“Open this door!” ordered the man again, “by orders of His Majesty the King!”
Ned held his breath as if he could starve the moment out with lack of air, but the man kept knocking and the voice kept saying Let me in and he didn’t know what to do.
“Break it down,” ordered a second voice, this one smooth, pompous.
“Wait!” called Ned, who really couldn’t afford to lose the front door, not when that slab of wood was one of the only things keeping the darkness from spilling out.
He slid the bolt, opened the door a crack, just enough to see a man with a sleek handlebar mustache filling the step.
“I’m afraid there’s been a leak, sir, not fit for—”
The mustached man shoved the door inward with a single push, and Ned stumbled backward as George the Fourth strode into his pub.
The man wasn’t dressed as the king, of course, but a king was a king whether they wore silk and velvet or burlap. It was in his bearing, his haughty look, and, of course, the fact that his face was on the newly minted coin in Ned’s pocket.
But even a king would still be in danger.
“I beg of you,” said Ned. “Leave this place at once.”
The king’s man snorted, while George himself sneered. “Did you just issue an order to the king of England?”
“No, no, of course not, but, Your Majesty—” His gaze darted nervously around the room. “It isn’t safe.”
The king crinkled his nose. “The only thing poised to cause me ill is the state of this place. Now where is Kell?”
Ned’s eyes widened. “Your Majesty?”
“The traveler known as Kell. The one who’s frequented this pub once a month without fail for the last seven years.”
The shadows were beginning to draw together behind the king. Ned swore to himself, half curse, half prayer.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, Your Majesty,” stammered Ned. “I haven’t seen Master Kell this month, I swear it, but I could send word—” The shadows had faces now. The whispers were growing. “—Send word if he comes around. I know your address.” A nervous laugh. The shadows leered. “Unless you’d rather I make it out to—”
“What the devil are you looking at?” demanded the king, glancing back over his shoulder.
Ned couldn’t see His Majesty’s face, so he couldn’t gauge the expression that crossed it when the king saw the ghosts with their gaping mouths and their scornful eyes, their silent commands to kneel, to beg, to worship.
Could they hear the voices, too? wondered Ned. But he never got the chance to ask.
The king’s man crossed himself, turned on his heel, and left the Five Points without a backward glance.
The king himself went very still, jaw working up and down without making any sound.
“Your Majesty?” prompted Ned as the ghosts yawned and collapsed into smoke, into mist, into nothing.
“Yes …” said George slowly, smoothing his coat. “Well, then …”
And without another word, the king of England drew himself up very straight, and walked very briskly out.
II
It was raining when the hawk returned.
Rhy was standing on an upper balcony, under the shelter of the eaves, watching as freights hauled the remains of the tournament arenas from the river. Isra waited just inside the doorway. Once the captain of his father’s city guard, now the captain of his royal one. She was a statue dressed in armor, while Rhy himself wore red, as was the custom for those in mourning.
Veskans, he’d read, streaked their faces with black ash, while Faroans painted their gems white for three days and three nights, but Arnesian families celebrated loss by celebrating life, and that they did by wearing red: the color of blood, of sunrise, of the Isle.
He felt the priest come through the door behind him, but did not turn, did not greet him. He knew that Tieren was grieving, too, but he couldn’t bear the sadness in the old man’s eyes, couldn’t bear the calm, cold blue. The way he’d listened to the news of Emira, of Maxim, his features still, as if he’d known, before the spell was done, that he would wake to find the world changed.
And so they stood in silence beneath the curtain of rain, alone with their thoughts.
The royal crown sat heavy in Rhy’s hair, much larger than the golden band he’d worn for most of his life. That band had grown with him, the metal drawn out every year to fit his changing stature. It should have lasted him another twenty years.
Instead, it had been stripped away, stored for a future prince.
Rhy’s new crown was too great a weight. A constant reminder of his loss. A wound that wouldn’t close.
The rest of his wounds did heal—far too fast. Like a pin driven into clay, the damage absorbed as soon as the weapon was gone. He could still summon the feelings, like a memory, but they were distant, fading, leaving that horrible question in their wake.
Was it real?
Am I real?
Real enough to ache with grief. Real enough to reach out a hand and savor the spring rain as it dripped coolly on his skin. To step out of the palace’s shelter and let it soak him to the bone.
And real enough to feel his heart quicken when the streak of darkness slid past against the pale sky.
He recognized the bird at once, knew it came from Vesk.
The foreign fleet had retreated from the mouth of the Isle, but the crown had yet to answer for its crimes. Col was dead, but Cora sat in the royal prisons, waiting to learn her fate. And here it was, strapped to the ankle of a hawk.