A Gathering of Shadows (Shades of Magic #2) - V.E. Schwab Page 0,104
still wondering at the beautiful, monstrous thing when Calla handed her something else. It was made of the same black leather, and lined with the same dark metal, and it shaped a kind of crown, or a smile, the sides taller than the center. Lila turned it over in her hands, wondering what it was for, until Calla retrieved it, swept around behind her, and fastened the plate around her throat.
“To keep your head on your shoulders,” said the woman, who then proceeded to clasp the sides of the neck guard to small, hidden hinges on the tapered sides of the mask. It was like a jaw, and when Lila looked at her reflection, she saw her features nested within the two halves of the monster’s skull.
She broke into a devilish grin, her teeth glinting within the mouth of the helmet.
“You,” said Lila, “are brilliant.”
“Anesh,” said Calla with a shrug, though Lila could see that the merchant was proud.
She had the sudden and peculiar urge to hug the woman, but she resisted.
The hinged jaw allowed her to raise the mask, which she did, the demon’s head resting on top of her own like a crown, the jaw still circling her throat. “How do I look?” she asked.
“Strange,” said Calla. “And dangerous.”
“Perfect.”
Outside, the bells began to toll, and Lila’s smile widened.
It was time.
* * *
Kell crossed to the bed and examined the clothes—a set of black trousers and a high-collared black shirt, both trimmed with gold. On top of the shirt sat the gold pin Rhy had given him for the royal reception. His coat waited, thrown over the back of a chair, but he left it there. It was a traveler’s charm, and tonight he was confined to the palace.
The clothes on the bed were Rhy’s choice, and they weren’t simply a gift.
They were a message.
Tomorrow, you can be Kamerov.
Tonight, you are Kell.
Hastra had appeared earlier, only to confiscate his mask, on Rhy’s orders.
Kell had been reluctant to relinquish it.
“You must be excited,” Hastra had said, reading his hesitation, “about the tournament. Don’t imagine you get to test your mettle very often.”
Kell had frowned. “This isn’t a game,” he’d said, perhaps too sternly. “It’s about keeping the kingdom safe.” He felt a twinge of guilt as he watched Hastra go pale.
“I’ve sworn an oath to protect the royal family.”
“I’m sorry then,” said Kell ruefully, “that you’re stuck protecting me.”
“It’s an honor, sir.” There was nothing in his tone but pure, simple truth. “I would defend you with my life.”
“Well,” said Kell, surrendering Kamerov’s mask. “I hope you never have to.”
The young guard managed a small, embarrassed smile. “Me too, sir.”
Kell paced his room and tried to put tomorrow from his mind. First he had to survive tonight.
A pitcher and bowl sat on the sideboard, and Kell poured water into the basin and pressed his palms to the sides until it steamed. Once clean, he dressed in Rhy’s chosen attire, willing to humor his brother. It was the least he could do—though Kell wondered, as he slipped on the tunic, how long Rhy would be calling in this payment. He could picture the prince a decade from now, telling Kell to fetch him tea.
“Get it yourself,” he would say, and Rhy would tut and answer, “Remember Kamerov?”
Kell’s evening clothes were tight, formfitting in the style Rhy favored, and made of a black fabric so fine it caught the light instead of swallowing it. The cut and fit forced him to stand at full height, erasing his usual slouch. He fastened the gold buttons, the cuffs and collar—saints, how many clasps did it take to clothe a man?—and lastly the royal pin over his heart.
Kell checked himself in his mirror, and stiffened.
Even with his fair skin and auburn hair, even with the black eye that shone like polished rock, Kell looked regal. He stared at his reflection for several long moments, mesmerized, before tearing his gaze away.
He looked like a prince.
* * *
Rhy stood before the mirror, fastening the gleaming buttons of his tunic. Beyond the shuttered balcony, the sounds of celebration were rising off the cold night like steam. Carriages and laughter, footsteps and music.
He was running late, and he knew it, but he couldn’t seem to get his nerves under control, wrangle his fears. It was getting dark, and the darkness leaned against the palace, and against him, the weight settling on his chest.
He poured himself a drink—his third—and forced a smile at his reflection.