And to her surprise, it came.

  A massive piece of the wall listed, leaned, and tore free, crashing down like a wave onto the gristle man, burying him beneath the stone. The arms around her tightened, and she slammed her head back, felt the satisfying crunch of teeth, even as it sent a lancing pain through her own skull, her vision going black-and-white for a second before the captor cussed, and dropped her. She hit the ground hard, skinning her hands and knees. When she touched the back of her head, her fingers came away red. She was hurt, and scared, but there was no time for fear.

  “You little bitch,” said a voice, paired with the scrape of steel, and Kosika twisted toward the man who’d grabbed her, blood spilling from his broken mouth as he slashed the sword through the air and she flung her hands out in a useless plea for him to stop.

  And he did.

  His whole body jerked to a halt, limbs trembling, like a bug stuck in a spider’s web. She could feel the bones shivering beneath his skin, could feel the metal in his sword as it turned, tip driving back into his chest, could feel the life leave his body as he fell to the ground.

  She stared, shaking as she got to her feet.

  “Kosika.”

  Lark’s voice was a hoarse whisper, and she turned and saw him, past the pile of rubble, on his knees, his head wrenched back and a blade against his throat. He made a signal with his bound hands. Run. But this time her legs didn’t betray her. This time, they carried her forward.

  “You stay right there,” ordered the man, his fingers tangled in Lark’s silver hair. The blade kissed the boy’s throat, drawing a thin line of blood. Lark winced, and there was fear in his eyes, but his hands were moving again, not signaling now but reaching, and she realized too late, that Lark was reaching for the knife he kept in his boot.

  It happened so fast.

  Lark pulled the blade, and drove it down into the man’s foot. He howled, and jerked back, drawing his knife across Lark’s throat.

  “NO!” screamed Kosika, running as fast as she could, not for the man, who was already fleeing, but for her best friend as he slumped and toppled to the dirty street. She’d always been fast, but the wind was at her back, and it pushed her, carrying her toward him with impossible speed. She fell to her knees beside Lark’s body as his mouth opened and closed, as his eyelids fluttered and his life spilled out, too much, too bright.

  Kosika tore the chain from his wrists, and pressed her hands to his wounded throat.

  “Nas aric,” she pleaded, as the blood slipped between her fingers. Don’t die.

  “Nas aric,” she whispered, again and again, but as she did, the words changed in her mouth, the n to a softer h, the end open, a new plea welling up. A word Kosika didn’t know, had never said before.

  Hasari.

  Another sound rose up to join it, like a hitching breath. As.

  “As Hasari. As Hasari. As Hasari.”

  The strange words spilled out like a chant, and as they did, the blood stopped pouring from Lark’s throat. There was so much of it, on him, and on her, and on the road beneath, but his skin was no longer grey. His body went slack but it was the kind of relief that came with sleep, not death. Lark’s chest rose and fell, and when she dared to lift her hands from his throat, she saw the gaping wound had closed, leaving only a raised line, like a welt, running from edge to edge across his neck.

  Kosika let out a sob. Lark’s eyelids fluttered, and drifted open. He swallowed, and the first thing he said wasn’t a question. It was only two words, whispered in a tone of wonder.

  “Your eyes.”

  And before she could ask what he meant, she heard the heavy tread of armored boots, and looked up to see two soldiers, a man and a woman, marching toward them in dark grey plate.

  “What happened here?” demanded the man, and only then was Kosika aware of her surroundings: the city wall, half-collapsed, a tattooed hand sticking out from the rubble; the body with the sword jutting out from his chest; Lark on the ground, still covered in blood, but not bleeding; her own hands stained red, her body still humming with fear and relief. Other faces were starting to appear, in windows and doorways, studying the scene.

  “On your feet,” ordered the woman, and Kosika rose, stepping in front of Lark as she did. She wanted to run, but he couldn’t even stand, not yet, and she wouldn’t leave him. Besides, she was starting to feel dizzy, as if she was the one who’d lost all that blood.

  Kosika was still trying to decide what to do when horse hooves thundered on the stones, and a third soldier arrived, dressed differently from the other two, clad in silver armor and riding a dark horse. A royal guard. He dismounted, and removed his helmet as he took in the scene.

  “Kot err,” he muttered. King’s breath. And then, louder, “Who did this?”

  “I did,” said Kosika, defiantly meeting the royal guard’s eyes. His breath caught, surprise sweeping across his face.

  She didn’t realize one of the previous soldiers had gone away until he returned, hauling the collector who’d slit Lark’s throat—the one who’d gotten away. The man was limping, the little knife still stuck in his foot, and babbling on incoherently until the royal guard made a sign and the grey soldier struck the man hard, so hard he fell to his knees, and stayed there. Good, thought Kosika, and she might have gone and kicked him for good measure, but the royal guard turned and knelt in front of her so they were face-to-face.

  The silver armor on his chest was so polished that Kosika could almost make out her reflection in the gleaming metal. Almost, but not quite.

  “Whose blood is that?” asked the royal guard, gesturing to her hands. Kosika flexed her fingers, the red drying brown on her palms. Most of it was Lark’s, but she had touched the back of her head, before, hadn’t she, which meant a little must be hers, too. She didn’t say any of that, only glared at the man on his knees.

  “He cut my friend’s throat.”

  The royal guard didn’t look at the collector. Didn’t look at anyone but Kosika. His hair was pale, his eyes the color of the sky, a watery blue.

  “Good thing you were there to fix it,” he said, and there was something in his voice; not anger, or kindness—it was wonder. She heard the hiss of steel being released, and then the man on his knees toppled forward, his throat open and blood spilling out onto the street, the way Lark’s had minutes before. But no one rushed forward to fix him, and so Kosika watched, satisfied, as he died.

  One of the grey soldiers—the woman—was kneeling next to Lark now, helping him sit up, and Kosika wanted to go to her friend, to make sure he was all right, but the royal guard held her still with his gaze.

  “How long have you had magic?” he asked, and she was about to say that she didn’t, that it hadn’t arrived yet—but obviously that wasn’t true, not anymore. When she didn’t answer, he tried again.

  “Where is your home?”

  Kosika chewed her lip, wasn’t about to tell the guard that she no longer had one, that last night she’d slept in an attic with a loose window latch, hoping there weren’t mice. She just shook her head, and the royal guard seemed to understand, because instead of pressing her, he said, “My name is Patjoric. What is yours?”

  That, at least, she could answer. “Kosika.”

  “Kosika,” he repeated, his face breaking into a smile. “Do you know what it means?”

  She shook her head. She hadn’t known a name could mean anything—her mother told her she was named for the jagged stretch of the Kosik itself, which ran along the city’s edge like a wound that wouldn’t heal. But the royal guard looked her in the eyes.

  “It means little queen.” He straightened, and held out his hand. “You must be tired and hungry, Kosika. Why don’t you come with us to the palace?”

  She tensed, suspecting a trap, wondered if the guard was just another kind of child thief. And Lark must have thought so, too, because he was on his feet now, lurching toward them.

  “Don’t go,” he shouted hoarsely. But the female soldier grabbed him by his arms and hauled him back, and anger rose in Kosika like a wave as Lark tried, weakly, to pull free.

  “Don’t hurt him,” she said in a feral growl, and the world seemed to echo with her voice. The stones beneath her feet began to tremble, and what was left of the wall began to lean, and a gust of wind whipped against her skin, and the whole alley groaned and splintered, and she didn’t hear the bootsteps or see the hilt of the sword until it crashed into the side of her head.

  And everything stopped.

  II

  NOW

  Kosika would be the last to make her offering.

  She made her way down the castle steps, and the royal guards fell in stride, trailing like shadows in her wake. She passed the silver-clad Vir at the bottom of the stairs, and then the crowd that lined the path. Merchants and sailors, tailors and bakers, parents with children in their arms, all of them bound together not by their age or dress, but by the bandage wrapped around their palms.

  Servants stood waiting at the castle gates, their trays piled high with sugar buns for those who had already made their offering. The first of three rewards for the first of three tithes.

  A reminder that this was not just a day of sacrifice, but celebration.

  As Kosika neared the altar on the path, the air took on the copper scent of blood, and the crowd cleared to reveal a statue of a man, poised above a shallow basin, the surface shimmering red.

  The stone figure was larger than life, though folded beneath its weight, depicted on his hands and knees. The man’s head was bowed beneath an unseen force, his shoulders hunched, his shirtfront torn askew, revealing the binding spell once burned into his chest by Athos Dane. Holland’s carved stone hands pressed into the bottom of the basin, so that as it filled, the blood rose over his shins and wrists, and made it look as if he were sinking, inch by inch, into the pool.

  Kosika approached, stopping only when she was close enough to look up into Holland Vosijk’s face. To see the pain in his jaw, the furrow of his brow, the eyes, cast in different shades, one pale, the other black.

  Just like her own.

  “First you were a servant,” she said softly to herself. The words were not for the crowd. They were private as a prayer.

  She pulled the silver blade from her hip and drew it across the meat of her forearm, one swift, deep cut. Blood welled, and spilled into the waiting pool, rippling the surface. Kosika ran her fingers over the weeping cut, and touched them to the collar of the basin. Unlike the rest, this part was made of frosted glass instead of stone.

  “As Steno,” she said, and the Antari spell took shape in the world, breathed into life by her power. The surface of the basin rippled like a pulse, and the glass walls shattered.

  Blood spilled like rain over an awning. It splashed, and pooled around Kosika, staining her white clothes. It poured out until the basin, which was no longer a bowl but a plane of flat stone, was empty, and Holland’s hands revealed themselves, stone fingers splayed against the rock.

  Kosika stood there, as blood leached up the hem of her white cloak, and soaked into the soil of the courtyard, turning it the black of loam.

  The first tithe was done.

  * * *

  SEVEN YEARS AGO

  Sunlight danced across the ceiling.

  That was the first thing Kosika saw when she woke up—at least, she guessed it was a ceiling, but it was so far away. The stone walls surged up, and vaulted overhead, but the ground beneath her was too soft to be ground, and too soft to be a bed, even though that’s what it was. A bed so big she could lie in the center, her arms and legs thrown wide, and not come close to reaching the sides. And for a moment, that’s what she did, her mind blissfully blank as she looked up at the light on the ceiling, and tried to remember—where had she been? On top of the wall with Lark, staring up at the sky, and then—

  She heard a sound.

  It was quiet, the soft tap of a pebble hitting stone, and Kosika sat up, wincing at the sudden pain in her head. She touched her temple and it all came rushing back, the thieves and the struggle and Lark and the soldiers, and then she was scrambling across the pillowed ground, trying to reach the edge of the bed.

  “Oh good,” said a voice, “you’re awake.”

  Kosika jerked around, and found a girl sitting cross-legged in a nearby chair, elbows balanced on her knees. She had fair hair drawn back in a braid, and a narrow face covered in scars, as thin and white as seams.

  On a low table in front of her was a game board, half the figures black and gold, the rest silver and white. They mingled on the board, and a few lay cast aside, as if in the middle of a game, but if she’d been playing, it must have been against herself.

  “Who are you?” asked Kosika. The sound of her voice made her temple throb, and she reached up and touched her head.

  “I’m Nasi,” said the girl. “If it’s any consolation, the soldier who hit you has been arrested.”

  Kosika didn’t understand. She’d been struck a dozen times by a dozen people, and no one had so much as said that they were sorry.

  “If you ask,” continued Nasi, “they might even kill him.”

  Kosika winced. She didn’t want to kill anyone. “Why did he hit me?”

  Nasi nodded to the window, as if there was an answer there. Kosika hopped down from the bed—the jolt of landing sent another spike of pain through her skull—went to the sill, and gasped. She wasn’t in a house. She was in a castle. The castle. This high up, she could see the grounds and the high stone wall that ringed it, could trace the nine smaller walls of the city as if they were chalk lines, could count every block and square. The carriages were the size of raindrops, the people grains of rice. The Silver Wood sat, the size of her palm, at the city’s edge, and all of London sprawled beneath her like a toy set or a tapestry.

  It took her a moment to see it, but then she did. From here, it was small, little more than a patch of shadow, a broken line, a pool of dark. When she brought her hand up, she could cover the whole mark with the tip of one finger. But she knew that up close, it was bad. Part of the Votkas Mar was missing, and deep cracks ran down the street. It looked like a large hand—like the one she held up now—had crushed the spot beneath their thumb.

  Kosika felt a little dizzy, a little sick.

  “They were scared,” explained Nasi. “Of what you might do if you kept going.”

  Kosika turned. “I didn’t mean to.”

  The other girl only shrugged, and moved another piece on the board. “But you did.”

  Kosika’s heart began to race, and at the same time a breeze kicked up in the room, even though the windows were closed. What about Lark? What if they’d hurt him? What if she had? She had to go, had to find her friend. She went to the massive door, and pushed, and pulled, with all her strength, but it didn’t move.

  “It’s locked,” said Nasi, as if that wasn’t obvious.

  Kosika looked around at the chamber, at the lush tapestries that covered the floor and hung from the walls. The room was big, bigger than her whole house, and made entirely of stone. “Are we prisoners?”

  The girl studied the board. “I’m not,” she said. “As for you, maybe.” Kosika would learn that Nasi didn’t bother with gentle lies. She believed it was always better to know the truth. “But,” she went on, “there are far worse places to be kept.”

  Nasi held out the bowl of fruit, and Kosika’s hand darted forward, quick-fingered, before the other girl could pull it away. But Nasi only held it, and waited, and Kosika’s hand slowed, her eyes searching. She took a plum, and bit down, shocked by the sweetness.

  Nasi took one, too.

  “If you want to leave,” she said, studying the fruit, “I’m really not sure they could stop you.”

  Kosika thought of the destruction in the street below, and wondered if the other girl was right. She was about to find out. Turning back to the door, she pressed her hands flat against it, and focused. She could feel the wood, and the metal, the place where they met. She began to pull and—

  “What are you doing?” asked Nasi.

  “I have to find Lark.”

  “Blond boy?” ventured the other girl. “Dark eyes? Covered in blood?”

  Kosika rounded on her. “You’ve seen him? Where is he?”

  “Last time I checked, he was in the kitchens, eating the Vir out of bread and cheese and everything else.”

  “Vir?”

  “The royal guard. That’s what they call themselves. Very proud, dressed all in silver.”

  Kosika remembered the pale man who knelt before her. Patjoric.

  Nasi waved her over to the board. Kosika came. Up close, she saw the pieces were not all the same. There were knights. And cloaked figures. Children. And kings.

  “It’s called kol-kot,” explained the girl, clearing the pieces from the board until there was only a white-and-silver king. “When Holland Vosijk took the throne,” she said, “the Vir were the first to bend their knee. The first to believe that he was the Someday King.”

  As she spoke, she added white-and-silver knights to the board, one by one, until they formed a circle around the king. Kosika counted them: thirteen.

  “Now the king is dead.” Nasi lifted the figure from the center of the circle, and set it, almost gently, to the side. “And the Vir are trying to hold the peace, but it’s only a matter of time before someone comes along to claim the empty throne by force. But they’re hoping it won’t come to that, not if you take Holland’s place.”

  Kosika reeled. “Why me?”

  “Well,” said Nasi, setting another piece—a child—in the circle, “because you are like him. Antari.”

  Antari. Kosika didn’t know that word, and it must have shown on her face, because Nasi rose, unfolding her narrow limbs from the chair. She was clearly older than Kosika, but still half-grown. Closer to Lark’s age, maybe nine or ten, her cheeks full, but her arms and legs thin, as if she were sprouting up at different rates.