Once, there were four worlds, nestled like pages in a book, each pulsing with fantastical power and connected by a single city: London…
Prepare for tangled schemes and perilous adventures with friends old and new as author V.E. Schwab begins a brand new fantasy series set in the dazzling world of Shades of Magic. The Fragile Threads of Power publishes September 26th with Tor Books. Read chapter four below, or go back to the beginning with the first chapter!
Once, there were four worlds, nestled like pages in a book, each pulsing with fantastical power and connected by a single city: London. Until the magic grew too fast and forced the worlds to seal the doors between them in a desperate gamble to protect their own. The few magicians who could still open the doors grew more rare as time passed and now, only three Antari are known in recent memory—Kell Maresh of Red London, Delilah Bard of Grey London, and Holland Vosijk, of White London.
But barely a glimpse of them have been seen in the last seven years—and a new Antari named Kosika has appeared in White London, taking the throne in Holland’s absence. The young queen is willing to feed her city with blood, including her own—but her growing religious fervor has the potential to drown it instead.
And back in Red London, King Rhy Maresh is threatened by a rising rebellion, one determined to correct the balance of power by razing the throne entirely.
These two royals from very different empires now face very similar struggles: how to keep their crowns—and their own heads.
Amidst this tapestry of old friends and new enemies, a girl with an unusual magical ability comes into possession of a device that could change the fate of all four worlds.
Her name is Tes, and she’s the only one who can bring them together—or unravel it all.
IV
The White Rose stood at the window, watching Emery go.
Then she took up the length of silk that had been her dress and began the careful work of winding it back around her limbs, her chest, her waist, moving with expert fingers as she tied the one and only knot in a bow at her wrist, despite the fact she had no intention of being unwrapped again that night.
If she had, Ciara would have gone down the stairs, returning to the salon and the bar, and the waiting patrons below. Instead, she went up, past the various chambers, most already in use, and stopped only when she reached the door at the last level. Behind it lay the private quarters that served as her office, the place where the famed White Rose shed the role of host, and stepped back into that of businesswoman. She was, after all, the brothel’s owner.
The door was locked—or at least, it should have been. But as Ciara reached the landing, she was surprised to find the door ajar. If she had touched the handle, she would have found it cold— frozen, even—to the touch.
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Instead, she reached into her hair and drew out one of the thin silver pins, letting it hang from her fingers as she stepped inside.
The room was just as she’d left it, with one noticeable exception. A man now sat behind the pale wood desk—her desk—as if it were his own. She flicked her fingers, and several candles sprang to life, casting the room and the intruder in a soft yellow glow. His face brightened, or rather, the mask he wore did, reflecting the light. It was an ornate thing, the surface like poured gold, the top curling upward like the spokes of a sun.
Ciara’s shoulders loosened in recognition. She painted on a smile, but didn’t let go of the pin.
“The Master of the Veil,” she said. “What brings you here?”
The Veil was another pleasure garden, one of dozens in the city. But unlike the others, it didn’t stay in one place, and only opened at the whims of its master. That was the gimmick, an invitation-only club that descended like a cloud-shadow, sweeping over a building for a single night.
The man behind the desk spread his hands and said in Veskan, “I was waiting for you.”
She stiffened a little, answered in Arnesian. “There are far more comfortable rooms in which to wait.”
“I’m sure,” he said, lifting a glass orb from the desk. Inside, a white rose hung suspended, preserved in perpetual bloom. A gift from one of her patrons. “But none are quite so private.”
Ciara lifted her chin. “You should know, more than most, the discretion of my hosts.”
He began to roll the orb across the table, from one hand to another. “Indeed. They have certainly been… accommodating.”
As the glass ball whispered on the table, Ciara studied the Master of the Veil.
She’d never seen his face, but then, she didn’t need to. She’d dealt with enough patrons to read the kinds of truth only a body tells. She noticed the way he draped himself across the chair—her chair. The way he took up space, even in a private office, as if entitled to it. Ostra, she thought. Maybe even vestra. It was there, in his posture, and in the languidness of his Arnesian, and the formality of his Veskan, which spoke more to education than experience. It was there, in the shape of his hands, and the crescents of his nails. It was there, in the taunt that tugged at the corner of his voice, as if they too were seated at a Rasch board. Though she guessed he didn’t play games, not unless he already knew that he would win.
The man pushed the glass ball again, but this time, as his left hand flung the orb away, his right made no motion to catch it. It rolled, briskly, across the desk, and straight over the edge.
Ciara lunged forward, caught the sphere just before it shattered on the floor. She sighed, and straightened, and when she did, the Master of the Veil was right there, no longer behind the desk but in front of it, in front of her, so close that she could almost see the eyes behind the mask.
A single lock of dark hair curled around the corner of the golden mask. She reached up, as if to tuck it behind his ear, her fingers ready to pull the mask aside, but his hand closed around her wrist, his fingers burning cold. She flinched, but his grip tightened, seeming to enjoy her discomfort. She’d handled enough patrons to recognize the ones who took pleasure in another’s pain. She fought the urge to drive the silver pin into his side, and smiled through the biting cold.
“There are other rooms for that,” she said evenly. “And other hosts.”
“Speaking of hosts—” He let go, returned to his seat—her seat—at the table. “I’ve come to hire three, for my next opening. It will be a larger crowd.”
“Perhaps you should hire more of your own, instead of borrowing mine.”
“The beauty of the Veil is that it’s always changing. Never the same garden—”
“Never the same flowers.”
“Precisely,” he said.
Ciara looked down at her wrist, the skin there red from the lingering cold. “It will cost double. Because of the risk.”
“Risk?” She couldn’t see him arch a brow, but she could hear it in his voice.
“Businesses like ours cater to a diverse clientele, but my consorts have noticed that many of your patrons share the same mark.” She looked down at the glass ball in her hand. “Now, they are of course discreet. But I think you will agree, in this case, that discretion is worth the extra cost.”
As she spoke, she saw the frost spread across the window, felt the air go cold around her, cold enough that if she exhaled, she might see her breath. It left an awful, eerie feeling, like his fingers sliding over her skin. Ciara flexed, and the warmth returned. She would not be made to shiver in her own house.
The Master of the Veil leaned back in the chair. “Perhaps what you say is true,” he mused, “perhaps not. We are paid to overlook the details of our patrons.”
“Discretion isn’t the same as ignorance,” she countered. “Nothing happens in my brothel without my knowing. And I’m willing to bet nothing happens in the Veil without yours.”
She studied the golden mask, and the man behind it.
“I was just with the king’s consort.”
The Master of the Veil inclined his head. “Here? Has the royal bed gone cold?”
“He came searching for information. The palace is worried. He suspects I’ve heard something. He would have paid me handsomely. Yet I gave him nothing.”
“And instead, you tip your hand to me.”
Ciara shrugged. “It’s not tipping if you mean to show it. I want you to know exactly where I stand.”
“You support the cause, then?” Surprise rang through his voice, and for the first time, she wondered if the Master of the Veil did more than simply host the Hand at his establishment.
Ciara considered. “I have nothing against the crown. And no love for your cause. But business is business, and our business is better in times of… upheaval.” She returned the glass orb with its rose to the cradle on the desk—her desk. “Still, my consorts’ discretion may be free. But mine will cost you.”
He rose to his feet, one hand slipping into his pocket.
“Three hosts should be sufficient,” he said, setting a stack of silver lish on the edge of the desk. To these, he added a single cheap red lin. “For your time,” he said, and despite the mask, she could hear the corner of his mouth twitch up in amusement before he slipped past her, and out the office door, leaving a chill breeze in his wake.
Ciara watched him descend the stairs, but she didn’t move, not until she was certain the Master of the Veil was gone.
Excerpted from The Fragile Threads of Power, copyright © 2023 by V.E. Schwab.
