“Ass,” muttered Kell as he shoved past him.

“Bastard,” called the magician in his wake.

* * *

Rhy waited on the balcony, leaning his elbows on the rail.

The air still held a chill, but the sun was warm on his skin, rich with the promise of spring. Kell came storming through the room.

“You two are getting along well, then?” asked Rhy.

“Splendidly,” muttered his brother, stepping through the doors and slumping forward over the rail beside him. A reflection of his own pose.

They stood like that for some time, taking in the day, and Rhy almost forgot that Kell had come to say good-bye, that he was leaving, and then a breeze cut through, sudden and biting, and the darkness whispered from the back of his mind, the sorrow of loss and the guilt of survival and the fear that he would keep outliving those he loved. That this borrowed life would be too long or too short, and there forever was the inevitable cusp, blessing or curse, blessing or curse, and the feeling of leaning forward into a gust of wind as it tried with every step to force him back.

Rhy’s fingers tightened on the rail.

And Kell, whose two-toned eyes had always seen right through him, said, “Do you wish I hadn’t done it?”

He opened his mouth to say Of course not, or Saints no, or any of the other things he should have said, had said a dozen times, with the mindless repetition of someone being asked how he is that day, and answering Fine, thank you, regardless of his true temperament. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. There were so many things Rhy hadn’t said since his return—wouldn’t let himself say—as if giving the words voice meant giving them weight, enough to tip the scale and crush him. But so many things had tried, and here he was, still standing.

“Rhy,” said Kell, his gaze heavy as stone. “Do you wish I hadn’t brought you back?”

He took a breath. “I don’t know,” he said. “Ask me in the morning, after I’ve spent hours weighed down by nightmares, drugged beyond reason just to hold back the memories of dying, which was not so bad as coming back, and I’d say yes. I wish you’d let me die.”

Kell looked ill. “I—”

“But ask me in the afternoon,” cut in Rhy, “when I’ve felt the sun cutting through the cold, or the warmth of Alucard’s smile, or the steady weight of your arm around my shoulders, and I would tell you it was worth it. It is worth it.”

Rhy turned his face to the sun. He closed his eyes, relishing the way the light still reached him. “Besides,” he added, managing a smile, “who doesn’t love a man with shadows? Who doesn’t want a king with scars?”

“Oh, yes,” said Kell dryly. “That’s really the reason I did it. To make you more appealing.”

Rhy felt his smile slip. “How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know.”

Rhy bowed his head, suddenly tired. “I wish I could go with you.”

“So do I,” said Kell, “but the empire needs its king.”

Softly, Rhy said, “The king needs his brother.”

Kell looked stricken, and Rhy knew he could make him stay, and he knew he couldn’t bear to do it. He let out a long, shuddering sigh and straightened. “It’s about time you did something selfish, Kell. You make the rest of us look bad. Try to shrug that saint’s complex while you’re away.”

Across the river, the city bells began to ring the hour.

“Go on,” said Rhy. “The ship is waiting.” Kell took a single step back, hovering in the doorway. “But do us a favor, Kell.”

“What’s that?” asked his brother.

“Don’t get yourself killed.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Kell, and then he was going.

“And come back,” added Rhy.

Kell paused. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I will. Once I’ve seen it.”

“Seen what?” asked Rhy.

Kell smiled. “Everything.”

VIII

Delilah Bard made her way toward the docks, a small bag slung over one shoulder. All she had in the world that wasn’t already on the ship. The palace rose behind her, stone and gold and ruddy pink light.

She didn’t look back. Didn’t even slow.

Lila had always been good at disappearing.

Slipping like light between boards.

Cutting ties as easily as a purse.

She never said good-bye. Never saw the point. Saying good-bye was like strangling slowly, every word tightening the rope. It was easier to just slip away in the night. Easier.

But she told herself he would have caught her.

So in the end, she’d gone to him.

“Bard.”

“Captain.”

And then she’d stalled. Hadn’t known what to say. This was why she hated good-byes. She looked around the palace chamber, taking in the inlaid floor, the gossamer ceiling, the balcony doors, before she ran out of places to look and had to look at Alucard Emery.

Alucard, who’d given her a place on his ship, who’d taught her the first things about magic, who’d—her throat tightened.

Bloody good-byes. Such useless things.

She picked up her pace, heading for the line of ships.

Alucard had leaned back against the bedpost. “Silver for your thoughts?”