But by that logic, the magic had chosen Kell, and he did not believe that. Someone else could just have easily woken or been born with the Antari mark, and been brought into the lush red folds of the palace in his stead.
“We live brightly,” said Kell. “For better or worse, our city burns with life. With light. And where there’s light … well. Several years ago, a group began to form. They called themselves the Shadows. Half a dozen men and women—some with power, some without—who believed the city burned its power too brightly and with too little care, squandering it. To them, Rhy was not a boy, but a symbol of everything wrong. And so they took him. I later learned they meant to hang his body from the palace doors. Saints be thanked, they never got the chance.
“I was fourteen when it happened, a year Rhy’s senior and still coming into my power. When the king and queen learned of their son’s abduction, they sent the royal guard across the city. Every scrying board in every public square and private home burned with the urgent message to find the stolen prince. And I knew they would not find him. I knew it in my bones and in my blood.
“I went to Rhy’s rooms—I remember how empty the palace was, with all the guards out searching—and found the first thing I knew was truly his, a small wooden horse he’d carved, no bigger than a palm. I had made doors using tokens before, but never one like this, never to a person instead of a place. But there is an Antari word for find, and so I thought it would work. It had to. And it did. The wall of his room gave way to the bottom of a boat. Rhy was lying on the floor. And he wasn’t breathing.”
Air hissed between Lila’s teeth, but she didn’t interrupt.
“I had learned the blood commands for many things,” said Kell. “As Athera. To grow. As Pyrata. To burn. As Illumae. To light. As Travars. To Travel. As Orense. To open. As Anasae. To dispel. As Hasari. To heal. So I tried to heal him. I cut my hand and pressed it to his chest and said the words. And it didn’t work.” Kell would never shake the image of Rhy lying on the damp deck floor, pale and still. It was one of the only times in his life that he looked small.
“I didn’t know what to do,” continued Kell. “I thought maybe I hadn’t used enough blood. So I cut my wrists.”
He could feel Lila’s unwavering stare as he looked down at his hands now, palms up, considering the ghosted scars.
“I remember kneeling over him, the dull ache spreading up my arms as I pressed my palms against him and said the words over and over and over. As Hasari. As Hasari. As Hasari. What I didn’t realize then was that a healing spell—even a blood command—takes time. It was already working, had been since the first invocation. A few moments later, Rhy woke up.” Kell broke into a sad smile. “He looked up and saw me crouching over him, bleeding, and the first thing he said wasn’t ‘What happened?’ or ‘Where are we?’ He touched the blood on his chest and said, ‘Is it yours? Is it all yours?’ and when I nodded, he burst into tears, and I took him home.”
When he found Lila’s gaze, her dark eyes were wide.
“But what happened to the Shadows?” she asked, when it was clear that he was done. “The ones who took him? Were they in the boat? Did you go back for them? Did you send the guards?”
“Indeed,” said Kell. “The king and queen tracked down every member of the Shadows. And Rhy pardoned them all.”
“What?” gasped Lila. “After they tried to kill him?”
“That’s the thing about my brother. He’s headstrong and thinks with every part of his body but his brain most days, but he’s a good prince. He possesses something many lack: empathy. He forgave his captors. He understood why they did it, and he felt their suffering. And he was convinced that if he showed them mercy, they wouldn’t try to harm him again.” Kell’s eyes went to the floor. “And I made sure they couldn’t.”
Lila’s brow crinkled as she realized what he was saying. “I thought you said—”
“I said Rhy forgave them.” Kell pushed to his feet. “I never said I did.”
Lila stared at him, not with shock or horror, but a measure of respect. Kell rolled his shoulders and smoothed his coat. “I guess we better start looking.”
She blinked once, twice, obviously wanting to say more, but Kell made it as clear as he could that this particular discussion was over. “What are we looking for?” she finally asked.
Kell surveyed the packed shelves, the overflowing cabinets and cupboards.
“A white rook.”
III
For all the digging he’d done through the ruins of the Ruby Fields, Kell had failed to notice the alley where he’d been attacked—and where he’d left two bodies behind—only hours before. If he’d ventured there, he would have seen that one of those bodies—the cutthroat previously encased in stone—was missing.
That same cutthroat now made his way down the curb, humming faintly as he relished the warmth of the sun and the far-off sounds of celebration.
His body wasn’t doing very well. Better than the other shell, of course, the drunkard in the duller London; that one hadn’t lasted long at all. This one had fared better, much better, but now it was all burnt up inside and beginning to blacken without, the darkness spreading through its veins and over its skin like a stain. He looked less like a man now, and more like a charred piece of wood.
But that was to be expected. After all, he had been busy.