A Gathering of Shadows (Shades of Magic #2) - V.E. Schwab Page 0,22

be Rhy’s; Kell shoved through, expecting a fight, and found something else entirely.

There, on a mossy slope, a half-dressed Rhy was hovering over the girl in white, the blue flower still in her hair, his face buried in her shoulder. Across his bare back, Kell could see scratch marks deep enough to draw blood, and a fresh echo of pain blossomed near Kell’s hips as her nails dug into Rhy’s flesh.

Kell exhaled sharply, in discomfort and relief, and the girl saw him standing there and gasped. Rhy dragged his head up, breathless, and had the audacity to smile.

“You bastard,” hissed Kell.

“Lover?” wondered the girl.

Rhy sank back onto his heels, and then twisted with a languid grace, reclining on the moss. “Brother,” he explained.

“Go,” Kell ordered the girl. She looked disconcerted, but she gathered her dress around her and left all the same, while Rhy got unsteadily to his feet and cast about for his shirt. “I thought you were being attacked!”

“Well …” Rhy slipped the tunic gingerly over his head. “In a way, I was.”

Kell found Rhy’s coat slung over a low branch and thrust it at him. And then he led the prince back through the woods and across the field, past the silver doors, and out into the night. It was a silent procession, but the moment they were free of Splendor, Kell spun on his brother.

“What were you thinking?”

“Must you ask?”

Kell shook his head in disbelief. “You are an incomparable ass.”

Rhy only chuckled. “How was I to know she would be so rough with me?”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“You can’t,” said Rhy simply, spreading his arms. “You made sure of it.”

And for an instant, as the words hung in the cloud of his winter breath, the prince seemed genuinely upset. But then the smile was back. “Come on,” he said, slinging an arm around Kell’s shoulders. “I’d had enough of Splendor anyway. Let’s find somewhere more agreeable to drink.”

A light snow began to fall around them, and Rhy sighed. “I don’t suppose you thought to grab my hat?”

III

“Saints,” cursed Rhy, “do all the Londons get this cold?”

“As cold,” said Kell as he followed the prince away from the bright beating heart of the city, and down a series of narrower roads. “And colder still.”

As they walked, Kell imagined this London ghosted against the others. Here, they would be coming upon Westminster. There, the stone courtyard where a statue of the Danes once stood.

Rhy’s steps came to a halt ahead, and Kell looked up to see the prince holding open a tavern door. A wooden sign overhead read IS AVEN STRAS.

The Blessed Waters.

Kell swore under his breath. He knew enough about this place to know that they shouldn’t be here. Rhy shouldn’t be here. It wasn’t as bad as the Three of Knives in the heart of the shal, where the black brands of limiters shone on almost every wrist, or the Jack and All, which had caused so much trouble on their last outing, but the Waters had its own rowdy reputation.

“Tac,” chided Kell in Arnesian, because this wasn’t the kind of place to speak High Royal.

“What?” asked Rhy innocently, snatching the cap off Kell’s head. “It isn’t Rachenast. And I have business here.”

“What kind of business?” demanded Kell as Rhy settled the hat over his curls, but the prince only winked and went in, and Kell had no choice but to freeze or follow.

Inside, the place smelled of sea and ale. Where Splendor had been open, with bold colors and bright light, the Waters was made of dark corners and low-burning hearths, tables and booths sprawled like bodies across the room. The air was thick with smoke and loud with raucous laughter and drunken threats.

At least this place is honest with itself, thought Kell. No pretense. No illusion. It reminded him of the Stone’s Throw, and the Setting Sun, and the Scorched Bone. Fixed points in the world, places where Kell had done business back when his business was less savory. When he’d traded in trinkets from faraway places, the kind only he could reach.

Rhy tugged the brim of the cap down over his light eyes as he approached the bar. He signaled to a shadow behind the barkeep, and slid a slip of paper and a single silver lish across the wood. “For the Essen Tasch,” said the prince under his breath.

“Competitor?” asked the shadow with a voice like stones.

“Kamerov Loste.”

“To win?”

Rhy shook his head. “No. Only to the nines.” The shadow gave him a