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“Kell,” Rhy said brightly. “I was beginning to think you’d sleep all day.”
“Sorry,” said Kell pointedly. “I must have indulged a little too much last night.”
“Good afternoon, Kell,” said Queen Emira, an elegant woman with skin like polished wood and a circlet of gold resting atop her jet-black hair. Her tone was kind but distant, and it felt like it had been weeks since she’d last reached out and touched his cheek. In truth, it had been longer. Nearly four months, since the Black Night, when Kell had let the black stone into the city, and Vitari had swept through the streets, and Astrid Dane had plunged a dagger into Rhy’s chest, and Kell had given a piece of his life to bring him back.
Where is our son? the queen had demanded, as if she had only one.
“I hope you’re well rested,” said King Maxim, glancing up from the sheaf of papers in front of him.
“I am, sir.” Fruit and bread were piled on the table, and as Kell slid into the empty chair a servant appeared with a silver pitcher and poured him a steaming cup of tea. He finished the cup in a single, burning swallow, and the servant considered him then left the pitcher, a small gesture for which Kell was immeasurably grateful.
Two more people were seated at the table: a man and a woman, both dressed in shades of red and each with a gold pin of the Maresh seal—the chalice and rising sun—fastened to their shoulder. The pin marked the figures as friends of the crown; it permitted them full access to the palace and instructed any servants and guards to not only welcome but assist them.
“Parlo, Lisane,” said Kell in greeting. They were the ostra selected to help organize the tournament, and Kell felt like he had seen more of them in the past few weeks than he had the king and queen.
“Master Kell,” they said in unison, tipping their heads with practiced smiles and calculated propriety.
A map of the palace and surrounding grounds was spread across the table, one edge tucked beneath a plate of tarts, another under a tea cup, and Lisane was gesturing to the south wing. “We’ve arranged for Prince Col and Princess Cora to stay here, in the emerald suite. Fresh flowers will be grown there the day before they arrive.”
Rhy made a face at Kell across the table. Kell was too tired to try to read it.
“Lord Sol-in-Ar, meanwhile,” continued Lisane, “will be housed in the western conservatory. We’ve stocked it with coffee, just as you instructed, and …”
“And what of the Veskan queen?” grumbled Maxim. “Or the Faroan king? Why do they not grace us with their presence? Do they not trust us? Or do they simply have better things to do?”
Emira frowned. “The emissaries they’ve chosen are appropriate.”
Rhy scoffed. “Queen Lastra of Vesk has seven children, Mother; I doubt it’s much of an inconvenience for her to loan us two. As for the Faroans, Lord Sol-in-Ar is a known antagonist who’s spent the last two decades stirring up discontent wherever he goes, hoping it will spark enough conflict to dethrone his brother and seize control of Faro.”
“Since when are you so invested in imperial politics?” asked Kell, already on his third cup of tea.
To his surprise, Rhy shot him a scowl. “I’m invested in my kingdom, Brother,” he snapped. “You should be, too.”
“I’m not their prince,” observed Kell. He was in no mood for Rhy’s attitude. “I’m just the one who has to clean up his messes.”
“Oh, seeing as you’ve made none of your own?”
They held each other’s gazes. Kell resisted the urge to stab a fork into his own leg just to watch his brother wince.
What was happening to them? They’d never been cruel to each other before. But pain and pleasure weren’t the only things that seemed to transfer with the bond. Fear, annoyance, anger: all plucked at the binding spell, reverberating between them, amplifying. Rhy had always been fickle, but now Kell felt his brother’s ever-shifting temperament, the constant oscillation, and it was maddening. Space meant nothing. They could be standing side by side or Londons apart. There was no escape.
More and more, the bond felt like a chain.
Emira cleared her throat. “I think the eastern conservatory would be better for Lord Sol-in-Ar. It gets better light. But what about the attendants? The Veskans always travel with a full compliment….”
The queen soothed the table, guiding the conversation deftly away from the brothers’ rising moods, but there were too many unspoken things in the air, making it stuffy. Kell pushed himself to his feet and turned to leave.
“Where are you going?” asked Maxim, handing his papers to an attendant.
Kell turned back. “I was going to oversee the construction on the floating arenas, Your Highness.”
“Rhy can handle that,” said the king. “You have an errand to run.” With that, he held out an envelope. Kell didn’t realize how eager he was to go—to escape not only the palace but this city, this world—until he saw that slip of paper.
It bore no address, but he knew exactly where he was meant to take it. With the White London throne empty and the city plunged into crown warfare for the first time in seven years, communication had been suspended. Kell had gone only once, in the weeks after the Dane twins fell, and had nearly lost his life to the violent masses—after which it was decided that Kell would let White London alone for a time, until things settled.
That left only Grey London. The simple, magicless realm, all coal smoke and sturdy old stone.
