Kell tried to sit up, and gasped, forgetting he’d been stabbed.

“Easy,” said Rhy with a wince. His brother was kneeling beside him, covered in blood, his clothing torn in a dozen places where the ice had run him through. But he was alive, the skin beneath the cloth already knitting, though the ghost of pain lingered in his eyes.

Holland’s words came back to Kell.

“You’ve cut strings from your magic and made a puppet.”

Holland. He dragged himself slowly upright, and found Lila crouching over the other Antari.

Holland was lying on his side, curled up as if he’d simply gone to sleep. But the only time Kell had seen him sleep, everything about him had been tense, wracked by nightmares, and now his features were smooth, his sleep dreamless.

Only three things broke the image of peace.

His charcoal hair, which had turned a shocking white.

His hands, which still clutched the Inheritor, its point driven through his palm.

And the device itself, which had taken on an eerie but familiar darkness. An absence of light. A void in the world.

Holland had done it.

He had trapped the shadow king.

VIII

In myths, the hero survives.

The evil is vanquished.

The world is set right.

Sometimes there are celebrations, and sometimes there are funerals.

The dead are buried. The living move on.

Nothing changes.

Everything changes.

This is a myth.

This is not a myth.

The people of London still lay in the streets, wrapped tight within the cloth of sleep. Had they woken at that very moment, they would have seen the light flare within the spectral palace, like a dying star, banishing the shadows.

They would have seen the illusion crumble, the palace collapsing back into the bones of the three arenas, banners still waving overhead.

If they had gotten to their feet, they would have seen the oily darkness on the river crack like ice, giving way to red, the mist thinning the way it does in the morning, before the market opens.

If they had looked long enough, they would have seen the figures picking their way out of the rubble—the prince (now their king) staggering down the crumbling bridge with his arm around his brother, and they might have wondered who was leaning on whom.

They would have seen the girl standing where the palace doors had been, not the collapsed entrance to the stadium. Would have seen her cross her arms against the cold and wait until the royal guards came. Would have seen them carrying the body out, with its hair the same white as that dying star.

But the people in the street didn’t wake. Not just yet.

They didn’t see what happened.

And so they never knew.

And none who had been within the shadow palace—which was not a palace anymore but the bones of something dead, something ruined, something broken—said anything of that night, save that it was over.

A myth without a voice is like a dandelion without a breath of wind.

No way to spread the seeds.

I

The king of England did not like to be kept waiting.

A goblet of wine hung from his fingers, sloshing precariously as he paced the room, prevented from spilling over only by his constant sips. George IV had left the party—a party in his honor (as were most of those he bothered to attend)—to make this monthly meeting.

And Kell was late.

He had been late before—his arrangement, after all, had been with George’s father, and as the old man failed in health, Kell had made a point of being late to spite him, George was sure—but the messenger had never been this late.

The agreement was clear.

The trade of letters scheduled for the fifteenth of every month.

By six in the evening, and no later than seven.

But as the clock against the wall struck nine, George was forced to refill his own glass because he’d dismissed everyone else. All to please his guest. A guest who was absent now.

A letter bulged on the table. Not only a missive—the time for idle correspondence was passed—but a set of demands. Instructions, really. One artifact of magic per month in exchange for England’s best technology. It was more than fair. The seeds of magic for the seeds of might. Power for power.

The clock chimed again.

Half past nine.

The king sank onto the sofa, buttons straining against his not inconsiderable form. His father had only been in the ground six weeks, and already Kell was proving a problem. Their relationship would have to be corrected. The rules defined. He was not a daft old man, and he would not stand for the messenger’s temper, magic or no.

“Henry,” called George.

He did not shout the name—kings need not need raise their voices to be heard—but a moment later the door opened and a man came through.

“Your Majesty,” he said with a bow.

Henry Tavish was an inch or two taller than George himself—a detail that irked the king—with a heavy mustache and dark, trim hair. A handsome fellow with the rather unhandsome job of conducting business the crown wouldn’t—couldn’t—do itself.

“He’s late,” said the king.

Henry knew of his visitor’s name and station.

George had been careful, of course, hadn’t gone about spreading the word of this other London, much as he’d have liked to. He knew what would happen if word got out too soon. Some might see eye to eye, but woven in with the wonder, there would be a poisonous thread of skepticism.

“Such tales,” they’d say. “Perhaps troubled minds run in the family.”