared into the bronze skin, but the scar between his ribs, where his knife—Astrid’s knife—had gone in. But before the cool air could settle or the eyes could linger, an attendant was there, draping him in a plush red robe. “Please leave us,” he said, addressing the rest of the room. The attendants instantly began to withdraw, but the guard lingered. “You too, Vis.”
“Prince Rhy,” he began, “I’m not supposed to …”
“It’s all right,” said Rhy drolly. “I don’t think the Aven Essen means me any harm.”
Tieren’s silver brows inched up a fraction. “That remains to be seen,” said the priest evenly.
Vis was halfway through a step back, but stopped again at the words. Rhy sighed. Ever since the Black Night, the royal guards had been given strict instructions when it came to their kingdom’s heir. And its Antari. He didn’t know the exact words his father had used, but he was fairly sure they inc
luded don’t let them and out of your sight and possibly on pain of death.
“Vis,” he said slowly, trying to summon a semblance of his father’s stony command. “You insult me, and the head priest, with your enduring presence. There is one door in and out of this room. Stand on the other side with Tolners, and guard it.”
The impression must have been convincing, because Vis nodded and reluctantly withdrew.
Tieren lowered himself onto a broad stone bench against the wall, his white robes pooling around him, and Rhy came to sit beside him, slumping back against the stones.
“Not much humor in this bunch,” said Tieren when they were alone.
“None at all,” complained Rhy, rolling his shoulders. “I swear, sincerity is its own form of punishment.”
“The tournament preparations are coming along?”
“Indeed,” said Rhy. “The arenas are almost ready, and the empire tents are positively decadent. I almost envy the magicians.”
“Please tell me you’re not thinking of competing, too.”
“After all the trouble Kell went to, to keep me alive? That would be sore thanks.”
The smallest frown formed between Tieren’s eyes. On anyone else it would have been imperceptible, but on the Aven Essen’s calm face, it registered as discontent (though he claimed that Kell and Rhy were the only ones who managed to draw out that particular forehead crease).
“Speaking of Kell …” said Rhy.
Tieren’s gaze sharpened. “Have you reconsidered?”
“Did you really think I would?” “A man can hope.”
Rhy shook his head. “Anything we should be worried about?”
“Besides your own foolish plans? I don’t believe so.”
“And the helmet?”
“It will be ready.” The Aven Essen closed his eyes. “I’m getting too old for subterfuge.”