Vortalis gave a low whistle at the sight of him, and the boy turned, revealing a pair of mismatched eyes. Holland stilled. The boy’s left eye was a light blue. The right was solid black. Their gazes met, and a strange vibration lanced through Holland’s head. The stranger couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen, with the unmarked skin of a royal and the imperious posture to match, but he was undeniably Antari.

The boy stepped forward and started speaking briskly, in a foreign tongue, the accent smooth and lilting. Vortalis bore a translation rune at the base of his throat, the product of times abroad, but Holland bore nothing save an ear for tone, and at the blankness in his gaze the boy stopped and started again, this time in Holland’s native tongue.

“Apologies,” he said. “My Mahktahn is not perfect. I learned it from a book. My name is Kell, and I come bearing a message from my king.”

His hand went into his coat, and across the room the guards surged forward, Holland already shifting in front of Vor, when the boy drew out, of all things, a letter. That same sweet scent drifted off the envelope.

Vortalis looked down at the paper and said, “I am the only king here.”

“Of course,” said the boy Antari. “My king is in another London.”

The room went still. Everyone knew, of course, about the other Londons, and the worlds that went with them. There was the one far away, a place where magic held no sway. There was the broken one, where magic had devoured everything. And then there was the cruel one, the place that had sealed its doors, forcing Holland’s world to face the dark alone.

Holland had never been to this other place—he knew the spell to go there, had found the words buried in his mind like treasure in the months after he’d turned Alox to stone—but travel needed a token the way a lock needed a key, and he’d never had anything with which to cast the spell, to buy his way through.

And yet, Holland had always assumed that other world was like his. After all, both cities had been powerful. Both had been vibrant. Both had been cut off when the doors sealed. But as Holland took in this Kell, with his bright attire, his healthy glow, he saw the hall as the boy must—dingy, coated with the film of frostlike neglect, the mark of years fighting for every drop of magic, and felt a surge of anger. Was this how the other London lived?

“You are a long way from home,” said Vor coolly.

“A long way,” said the boy, “and a single step.” His gaze kept flicking back toward Holland, as if fascinated by the sight of another Antari. So they were rare in his world, too.

“What does your king want?” asked Vor, declining to take the letter.

“King Maresh wishes to restore communication between your world and mine.”

“Does he wish to open the doors?”

The boy hesitated. “No,” he said carefully. “The doors cannot be opened. But this could be the first step in rebuilding the relationships—”

“I don’t give a damn about relationships,” snapped the Winter King. “I am trying to rebuild a city. Can this Maresh help me with that?”

“I do not know,” said Kell. “I am only the messenger. If you write it down—”

“Hang the message.” Vortalis turned away. “You found your way in,” he said. “Find it back out.”

Kell lifted his chin. “Is that your final answer?” he asked. “Perhaps I should return in a few weeks, when the next king takes the throne.”

“Careful, boy,” warned Holland.

Kell turned his attention—and those unnerving eyes, so strange and so familiar—toward him. He produced a coin, small and red, with a gold star at the center. A token. A key. “Here,” he said. “In case your king changes his mind.”

Holland said nothing, but flexed his hand, and the coin whipped out of the boy’s grip and into his own, his fingers closing silently over the metal.

“It’s As Travars,” added Kell. “In case you didn’t know.”

“Holland,” said Vortalis from the door.

Holland was still holding Kell’s gaze. “Coming, my king,” he said pointedly, breaking away.

“Wait,” called the boy, and Holland could tell by his tone that the words were meant not for Vor, but for him. The Antari jogged toward him, steps ringing like bells from his gold clasps.

“What?” demanded Holland.

“It’s nice,” said Kell, “to meet someone like me.”

Holland frowned. “I am not like you,” he said, and walked away.

VII

For a while, Lila held her own.

Flame and steel against blind strength, a thief’s cunning against a pirate’s might.

She might have even been winning.

And then, quite suddenly, she wasn’t.

Six men became four, but four was still a good deal more than one.

A knife slid along her skin.

A hand wrapped around her throat.

Her back slammed against the wall.

No, not a wall, she realized, a door. She had hit it hard enough to crack the wood, bolts and pins jangling in their grooves. An idea. She threw up her hands, and the nails shuddered free. Some struck only air or stone, but others found flesh, and two of the Copper Thieves staggered back, clutching their arms, stomachs, heads.

Without its pins, the door gave way behind her, and Lila tumbled backward, rolling into a crouch inside a shabby hall and heaving the door back up before pressing her blood-slicked fingers to the wood.