“The king wants you.”
“The king will have you.”
“Come with us.”
“Come and kneel.”
“Come and beg.”
Kell stiffened, jaw set. “You tell your king he will not take this city. You tell him—”
The man with the scrap of wood struck out, swinging at Kell’s stomach. He caught the beam, wood lighting and burning to ash in his hands. The circle collapsed, Tav raising the iron bar, the guard stepping forward, but Lila was already kneeling, palms pressed to the cold ground. She remembered the words Kell had used. Summoned what was left of her strength.
“As Isera,” she said. Freeze.
Ice shot from beneath her hands, gliding along the ground and up men’s bodies in a breath.
Lila didn’t have Kell’s control, couldn’t tell the ice where to go, but he saw it coming and leaped back out of the spell’s path, and when the frozen edge met his boots, it melted, leaving him untouched. The other men stood, encased in ice, the shadows still swimming in their eyes.
Lila straightened, and the night tilted dangerously beneath her feet, the spell stealing the last power from her veins.
Somewhere, another scream, and Kell took a step toward it, one knee nearly giving way before he caught himself against the wall.
“Enough,” said Lila. “You can barely stand.”
“Then you can heal me.”
“With what?” she rasped, gesturing to her bruised and battered form. “We can’t keep this up. We could both bleed ourselves dry and still not mark a fraction of this city.” She let out an exhausted, humorless laugh. “You know I’m all for steep odds, but it’s too much. Too many.”
It was a lost cause, and if he couldn’t see it—but he did, of course. She saw in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the lines in his face, that he knew it too. Knew it, and couldn’t let it be. Couldn’t surrender. Couldn’t retreat.
“Kell,” she said, gently.
“This is my city,” he said, shaking visibly. “My home. If I can’t protect it …”
Lila’s fingers inched toward a loose rock in the street. She wouldn’t let him kill himself, not like this. Not after everything. If he wouldn’t listen to reason—
Hooves sounded against stone, and a moment later four horses rounded the bend, mounted by royal guards.
“Master Kell!” called the one at the front.
Lila recognized the man as one of the guards assigned to Kell. He was older, and he shot a look at Lila, and then, obviously not knowing how to address her, pretended she wasn’t there. “The priests have warded the palace, and you are to return at once. King’s orders.”
Kell looked like he was about to curse the king. Instead he shook his head. “Not yet. We’re marking the citizens wherever we can, but we haven’t found a way to contain the shadows, or shield the city against—”
“It’s too late,” cut in the guard.
“What do you mean?” demanded Kell.
“Sir,” said another voice, and the man at the back took off his helmet. Lila knew him. Hastra. The younger of Kell’s guard. When he spoke, his voice was gentle, but his face was tight. “It’s over, sir,” he said. “The city has fallen.”
VII
The city has fallen.
Hastra’s words followed Kell through the streets, up the palace steps, through the halls. They couldn’t be right.
Couldn’t be true.
How could a city fall when so many were still fighting?
Kell burst into the Grand Hall.
The ballroom glittered, ornate, extravagant, but the mood had altered entirely. The magicians and nobles from the rooftop gala now huddled in the center of the room. The queen and her entourage carried bowls of water and pouches of sand to the priests drawing amplifiers on the polished marble floor and warding spells along each wall. Lord Sol-in-Ar stood with his back against a pillar, features grim but unreadable, and Prince Col and Princess Cora sat on the stairs, looking shell-shocked.
He found King Maxim by the platform where musicians in gold leaf had played each night, conferring with Master Tieren and the head of his guard.
“What do you mean, the city has fallen?” demanded Kell, storming across the marble floor. Between his bloodstained hands and his bare chest on display beneath his open coat, he knew he looked insane. He didn’t care. “Why did you call me back?” Tieren tried to block his path, but Kell pushed past. “Do you have a plan?”
“My plan,” said the king calmly, “is to stop you from getting yourself killed.”
“It was working,” Kell snarled. “What was working?” asked Maxim. “Opening a vein over London?”
“If my blood can shield them—”
“How many did you shield, Kell?” demanded the king. “Ten? Twenty? A hundred? There are tens of thousands in this city.”
Kell felt like he was back in White London, the steel noose cinching around his neck. Helpless. Desperate. “It is something—”
“It is not enough.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“Not yet.”
“Then, Sanct, let me do what I can!”
Maxim took him by the shoulders. “Listen to me,” the king said, voice low. “What are Osaron’s strengths? What are his weaknesses? What is he doing to our people? Can it be undone? How many questions have you failed to ask because you were too busy being valiant? You have no plan. No strategy. You have not found a crack in your enemy’s armor, a place to slide your knife. Instead of devising an attack, you are out there, slashing blindly, not even able to land a blow because you’re spending every drop of precious blood protecting others from an enemy we don’t know how to best.”