The Bone Palace

PART III  Aubade


chapter 14


On the twenty-seventh of Hekate, the King’s army returned to Erisín. They rode through the Dawn Gate at first light, as was traditional for victories. Historically, any action not ending in a rout and hasty flight to the city walls was considered a victory. They flew the tower and crescent moon of Selafai, white on grey, and the crowned griffin on blue of House Alexios. The banners would have snapped but for the night’s rain. The rain also turned the haze of dust that trailed them into a sucking mire, and coated the soldiers in mud to the knee.
Despite the weather, helms and mail still gleamed and many of the horses were fresh enough to step proudly and toss their heads. Crowds choked the sidewalks, cheering and tossing hothouse flowers. Orange-coated police lined the barricades, keeping the streets clear and preventing any overly enthusiastic onlookers from rushing the procession, or soldiers’ families from demanding news of their missing kin. Those questions would be asked later, away from the public eye.
And behind them, far from the cheers and flowers but toiling through the same mud—and more horse shit—came the refugees.
Savedra didn’t stand with Nikos to welcome his father home. Some propriety they wouldn’t test. But her station—and sharp elbows—earned her a place at the front of the crowd of courtiers gathered in the breathless cold of the palace courtyard. The prince and princess stood at the front, the king’s aged seneschal beside them. Garlands and banners flapped around them, the wind stripping petals from hothouse flowers and scattering them across the stones. The cobbles had been scrubbed till they gleamed, and every stray bit of wood and metal polished. The staff all wore smiles firmly fixed, but Savedra was sure they didn’t appreciate the king’s timing.
The assembled court heard the approaching hooves before the trumpets sounded, the din of the crowds that followed. Three riders passed the gate at a time—first three of the king’s honor guard, then the king himself flanked by two others, and then the final three, all on matching black horses. After them came the generals and officers and any soldiers who had kin in the palace. The others would have gone to the garrison by the western gate in Lastlight.
The honor guard opened their formation, circling their horses to the right until they stood in a line behind the king. Mathiros Alexios was not a tall man. He had been lean and strong in his youth, and age had thickened him but not lessened his strength. His ash-and-iron hair and beard were cropped close as any soldier’s—shaggy now, after days on the road—and his skin was brown and seamed after a lifetime of sun and wind. He wore plain leather and mail under his blue cloak, and nothing resembling a crown. He didn’t need one—the ferocity of his dark eyes was authority enough. Hard to remember sometimes, amid the scheming and complaints of the Octagon Court, just why the Eight rarely managed to outmaneuver or outvote him in the council. But as his gaze swept the courtyard a hundred heads bent rather than meet his eyes.
He stripped off his leather gauntlets and swung down from the saddle, patting his black mare affectionately. When his boots hit the ground the crowd knelt as one, with a sound like a wave foaming over stone. Only Nikos and Ashlin kept their feet, straight and shining.
Nikos had dressed with restraint for the occasion, though Savedra knew it chafed him—silks and velvets as always, but all in black, broken only by the gold and sapphires of his jewelry. The color wasn’t his best, but it flattered in a severe sort of way. In a rare display of camaraderie, Ashlin matched him, lithe and slim in black leathers. The rubies she wore in a bloody spray across her throat were the only mark of her station. Savedra and the princess’s maids had tried to strip the dye with harsh rinses, but her hair was still several shades darker than normal, a rich honey-gold, glinting here and there with copper.
“Welcome home, Father,” Nikos said, his voice carrying over the stamp and jingle of the horses. He bowed first, deep and formal, then offered a hand to clasp. Savedra had never seen Nikos embrace his father in all the years she’d known them.
Ashlin bowed as well, with a soldier’s crispness. Mathiros’s eyes glittered as he took her hand. Despite all the tensions of the marriage and the quarrels among the Alexioi, the king had always been fond of his warrior daughter-in-law. It made the treason she and Savedra had committed all the more dangerous.
When the king had greeted his heirs he raised his seneschal from his knees and gave the man an affectionate slap on the shoulder. Then he raised a hand to the crowd, and the courtiers clambered gratefully off the frozen stones. As she stood, Savedra saw Lord Orfion through the crowd, deep in the shadow of the far wall. His face was impassive as ever, but she caught the tired slump of his shoulders as he turned away.
The council that followed the king’s return was a farce.
No, Kiril corrected himself ruefully. The meeting was a necessity, to learn the state of the kingdom before tomorrow’s open court. It was to Mathiros’s credit that he had summoned his councilors after no more delay than a bath and a meal. It was his own presence in the council chamber that was farcical.
The long room was the same as ever—paneled and polished, the rich carpets faded by decades of feet. Fires burned in hearths on either side, their warmth and glow warring with the grey chill that seeped relentlessly through the half-moon mullioned window at the far end. Chairs creaked as counselors leaned toward or away from the heat; paper rasped and crinkled as they sorted through stacks of briefs and notes. An intimately familiar scene, one he’d sat through countless times. Now it was merely salt in the wound of his betrayal, and he was the only one who felt the sting.
Facing Mathiros was more painful than watching Phaedra in her stolen flesh. Love betrayed might give rise to hate and bitterness, but the original love could never be entirely erased. Even now he saw in the king echoes of the boy he had sworn to serve, the man he’d followed and supported unflinchingly.
He saw echoes of the old king, too, more than he wanted to. Strong was what people had most often called Nikolaos Alexios. Cold and hard were next, the closest one could come to the truth while still being politic. Cruel was a better word still, or perhaps merely uncaring. Nikolaos had taken no joy in harming those around him, but neither had he ever taken their feelings into account.
Kiril was twenty-one when he first met Mathiros, a promising young mage with no family to speak of, clever and quietly ambitious. The sort of agent the old spymaster had looked for—the sort Kiril looked for now. The prince had been ten, already grown scarred and hard in his father’s shadow, but not yet dead inside. He turned toward Kiril like a sapling toward the sun.
Kiril had thought to shape the boy into a better king than his father, a better man—for the most part, he succeeded. Mathiros learned a little wisdom and more restraint, smoothed the harsh edges of his temper and acquired a modicum of diplomacy. The country had warmed to their forthright warrior prince, and welcomed—or at least tolerated—a warrior king while expansionist emperors held Assar’s Lion Throne. Phaedra’s death had nearly cost them everything, but they overcame even that. And when Mathiros found Lychandra, Kiril had almost thought that everything would turn out for the best.
Instead she was, inadvertently, the thing that destroyed them.
Adrastos and the priestess Sophia Petreos were deep in argument over the refugee problem and how it might be solved. Mathiros listened—or feigned listening—nodding and grunting at appropriate intervals, but Kiril doubted his mind was on any of the matters at hand. He hadn’t seen the king so tired in years, cheeks sunken beneath his beard and his eyes branded with sleepless circles. Blunt fingers moved restlessly against the table, the papers before him, the arm of his chair. Mathiros didn’t startle, but his eyes flickered whenever the shadow of a bird flitted past the window.
Looking closer, Kiril saw the sorcery laid on him, faint as a whisper. Phaedra’s arm was long—or her wings swift. Scarcely visible, but he was still glad he was the only mage in the council. His would-be successor—a young man with talent and a surfeit of ambition who Mathiros had chosen over Isyllt—was still in Ashke Ros, and Sophia had reached the rank of high priestess through cunning and connections, not mystical acumen.
Nikos noticed his father’s unease, if not the witchery behind it; more than once he tried to catch Kiril’s eye, but Kiril busied himself with papers and gave no response. The prince had proved himself more than capable in his father’s absence, and Kiril had no quarrel with him, but neither would he lead him on with promises of aid. His service to House Alexios was over and done.
So why are you here, old man?
He knew the answer, much as it pained him. He had come because even now he was waiting for Mathiros to change his mind. To apologize, to make some gesture toward mending their split.
It was as ever a vain hope. The king ignored him as he had for years. Kiril was no more than a shadow in his chair for all the heed Mathiros paid him. The other counselors had long followed the king’s example. Some still came to him in private, of course.
The argument broadened to include the treasurer and Secretary of State, and to encompass the matter of military spending. Kiril kept his face and body still when he wanted to bolt from the room. He shouldn’t have come—no matter how this ended, he would get no satisfaction from the outcome.
The city was in too much clamor to venture out that day. Instead Isyllt buried her frustrations by teaching Dahlia the basics of magic theory, though she could give the task only a fraction of the attention it deserved.
When dusk rinsed the sky with violet, she realized what she should have done days ago. Shame stung her cheeks—it was too easy for even a necromancer to forget the dead. She stopped in the middle of a restless circuit.
“Forsythia.”
The diamond sparked and the ghost materialized with a pale flicker of witchlight. She turned slowly, inspecting her new surroundings. Her skin and gown were shades of smoke and moonlight, her hair a watery gold; the grain of the paneling was visible through her slender form. Her throat, at least, was unmarred. She fixed her lightless eyes on Isyllt. “Hello, necromancer.”
“How are you feeling?”
The ghost gave the question serious consideration. “Better,” she said at last. “Clearer. The others have talked to me, explained things.”
The other ghosts in the diamond, she meant. Isyllt nodded. “Good. Do you mind answering some more questions?”
Forsythia smiled wryly; Isyllt wished she could have seen the expression in life. “I have nothing but time, don’t I?”
“Sit down.” Isyllt nodded toward a chair and turned to fetch incense and the last of a bottle of her favorite Chassut red. She lit sticks of sandalwood and olibanum in a brazier, and poured wine for herself and Forsythia, and after some consideration for Dahlia too. The ghost looked askance at the goblet Isyllt set beside her chair, but her outline was clearer already.
“Did you know what Whisper gave you?” Isyllt asked, sitting in the opposite chair. Dahlia drew closer, crouching unobtrusively on the floor.
“The ring, you mean?” Forsythia fingered the neckline of her gown again. “I knew it was a precious thing, something the likes of us don’t come by honestly. I knew better than to wear it or show it to anyone. But it was beautiful, and a gift, so I couldn’t bear to part with it.” The hollows of her eyes turned to Isyllt. “If I had, would you even be here?”
Isyllt had no answer for that, and sipped her wine to rinse the bitter taste away.
“Have you seen Whisper?” Forsythia asked.
“Yes.” The bitterness was inescapable. “He’s dead too.”
Forsythia made a noise between a choke and a sob, one pale fist pressing against her chest. Grey coils of smoke drifted toward her, into her, solidifying her and filling in details; the ragged lace at the neck of her dress was visible now. “Was it you?”
“No.” She didn’t see the need to explain more about her involvement. “He was… half-mad with grief for you. He wanted to find your killer. He was going to tell me why he robbed a royal tomb, but didn’t get the chance. Did he tell you?”
“He told me lots of things. He liked to talk, after.” She crossed her legs, and Isyllt almost mimicked the gesture. “Most of what he said I didn’t understand—he talked about the tunnels, about how strange the city was to him, how he missed the wind and the rain. He brought me other gifts, sometimes, bits of jewelry or ribbons, scraps of lace. I asked him once if he stole them—not from anyone who missed them, he said. I guessed then that they were grave-goods. I suppose it should have repulsed me.” She shrugged defensively. “But no one else brought me gifts like that, for the joy of something beautiful.”
Dahlia stirred, hugging her knees to her chest. “Was he kind to you?” she asked softly.
“Yes.” Forsythia shifted in the chair; the upholstery buttons were no longer visible behind her. “He was a monster—I knew that. But he was always polite. He always asked. And he was so cold, so clean. I couldn’t stand the stink of men—sweat and beer and onions, foul breath. Sometimes I dreamt their stench soaked into me and I could never scrub it off.” Her hands closed in her skirts convulsively. “The blood was nothing compared to that.”
She shook herself and sat up straighter. There was color in her cheeks now; she might have passed for a living woman to anyone who didn’t know better. “I’m sorry. You asked me about the ring. He talked about a woman—a sorceress, I think. He and his friends worked for her, or with her. He could be… vague. I never wanted to press him—I didn’t think it was any of my business. He said—” She frowned in concentration. “He said she would help them change things, to walk in the streets again. And once he said… they had to find her a body. I didn’t want to know anything else about that.”
Even after Azarné’s warning, the reminder chilled her. Why was Kiril protecting a demon? She had freed a demon once herself, a little voice reminded her—but, she argued back, he hadn’t been in the habit of murdering women for their blood.
“Did he say her name, or the names of any of his friends?”
Forsythia shook her head. “Not the woman’s. He mentioned the other vampires, though—they all had false names, like us flowers. It made me laugh. Myca, I think one was. And Spider. Something like that, anyway.”
She knew better than to be angry, but it simmered beneath her breastbone anyway. That he had played her from the start she might forgive—it was, after all, a danger of her work—but the ease with which he’d betrayed his fellow vrykoloi galled.
“Does that help you?” Forsythia asked. Her black eyes robbed her face of expression, but her hands plucked nervously at her sleeves.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“You’ll find them? The ones who killed me? The ones who killed Whisper?”
“I will.” Satisfaction or not, this was a promise she meant to keep.
That night, Kiril sought Phaedra out.
She made her home in ruins, which was sensible in spite of her flair for the theatric. No one trespassed beyond the ironbound wall that guarded the ruined palace, and stray whispers of magic would not be remarked upon. If anyone marked her coming or going, it would be just one more ghost story to scare children in Elysia.
Not all such stories were false; spirits watched him as soon as he set foot beyond the gate. Tiny, hungry things clustered at the edges of the path, dark tangles at the edge of his vision. None were brave enough to challenge him, but had he been weak or injured or merely blind to them they might have dared.
The miasma of the ruin scraped like sharkskin against his senses—where the wind touched him he expected to bleed. The magic was no longer strong enough for that, but the pain and rawness still wore on his nerves. Did Phaedra’s madness leave her immune to the effect, he wondered, or exacerbate it?
He followed the scent of her magic to a tower, one of the few structures that hadn’t yet succumbed to time and the elements. It bore their marks, however, delicate redents and figures worn soft and faceless, once-white sandstone now stained yellow as bone. Perhaps it was this tower in which Tsetsilya Konstantin had purportedly died. That would appeal to Phaedra. The spirits that lingered here were stronger, fattened on scraps of magic.
She set no guard upon the stairs, but he felt her wards acknowledge him and let him pass. His chest and knees ached by the time he reached the top, which only strengthened his resolve to be done with this.
She had settled in the topmost floor. Scavenged rugs covered cold stone, and books were stacked against the walls. Notes and pens lay scattered across a table beside tangles of jewelry and crumpled playbills. A plum-red gown and matching veils draped a chair, slippers kicked halfway across the room. The glowing brazier was no match for the night’s chill.
An adjoining room had become her laboratory. Vials and instruments gleamed by candlelight, and journals and stray parchment covered the tables in drifts. It was here he found her, naked, leaning over a tray of surgical knives. Her nudity and the cold glitter of steel were both disconcerting, but so odd in combination that he didn’t know what to make of it.
“Hello, Kiril,” she said without looking up. “Would you help me with this?”
He stepped forward, though the calmness in her voice was no safe gauge of her mood. Her hair was piled high and sparkling with garnets, her face flawlessly made-up. He knew certain brothels that would have paid a great deal for the effect, especially with a scalpel in her hand.
“What are you doing?” He decided not to mention the brothels.
She sorted through saws and clamps and blades, finally selecting a long cylindrical boring knife, the sort used to retrieve samples when a full autopsy was unfeasible. “I need a bit of liver, and the angle is bad to do it myself.” She held out the knife handle first. “Be a dear and fetch me some?”
He almost asked if she was joking, but there was no humor in her eyes, only the intensity that came over her when she worked. “You’re well turned out for surgery.”
“I’m going out with Varis. This will only take a moment, and I’d rather do it now before I forget.”
“All right.” Bemused, he knelt at her right side, trying not to wince as his knees met the floor. The candles were insufficient, so he summoned the white glow of a witchlight. He laid his left hand below her ribs, pressing the skin taut. “Here?” he suggested, tapping the spot between thumb and forefinger. When she nodded he set the tip of the knife in place, skin dimpling under steel. With one last glance to confirm her willingness, he twisted the blade home.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, as she made a soft noise. He twisted the knife again and withdrew it. Anatomy classes would be much more interesting if they all had undead to experiment on, but the legal and ethical concerns would likely tie up the Arcanost for years.
“Only if I let it,” she said, wiping away a drop of blood. “It’s cold, though.”
A sliver of greyish-red meat glistened inside the curve of the blade. Phaedra took the knife from him and tapped the liver into a glass dish. When the cover was in place she sealed it with a touch, and spoke a word of stasis to keep the sample fresh. As fresh as years-dead flesh could ever be.
“Thank you. And since you’re here, you can help me dress.” She shot a glance over her shoulder as she turned toward the other room. “Why are you here?”
“I’m leaving.” The words were harder to voice than he’d imagined. “The city, that is.”
“Before the ball? You haven’t even seen my dress.” Teasing, but her brow creased.
“I can’t sit through the final act of this revenge play of yours. They’re always tragedies, you know.”
Her eyes flashed in the witchlight. “I know tragedy very well.”
“Then I leave it to you. My part in this is done.”
She turned, gown forgotten. “It doesn’t have to be. I could use your help, you know, when I take the throne.”
His eyebrows rose. “Really? When did you decide this?”
She shrugged. “We’ve discussed it for some time now, Spider and I.” Her pet vrykolos, the one who’d led Isyllt into danger—Kiril stifled a reply as she continued. “Since we’re removing a king to begin with, why not take advantage of the opportunity?”
“Why indeed. What does Varis think of this?”
She glanced away. “I’m sure Varis would be happy to see the Severoi back in power, even if the circumstances were unorthodox.”
“Of course.”
Her lips pursed in a frown. “You don’t approve.”
“You hardly need my approval at this stage. As I said, I’m finished.”
She closed the distance between them and laid a hand on his chest. “Don’t leave. You helped one king—help me. Or better yet, be a king. I promised to make you young and strong again, and I can. New life for both of us, and a throne besides. Haven’t you dreamed of that?”
He took her hand in his. “I know where my strengths lie. Whose body would you steal for me?” The answer came as soon as he voiced the question. “Nikos, of course. What better way to take the throne? And whose flesh for you?”
“Does it matter? Someone young and beautiful. Would you like to choose?”
Her neediness unsettled him—he would rather see her raging. “It might work, but not for me. I have no desire to rule, and even less to steal someone else’s life that way. Nikos has done nothing to earn your enmity.”
She sagged against him, cold and soft. “Not enmity—expedience. Isn’t that always the way of it?”
He took her by the shoulders and eased her away. “I’m sorry, Phaedra. I can’t help you anymore.”
“But I can help you. Not a new body, perhaps, but strength I can give you. I promised I would.” She pressed close again, too strong for him to move without violence. “You broke yourself for me—I know that. Let me make you whole again.”
“I told you, I have no desire to be your pet.” The denial came more slowly than it should. He needed to leave, before her madness infected him. Before her promises wore him down.
“You won’t be, I swear. Besides—” She smiled up at him through her lashes. “Don’t you think you could stop me if I tried?”
“I prefer not to make foolish assumptions,” he said dryly, “especially where my freedom is concerned.”
“Don’t you see, freedom is what I’m offering you? You gave your life in service to a king who abandoned you, and spent your strength helping me. I can give you that back, with no vows to bind you.”
He could never trust her. It was madness and foolishness and he had to refuse, but the words didn’t come. He was so tired—he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt strong, even before Phaedra came. He was so tired of weariness and regret.
She took his hand and led him to the laboratory.