“Say something,” Kell muttered into his drink.
Holland’s attention flicked toward him, then slid pointedly away. “This Inheritor …”
“What about it?”
“I should be the one to use it.”
“Perhaps.” Kell’s answer was simple, blunt. “But I don’t trust you.” Holland’s expression hardened. “And I’m certainly not letting Lila try her hand. She doesn’t know how to use her power, let alone how to survive getting rid of it.”
“That leaves you.”
Kell looked down into the last of his ale. “That leaves me.”
If the Inheritor worked as Tieren suggested, the device absorbed a person’s magic. But Kell’s magic was all that bound Rhy’s life to his. He’d learned that from the collar, the horrible severing of power from body, the stutter of Rhy’s failing heart. Would it be like that? Would it hurt that much? Or would it be easy? His brother had known what he would do, had given his assent. He’d seen it in Rhy’s eyes when they parted. Heard it in his voice. Rhy had made his peace long before he said good-bye.
“Stop being selfish.”
Kell’s head snapped up. “What?”
“Osaron is mine,” said Holland, finally taking up his drink. “I don’t give a damn about your self-sacrificing notions, your need to be the hero. When the time comes for one of us to destroy that monster, it is going to be me. And if you try to stop me, Kell, I’ll remind you the hard way which of us is the stronger Antari. Do you understand?”
Holland met Kell’s eyes over the glass, and beyond the words and the bravado, he saw something else in the man’s gaze.
Mercy.
Kell’s chest ached with relief as he said, “Thank you.”
“For what?” said Holland coldly. “I’m not doing this for you.”
* * *
In the end, Vortalis had named himself the Winter King.
“Why not summer,” Holland asked, “or spring?”
Vortalis snorted. “Do you feel warmth on the air, Holland? Do you see the river running blue? We are not in the spring of this world, and certainly not in the summer. Those are the seasons for your someday king. This is winter, and we must survive it.”
They were standing side by side on the castle balcony while the banners—the open hand turned out on its dark field—snapped in the wind. The gates stood open, the grounds filling edge to edge as people gathered to see the new king, and waited for the castle doors to open so they could make their cases and their claims. The air buzzed with excitement. Fresh blood on the throne meant new chances for the streets. The hope that this ruler would succeed where so many had failed before him, that he would be the one to restore what was lost—what began to die when the doors first closed—and breathe life back into the embers.
Vortalis wore a single ring of burnished steel in his hair to match the circle on his banner. Beyond that, he looked like the same man who’d come to Holland months ago, deep in the Silver Wood.
“The outfit suits you,” said the Winter King, gesturing to Holland’s half cloak, the silver pin bearing Vortalis’s seal.
Holland took a step back from the balcony’s edge. “Last time I checked, you are king. So why am I on display?”
“Because, Holland, ruling is a balance between hope and fear. I may have a way with people, but you have a way of frightening them. I draw them like flies, but you keep that at bay. Together we are a welcome and a warning, and I would have each and every one of them know that my black-eyed knight, my sharpest sword, stands firmly beside me.” He shot Holland a sidelong glance. “I’m quite aware of our city’s penchant for regicide, including the bloody pattern we continued in order to stand here today, but, selfish as it seems, I’m not keen to go out as Gorst did.”
“Gorst didn’t have me,” said Holland, and the king broke into a smile.
“Thank the gods for that.”
“Am I supposed to call you king now?” asked Holland.
Vortalis blew out a breath. “You are supposed to call me friend.”
“As you wish …” A smile stole across Holland’s lips at the memory of their meeting in the Silver Wood. “Vor.”
The king smiled at that, a broad, bright gesture so at odds with the city around them. “And to think, Holland, all it took was a crown and—”
“Köt Vortalis,” cut in a guard behind them.
Vor’s face closed, the open light replaced by the hardened planes befitting a new king. “What is it?”
“There is a boy requesting an audience.”
Holland frowned. “We haven’t opened the doors yet.”
“I know, sir,” said the guard. “He didn’t come by the door. He just … appeared.”
* * *
The first thing Holland noticed was the boy’s red coat.
He was standing in the throne hall, craning his head toward the vaulted bones of the castle ceiling, and that coat—it was such a vivid color, not a faded red like the sun at dusk, or the fabrics worn in summer, but a vibrant crimson, the color of fresh blood.
His hair was a softer shade, like autumn leaves, muted, but not faded by any stretch, and he wore crisp black boots—true black, as dark as winter nights—with gold clasps that matched his cuffs, every inch of him sharp and bright as a glare on new steel. Even stranger than his appearance was the scent that drifted off him, something sweet, almost cloying, like crushed blossoms left to rot.