“Well,” said Rhy, breaking the silence, “do you find the waters to your liking?”

“Why won’t you leave me in peace?”

“There’s too much to do.”

Tieren sighed. “As it seems you will not be dissuaded …” He drew a scroll from the folded sleeves of his robes. “The final list of competitors.”

Rhy straightened and took the paper.

“It will be posted in the next day or two,” explained the priest, “once we receive the lists from Faro and Vesk. But I thought you’d want to see it first.” There was something in his tone, a gentle caution, and Rhy undid the ribbon and uncoiled the scroll with nervous fingers, unsure of what he’d find. As the city’s Aven Essen, it was Master Tieren’s task to select the twelve representatives of Ames.

Rhy scanned the list, his attention first landing on Kamerov Loste—he felt a thrill at seeing the name, an invention, a fiction made real—before a name farther down snagged his gaze, a thorn hidden among roses.

Alucard Emery.

Rhy winced, recoiled, but not before the name drew blood. “How?” he asked, his voice low, almost hollow.

“Apparently,” said Tieren, “you’re not the only one capable of pulling strings. And before you get upset, you should know that Emery broke far fewer rules than you have. In fact, he technically broke none. He auditioned for me in the fall, when the Spire was docked, and as far as I’m concerned, he’s the strongest one in the ranks. Two weeks ago his sister came to me, to refresh my memory and to petition his place, though I think she simply wants him to come home. If that’s not enough, there’s the matter of the loophole.”

Rhy tried to keep himself from crumpling the paper. “What loophole?”

“Emery was formally invited to compete three years ago, but …” Tieren hesitated, looking uncomfortable. “Well, we both know that certain circumstances prevented that. He’s entitled to a spot.”

Rhy wanted to climb back into the bath and vanish beneath the water. Instead he slowly, methodically rolled the paper up and retied it with string.

“And here I thought you might be happy,” said Tieren. “The mystery and madness of youth is clearly lost on me.”

Rhy folded forward, rubbing his neck, and then his shoulder. His fingers found the scar over his heart, and he traced the lines absently, a recent habit. The skin was silvery and smooth, just barely raised, but he knew that the seal went all the way through, flesh and bone and soul.

“Let me see,” said Tieren, standing.

Rhy was grateful for the change of focus. He tipped his head out of the way and let the man examine his shoulder, pressing one cool, dry hand to the front, and one to the back. Rhy felt a strange warmth spreading through him along the lines of the spell. “Has the bond weakened?”

Rhy shook his head. “If anything, it seems to be growing stronger. At first, the echoes were dull, but now … it’s not just pain, either, Tieren. Pleasure, fatigue. But also anger, restlessness. Like right now, if I clear my head, I can feel Kell’s”—he hesitated, reaching for his brother—“weariness. It’s exhausting.”

“That makes sense,” said Tieren, hands falling away. “This isn’t simply a physical bond. You and Kell are sharing a life force.”

“You mean I’m sharing his,” corrected Rhy. His own life had been cut off by the dagger driven into his chest. What he had, he was siphoning off Kell. The heat of the bath had vanished, and Rhy was left feeling tired and cold.

“Self-pity is not a good look on you, Your Highness,” said Tieren, shuffling toward the door.

“Thank you,” Rhy called after him, holding up the scroll. “For this.”

Tieren said nothing, only crinkled his brow faintly—there it was again, that line—and vanished.

Rhy sank back against the bench, and considered the list again, Kamerov’s name so close to Alucard’s.

One thing was certain.

It was going to be one hell of a tournament.

III

The guards met Kell at the mouth of the Naresh Kas, as planned.

Staff with his barrel chest and silvering temples and beard, and Hastra, young and cheerful, with a sun-warmed complexion and a crown of dark curls. At least he’s pretty, Rhy had said months ago, on seeing the new guards. The prince had been sulking because his own set, Tolners and Vis, had neither looks nor humor.

“Gentlemen,” said Kell as his coat settled around him in the alley. The guards looked cold, and he wondered how long they’d been waiting for him.

“I would have brought you a hot drink, but …” He held up his empty hands as if to say, rules.

“S’okay, Master Kell,” said Hastra through clenched teeth, missing the jab. Staff, on the other hand, said nothing.

They had the decency not to search him then and there, but rather turned and fell silently in step behind him as he set off in the direction of the palace. He could feel the eyes drifting toward their small procession, any chance at blending in ruined by the presence of the royal guards flanking him in their gleaming armor and red cloaks.

Kell would have preferred subterfuge, the suspicion of being followed, to the actuality, but he straightened his shoulders and held his head high and tried to remind himself that he looked like a royal, even if he felt like prisoner.

He hadn’t even done anything wrong, not today, and saints knew he’d had the chance. Several chances.