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.
“I’ll go now,” said Kell, crossing to the king’s side.
“Mind the prince regent,” warned the king. “These correspondences are a matter of tradition, but the man’s questions have grown prodding.”
Kell nodded. He had often wanted to ask King Maxim what he thought of the Grey London leader and wondered about the contents of his letters, whether the prince regent asked as many questions of his neighboring crown as he did of Kell.
“He inquires often about magic,” he told the king. “I do my best to dissuade him.”
Maxim grunted. “He is a foolish man. Be careful.”
Kell raised a brow. Was Maxim actually worried for his safety? But then, as he reached for the letter, he saw the flicker of distrust in the king’s eyes, and his spirits sank. Maxim kept grudges like scars. They faded by degrees but always left a mark.
Kell knew he’d brought it on himself. For years, he’d used his expeditions as royal liaison to transport forbidden items between the worlds. If he hadn’t developed his reputation as a smuggler, the black stone would never have found its way into his hands, would never have killed men and women and brought havoc to Red London. Or perhaps the Danes would still have found a way, but they wouldn’t have used Kell to do it. He’d been a pawn,