Gathering of Shadows (A Darker Shade of Magic) (15 page)

He trailed the man through the royal vault, suppressing a shudder at the thought of being buried here. Being put in a box in the ground was bad enough, but being
entombed
like this, with layers of stone between you and the world? Kell would never understand the way these Grey-worlders sealed away their dead, trapping the discarded shells in gold and wood and stone as if some remnant of who they’d been in life remained. And if it did? What a cruel punishment.

When George reached his father’s tomb, he set the candelabrum down, swept the hem of his coat into his hand, and knelt, head bowed. His lips moved silently for a few seconds, and then he drew a gold cross from his collar and touched it to his lips. Finally he stood, frowning at the dust on his knees and brushing it away.

Kell reached out and rested his hand thoughtfully on the tomb, wishing he could feel something—anything—within. It was silent and cold.

“It would be proper to say a prayer,” said the king.

Kell frowned, confused. “To what end?”

“For his soul, of course.” Kell’s confusion must have showed. “Don’t you have God in your world?” He shook his head. George seemed taken aback. “No higher power?”

“I didn’t say that,” answered Kell. “I suppose you could say we worship magic. That is our highest power.”

“That is heresy.”

Kell raised a brow, his hand slipping from the tomb’s lid. “Your Majesty, you worship a thing you can neither see nor touch, whereas I worship something I engage with every moment of every day. Which is the more logical path?”

George scowled. “It isn’t a matter of logic. It is a matter of faith.”

Faith. It seemed a shallow substitution, but Kell supposed he couldn’t blame the Grey-worlders. Everyone needed to believe in
something
, and without magic, they had settled for a lesser god. One full of holes and mystery and made-up rules. The irony was that they had abandoned magic long before it abandoned them, smothered it with this almighty God of theirs.

“But what of your dead?” pressed the king.

“We burn them.”

“A pagan ritual,” he said scornfully.

“Better than putting their bodies in a box.”

“And what of their
souls
?” pressed George, seeming genuinely disturbed. “Where do you think they go, if you don’t believe in heaven and hell?”

“They go back to the source,” said Kell. “Magic is in everything, Your Majesty. It is the current of life. We believe that when you die, your soul returns to that current, and your body is reduced again to elements.”

“But what of
you
?”

“
You
cease to be.”

“What is the point, then?” grumbled the king. “Of living a good life, if there is nothing after? Nothing earned?”

Kell had often wondered the same thing, in his own way, but it wasn’t an afterlife he craved. He simply didn’t want to return to nothing, as if he’d never been. But it would be a cold day in Grey London’s hell before he agreed with the new king on anything. “I suppose the point is to live well.”

George’s complexion was turning ruddy. “But what stops one from committing sins, if they have nothing to fear?”

Kell shrugged. “I’ve seen people sin in the name of god,
and
in the name of magic. People misuse their higher powers, no matter what form they take.”

“But no afterlife,” grumbled the king. “No eternal soul? It’s unnatural.”

“On the contrary,” said Kell. “It is the most natural thing in the world. Nature is made of cycles, and we are made of nature. What is unnatural is believing in an infallible man and a nice place waiting in the sky.”

George’s expression darkened. “Careful, Master Kell. That is blasphemy.”

Kell frowned. “You’ve never struck me as a very pious man, Your Majesty.”

The king crossed himself. “Better safe than sorry. Besides,” he said, looking around, “I am the King of England. My legacy is divine. I rule by the grace of that God you mock. I am His servant, as this kingdom is mine at His grace.” It sounded like a recitation. The king tucked the cross back beneath his collar. “Perhaps,” he added, twisting up his face, “I would worship your god, if I could see and touch it as you do.”

And here they were again. The old king had regarded magic with awe, a child’s wonder. This new king looked at it the way he looked at everything. With lust.

“I warned you once, Your Majesty,” said Kell. “Magic has no place in your world. Not anymore.”

George smiled, and for an instant he looked more like a wolf than a well-fed man. “You said yourself, Master Kell, that the world is full of cycles. Perhaps our time will come again.” And then the grin was gone, swallowed up by his usual expression of droll amusement. The effect was disconcerting, and it made Kell wonder if the man was really as dense and self-absorbed as his people thought, or if there was something there, beneath the shallow, self-indulgent shell.

What had Astrid Dane said?

I do not trust things unless they belong to me.

A draft cut through the vault, flickering the candlelight. “Come,” said George, turning his back on Kell and the old king’s tomb.

Kell hesitated, then drew the Red London lin from his pocket, the star glittering in the center of the coin. He always brought one for the king; every month, the old monarch claimed that the magic in his own was fading, like heat from dying coals, so Kell would bring him one to trade, pocket-warm and smelling of roses. Now Kell considered the coin, turning it over his fingers.

“This one’s fresh, Your Majesty.” He touched it to his lips, and then reached out and set the warm coin on top of the cold stone tomb.

“Sores nast,”
he whispered.
Sleep well.

And with that, Kell followed the new king up the stairs, and back out into the cold.

* * *

Kell fought not to fidget while he waited for the King of England to finish writing his letter.

The man was taking his time, letting the silence in the room thicken into something profoundly uncomfortable, until Kell found himself wanting to speak, if only to break it. Knowing that was probably the point, he held his tongue and stood watching the snow fall and the sky darken beyond the window.

When the letter was finally done, George sat back in his chair and took up a wine cup, staring at the pages as he drank. “Tell me something,” he said, “about magic.” Kell tensed, but the king continued. “Does everyone in your world possess this ability?”

Kell hesitated. “Not all,” he said. “And not equally.”

George tipped the glass from side to side. “So you might say that the powerful are chosen.”

“Some believe that,” said Kell. “Others think it is simply a matter of luck. A good hand drawn in cards.”

“If that’s the case, then you must have drawn a
very
good hand.”

Kell considered him evenly. “If you’ve finished your letter, I should—”

“How many people can do what you do?” cut in the king. “Travel between worlds? I’d wager not many, or else I might have seen them instead. Really,” he said, getting to his feet, “it’s a wonder your king lets you out of his sight.”

He could see the thoughts in George’s eyes, like cogs turning. But Kell had no intention of becoming part of the man’s collection.

“Your Majesty,” said Kell, trying to keep his voice smooth, “if you are feeling the urge to keep me here, thinking it might gain you something, I would
strongly
discourage the attempt, and remind you that any such gesture would forfeit future communication with my world.”
Please don’t do this
, he wanted to add.
Don’t even try it.
He couldn’t bear the thought of losing his last escape. “Plus,” he added for good measure, “I think you would find I am not easily kept.”

Thankfully the king raised his ringed hands in mock surrender. “You mistake me,” he said with a smile, even though Kell did not think he’d been at all mistaken. “I simply don’t see why our two
great
kingdoms shouldn’t share a closer bond.”

He folded his letter, and sealed it with wax. It was long—several pages longer than usual, judging by the way the paper bulged and its weight when Kell took it.

“For years these letters have been riddled with formalities, anecdotes instead of history, warnings in place of explanation, useless bits of information when we could be sharing
real
knowledge,” pressed the king.

Kell slipped the letter into the pocket of his coat. “If that’s all …”

“Actually, it’s not,” said George. “I’ve something for you.”

Kell cringed as the man set a small box on the table. He didn’t reach for it. “That is kind of you, Your Majesty, but I must decline.”

George’s shallow smile faded. “You would refuse a gift from the
King of England
?”

“I would refuse a gift from anyone,” said Kell, “especially when I can tell it’s meant as payment. Though I know not for what.”

“It’s simple enough,” said George. “The next time you come, I would have you bring
me
something in return.”

Kell grimaced inwardly. “Transference is treason,” he said, reciting a rule he’d broken so many times.

“You would be well compensated.”

Kell pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your Majesty, there was a time when I might have considered your request.”
Well, not
yours, he thought,
but
someone’s. “But that time has passed. Petition my king for knowledge if you will. Ask of
him
a gift, and if he concedes, I shall bring it to you. But I bear nothing of my own free will.” The words hurt to say, a wound not quite healed, the skin still tender. He bowed and turned to go, even though the king had not dismissed him.

“Very well,” said George, standing, his cheeks ruddy. “I will see you out.”

“No,” said Kell, turning back. “I would not inconvenience you so,” he added. “You have guests to attend to.” The words were cordial. Their tone was not. “I will go back the way I came.”

And you will not follow.

Kell left George red-faced beside the desk, and retraced his steps to the old king’s chamber. He wished he could lock the door behind him. But of course, the locks were on the outside of this room. Another reminder that this room had been more prison than palace.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember the last time he’d seen the man alive. The old king hadn’t looked well. He hadn’t looked well at all, but he’d still known Kell, still brightened at his presence, still smiled and brought the royal letter to his nose, inhaling its scent.

Roses
, he’d murmured softly.
Always roses.

Kell opened his eyes. Part of him—a weary, grieving part—simply wanted to go home. But the rest of him wanted to get out of this blasted castle, go someplace where he wouldn’t be a royal messenger or an
Antari
, a prisoner or a prince, and wander the streets of Grey London until he became simply a shadow, one of thousands.

He crossed to the far wall, where heavy curtains framed the window. It was so cold in here that the glass hadn’t frosted over. He drew the curtain back, revealing the patterned wallpaper beneath, the design marred by a faded symbol, little more than a smudge in the low light. It was a circle with a single line through it, a transfer mark leading from Windsor to St. James. He shifted the heavy curtain back even farther, revealing a mark that would have been lost long ago, if it hadn’t been shielded entirely from time and light.

A six-pointed star. One of the first marks Kell had made, years ago, when the king had been brought to Windsor. He’d drawn the same mark on the stones of a garden wall that ran beside Westminster. The second mark had been long lost, washed away by rain or buried by moss, but it didn’t matter. It had been drawn once, and even if the lines were no longer visible, a blood sigil didn’t fade from the world as quickly as it did from sight.

Kell pushed up his sleeve and drew his knife. He carved a shallow line across the back of his arm, touched his fingers to the blood, and retraced the symbol. He pressed his palm to it and cast a last glance back at the empty room, at the light seeping beneath the door, listening to the far-off sounds of laughter.

Damned kings
, thought Kell, leaving Windsor once and for all.

III