The Bone Palace

chapter 12

A pleasant side effect of necromancy was that Isyllt’s magic warded off any foreign life that tried to take root in her flesh, from plagues like the bronze fever to the little coughs and colds that spread through the streets every day. But even that required a modicum of strength and self-preservation.
Which was how Isyllt found herself bedridden and feverish for days after she summoned Forsythia, coughing and sneezing and choking on phlegm. Her former disregard of the influenza quickly vanished, leaving her weak and aching and wishing for death. She might have asked the landlord’s daughter to put her out of her misery when the girl came with soup and ginger tisane, but if so her request was ignored.
The fever brought dreams. Strange, dark dreams, full of wings and towers and the smell of cinnamon. And blood, always blood, oceans and messes of it. Slit throats and torn veins and the thick black vomit of fever victims. More than once she woke gasping in the dark, the taste of copper in her mouth, certain that the slickness on her skin was more than sweat.
On the seventh day she woke to afternoon sunlight and the feeling that she’d been beaten with truncheons and dragged behind a carriage. Her eyes were crusted with grit, and the taste in her mouth didn’t bear contemplating. Despite a head stuffed with snot and dirty rags, she knew someone else was in the apartment. She croaked a question that even she didn’t understand.
A rattle of dishes answered from the other room, followed by soft footsteps. The smell of something full of salt and garlic cut through the clinging reek of sweat and sickness, and Isyllt flopped back on her clammy pillows with a sigh.
“For a powerful sorceress, you whine a lot when you’re sick.”
She started, sticky eyes opening again. The voice, and the shadow that fell across the bed, belonged not to the landlady’s daughter but to Dahlia.
“What are you doing here?”
“The girl downstairs let me in. I told her I worked with you, but mostly I think she was tired of listening to you moan.”
Isyllt snorted and propped herself up on the pillows. The bedding stank, and her nose had cleared enough to remind her of it. Her scalp and back and breasts itched with dried sweat. Only sweat. Though from the ache tightening beneath her navel, her courses would begin soon. “You can make yourself useful, then. Is that lunch?”
Dahlia handed her a tray of bread and soup; the garlic and ginger in the broth were enough to sting her sinuses.
“You’re lucky,” the girl said. “People are dying of the influenza.”
“They always do. The young and the old, the weak and the starving.”
“It’s worse this year—the fever is worse. I heard a man in Harrowgate died vomiting blood two days ago.”
That made Isyllt flinch. Her spoon shook, spilling broth back into the bowl. She sopped bread instead and forced herself to chew and swallow. It burned the back of her throat, but she felt more alive after a few mouthfuls.
“So you work with me now?” she asked, trying to put aside thoughts of plague.
Dahlia shrugged, perching on the edge of a chair. Her eyes flickered around the room; Isyllt hoped she wasn’t casing it. “I convinced Meka to help you. And you might need more help, looking for Forsythia’s killer.” She lowered her voice at the words, and Isyllt didn’t blame her. The memory of Forsythia’s sobs was enough to steal warmth from the room.
“I might,” she mumbled around a mouthful of bread. Isyllt didn’t insult the girl by mentioning the danger. She’d come back after witnessing an unpleasant summoning, and risked a sickbed; that didn’t speak of cowardice or squeamishness. She swallowed and studied Dahlia more closely. “You want more than a few weeks employment, don’t you?”
The girl’s jaw tightened. “I’m not asking for anything besides what my time is worth. Forsythia was kind to me—I want to see her avenged.”
But Isyllt had seen the desire in her at the Arcanost. And she had come back now, when any fool knew that necromancers weren’t safe or pleasant company. “Shiver or spark?” she asked.
Blue eyes flickered and met hers. “Shiver.” Her chin rose with the word.
Sparks, as those with the talent for projective magic were often called, were accepted at the Arcanost no matter how poor or connectionless, if only because an untrained pyromancer was a threat to everyone around them. Shivers—those who could sense magic or hear spirits—were eight for an obol, and without something else to recommend them would go untrained, or find work as hedge magicians or ghost-whisperers. Or go mad from voices they couldn’t stop.
Isyllt shrugged, setting the tray and empty bowl aside. “That doesn’t mean you can’t learn to do more. A well-trained sorcerer can do a little of almost anything.”
“Can you?”
She snorted again and shoved back the covers. “I’m too well-trained. Overspecialized. I’m so steeped in death and decay that my magic isn’t good for much else. But I can teach you theory. If you want to learn.”
Dahlia watched her, eyes narrow and wary. Isyllt remembered that chariness. Was her need to learn worth the possibility of hurt and betrayal? She looked away before the girl was pressed to answer, concentrated on getting out of bed. The room had grown while she was ill, or at least the wardrobe seemed much farther away than she remembered. “Are you an orphan?”
Dahlia shrugged. “I don’t know who my father was, or where he might be. My mother is alive, but all she cares about these days is opium. Since I wasn’t going to steal to help her buy it, I left home.”
“She named you Dahlia.”
Another shrug, this one almost fierce. “It was her name when I was conceived. The Rose Council took it away later, before I was born, when her habit started interfering with her work. She said it would save me time choosing one when I grew up.” Her mouth twisted, pinched white.
“Charming,” Isyllt muttered. She made it to the wardrobe, leaning heavily on the carved oaken doors. “You don’t have to keep it.”
“Why not? She was right, after all. I’ll be back in a few years, no matter what else I do.”
The bitter resignation in her voice distracted Isyllt from clean clothes. “It’s hardly that bad. Even if you don’t want to study magic, there are plenty of trades that will let you work off apprentice fees. The temples, if nothing else—”
Dahlia laughed, sharp and startled. “You don’t know, do you?” When Isyllt raised expectant brows she laughed harder. “I’m androgyne. Not a boy or a girl. I’ll be hijra when I turn sixteen.”
Isyllt blinked, closed her mouth on whatever words had died unspoken on her tongue. She had seen skirts and a lanky adolescent prettiness and given it no more thought. But now, studying the length and weight of bone, the shape of her face, she supposed Dahlia would make an equally pretty boy. She had glimpsed the veiled and marked hijra and heard the normal rumors, but knew next to nothing of the truth.
“And that leaves you with no choice but to be a prostitute?”
Dahlia raised her hands. “It’s what they do.”
“The Pallakis Savedra doesn’t. If we’re being charitable, anyway.”
The girl—Isyllt would be hard-pressed to change that thought now—snorted. “She’s the prince’s mistress, and one of the Eight besides. She doesn’t have to do much of anything. Some of us need money. Food. A place to be.” A hint of wistfulness threaded the last.
Isyllt tried to quash an upswell of sympathy. There was only so much she could do. But she could offer something, at least.
“You have a few years to decide, at least. I’ll hire you as an assistant until I catch this killer, and my offer of instruction stands. Are you interested?”
Dahlia chewed her lip, twisting her hands in her skirts. “All right,” she said at last. “For Syth. I’ll help you.”
“Good.” Isyllt smiled and gathered an armful of clothes. “For your first job, you can run me a bath.”
“I’m sorry,” Savedra said, not for the first time. She lay propped in her own bed, into which the court physician had scolded her after inspecting her stitches and changing the dressing on her arm. A bottle of opium-laced wine sat on the table beside her, as yet unopened—she needed her wits more than a surcease of pain at the moment.
Nikos and Ashlin had traded their normal places. He paced the length of the carpet at the foot of the bed, and she leaned against the doorframe, arms folded tight. Savedra couldn’t bring herself to look at either of them. “I never should have put the princess at risk,” she said to her lap, to her scabby white-knuckled hands. “It was foolish and thoughtless and—”
“I take my own risks, thank you,” Ashlin snapped. The talon scratches were stark and red on her cheek and brow. She was pale, despite her unabated temper, eyes shadowed. “None of this is your fault.”
She meant more than demon birds, but Savedra couldn’t accept the absolution. She carried a store of little secrets daily, like a child’s cache of treasures, but this one was too big, too heavy.
Distant voices rose to fill the silence, the sound of shears and wheels and rakes. In addition to the looming solstice celebration, the palace staff now had an extra strain. A rider had passed Savedra and Ashlin on the road back from Evharis, and they had seen the dust of a marching army blurring the sky behind them. The king would be home soon.
Nikos stopped his circuit and lifted a hand before either of them could speak again. “There’s no point in recriminations. I’m only happy neither of you was harmed worse. What exactly did you find, anyway? The secret history of the vrykoloi?”
He joked, but Savedra’s mouth pinched too tight to smile. She caught herself fidgeting with the edge of her bandage and dragged her hand away. Ashlin stayed quiet, waiting for her to speak. Something blossomed behind her breastbone, so hot and sharp she wanted to cry. Saints help her. She’d dared one foolish love; she wasn’t sure she could survive another.
“Please,” she said at last. She couldn’t lie, not to him, but neither could she lay the inadequate story bare. “Let me keep this for a time. It’s… a family mystery. Let me look for answers before I share it.” Her hands twisted in her lap, till her stitches itched and throbbed. “Forgive me.”
“Vedra. Love.” Three swift strides brought Nikos to her bedside. He cupped a hand against her cheek, tilting her head up. “You’ve done nothing that needs forgiveness. Keep your secrets. I trust you.”
She was her mother’s daughter. She didn’t flinch. That felt as damning as any lie. “Thank you,” she whispered. From the corner of her eye she saw Ashlin flinch for both of them, turning her face to the wall.
No, this wasn’t a secret any of them could survive.
Despite her promises of rest to the physicians, Savedra was out of bed within the hour. Her maid frowned and tsked, but helped her bathe and dress and pin up her hair. She needed armor as well as wits to face her family.
Fog drifted heavy through the streets, and even with her cloak and the shelter of a carriage, she was chilled through by the time she reached Phoenix House. The last light of evening glowed behind the rooftops, tinting the grey haze with sepia and rose. The maid directed her to her mother’s study, where Nadesda and Sevastian sat with the remains of a quiet supper and letters sprawled on a table between them. Sevastian’s sleeves were rolled up, his shirt open at the throat, and Nadesda wore a dressing gown and her hair unpinned, sable coils unraveling across her shoulders. The quiet domesticity caught in Savedra’s throat.
Her father rose to embrace her, his beard tickling her cheek with his kiss. “You look exhausted. I thought you were going to Evharis for your nerves.” A teasing smile accompanied the last.
She tried to smile back, but it felt more like a grimace. “Hello, Father. I’m sorry, but I need to speak with the archa.” The rudeness of it made her throat ache, but she didn’t have the strength for a pleasant visit tonight.
Sevastian’s brow creased but he nodded. “Of course.” He caught his jacket off the back of his chair.
“Father, I am sorry—”
He smiled ruefully and laid a warm hand on her shoulder as he passed. “I knew she would be archa when I married her. One grows accustomed.”
When the door clicked shut, Savedra knelt before her mother’s chair and winced; she’d bruised a knee somewhere during the flight from Carnavas.
“Vedra, what on earth are you doing?”
“I won’t beg a mother’s indulgence, but as a daughter of this house I crave a boon, Archa.”
Nadesda’s eyebrows rose. “What boon is that?”
“Three questions, answered honestly.”
Her mother studied her for a moment, the ghost of a frown tightening her lips. “Very well. Three honest answers you may have.” She rose and crossed the room, elegant as ever in her robe and bare feet, and touched the charm of silence on her wide mahogany desk. “Well?” she said, when the distant noises of the house had faded to nothing.
Savedra chewed the tip of her tongue and tried to organize her thoughts. “Who was Phaedra Severos? Darvulesti was the name she married into.”
Nadesda frowned. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “I feel I should. A distant cousin, perhaps? Someone I met at Evharis?” She shrugged. “I’m sorry. But we do have family records, if you need to know.”
Savedra’s fingers clenched in frustration; the motion made her wounded arm burn. She smoothed her skirt before wrinkles set in the heavy silk. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” she muttered.
“Is that your second question?”
She snorted. “No. What do you know about Varis’s schemes?”
Her mother’s frown deepened. “I’m sure he has some, but he hasn’t taken me into his confidences. He’s been keeping things from me, I know. He never could lie to me, not since we were children.”
Savedra sighed, but as she drew breath to speak Nadesda raised her hand. “No,” she said slowly. “It’s true that he hasn’t told me anything, but I am the archa of this house. I know more than that. Are you certain you want to?”
She nodded, jaw too tight for speech.
“He’s been to Sanctuary.” Her mouth quirked disdainfully on the name. “Talking to the sort of people one finds there. He wants the Alexioi off the throne, and I think he’s finally prepared to take steps.”
The words settled in her stomach like stones. For a moment Savedra thought she would retch. “Why? Why would he? I thought—” Her voice cracked. “I thought he loved me.” Stupid, stupid and childish. Her face twisted with the need to cry, but her eyes stayed dry. “And why Varis? When has he ever cared for politics?”
That was more than three questions, but Nadesda didn’t bother reminding her. “Oh, Vedra. He’s always cared. And he’d do it because he loves you, don’t you see? No,” she said before Savedra could protest. “You don’t. You can’t. What do you know about Varis’s scandals?”
“Who can keep track of them?” she snapped. “He mocks the Arcanost, questions their teachings, insults half the Octagon Court and seduces the rest. He wears the most awful virulent colors imaginable and brings demimonde opera singers to court. What does any of that have to do with Nikos, or me?”
“Those are the ones everyone sees. Those are his armor. But there was another, once, before you were born. Before he was born, even.” Savedra caught herself leaning forward as Nadesda’s calm earnestness dulled the edges of her anger and frustration. “Alena Severos and King Nikolaos were lovers.”
That set Savedra back on her heels, which she regretted when her knees creaked. “Before she married Tselios?”
“Yes, and before the king married Korina, though after the betrothal. Oh, it was never announced, but everyone marked how they shared too many glances and too little conversation, tried not to touch one another in public but always seemed to end up alone together.”
Varis had always been clear that “Uncle Tselios” was only his mother’s husband, but had never even hinted that he knew who his real father was. “You mean—”
“Exactly. Nikolaos shipped her off to a mountain estate when she became pregnant, and bribed Tselios to cover it up. So Tselios ended up with a royal favor and a royal bastard in his pocket to pull out whenever he needed.”
“But what happened? Why did I never know?”
“Because Nikolaos was smarter than Tselios, and never let rumors build. And when Mathiros was born the two children looked nothing alike. And Tselios was a petty tyrant, and Alena and Varis both hated him. She tried to escape at least twice—once back to Nikolaos, poor deluded thing, and once away from all of them—but he caught her both times. After the second try, he started poisoning her to keep her weak and biddable.”
Savedra didn’t realize she’d pressed a hand to her mouth until she tried to take a breath. “How did you find out?”
“Varis found the poison years later and told me. I was his only ally with Alena so weak. It was her brandy that was poisoned, which only made it worse. And by the time we stopped it, it was too late for her health.”
“What did you do?”
Nadesda’s smile was chilling. “We poisoned Tselios. And we stood over him as he choked and vomited his life out. He had plenty of enemies, and we were only children. No one accused either of us.” Her smile faded. “Alena died less than a year later, and Varis came to Erisín. He wanted… I don’t know what. Justice for his mother, recognition from Nikolaos. Anything. But the king paid no attention to him at all. There was no use in causing a scene—no one remembered by then. No one cared. And then he was sent to Iskar, and by the time he returned Nikolaos was dead. So there was never a chance for more.”
She leaned back in her chair, shoulders slumping. “And now he sees you, another mistress to an Alexios forced aside by a royal marriage. Nikos may not be anything like his grandfather, but that hardly matters to Varis.”
Savedra didn’t cry. She’d trained herself out of the habit too well. But her eyes ached like bruises as she looked up at her mother. “Does it matter to you?”
“Oh, darling.” Nadesda knelt beside her, holding her close and pressing Savedra’s face to her soft shoulder. “Darling, you can’t go on like this—it’s tearing you apart.”
“You’re right,” she whispered against Nadesda’s collarbone, inhaling the comforting scent of perfume and warm skin. More right than she knew. “But what else is there? And that doesn’t answer my question.”
Nadesda drew away, pulling Savedra up as she stood. “Your happiness does matter to me. And I do think Nikos would be a better king than his father, at least in peace. But the people who most want Mathiros off the throne don’t want to simply replace him with his son.”
“What can I do?”
“I don’t know. What will you do?” Her mother’s dark eyes were serious now.
“If I expose Varis it will only bring trouble down on the whole house. Don’t think I don’t know that.” She didn’t glance at the window, at the lightless bulk of Sphinx House. She didn’t need to. “I am a Severos, Mother, no matter where my other loyalties lie. But I can’t let him assassinate anyone. I’ll talk to him. Maybe I can make him understand.”
“Maybe you can.” The sadness in her voice belied the words. “Saints be with you, then.”
Varis’s housekeeper didn’t want to admit Savedra, but wasn’t prepared to deny a member of the family. Since his carriage was visible around the back and lights burned in the upstairs windows, she could hardly claim he was out visiting. She stammered something about the lord being busy, but Savedra broke in with her brightest smile.
“It’s all right. I won’t stay long. I’m sure he won’t mind. I can see myself up.” She turned toward the sweeping marble stair before the woman could argue.
Savedra tried to marshal her thoughts as she climbed. What could she say to him? Surely she could sway him. He’d been her doting uncle all her life, and Nikos couldn’t be held accountable for his grandfather’s sins. And Ashlin—Her throat tightened at the thought of the princess. Ashlin didn’t deserve to suffer for a political marriage she didn’t even want, but it was rankest na?veté to think that would stop anyone who desired her out of the way.
The library door stood open a crack, spilling a bright sliver of gold across the hall. The hinges didn’t squeak as she laid a careful hand on the wood. But her greeting died unspoken as she looked inside.
A woman stood on a stool in the center of the room, surrounded by lamps. A tailor crouched at her feet adjusting her hem, his mouth glittering with silver pins. A beautiful woman, to judge by the figure wrapped in white silk, but her face was veiled, dark hair carefully pinned up.
Savedra froze in the doorway, pulse quickening in her throat. In her turmoil over Nikos and Ashlin, she had almost forgotten Phaedra. Or whoever Varis’s mysterious book-stealing friend truly was. She nearly fled to regroup, but her toes scuffed on the edge of a carpet and Varis turned.
“Vedra.” For the first time she could remember, he didn’t look happy to see her. He covered it quickly, though, pulling on a smile and bowing over her hand. “Hello, darling. You’ve caught me at a rather inopportune moment, I’m afraid. Which is what happens when one doesn’t announce oneself. Or knock.”
“Inopportune? Like the time Mother walked in on you with the twin contortionists?” Her smile ached as she held it in place.
“Acrobats. They were acrobats. And not, I might add, doing anything unusually acrobatic at the time. Your mother likes to exaggerate that story more than it deserves. She didn’t knock either, as I recall. Besides, I’d much rather be walked in on doing something worthy of gossip. This hardly qualifies.”
“Mysterious women are always worthy of gossip.” She curtsied toward the woman on the stool. “Forgive me for interrupting.”
The woman waved a hand dismissively, earning a tsk from the tailor. “Not at all. Few things are more boring than standing still for hours at a time. And now I’m curious about these acrobats.”
Her voice pricked the nape of Savedra’s neck, soft and husky and oddly familiar. But not, as she’d imagined from Iancu’s description, Sarken; this woman’s native tongue was Selafa?n. The words were casual, the woman’s face not quite turned her way, but she felt the weight of her stare like a hand. Her arm throbbed beneath her sleeve. Did they know?
“Is there something I can do for you?” Varis asked.
“I only wanted to say hello. You’ve looked tired lately—” She shrugged, artless concern. That at least was true. For an unannounced evening visit to find anyone else unbuttoned and disheveled was normal; for Varis it was alarming. Beneath his open collar she glimpsed the edge of a dark and ugly bruise, and her blood chilled. She’d seen a similar mark on Isyllt Iskaldur, when the necromancer had delivered her report to Nikos. A vampire bite.
“I have, haven’t I?” He ran a hand over his scalp and sighed, surreptitiously tugging his shirt closed at the neck. “Even debauchery can be exhausting sometimes. The parties multiply so this time of year, and the planning and invitations and costumes…” He gestured toward the tailor.
“I understand. I’ll leave you to it, and to your guest.” She smiled at the woman, but found no hint of an answering expression behind the veil. “We should have lunch sometime. You can come to the palace and scandalize everyone.”
His smile looked like a grimace. “Yes. We should do that.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek, his lips soft and cool. “I appreciate you thinking of your decrepit old uncle.” His hand settled on her back, steering her toward the door so lightly and unobtrusively that she hardly noticed it.
“Buying dresses for other men’s wives?” she asked as they started down the stairs.
“Someone has to. I can’t bear another season of the Hadrians setting fashions.”
He took her arm, and released it again when she flinched. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. A bit of clumsiness, is all.”
Neither her tone nor face faltered, but Varis blanched. His eyes darkened and splotches of color bloomed in his cheeks. “That lie, my dear, is as old as the hills, and unworthy of both of us. Did he hurt you?”
She drew back from his cold rage, tongue slow with confusion. “Did who—No!” Realization made her stomach lurch. “No, of course not!” She forced her voice low when she wanted to shriek. “Nikos has never hurt me. He never would. How can you think that?”
“I’ve seen how the Alexioi treat their pets.” Anger made him a stranger.
“He is not his grandfather.” And so much for saving that particular secret.
Varis’s face twisted, finally settled back into his usual sardonic half-smile. “Indeed. Nor his father either, I suppose. That doesn’t seem to have helped you, does it?”
“He does the best by me that he can. We have both of us always understood how it would be.” Unbidden, the memory of Ashlin’s skin surfaced. She hoped her stinging blush could be taken for anger. “If you act against him—or the princess—you act against me. Please, Uncle. Don’t make us enemies for the sake of a man decades dead.”
He turned away, folding his arms across his chest. “I act for the living and the dead. And I have more cause than you can pry out of your mother.”
“Then tell me! Make me understand this.”
She caught the glitter of his eyes as they rolled upward. Toward the library. “I can’t,” he said softly, and the wrath drained out of him like water. “I don’t want to hurt you, Savedra.”
Her jaw tightened. “You already have.”
He lifted his chin, as chilly and urbane as ever. “Then you’ll forgive me or you won’t, darling. That’s up to you. Perhaps when this is over I can explain it to you.”
Her spine straightened in response, and her voice cooled to match. “I hope you can. I hope I can forgive you when I hear it.”
She turned away, sweeping down the rest of the stairs and snatching her cloak off the peg before the miserable housekeeper could reach it. She didn’t turn back, but out of the corner of her eye she saw him, frozen pale and motionless as marble. If he called to her, it was lost beneath the shutting of the door.
Safely enclosed in her waiting carriage, she let her face crumple, pinching her nose against the building pressure in her sinuses. She wanted to scream, but restrained herself for the driver’s sake.
She couldn’t fall apart yet. And she couldn’t do this alone. Her mother wouldn’t endanger the house, and Nikos couldn’t allow anything to threaten the throne. Ashlin might help her, but Savedra couldn’t risk the princess again. Captain Denaris was loyal to the throne—
No. She sat up straighter. She didn’t need a soldier or a courtier; she needed a sorcerer.
Savedra yanked open the panel that connected the interior to the driver’s seat. “Take me to Archlight.”
“What happened to your hand?” Dahlia asked later, as Isyllt measured mint and tarragon for tisane.
“A knife, with a would-be assassin on the other end.” Her fingers flexed at the memory, bone and tendon aching around their pins. The fresh scars on her throat were obvious; she’d been careful not to show the bruise on her thigh when she got out of the bath. Ciaran must have noticed it, but had chosen not to comment.
“What happened to the assassin?”
Isyllt frowned at the teakettle. “I don’t know. I never found her again, only her masters.” She stroked the band of her ring with her right thumb—that had been the only time she’d ever been parted from her diamond, and she meant to keep it that way.
“It would sound better if you’d killed her.”
“It would, wouldn’t it?” She set the kettle on the stove, shivering at the heat pulsing from the tiles. A previous, more culinary-minded tenant had installed the expensive green-glazed cooker; Isyllt had promised herself one if she ever moved into a house of her own.
“What about your wrist? Was that the same assassin?”
Burn scars ringed her left wrist, ridged and glossy tissue in the shape of a man’s hand. “No, someone else. He isn’t dead either.” She smiled a little at that memory, though there had been no humor in it at the time. “We’re friends now, actually.”
Dahlia snorted. “Do you have any stories where someone dies?”
“Oh, a few. We’ll save those for later.”
While the water heated, Isyllt found a spare mirror in the clutter of her workroom, and instructed Dahlia on its use. She also passed along the lecture on the cost and quality of the glass that the Arcanost glassmakers gave her every time she broke one. Next she found a knife—nothing as large or elaborate as her kukri, but a sharp blade all the same, and one spelled to wound demon-flesh.
By then the water was boiling, and even puttering around the apartment had winded her. She poured herself and Dahlia steaming tisane and returned to the sitting room to catch her breath.
Dahlia studied the blade a moment before sheathing it. She handled it competently, which was no surprise. “What do we do now?”
“Someone used Forsythia as a blood sacrifice.” It was the first time she’d spoken the thought aloud. She didn’t like the shape of the words in her mouth. “So we’re hunting haematurges.”
“Blood sorcerers.” Dahlia didn’t try to hide her dismay.
“It isn’t entirely like the penny dreadfuls,” Isyllt said. She remembered all the spook stories children in the city knew, about sorcerers who prowled the streets looking for victims, and what they did with them. Whether or not the murderous mages belonged to the Arcanost depended on the neighborhood, and the storyteller. “Haematurgy is an approved study at the Arcanost. But like necromancy, its reputation is… spotted. And maybe deservedly so. The more blood you have to work with, the more you can do. And after a certain volume it’s hard to find willing donors. The stories about Evanescera Ley and Arkady Tezda are exaggerated, but there’s truth at the core. The same applies to all the stories about the vrykoloi.”
“Blood sorcerers and vampires. And you’re going to hunt them.”
“We’re going to hunt them.” She met Dahlia’s eyes over her cup, waiting for a flinch. It never came.
“What first, then?”
“First we track rumors. I can’t imagine Forsythia was the first person they’ve killed. Even if no one’s whispering about blood magic yet, there will still be people missing, or found with slit throats. Between Ciaran and my friend Khelséa, we ought to find anything worth hearing.”
“You’re friends with a marigold?” For someone so young, Dahlia could fit a remarkable amount of skepticism in raised eyebrows.
“I am. And with Arcanostoi and guttersnipes and even a demon or two. Does that bother you?”
Dahlia shrugged. “Not as long as you’re paying me.”
Isyllt snorted, but pushed herself up and shuffled to the bedroom and her coffer. Coins clinked as she counted them. “These are for your time,” she said, handing over two silver griffins, “a decad of it. And these”—she counted out another griffin and a half in owls and obols and copper pennies—“are to get yourself something to wear. If you’re going to tell people you work for me, I’d rather you were wearing decent shoes.”
Dahlia rolled her eyes. The money vanished into several different pockets; nothing jingled when she was done.
The ward on the staircase shivered softly in Isyllt’s head and she straightened, locking the moneybox again with a touch. Her magic didn’t know the person on the stair, nor was the light knock that followed familiar.
A cloaked woman stood in the hallway, her face hidden by backlighting and the shadow of her cowl. Isyllt shifted and light fell past her, and she couldn’t stop a blink of surprise. Savedra Severos was not someone she expected to turn up unannounced on her doorstep. Or at all.
“Lady Severos.” Her title as royal concubine was more properly Pallakis, but Isyllt supposed she might get tired of being defined that way.
“Good evening, Lady Iskaldur.” Her voice was always arresting—not masculine, but rich and husky; according to Ciaran, more contralto roles had been written into operas and musicals since she’d taken up residence in the Gallery of Pearls. Tonight it was rough with fatigue or emotion. “Am I disturbing you?”
“Of course not.” Which of course one would always say to someone with the prince’s ear, but the curiosity of the visit more than made up for the late hour. “Come in.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry to come so late unannounced.” Blue silk flashed as she drew back her hood. Her heavy hair was held up in a lattice of pins and ribbons, but stray curls slipped free at her temples. She looked as tired as she sounded; the violet on her eyelids wasn’t paint, and her skin was too pale under the flush of cold. She moved jerkily as she crossed the threshold, as if nervous or pained, and Isyllt caught her backward glance.
Isyllt held out a hand for Savedra’s cloak even as she sent a questing tendril of magic down the stairs; if anyone had followed her, they lurked farther away than she could sense. “We keep odd hours in Archlight. It’s no trouble.” Cloth settled heavy over her arm; the velvet was damp from the night, but the silk lining was warm and smelled of perfume—sandalwood and vetiver and bitter orange. The scent lingered as Isyllt hung up the cloak.
Savedra was dressed plainly for the palace, but even so she would stand out on any street in Archlight. Her gown was blue figured silk, a duskier shade than her cloak, slim-lined and high-collared. The pearls at her throat were black, their iridescent darkness broken by the indigo sparkle of iolites. The thought of those pearls scattered on the cobbles made Isyllt’s jaw tighten.
“Do you have a coach waiting, Lady?”
“I sent the driver away. I didn’t want to attract attention.”
“You’ll attract another sort if you walk here at night. It’s hardly Oldtown,” she said to Savedra’s quirked brow, “but students have bills and bare cupboards too, not to mention drunken stupidity. I’ll see you safely away when you leave.”
“Of course.” She shook her head. “I’m eight shades of fool lately, it seems. Thank you.”
“You needed to speak to me?”
“Yes, if you have the time.” Hazel eyes flickered toward Dahlia, who was doing a poor job of not staring.
“Of course. My assistant was just leaving.” She steered Dahlia aside.
“You’re getting rid of me.” A statement, not an accusation.
“I am, and I’ll do it again before this is over. But I do need you to find Ciaran and ask after any rumors that might help us. And make sure no one was following our guest.”
Dahlia nodded slowly and turned toward the door, curtsying awkwardly to Savedra as she passed.
“Sit,” Isyllt said when the door was latched again. Her furniture looked even shabbier beside Savedra, and she was conscious of her worn and comfortable clothes and her hair drying in rattails over her shoulders. “What can I do for you? Would you like something to drink?”
Savedra sat with studied grace, skirts pooling artfully. That grace and her natural beauty distracted from the artifice she wore as elegantly as the pearls. There was very little to remind one that she hadn’t been born a woman—the strength of chin, perhaps, the length of the manicured hands that folded now in her lap. Her shoulders were thin enough, and the cut of her dress flattered narrow hips and a flat chest.
“I wouldn’t mind some of that tisane,” she said. “I could use something calming. I find myself with a mystery,” she continued after Isyllt set the kettle on to warm again. “One I can’t take to my family or to Nikos. I’d hoped to beg your services as an investigator.”
Isyllt frowned. “I’m a Crown Investigator, and oathsworn as such. I can’t involve myself in personal matters in the Octagon Court.” Only personal matters outside it.
“This isn’t—” Her lips pursed and she tried again. “My loyalty is to Nikos, and by extension to the Princess.” At that she glanced aside. “So I do support the Crown. But my family thrives on secrets, and any number of them might be damaging if brought to the wrong attention. I’m afraid that a member of my family is keeping dangerous secrets, but I won’t risk the well-being of the whole House by taking them before the throne.”
Her gaze focused on Isyllt’s neck, where her shirt left the bite uncovered. It was healing well, but still mottled and scabbed and ugly. Savedra’s eyes sagged closed, but she straightened quickly. “And I think my family problem overlaps with your vampires, though I’m not sure how. Please. At least hear the story. I don’t know where else to go.”
The whistle of the kettle forestalled an answer. Isyllt rose and poured more tisane. She set a cup beside Savedra’s chair; the woman’s hands shook too badly to give it to her. It was the trembling that decided her.
“Tell me. I’ll keep your secrets if I’m able.”
Their cups cooled untouched while Savedra spoke. Missing records, mysterious references, forgotten relatives, ruined castles and demon birds. It should have sounded like a rehearsal for a particularly melodramatic opera, but no actor Isyllt knew could feign the strained catch in Savedra’s voice.
“Wait,” she said when Savedra reached the birds, practicality breaking through her absorption in the story. “These creatures wounded you?”
Savedra shrugged. “It wasn’t that bad. More frightening than anything else.” Her right arm twitched—looking closer, Isyllt saw a bulge beneath her sleeve that was probably bandages.
Saints preserve her from clueless anixeroi. “Demon wounds are always that bad. Let me see.”
Buttons lined the sleeve from wrist to elbow. Isyllt unfastened them one by one while Savedra tried not to flinch, until she could see the bandage that wrapped the woman’s forearm. Savedra shuddered like a fly-stung horse as cold tendrils of magic probed the wound.
As far as damage to the flesh went, it wasn’t so bad. No poison in the blood, and she still had use of the arm. But sure enough, traces lingered, black and crimson to unfocused otherwise eyes. And something else, a faint shadow working through her veins—not septicemia, but a magical taint. Isyllt abandoned courtesy and pressed further, sending her magic chasing through Savedra’s flesh till she found the point of origin—a blood-colored shadow on her mouth.
“You ate something tainted, or drank it.” She let go and Savedra flinched back against the chair, her lips bruised with chill.
“I didn’t—Oh, Black Mother.” She scrubbed a hand across her mouth. “Blood. When the bird was killed, its blood sprayed on me. I still remember the taste.”
“Saints. Have you noticed any effects?”
“Dreams. Bad dreams.” She shook her head. “Strange dreams. Oh! I nearly forgot.” She fumbled in her pocket and produced a small bundle of silk. “I found this in Carnavas. I thought it must have belonged to a mage.”
Not again, Isyllt thought with a grimace as she unwrapped the ring. Not a sapphire this time, but a ruby, set in a delicate white gold band. A more decorative stone than hers, cushion-cut and brilliantly faceted beneath a layer of dirt. The purpose of a necromancer’s diamond was not beauty—hence the dulling cabochon shape.
“It was a mage’s, all right.” The stone throbbed in her hand. “Have you touched it?”
“Not since I first picked it up.”
The inside of the silk handkerchief was smeared with grime. Isyllt resisted the urge to clean the stone to study its hue.
“Is it… occupied?” Savedra asked.
“Only diamonds hold ghosts and spirits. Rubies and sapphires and emeralds hold spells instead, or raw power. This one definitely has power.” Power that tasted of rust and sweet scabs in her head, like cinnamon and marrow. Blood magic.
She closed the cloth around it again, before magpie greed made her careless. “I think,” she said to Savedra, “that I’ll be able to help you. I’m hunting a haematurge. Maybe the same one you are.” Savedra slumped in her chair, tension-sharp angles softening. “Also, I can probably remove the magical taint from you. But if I don’t, it will be easier to track her.”
The woman shuddered. “Leave it, then,” she said after a moment.
Isyllt nodded approval. “Were you followed here? You looked nervous when you arrived.”
Savedra’s chin rose as she frowned. “I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone, but my nerves have been bad since I left Carnavas. I dream of birds stalking women through the streets.” She fussed with her buttons, managing one or two before giving up. “I think I saw her tonight, this mysterious Margravine Phaedra. She was at my uncle’s house.”
Isyllt’s hands tingled as they tightened on her chair. “Did she see you?”
“Yes. Do you think I’m in danger?”
“I don’t know. I hope not, but we can’t assume that.”
“No, of course not.” Her mouth twisted. “It’s always best to assume you’re in danger. I have survived the palace this long, after all. What shall we do?”
“I can try to scry her. The ring and the taint in your blood will make powerful foci.” Isyllt pushed herself out of her chair. “Follow me.”
They cleared a space in the center of Isyllt’s workroom and unrolled a map of the city across the bare boards. The corners she pinned with stray mugs and books—not exactly glamorous spellcasting, but she was still too tired for flash and frills.
“What do you need from me?” Savedra asked.
“Stand there—” she pointed to the far end of the parchment, “—and concentrate on Phaedra, anything you know about her.” The ruby ring she laid in the center of the map to serve as a marker.
Isyllt took her place opposite Savedra and closed her eyes. Her right hand clenched till the band of her ring cut into her flesh. Phaedra Severos. She turned the name over in her mind, weighing and tasting it. A pity she didn’t have a face to accompany it, but the ruby should be focus enough.
Her nape prickled as her focus sharpened. Metal scraped and rattled as the ruby ring began to shake. Where are you, Phaedra?
A wall of fog rushed to meet her, dark and red and cloying. The smell of blood and cinnamon filled her nose, coated her tongue, crawled down her throat to choke her. Counter-magic, an obfuscation to thwart prying eyes. Isyllt tried to gather her power, but she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t concentrate. As her vision washed from red to black, she felt a woman’s presence beside her, felt her amusement. Then she fell, an endless dizzying spiral, down and down and down—
“Isyllt!”
Savedra’s face appeared close to hers, eyes dark with panic. The floor was cold and hard beneath her.
“What happened?” She wanted to spit out the lingering reek of blood.
“You fell.” Savedra caught her shoulder and helped her sit up. “The ring started to move, then everything washed red for a heartbeat and you fell.”
“She’s taken precautions,” Isyllt said. The taste of copper dripped into her mouth. She scrubbed a hand across her face and it came away scarlet and sticky—her nose was bleeding. “I can’t break her wards.” And, more quietly, “She’s powerful.”
Fog coiled thick and blue in the streets when Isyllt escorted Savedra out to find a carriage, bleeding orange at lamplight’s touch. Mist swallowed the sky, swallowed everything past a few yards in every direction, but Isyllt knew they weren’t alone in the night. The city lay still and hushed, but the toll of the night bells echoed all around, shivering in Isyllt’s bones.
Savedra jumped at the first peal, then giggled. “Nerves. It still feels like someone’s watching.”
“I think we’re safe from prying eyes for the moment,” Isyllt lied, giving her a lopsided smile.
They found a carriage two streets over, and Isyllt tipped the driver well to make sure Savedra reached the palace safely. Not that the man could do much if a sorceress attacked, but it made her feel a little better.
“I’ll contact you as soon as I learn anything more,” she said as she helped Savedra into the cab. “Please be discreet.”
Savedra’s glare conveyed a wealth of don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs, reminding Isyllt again that she was a scion of the Eight, and a skilled courtier besides. She covered Isyllt’s hand with her own grey-gloved one, though, and that spoke only gratitude. “I’ll do the same,” she said as the door closed. “Thank you.”
When the carriage was out of sight, Isyllt slipped into the nearest fog-shrouded alley. A moment later her ring chilled as death breathed over her.
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you,” Spider said from behind her. “Keeping an eye on you—I hear of sickness and death in the city.”
“Some might call that pursuance. The law frowns on it.”
This time she followed him more easily as he moved in front of her. Either she was growing used to it or feeding made him slow. His skin was no less pale, but stolen heat suffused his flesh. He stroked her cheek with one long hand. “Some might call it affection.”
A drop of blood glistened black at the corner of his mouth. Isyllt wiped it away with her thumb. “Another willing donor?”
“Do you really want to know?”
His scent filled her nose through the smell of fog and wet stone, and she wanted to lean into it. But she wasn’t tired and lonely tonight; tonight she was working. She caught his wrist and pulled his hand away. After a heartbeat he acquiesced, flesh becoming pliable.
“I hope you don’t leave the bodies lying in the street for constables to trip over.” She scrubbed her hands on her trousers when she let go.
Fangs flashed with his smile. “There’s always the river for that.”
“Yes.” Isyllt thought of the cathedral-cavern beneath the river, of the offerings there. She had dreamed of it too, during the fever, dreamed of finding the swollen corpses of people she knew floating in black water. When she was younger she had dreamed of watching the Vigils pull the corpses of her friends from the slime-slick river gates. Thinking of the corpse-gates set another thought burning in her brain, bright enough that she nearly jumped. “Yes, there is.”
“I thought we might talk tonight,” Spider said. The fog softened the sharp angles of his face, dulled the preternatural glitter of his eyes. Or maybe that was only his glamour trying to draw her close.
She forced a smile. “I’ve been ill for nearly a decad, and I have work to do in the morning. Some other night. You can buy me another drink.”
His mouth curled, close-lipped and very nearly human. “Whenever you wish.” He pressed a cool kiss on her knuckles and faded into the mist.
Isyllt had no intention of sleeping, though she prowled her apartment for a time with the lights dimmed. When she couldn’t take the inaction any longer she changed clothes and put her hair up properly and slipped into the street again. This time she felt no prickle of awareness, no death chill. She knew it would make no difference if Spider were still about, but she took the long way through Archlight’s steep and winding streets nonetheless, twisting and doubling back on her way to Kiril’s house.
The odds of him sleeping at this hour were just as good as her own. Sure enough, she found a light burning in his bedroom window. She didn’t bother to knock, simply laid a hand on the door and let the wards recognize her.
She waited shivering on the doorstep for several moments, till she began to suspect that he’d fallen asleep with the light on. Finally he opened the door, fully dressed and frowning.
“I know it’s an unholy hour,” she said lightly, “but you needn’t look that unhappy to see me.” She meant it as a jest, not a jibe, but he didn’t smile. “What’s the matter?”
“A long night.” He stepped aside slowly, as if reluctant to admit her. He didn’t offer to take her coat. She tried to pretend the ache in her chest was only the aftermath of her illness. “For you as well, I take it.”
The front of the house was nearly as cold as the night outside, and had an air of disuse about it—less the smell of dust as a lack of the usual polish. That in itself wasn’t unusual, but combined with his drawn face and distance it wedged another splinter of worry under her heart. And she knew voicing any concern would only cause him to pull further away.
“An interesting night,” she said, keeping her fears away from her face and voice. She doubted she succeeded entirely—after fifteen years she couldn’t lie to him any better than he could to her. “There’s more to this case than tomb-robbing vampires.”
Kiril stilled. “The case that the prince and I suggested you let lie?”
She didn’t cross her arms defensively, but it was a near thing. “I’m not satisfied with what I’ve found.”
“Some mysteries bring no satisfaction with the solving.”
“Even so.”
“I could order you to stop.”
She nodded, and now her arms did cross, slow and deliberate. “You could.”
He smiled tiredly. “So stubborn. I can’t imagine where you learned such a thing. Why defy me on this?”
She shrugged. “I promised to find Forsythia’s killer.”
He didn’t wince, but she saw his discomfort. “Promises to the dead rarely bring satisfaction either.”
Her composure cracked and she swayed forward, forcing a traitorous hand back to her side. “What’s wrong? Tell me and I can help you.”
An unfamiliar scent filled her nose as she drew close. Not the usual amalgam of spices that clung to Kiril’s skin, but orange and cinnamon and almond, delicately blended. A woman’s perfume.
Jealousy was an ugly, irrational thing, but that didn’t keep its claws out of her chest. Even uglier was the memory that followed hard on its heels, the echo of Forsythia’s hollow voice: All I could smell was her perfume—orange and spices.
Coincidence, she prayed. It has to be coincidence. But she knew it had no obligation to be anything of the sort.
Kiril missed the instant’s horror on her face by turning away. “I can’t,” he said. “I’m sorry. I can only ask you to please leave this case alone. For everyone’s sake.”
“I can’t do that. Will you bind me?” He could, as her master and the keeper of her oaths. It was not an option that either of them had ever voiced before.
He winced, but she took no pleasure in the strike. “No.”
“Then I suppose we’ve run out of conversation.”
“Isyllt—” She turned, one hand on the doorknob. His eyes were black holes in his seamed face, and he looked frailer than she’d ever seen. Shrunken. “I am sorry.”
“So am I.”
She closed the door softly behind her and fled into the fog.
As she closed the door of her suite behind her, Savedra knew she wasn’t alone. Her knife was in her hand before she could think, her already taut nerves singing and her pulse hard and fierce in her throat.
“It’s only me,” Ashlin said. A match scraped and wept sparks as she kindled a lamp. “Remind me never to sneak up behind you.”
“I would be very embarrassed to kill you.” She dropped the blade on a table; she’d only cut herself if she tried to resheathe it.
“What’s wrong?”
“A trying night.”
“Are you all right?”
“As well as can be expected.” She reached for the buttons on the back of her neck and hissed as her wounded arm twisted. She’d forgotten about it during her talk with Isyllt, but now it burned and itched abominably.
“Here,” Ashlin said, moving to help. “I let the housekeepers draft your maid for decorating. I promised you wouldn’t mind.”
Savedra sighed. Mathiros’s imminent return had the staff strained and rushing about their work. She hadn’t realized how peaceful the palace had been without him. She had seen masters far more critical and harsh than the king, but he was always brusque without Lychandra to soften him, and no one wanted to be nearby when his temper snapped.
In her brooding she forgot where she was and whom she was with until Ashlin began removing the pins from her hair. “Don’t,” she said, stepping away. She clutched her gown to her chest in a ridiculous display of modesty.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” The princess turned, throwing up her hands. “Gods, this is so ridiculous.”
Savedra laughed humorlessly. “It is.” She unclenched her fingers and the gown crumpled at her feet. She wanted to kick it aside, but draped it over a chair instead. “What are we going to do?”
Ashlin sat heavily on the foot of the bed, slouching elbows to knees. “What can we do?”
“Pretend it never happened?”
That drew the princess’s head up with a jerk. “Is that what you want?”
She ought to lie; it would be easier. “I don’t know. I have the choice of hurting you or hurting Nikos.”
“You love him. I understand.”
“I love you too. But I never expected this.”
It was Ashlin’s turn to laugh. “Neither did I. I only wanted a friend. I’ve never had many. Which is my own fault, for being a prickly sharp-tongued bitch. Then I met you, and you should have hated me but you didn’t, and you were clever and funny and beautiful and I was so bleeding grateful—” She shook her head. “I never imagined it would turn into something more, but now it has and I don’t know what to do. I’ve seen things like this before. I know how ugly they can turn. If—If you want me to go—”
Savedra wanted to scream, to laugh until she wept; her mother and Thea Jsutien between them couldn’t have concocted so clever a scheme. All it would take was a bit of jealousy and heartache to undermine the already strained marriage and send Ashlin home to Celanor, leaving Nikos embarrassed and obliged to remarry. And he still couldn’t marry her. What would the Jsutiens offer, she wondered madly, if she sent Nikos to Ginevra after all?
It felt like she moved through water as she crossed the room and cupped Ashlin’s cheek in one hand, like trying to run in a dream. “I don’t want you to leave. But I don’t want you to be miserable if you stay, either.” The softness of the princess’s skin sent a shiver up the length of her arm. Even dyed, her hair was finer than Nikos’s, the freshly trimmed tips prickly.
Ashlin turned her head and pressed a chaste kiss on Savedra’s palm, and then a lingering one on the hollow of her wrist. “I’m not drunk enough for this.”
Savedra laughed breathlessly, though it wasn’t funny. Wine, she’d learned, was usually how the princess nerved herself for marital obligations. She thought of her parents together, their easy affection and quiet, obvious devotion, and felt a pang of grief that something so simple should elude so many.
She might have argued that it was that grief that made her tilt Ashlin’s head back and kiss her. Grief and lingering horror, the need to feel warm and safe again. She might have said that, but it would have been a lie.
This time was slower, tentative and exploratory and still awkward. The fit of their bodies was strange and unnerving, but an improvement over Savedra’s clumsy and adolescent encounter with a girl from Arachne twelve years ago. That had been the last time she’d lain with a woman, until Evharis.
“I don’t usually worry about pregnancy,” Savedra said after a long silence, “but we have to.” Pragmatism dulled the pleasant tingle in her limbs, but she couldn’t ignore it.
“There is the possibility that I’m barren,” Ashlin said, not quite meeting her eyes. “And wouldn’t that be irony fit for an opera. I could have joined a mercenary company after all, and spared everyone grief.” She squeezed Savedra’s hand as she said it.
“It could also be Nikos.” It felt like a betrayal to say the words aloud, but he had acknowledged the chance himself after the second miscarriage. In the dark, in fact, in a scene much like this. She swallowed a bitter laugh. “It’s not as though I’ve borne him any bastards to say otherwise.”
They lay quietly for a while, with the weight of secrets and costs like a blade between them.
“You should go,” Savedra said at last, because someone had to.
“I should.” The shadows hid the princess’s face, but the hurt in her voice was clear. Savedra held herself still and silent while Ashlin dressed, though she ached to reach for her, to call her back.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last, as Ashlin turned to the door.
“So am I,” the princess whispered. Then she was gone.
Savedra wanted to press her face against the pillow and cry herself to sleep. But she was too much her mother’s daughter for that. Instead she rose and opened the windows to the damp and frigid night, then turned to the bottle of brandy on her dressing table. The first glass went down her throat in a single searing gulp. The second she carefully dashed across the soiled sheets. She changed the linens herself, awkwardly hauling a fresh set across the wide bed. When that was done she ran herself a bath and scrubbed away the scent of Ashlin’s skin. Next, wet and shivering in the drafty room, she opened the doors of her shrine and lit a stick of incense to Saint Sarai.
By then dawn was a pale blue wash against her windows, and she ached to the bone with fatigue. She sealed the room again and crawled into her cold bed. The scent of smoke and sandalwood and brandy chased her into the dark, and haunted her through alien dreams.