Thirty-six magicians, herself included, twelve from each of the three empires, and all marked by a mask on top of their head or under their arm or slung over their shoulder.

Two dozen servants, give or take (it was hard to tell, dressed alike as they were, and always moving).

Twelve guards.

Fifteen ostra, judging by their haughty expressions.

Six vestra, going by their royal pins.

Two blond Veskans wearing crowns instead of masks, each with an entourage of six, and a tall Faroan with an expressionless face and an entourage of eight.

The Arnesian king and queen in splendid red and gold.

Prince Rhy in the gallery above.

And, standing beside him, Kell.

Lila held her breath. For once, Kell’s auburn hair was swept back from his face, revealing both the crisp blue of his left eye and the glossy black of his right. He wasn’t wearing his usual coat, in any of its forms. Instead he was dressed head to toe in elegant black, a gold pin over his heart.

Kell had told her once that he felt more like possession than a prince, but standing at Rhy’s side, one hand around his glass and the other on the rail as he gazed down on the crowd, he looked like he belonged.

The prince said something, and Kell’s face lit up in a silent laugh.

Where was the bloodied boy who’d collapsed on her bedroom floor?

Where was the tortured magician, veins turning black as he fought a talisman’s pull?

Where was the sad, lonely royal who’d stood on the docks and watched her walk away?

That last one she could almost see. There, at the edge of his mouth, the corner of his eye.

Lila felt her body moving toward him, drawn as if by gravity, several steps lost before she caught herself. She wasn’t Lila Bard tonight. She was Stasion Elsor, and while the illusion seemed to be holding well enough, she knew it would crumble in front of Kell. And in spite of that, part of her still wanted to catch his eye, relish his moment of surprise, watch it dissolve into recognition, and—hopefully—welcome. But she couldn’t imagine he’d be glad to see her, not here, mingling with the throngs of competitors. And in truth, Lila savored the sensation of watching without being watched. It made her feel like a predator, and in a room of magicians, that was something.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” came a voice behind her in accented English.

She turned to find a young man, tall and slender, with reddish brown hair and dark lashes circling grey eyes. He had a silver-white mask tucked beneath his arm, and he shifted it to his other side before extending a gloved hand.

“Kamerov,” he said genially. “Kamerov Loste.”

So this was the elusive magician, the one neither Jinnar nor Alucard had managed to find. She didn’t see what all the fuss was about.

“Stasion Elsor,” she answered.

“Well, Master Elsor,” he said with a confident smile, “perhaps we will meet in the arena.”

She raised a brow and began to move away.

“Perhaps.”

III

“I took the liberty of designing your pennant,” said Rhy, resting his elbows on the gallery’s marble banister. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Kell cringed. “Do I even want to know what’s on it?”

Rhy tugged the folded piece of fabric from his pocket, and handed it over. The cloth was red, and when he unfolded it, he saw the image of a rose in black and white. The rose had been mirrored, folded along the center axis and reflected, so the design was actually two flowers, surrounded by a coil of thorns.

“How subtle,” said Kell tonelessly.

“You could at least pretend to be grateful.”

“And you couldn’t have picked something a little more … I don’t know … imposing? A serpent? A great beast? A bird of prey?”

“A bloody handprint?” retorted Rhy. “Oh, what about a glowing black eye?”

Kell glowered.

“You’re right,” continued Rhy, “I should have just drawn a frowning face. But then everyone would know it’s you. I thought this was rather fitting.”

Kell muttered something unkind as he shoved the banner into his pocket.

“You’re welcome.”

Kell surveyed the Rose Hall. “You think anyone will notice that I’m—well, that Kamerov Loste is missing from the festivities?”

Rhy took a sip of his drink. “I doubt it,” he said. “But just in case …”

He nodded the drink at a lean figure moving through the crowd. Kell was halfway through a sip of wine when he saw the man, and nearly choked on it. The figure was tall and slim, with trimmed auburn hair. He was dressed in elegant black trousers and a silver high-collared tunic, but it was the mask tucked under his arm that caught Kell’s eye.

A single piece of sculpted silver-white metal, polished to a high shine.

His mask. Or rather, Kamerov’s.

“Who on earth is that?”

“That, my dear brother, is Kamerov Loste. At least for tonight.”

“Dammit, Rhy, the more people you tell about this plan, the more likely it is to fail.”

The prince waved a hand. “I’ve paid our actor handsomely to play the part tonight, and as far as he’s concerned it’s because the real Kamerov doesn’t care for public displays. This is the only event where all thirty-six competitors are expected to show their faces, Kamerov included. Besides, Castars is discreet.”

“You know him?”

Rhy shrugged. “Our paths have crossed.”