Everything in Kell tightened at that. “I was out there trying to protect your people.”
“And for every one you shielded, a dozen more were taken by the dark.” There was no judgment in Maxim’s voice, only grim resolve. “The city has fallen, Kell. It will not rise again without your help, but that does not mean you can save it alone.” The king tightened his grip. “I will not lose my sons to this.”
Sons.
Kell blinked, shaken by the words as the Maxim released his hold, his anger deflating. “Has Rhy woken?” he asked.
The king shook his head. “Not yet.” His attention slid past Kell. “And you.”
Kell turned and saw Lila, hair falling over her shattered eye as she scraped blood from under her nails. She looked up at the summons.
“Who are you?” demanded the king.
Lila frowned, started to answer. Kell cut her off.
“This is Miss Delilah Bard.”
“A friend to the throne,” said Tieren.
“I’ve already saved your city,” added Lila. “Twice.” She cocked her head, shifting the dark curtain of hair to reveal the starburst of her shattered eye. Maxim, to his credit, didn’t startle. He simply looked at Tieren.
“Is this the one you told me of?”
The head priest nodded, and Kell was left wondering what exactly the Aven Essen had said, and how long Tieren had known what she was. The king considered Lila, his gaze moving from her eyes to her bloodstained fingers, before coming to a decision. Maxim raised his chin slightly, and said, “Mark everyone here.”
It was not a request, but the order of a king to a subject.
Lila opened her mouth, and for a second Kell thought she might say something awful, but Tieren’s hand came down on her shoulder in the universal sign for Be quiet, and for once, Lila listened.
Maxim stepped back, voice rising a measure so that others in the hall could overhear. And they were listening, Kell realized, several heads already turned carefully to catch the words as the king addressed his Antari.
“Holland has been taken to the cells.” Only hours before, Kell had been the one imprisoned below the palace. “I would have you speak with him. Learn everything you can about the force we’re facing.” Maxim’s expression darkened. “By whatever means.”
Kell stiffened.
The cold press of steel.
A collar around his throat.
Skin shredding against a metal frame.
“Your Majesty,” said Kell, striving for the proper tone. “It will be done.”
* * *
Kell’s boots echoed on the prison stairs, each step carrying him away from the light and heat of the palace’s heart.
Growing up, Rhy’s favorite place to hide had been the royal cells. Located directly beneath the guards’ hall, carved into one of the massive stone limbs that held the palace up over the river, the cells were rarely filled. They had once been in frequent use, according to Tieren, back when Arnes and Faro were at war, but now they sat abandoned. The royal guards made use of them occasionally, saints knew for what, but whenever Rhy ran off with nothing but a laugh, or a note—come find me—Kell started by going to the cells.
They were always cold, the air heavy with the smell of damp stone, and his voice would echo as he called for Rhy—come out, come out, come out. Kell had always been better at finding than Rhy was at hiding, and the games usually dissolved into the two boys tucked into a cell, eating stolen apples and playing hands of Sanct.
Rhy always loved coming down here, but Kell thought that what his brother really loved was the going back upstairs afterward, the way he could simply shrug off his surroundings when he was done and trade the dank underbelly for lush robes and spiced tea, having been reminded how lucky he was to be a prince.
Kell had never been fond of the cells back then.
Now he hated them.
Revulsion rose in him with every step, revulsion for the memory of his imprisonment, revulsion for the man now sitting in his place.
Lanterns cast pale light over the space. It glinted where it struck metal, fanned against stone.
Four guards in full armor stood across from the largest cell. The same one Kell had occupied a few hours before. They had their weapons ready, eyes fixed on the shape beyond the bars. Kell took in the way the guards looked at Holland, the venom in their glares, and knew it was the way some wanted to look at him. All the fear and anger, none of the respect.
The White Antari sat on the stone bench at the back of the cell, shackled hand and foot to the wall behind him. A black blindfold was cinched tight over his eyes, but Kell could tell by the subtle shift of his limbs, the incline of his head, that Holland was awake.
It had been a short trip from the roof to the cell, but the guards had not been gentle. They’d stripped him to the waist to search for weapons, and fresh bruises blossomed along his jaw and across his stomach and chest, the fair skin revealing every abuse, though they’d taken care to clean the blood away. Several fingers looked broken, and the faint stutter of his chest hinted at cracked ribs.
Standing across from Holland, Kell was again taken aback by the changes in the man. The breadth of Holland’s shoulders, the lean muscle wrapping his waist, the emotionless set of his mouth, those were all still there. But the newer things—the color in Holland’s cheeks, the flush of youth—Osaron had taken those with him when he fled. The Antari’s skin looked ashen where it wasn’t bruised, and his hair was no longer the glossy black he’d briefly had as king, or even the faded charcoal Kell was more accustomed to—now it was threaded with silver.