V.E Schwab - A Darker Shade of Magic

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.

The night before, the lights of the pleasure house had burned bright and luring in the dark, and a woman stood waiting for him in the doorway with a painted smile and hair the color of fire, of life.

“Avan, res nastar,” she purred in the smooth Arnesian tongue. She drew up her skirts as she said it, flashing a glimpse of knee. “Won’t you come in?”

And he had, the cutthroat’s coins jingling in his pocket.

She’d led him down a hall—it was dark, much darker than it had been outside—and he’d let her lead, enjoying the feel of her hand—or in truth, her pulse—in his. She never looked him in the eyes, or she might have seen that they were darker than the hall around them. Instead, she focused on his lips, his collar, his belt.

He was still learning the nuances of his new body, but he managed to press his cracking lips to the woman’s soft mouth. Something passed between them—the ember of a pure black flame—and the woman shivered.

“As Besara,” he whispered in her ear. Take.

He slid the dress from her shoulders and kissed her deeper, his darkness passing over her tongue and through her head, intoxicating. Power. Everybody wanted it, wanted to be closer to magic, to its source. And she welcomed it. Welcomed him . Nerves tingled as the magic took them, feasting on the current of life, the blood, the body. He’d taken the drunkard, Booth, by force, but a willing host was always better. Or at least, they tended to last longer.

“As Herena,” he cooed, pressing the woman’s body back onto the bed. Give.

“As Athera,” he moaned as he took her, and she took him in. Grow.

They moved together like a perfect pulse, one bleeding into the other, and when it was over, and the woman’s eyes floated open, they reflected his, both a glossy black. The thing inside her skin pulled her rouged lips into a crooked smile.

“As Athera,” she echoed, sliding up from the bed. He rose and followed, and they set out—one mind in two bodies—first through the pleasure house, and then through the night.

Yes, he had been busy.

He could feel himself spreading through the city as he made his way toward the waiting red river, the pulse of magic and life laid out like a promised feast.

IV

Fletcher’s shop was built like a maze, arranged in a way that only the snake himself would understand. Kell had spent the last ten minutes turning through drawers and had uncovered a variety of weapons and charms, and a fairly innocuous parasol, but no white rook. He groaned and tossed the parasol aside.

“Can’t you just find the damned thing using magic?” asked Lila.

“The whole place is warded,” answered Kell. “Against locator spells. And against thieving, so put that back.”

Lila dropped the trinket she was about to palm back on the counter. “So,” she said, considering the contents of a glass case, “you and Fletcher are friends?”

Kell pictured Fletcher’s face the night he’d lost the pot. “Not exactly.”

Lila raised a brow. “Good,” she said. “More fun to steal from enemies.”

Enemies was a fair word. The strange thing was, they could have been partners.

“A smuggler and a fence,” he’d said. “We’d make a perfect team.”

“I’ll pass,” said Kell. But when the game of Sanct had been in its last hand, and he’d known that he had won, he’d baited Fletcher with the one thing he wouldn’t refuse. “Anesh,” he’d conceded. “If you win, I’ll work for you.”

Fletcher had smiled his greedy smile and drawn his last card.

And Kell had smiled back and played his hand and won everything, leaving Fletcher with nothing more than a bruised ego and a small white rook.

No hard feelings.

Now Kell turned over half the store, searching for the token and glancing every few moments at the door while his own face watched them from the scrying board on the wall.

MISSING

Meanwhile, Lila had stopped searching and was staring at a framed map. She squinted and tilted her head, frowning as if something were amiss.

“What is it?” asked Kell.

“Where’s Paris?” she asked, pointing to the place on the continent where it should be.

“There is no Paris,” said Kell, rummaging through a cupboard. “No France. No England, either.”

“But how can there be a London without an England?”

“I told you, the city’s a linguistic oddity. Here London is the capital of Arnes.”

“So Arnes is simply your name for England.”

Kell laughed. “No,” he said, shaking his head as he crossed to her side. “Arnes covers more than half of your Europe. The island—your England—is called the raska . The crown . But it’s only the tip of the empire.” He traced the territory lines with his fingertip. “Beyond our country lies Vesk, to the north, and Faro, to the south.”