The Bone Palace

chapter 16


Erisín celebrated the longest night of the year with masques and parties. Legend held that the masks were meant to confuse the hungry spirits who crept through the mirrors that night, but in more recent times it was an excuse for excess and indulgence before the Invidiae—the demon days that fell at the dark of the year.
In the palace, celebrants gathered in the White Ballroom. The room was exactly what its name implied, but that couldn’t do justice to the brilliance of mirror-polished marble and crystal chandeliers. Alabaster lamps chased the shadows from the corners—those seeking privacy could slip onto the terrace. Only the ceiling broke the flawless pallor, covered with a mural of the courtship of Sarai and Zavarian. Daises had been erected on either end of the hall—one for the musicians, the other for the king’s chair of state and the lower seats for the prince and princess. Those chairs were empty now, and the musicians tuned their instruments while the growing crowd mingled and loitered and laid waste to the food and wine.
Isyllt waited near the throne dais, trying to ignore the smell of food. Only long practice kept her still, hands folded placidly when she wanted to fidget and tug at the unfamiliar weight of her new gown.
She usually wore white at the solstice masque—the same dress, in fact, for the past three years, each time with a different mask. She would have resorted to it again tonight, choosing convenience over pride, had Savedra not summoned her with an urgent note and a referral to a milliner. A day and a half she would have spent at the Arcanost or searching for Phaedra had been stolen by fittings, but it was hard to regret the lost hours when she saw the finished gown.
Crimson velvet cinched her waist and fell in sumptuous folds to the floor. The hem and the long points of her sleeves were stitched with tiny beads—brass and silver, jet and seed pearls, all blazing in the lamplight. The cloth-of-silver girdle that circled her hips was also beaded. It was the most extravagant gown she’d ever worn. Savedra had quietly paid the bill, but Isyllt imagined she would have wept at the cost. It wouldn’t have deterred her, though, not after she felt the fabric swirl against her legs. It might, she thought with bitter amusement, be the closest to a bridal gown she ever came.
Savedra’s idea was a clever one—a shell game to catch an assassin. Unfortunately, one of the cleverest pieces of the costume was also the most annoying. Yards of sheer black gauze veiled her face and hair. She could see through it, but the room was blurred, colors muted, and she was left with the unnerving sensation of a shadow always in the corner of her eye. It also meant that she couldn’t eat or drink anything without looking ridiculous. She told herself that the loss of vision meant she shouldn’t dull her senses further with wine, but it was cold comfort.
She occupied herself trying to identify costumes and their wearers. Ancient kings and queens were always popular, with little regard for historical accuracy. Every year a bevy of nymphs braved the cold in diaphanous gowns, crowned with flowers either real or wrought of silk and silver. Spirits were plentiful, as were ridiculous imaginings of foreign dress. The artful barbarian furs were probably meant to be Vallish, and the blue paint and leathers must be the Tier Danaan of the western forests. She wondered if her friend Adam, half Tier himself, would be amused or merely scornful. One woman had constructed an elaborate gargoyle costume, complete with curling horns and wings made of real owl feathers. She would be a menace on the dance floor and her wings had already begun to shed, but Isyllt applauded the effort all the same.
The crowd thickened, voices rising in a formless birdlike chatter. The room warmed with each new body, till sweat prickled Isyllt’s scalp and rolled down the small of her back. Kebechet was right about the popularity of neroli—the air was thick with bitter oranges, along with sandalwood and attar of roses and other scents. She had nearly abandoned her dignity for a cool glass of wine when the trumpets sounded. Conversation died as Mathiros Alexios entered through the private door beside the dais, and the crowd knelt with a vast rustle of feathers and fabric.
Mathiros wore a simple black domino for the occasion, and a narrow gold circlet. His clothing was black as well, clean lines free of ornament. Amidst the pomp and grandeur, the effect was striking. More than one gaze lingered appreciatively as he climbed the dais steps.
Nikos and Ashlin followed a moment behind, and a wave of giggles threatened the respectful silence; Isyllt was glad her veils muffled her snort of amusement. The prince had come as his namesake bird, dressed in brilliant peacock blue with a skirt of feathers trailing behind him. His mask was white and black and blue, glittering with sequins and paste gems. Ashlin, a peahen to match, wore simple leathers in dull brown, except for a green leather gorget. Even Mathiros seemed amused as they walked in.
Isyllt tensed for an instant, waiting for trouble, but the prince and princess reached their chairs and stood waiting for Mathiros’s sign. When he gave it they sat—for Nikos this involved the delicate operation of sweeping his tailfeathers out of the way—the crowd rose, and the musicians began the soft notes of a minuet. A hundred voices lifted in laughter and conversation, and so began the festivities on the longest night of the year.
Savedra slunk into the ballroom after the first dance had begun, if one could slink weighed down by pounds of beads and velvet. From the dais she caught a flash of gems as Nikos glanced her way. She smiled, though he couldn’t see it—or see how sad and strained it was. Captain Denaris watched her too, white-and-grey livery blending into the wall beside the throne. Captain Kurgoth loomed beside her.
The dais was guarded by the best and soldiers watched all the doors, but assassins had breached palace security before. A knife in the dark was different than a public murder, of course. Did the man expect to survive the attempt? Was the reward worth the risk? How much was Ashlin’s life worth, exactly? She ought to ask Varis.
The crowd shifted and she glimpsed Isyllt on the far side, vivid as a bloodstain on white sheets. The sight was uncanny, like a reflection out of place in a mirror. The Vallish had a word for such a glimpse of oneself—vard?ger, they called the spectral double. The idea had been brought to Erisín in several plays and operas. None of them, now that she thought of it, ended well.
The costume was too hot for the press of the hall, but there was no other way—she and Isyllt might be much the same height and build, but no amount of cosmetics would turn Isyllt’s skin a convincing brown, or her own stark white.
She caught a few glances cast at her and her sister-bride, a few giggles and whispers hidden behind hands. Always an embarrassment to find one’s costume duplicated, and amazing to see it duplicated so perfectly.
The Severoi were already in attendance, mostly clustered around Nadesda in a small circle of chairs against one wall. Savedra ignored them, preferring to save her anonymity for the moment. Varis must be here as well, but she hadn’t spotted him yet. She saw Konstantins as well, and Aravinds and Hadrians, each drawn into their own familial knots. Most Alexioi concerned themselves with their estates in Medea; Mathiros was scrupulous about not favoring his own house over others. Savedra often thought he held all the Octagon Court in equal contempt.
The Jsutiens made a fashionably tardy entrance, timing their arrival with the end of the second dance. Thea was dressed as some historical empress or another, a tasteful costume for an older, stouter woman, while still costing more than many courtiers’ summer homes. Her husband, a notoriously handsome younger man, wore a cloth-of-gold turban and flowing silks, so Thea was probably meant to be the Iskari dowager empress Karekin—Karekin before consumption killed her, apparently, since she’d forgone the usual dramatic blood-spotted handkerchiefs.
And then came Ginevra, a pillar of crimson and black veils, and the giggles and whispers became murmurs.
In Selafai, brides wore red—the color of life and life’s blood, virgin’s blood, the blood of childbed, blood comingled in children. A color of fertility and fruitful unions. Veils had mostly gone out of fashion, and those who wore them usually chose gold or silver, or more crimson if their complexions could stand it. Black veils had been made famous decades earlier by the playwright Kharybdea, who chose the color for Aristomache in the tragedy that bore her name, the priestess of Astara who broke her vows for love of the prince Sarapion, only to be betrayed and abandoned on their wedding night after he had stolen her temple’s greatest treasure. She killed herself on Astara’s altar and haunted Sarapion in revenge, driving him to madness and finally death. It took a woman of morbid or vicious humor to dress as Aristomache for a masque; that three had done so tonight would surely be called an ill omen.
Savedra and Isyllt slid through the crowd, and Savedra had the pleasure of seeing Thea stumble as she saw her niece mirrored not once but twice. She shot a sharp glance at Ginevra; Savedra couldn’t follow the movement of her lips from so far away. Ginevra, however, showed no sign of surprise or dismay, merely glided into the ballroom and turned unerringly toward a pair of her friends, Aravind nymphs. Savedra, succumbing to a moment’s spite, curtsied deeply to Thea.
To Ginevra it was a game, a way to annoy her aunt and confound the palace gossips. And, she’d added slyly, a way to sneak a dance with Nikos. For Savedra it was a way to confound assassins. Ashlin herself couldn’t take part, but now anyone who wished her harm had to guess who was standing next to her at any given moment—Savedra, a necromancer, or the niece of the woman who wanted the princess dead.
The crowd shifted again, turning away from the mystery of the three Aristomaches as the prince and princess rose from their chairs. The third dance was traditional for royal couples, and the musicians began an intricate vals as Nikos and Ashlin bowed to one another.
Nikos managed not to trip on his ridiculous train; Ashlin avoided stray plumes with her usual grace. Toward the end of the dance a feather worked free of the skirt and drifted across the tiles. Savedra thought two giggling nymphs would come to blows over it.
Another lively tune followed, and couples crowded the floor. Ashlin returned to her chair with a glass of wine, but Nikos stayed on the floor, making a show of searching for a partner.
“This might be the most fun I’ve had at a masque in years,” Ginevra whispered, leaning close. Their veils rasped against each other and Savedra smelled warm skin and Ginevra’s subtle perfume. “Aunt Thea is livid, and doesn’t know who she should be angry with. My friends can’t tell if this is an insult or flattery or some bizarre coincidence. Eventually, though, I’m going to steal a plate of those cakes and hide in the garden to eat them. Veils aren’t very practical. Oh, who’s our triplet?”
“I’m not sure I should say.” Gauze hid her smile, but she couldn’t keep the amusement from her voice.
“Does she know who I am?”
“You walked in with Thea and House Hydra. I imagine everyone’s figured it out.”
Ginevra’s veil rippled with her soft huff. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
“You’ll have to deduce her identity, then.”
They broke off as Nikos bowed to them both. “I shouldn’t trust vengeful women, but I can’t resist. Will one of you mysterious ladies honor me with a dance?”
He held out his hand to Savedra, and even if it was only a lucky guess it still warmed her. But true to her word, Ginevra cut in, bumping Savedra aside with a soft hip and laying her hand in the prince’s. He looked from one to the other in exaggerated confusion, but acquiesced as Ginevra tugged him toward the floor.
Savedra wanted to laugh, but that would break character. Instead she raised her chin and turned away in a satisfying hiss of skirts. Ginevra would have to have fun for all of them, since she and Isyllt couldn’t afford to.
Dancing was a pleasure Isyllt rarely found time to indulge. By the time Savedra relieved her of her post by the princess’s chair, she was ready to press any hapless passerby into service as a partner. On her way to do so, she nearly collided with an Assari ifrit in a blazing crown of feathers and sequins. She murmured an apology and began to turn away when she recognized Khelséa.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Khelséa did a double take and grinned. “The Vigils always get a few invitations for diplomacy’s sake. I made sure I got my hands on one.”
“Nice dress.”
“Isn’t it?” She spread her arms and spun, flaring tattered layers of red and gold and orange skirts and trailing sleeves. The orange was nearly the same shade as her uniform, but the low-cut and tight-laced bodice drew a different sort of attention. Her hair was unbraided for once, hanging in shining coils down her back. “Gemma made it. Yours is lovely too, but why are there three of you?”
“Assassin bait.”
“Charming.” The inspector drained her wine cup and set it on a passing servant’s tray. “Excellent timing, though. I thought I would have to dance with a stranger.” She claimed Isyllt’s arm and led her to the floor.
“Isn’t Gemma with you?”
“She’s attending Solstice services. Her sister is a priestess of Erishal.”
“Ah.” The priesthood quietly disapproved of secular necromancy; Isyllt was certain that it was because the priests had far less fun.
The dance was a wild one, with couples circling the floor and trading partners at a hectic pace. Isyllt was breathing heavily by the second measure.
A familiar note caught her attention amid the miasma of sweat and wine and perfume—cinnamon. Isyllt stiffened, cursing the blur of the veil as she scanned the room. The dance swept her on and she lost the scent.
Another circuit and she caught it again. There—a woman in white lingered by a pillar, a lace shroud pooling around her feet. An equally cumbersome length of veil hid her face. No inch of skin was visible, but the gown made up for that by clinging to every curve between her neck and thighs; she would have to unstitch it to take it off again. Isyllt felt the woman’s answering stare through two layers of fabric. Then she was out of sight again.
Isyllt’s hands clenched Khelséa’s when they came together again. “She’s here,” she said, her voice harsh and ragged.
“Who?”
“The haematurge. Phaedra Severos.”
Khelséa’s full lips tightened. “What should we do?”
“I don’t know.” She forced her aching hands to loosen. “If I confront her here all our secrets will be spilled, and I don’t have the support of the Crown. I don’t even know what she wants.”
“I doubt it will be pleasant, whatever it is.”
The dance ended and Isyllt scanned the crowd, but found no trace of Phaedra. She whispered a warning in Savedra’s ear, then succumbed to heat and thirst and claimed a glass of wine and plate of food, retreating to the shadows of the terrace with them. She wouldn’t be much use to anyone if she passed out.
Couples lingered on the balcony, and on the steps leading to one of the palace’s many gardens. Most had found the darkest shadows for privacy, and all politely ignored each other. Isyllt claimed a far corner and set her plate and cup on the railing. The night air was a shock as she pulled aside her veil; her cheeks burned and her breath escaped in a shimmering cloud. Her skin crawled with gooseflesh and sweat-damp fabric chilled instantly. She drained half her wine in one swallow.
Below, the lawn glittered with frost, hedges pale and spectral through drifting haze. Blue and white lanterns swayed in the breeze. Dark trails marked the grass, evidence of lovers trysting in the garden. Isyllt wasn’t sure any amount of lust was worth freezing one’s toes, or other delicate parts.
“We need to talk, little witch.”
Witchfire crackled around her fingers as she spun, bruising her back on the stone balustrade and knocking her precariously balanced plate into the bushes. Someone giggled in the shadows below the railing.
“Softly,” Spider said, raising a hand. He wore a hooded cloak—anyone who glimpsed his face would tell themselves it was a mask. “You don’t want to cause a scene.”
“What are you doing here?” She let her fire die, drawing shadow and silence more tightly around them. “The palace is warded.”
His smile was mocking. “Mortal wards are so rarely as strong as you like to think them. I’m here to admire the festivities. And to see you.”
She took another sip of wine and set the cup safely away from stray elbows. “To pledge your affection again?”
“To warn you.” He moved closer, till she could have wrapped herself in his cloak; his nearness did nothing to lessen the cold. “You’re meddling in something you shouldn’t. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“See my throat slit for a sacrifice, you mean? It was you, wasn’t it? You snatched Forsythia off the street, held her while Phaedra bled her dry. And then killed your friend Whisper to throw me off the trail.”
“I did what was necessary. I think you understand such things.”
“Yes.” Her smile was cold and sharp. “I understand. But I don’t murder random strangers for my magic.”
“No, only for your Crown.” His lip curled on the word. “Anyway, Forsythia wasn’t random. Whisper’s affection for her distracted him, clouded his judgment. The others, however—” He shrugged. “We are hunters of opportunity.”
He sounded so reasonable. And, Isyllt supposed, he was. She would never ask a wolf to justify which deer it killed. But neither had a wolf ever been a deer.
“I, on the other hand, hunt and kill with purpose. And part of my purpose is to protect this city from demons and murderers.”
Spider’s lip curled, baring fangs. “You kill where you’re bid. I’m sorry,” he said quickly, lifting a hand again. “I didn’t come to quarrel. I mean it, you know, when I say I don’t want to hurt you. Changes are coming soon, and you could benefit from them.”
“Changes. You mean a coup. I swore an oath to the Crown, Spider.”
“It isn’t your Crown that we would remove, only the man who wears it. We aren’t the only ones who wish to see someone else on the throne. But the others would merely replace him with some different mortal politician, and what would that change?”
“Whereas you would replace him with a demon. That will certainly make me sleep soundly at night.”
“You’re hardly squeamish about the undead, necromancer.”
“Spider. You’ve lied to me, stalked me, tried to seduce me. With,” she acknowledged with a wry tilt of her head, “some success. Why don’t you tell me what the hell it is you really want?”
“I already told you—I want the vrykoloi free of the sewers, not hunted or ignored. Your mages treat spirits as a commodity to be used and demons as abominations to be destroyed, and I want to see that end.”
“I’m not without sympathy,” Isyllt said slowly, “but the fear is bred too deep into mortals. Change will take decades. Centuries.”
“Not if we take the throne.”
“The city wouldn’t stand for it. The country wouldn’t. You’re powerful, but so is the Arcanost, and the living outnumber the undead.”
“They wouldn’t know what had happened until we wanted them to. Phaedra has walked this city for months now unnoticed—humans excel at turning a blind eye to unsettling things.”
She stared into the sulfurous light of his eyes for a moment. He was a monster, both literally and as men judged such—a liar, a schemer, a murderer and manipulator, callous and cold. Small wonder, then, that she wanted to lean her head against his chest and let him comfort her. Already her magic quested toward him unbidden. Death loved a killer.
Isyllt drew a deep breath, closed her eyes and opened them again. “Not so blind as that. It will turn ugly and people will die—mortal and demon alike. It’s madness, and I won’t help you.”
He studied her, eyes glittering in the depths of his hood. “Then I can only tell you to stay out of our way. I’m fond of you, but Phaedra has no such weakness.”
She felt his glamour like a fog across her mind—she tried to fight, but by the time her vision cleared she shivered alone on the balcony.
*   *   *
Kiril resisted Phaedra’s entreaties to stay, but in the end couldn’t refuse to attend the Solstice ball. Only two days’ delay, he told himself. A chance to say a few discreet good-byes. He didn’t believe for a moment it would be so simple, but his newfound strength made it easier to ignore misgivings.
Phaedra’s magic worked. Unpleasant at first, both the consumption of blood the spell required and the lowering of his defenses, but after the initial nausea and dizziness faded he found his pulse strengthening, his breath coming easier than it had in years. All the little aches and scars he had grown accustomed to over the years faded from his awareness—no creaking knees, no aching wrists, no cold in his bones. Even the fatigue that had been his constant companion receded. It was dangerous, this demon gift, but his magic sparked inside him again, as it hadn’t in months, and for the moment he was willing to overlook the cost.
Three days ago the simple obfuscation he wore as he crossed the room would have pained him; now it was as simple as a breath, as it should be.
He found Varis lingering alone in a corner, which was unusual. Even more unusual was his costume—he wore plain black scholar’s robes, with none of his customary glitter or gaud. A mask of bronze-painted leather hung against his chest, and a small bronze-bound book hung from a chain around his waist. Mnemos, the saint of scholars and of memory.
He arched an eyebrow at Kiril’s own black robes. “You’re not even trying.”
“I could say the same of you.”
“It’s a costume, darling. I’m not supposed to be myself.”
“Where are all your paramours and hangers-on?”
“I’m in seclusion tonight. Keeping up with them grows so tiring.” He said it with a disdainful flick of his wrist, but the fatigue was real—Kiril saw it in his hollowed cheeks and fragile eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
Varis began another dismissive excuse, but Kiril was already looking closer, otherwise. The sparkling violet and gold of Varis’s magic had dulled, and the more ordinary colors beneath had paled as well. Not a shadow in the heart such as a mage might see in Kiril’s own aura, nor the darkness in the lungs that showed in consumptives—this was a thinning of the blood itself.
He stretched out a hand, ignoring Varis’s feeble attempt to block him, and turned down the other man’s high collar. The bruise was violent against his pallor, purple blotching to green at the edges, the punctures in the center scabbed. An identical long-faded mark shadowed the other side of his neck.
“There are others, aren’t there?”
“I’d be happy to show you. We could find a coat closet—it would be like old times.”
Kiril’s frown deepened. “How long?”
“Months now. It’s… worth the pain.” His eyes darkened, color rising beneath his powder. “Are you going to criticize my taste in vices? That’s always so tiresome.”
“It’s Spider, isn’t it?” The defiant tilt of Varis’s chin was answer enough. “Of course it is. Is that how they’ve won your support of their mad scheme?”
“What scheme? Besides the one you’ve been so instrumental in.”
Kiril shook his head, newly absent fatigue returning. Reality could never be ignored for long. “Phaedra and Spider are planning to take the throne. How I don’t know, and I doubt they know for certain either. Phaedra thinks it will be a matter of stealing the right body. Any others she can bind to her with blood. Perhaps she’s right—I’ve seen more ridiculous plans succeed.”
Varis was too pale to blanch, but his lips thinned and a muscle worked in his jaw. He had always been the most vocal of the Arcanostoi against vinculation—the binding of spirits. He had seen firsthand what it was to have choices stolen, to be trapped in service. Kiril didn’t think he was hypocrite enough to condemn the practice against spirits and condone it for humans.
“I know you loved her once,” he said, softer than he had intended. “But if you cleave to her now it will destroy you.”
Varis turned to him, naked of his armor. “I loved you once too,” he said. “I survived that.”
“You left. And that’s what you should do now.”
A flash of red caught his eye. Across the room Isyllt threaded her way through the crowd, dark and burning in black and crimson. Even veiled he would know her anywhere.
Varis followed the direction of Kiril’s gaze, and his armor reassembled itself piece by chilly piece. “Spoken like a man who should take his own advice,” he drawled. His smile was nearly a sneer, but his eyes were sad. “Go, then. It’s love that kills us all, in the end.”
Of all the dangers Isyllt had anticipated that night, encountering Kiril wasn’t one of them. In retrospect that was foolish, since he always attended the masque, but she had tried to put him out of her thoughts after their last meeting. When she saw him crossing the room toward her, she wanted to turn on her heel and flee. Instead she stood her ground, shoulders tightening.
“The color becomes you,” he said after a brittle pause. He smiled wryly, acknowledging all the unpleasant associations that went with the compliment.
“You look well yourself.” She didn’t mean to say it, but it was true. He stood straighter, walked without the pained motions she’d grown used to. His silver domino brought out the white in his beard and made his eyes all the blacker.
“Will you dance with me?” he asked.
A knife wound would have hurt less. Even when they were together they had hardly ever danced. But she wouldn’t flinch from the pain, not here in front of all the court.
“Of course, my lord.” She placed her hand in his and let him lead her to the dance floor. Only the very edge—neither of them liked to be the center of attention.
The dance was a slow and stately one, with little thought needed for the steps. She might have wished otherwise. Anything to dull the awareness of his hand on her hip, their fingers laced together. He wore his black diamond on his left hand and the stones shivered when their rings touched, even through her glove.
“I’m sorry,” he said after several measures of silence. His mouth twisted. “It’s not easy for me to say this.”
Her crippled hand twitched against his shoulder. “If this is about my investigation—”
“No. At least, not entirely.”
She fell silent again.
“I’ve done many things that I’ve come to regret,” he said at last. “I don’t want you to be one of them. I’ve treated you poorly—both during this investigation and over the past three years. Will you forgive me?”
She swallowed. She tried to cling to her anger, to wear it like a shield, but it cracked before the sincerity in his voice. “I trust you’ve had reasons for what you’ve done during this case. As for the past… You’ve done nothing that needs forgiveness. Not to me.”
“I’ve hurt you. I’ve made decisions for you that I had no right to make.” He waited, eyes dark and solemn.
“I forgive you,” she said. Then her voice and composure cracked. “Of course I forgive you. I love you, you idiot.” She missed a step and they both stopped, leaving other couples to maneuver around them.
“I know.” He cupped her cheek, gauze slithering against their skin, his voice rough with something not quite pain or wonder. “I’ve never understood it, but I know.”
“We ought to step outside,” she said as flatly as she could manage, “or I may make a scene.”
That drew a startled chuckle. “I could never abide scenes.” He led her toward the terrace door; glances from the crowd followed them. She scanned the darkness, stretched out questing tendrils, but found no trace of Spider or anything else inhuman, nothing but a drunken couple groping each other below the terrace.
She turned back to Kiril and stripped aside her veil. “What are you playing at, Kiril?”
“Not playing,” he said softly. “Not with you.” He touched the edge of her veil—carefully avoiding her skin, but she felt the warmth of his hand through the gauze. She couldn’t stop her sharp indrawn breath.
“You are—” It took her a moment to gather her thoughts. The bottom had fallen out of her stomach and she couldn’t let it take her wits with it. “You’re protecting a demon and a blood sorceress!” she whispered. “Don’t you dare deny it.” This wasn’t the place for such conversations, but she couldn’t leave the matter unspoken any longer.
He laughed, but humor died quickly. “No, I won’t deny it.”
“Why?”
A silence settled around them, heavy as a shroud. “Phaedra has a vendetta against Mathiros. She is… justified. I can’t stand in her way.”
“You’re oathsworn to the Crown.”
“Not anymore.”
Her hands tingled with shock. “You mean—”
“I’m forsworn. For months now.” His mouth quirked. “You thought I was merely growing old and feeble. That may be true, but it also took all my strength to break the geas. I’m only now recovering.”
“Why doesn’t Mathiros know?”
Kiril shrugged. “The mage who took my oaths died peacefully in his sleep years ago. A more paranoid king would have had me swear them anew, but Mathiros trusted me.” His lips thinned, eloquent bitterness. “Had he even a shiver, he might have felt the vow break, but he’s anixeros to the bone.”
“By telling me this you’ve broken mine.”
He chuckled. “No, my dear. I’ll know when that truly happens. I have, though, put you in a dangerous position. Which was what I’ve been trying to avoid.” His eyebrows rose. “Do you mean you would choose me over your vows?”
“I swore an oath to the Crown, but I meant it to you. All my service was only ever to you. You idiot.”
Her voice broke and she nearly began to cry. She mastered the urge with a sharp pinch to the bridge of her nose and a scowl. “What are we going to do?”
Before he could answer, they heard the screams.
Something wasn’t right. Savedra had no mystical sensitivity of which she was aware, but she had learned to trust her instincts after years in the palace, and beneath the weight of sweat and hair and gauze her neck was prickling. Everyone on the dais was where they should be, guests laughing and chattering while the musicians rested. She could find nothing amiss as she scanned the room. Neither could she find Isyllt.
The musicians began again, a stately slow vals this time. A heartbeat later a murmur swept the room. Savedra didn’t understand the cause until movement on the dais caught her eye: Mathiros had risen, and descended the stairs. She thought he meant to leave the room, which would be rude but not unprecedented. Instead he walked toward the dance floor, the crowd parting around him. He moved slowly, stiffly, like a man steeling himself to something, and his face was pale beneath his mask.
The courtiers fell away, their obeisance and shocked looks unheeded, till only a woman in white stood before Mathiros. Savedra’s stomach twisted and chilled—she recognized Phaedra from Isyllt’s warning, and from her own glimpse of that white dress being fitted in Varis’s library. She caught Nikos’s shocked expression before he schooled his face.
She didn’t need to hear the whispers hidden by hands and fans to know what they said; the king had not danced with anyone in three years. But he offered his hand to this ghost now, and she took it, and together they claimed the floor. They moved in silence, never breaking the form of the dance. From the set of Mathiros’s mouth, he might have taken a mortal wound, and remained standing by will alone.
The dance ended and the music died, the musicians waiting for a cue, a clue as to the king’s will. The woman curtsied and stepped back, somehow vanishing into a crowd that gave her as much space as possible. She might have melted into the stones for all Savedra could tell. Mathiros stared after her, one hand clenching at his side. The courtiers waited, breathless, not knowing what they had witnessed.
Not knowing the woman in white was a witch and a murderer.
Finally Mathiros shook himself and turned away. When he sank back into his chair, the musicians stumbled into the beginning of a pavane.
A moment later Mathiros stood again. The crowd had no time to bow before he strode from the dais and out the private royal exit. Glowering, Kurgoth followed at his heels. Murmurs rippled across the room, then died as Nikos gestured for the musicians to continue.
After several moments Nikos leaned toward Ashlin, gesturing Savedra onto the dais as well. “I don’t like this,” he said. “I’m going to see what’s wrong. Charm the guests while I’m gone, won’t you?”
He rose gracefully, bowing over Ashlin’s hand and pressing a kiss on her knuckles. He also plucked her a feather from his tail, earning a laugh. He gave the crowd a jaunty wave as he rose; everything is fine, it said, carry on. Savedra wondered if anyone believed it.
“Charm them, he says,” Ashlin muttered. As the music died she rose, smiling as though someone had a knife to her back. “Play something livelier, won’t you?” she called, her voice carrying across the hall. “I’ve been sitting far too long.”
Immediately a dozen courtiers knelt before the dais, imploring her for a dance. Savedra recognized an Aravind, a Hadrian, and a member of the Iskari ambassador’s staff—the rest were strangers, or too well masked.
A man dressed as a circus acrobat twisted out of the crowd, vaulting over the kneeling Hadrian to land before the princess. He bowed toward the startled laughter and whistles from the crowd, then bent his knee to Ashlin. Laughing, she stepped down to take his hand.
Too late, Savedra saw the flash of steel. She shouted, lunging forward; gauze and velvet tangled her and it felt like trying to run in a nightmare.
Ashlin flung herself back as the assassin struck. Someone in the crowd screamed, then another. The blade scored a line across her stomach, thwarted by leather. Savedra fumbled for the knife on her calf, her movements slow as cold honey. Ashlin was faster; she drew a blade from her vambrace and regained her balance, rocking on the balls of her feet.
“Yes,” she said, baring her teeth in a grin. “That’s better. Give me a proper fight.” The man shifted toward the terrace doors and Ashlin moved to block his escape. Savedra had watched her in a dozen practice combats, but had never seen her eyes shine with bloodlust like this.
Captain Denaris appeared at Savedra’s side, sword in hand. The crowd shouted in confusion and alarm, those closest to the fight stumbling back while those in the rear pressed forward. “Idiots,” Denaris muttered, and Savedra didn’t know if she meant the spectators or the participants. Either way, she was inclined to agree. A red shadow paused at the terrace doors; Isyllt had returned.
Ashlin feinted and lunged, and her blade sliced across the man’s chest. Savedra waited for him to stumble, waited for blood. Instead the torn cloth gapped, exposing leather armor.
Another strike, and this time his blade cut through Ashlin’s sleeve. She hissed and blood darkened the leather just below her shoulder. The sight curdled Savedra’s stomach and ended her paralysis.
She leapt down the stairs, ripping off her veils; pins scattered across marble tiles. Lunging forward, she cast the gauze like a net over the assassin’s head. He kicked, knocking her feet from under her and sprawling her across the stones, dazed and breathless. But he also cursed as the veil tangled in his mask and blurred his vision, and one hand rose to claw it free. It was all Ashlin needed. Her blade flashed under his guard, sinking home in the soft flesh of his throat. Blood spurted as she pulled back, blossoming like roses on white stone.
“Alive!” Denaris wailed. “Why does no one ever leave them alive?”
Silence crushed the room as the man’s boots scuffed the tiles and fell still. The smell of blood and piss filled the air and Savedra’s stomach churned. Someone in the crowd wept softly. Ashlin knelt beside the dead man and wiped her blade clean on his shirt. Her hand was steady as she sheathed it again.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, bowing toward the dumbstruck crowd. “I didn’t mean to interrupt the dancing.”
Those in front knelt first, and it rippled like a wave till all the room was on its knees. The cheer started at the back and rushed forward. And now, Savedra thought, warmth spreading through her chest, now she had won them.
Ashlin turned to her then and held out her hands. Savedra let herself be drawn up, not bothering to hide her trembling. She didn’t have to be the strong one now. But when Ashlin kissed her cheek, chaste as a sister, she nearly sobbed.
“Thank you,” the princess said, strong enough to carry. “I won’t forget everything you’ve done for us.”
That drew another cheer, and Savedra’s face burned.
As the applause died and Ashlin released her, Savedra noticed something: despite all the noise, neither Mathiros nor Nikos had returned to see what had happened.
Then they heard the shouting.
Ashlin and Savedra moved as one, bolting through the royal door and down the corridor. Footsteps followed: Isyllt and Lord Orfion—that explained Isyllt’s distraction. Captain Denaris shouted orders in the ballroom, keeping the guests contained.
They reached one of the small withdrawing rooms and found Kurgoth and Nikos pummeling the closed door. Buried under the thump of flesh on wood Savedra heard voices—Mathiros and a woman.
“The door is locked,” Kurgoth growled. “Witched shut.”
“Stand back,” Isyllt said, shaking Lord Orfion’s hand off her arm. “It won’t be for long.” She laid both hands on the polished wood, feverish color burning in her cheeks. “You won’t thwart me this time, bitch,” she murmured as her eyes closed in concentration.
Savedra felt… something. Something cold and wrong. Before she realized it she was pushing Ashlin back, keeping herself between the princess and Isyllt’s magic.
The sorceress’s lips pulled back from her teeth and her face drained white. Savedra’s jaw slackened as Isyllt’s fine kid gloves cracked and peeled and fell from her hands in black flakes. Her diamond blazed and sparked. The wood greyed and splintered at her touch, spiderwebs crazing the varnish. Tarnish blossomed on knob and hinges.
“There.” Isyllt stumbled back, chest heaving. “Kick it down.”
Kurgoth complied, drawing back and slamming one heavy boot onto the wood beside the lock. The door split, spraying splinters as rotting slabs crashed to the floor.
Mathiros sprawled on a divan and the woman in white leaned over him. Her veil was gone, but black hair shrouded her face. One long hand held his jaw, the other braced against the back of the chair.
“You’ll remember me,” she hissed. She let go of Mathiros as Kurgoth charged her, but didn’t look up. Instead her hand shot out, fingers spread and clawed. He stumbled and slowed, but kept moving. Finally she turned to him, catching his wrist in one hand and pressing the other to his chest. The man gasped, choked; a crimson bubble burst on his lips. Phaedra shoved and he flew backward, slamming into a sideboard and collapsing amid the shards of a shattered decanter.
“No!” shouted Lord Orfion, as Isyllt and Phaedra faced each other across the room. Isyllt’s diamond crackled with witchlight and Phaedra’s rubies glowed sullen scarlet. They ignored him, rings flaring bright and brighter still. Neither woman moved, but Isyllt hissed in pain and Phaedra gasped. Then a wall of white light blazed between them and both stumbled back.
“I said no,” Kiril said, deathly calm.
“You won’t stop me again,” Phaedra said. A shadow that smelled of rust and cinnamon filled the room; Nikos cursed and Ashlin’s hand tightened on Savedra’s arm like a vise.
Heartbeats later the shadow passed, revealing the garden door open to the night, and Phaedra vanished.
“Father!” Nikos knelt beside Mathiros. The king was grey and trembling, his coat unbuttoned. “Are you all right?”
“I—She was—” Mathiros scrubbed a hand over his face.
Kurgoth moaned and stirred, and Ashlin turned to help him. Blood streaked his face, but he seemed to have stopped coughing it up. Isyllt’s nose was bleeding as well; she wiped at it absently and scowled. The look she shot Kiril was cold and harsh.
“Father,” Nikos said, helping Mathiros to his feet, “I saw her. It was—”
“You saw nothing!” Mathiros snarled, jerking away. “An assassin. A demon.” His eyes narrowed, training on Ashlin and her bleeding arm “What’s happened?”
She flexed her shoulder absently and winced. “An assassin in the ballroom. Not a demon, though—he died easily enough.”
He nodded. “Mikhael, are you hurt?”
The captain spat blood on the expensive carpet. “I’m standing.”
“Good enough. Find me Adrastos. I want the palace sealed and searched immediately. Kiril—” He had the grace to look abashed, at least.
Kiril tugged his mask off. “I am at your disposal, Majesty.”
“Help Adrastos, then. I want to know where these bastards came from.”
“Of course.” His eyes sagged shut as he turned away, and Savedra fought to keep the naked sympathy from her face.
And with that Mathiros, Kurgoth, and Kiril all left the room, leaving the others standing in the draft. Ashlin, ever practical, closed and latched the garden door.
Nikos sat down hard on the chair his father had vacated. He was the one trembling now, his face ashen. Savedra abandoned propriety and went to him, clasping his shaking hand between hers.
“What is it?”
“I saw her,” he whispered, his voice scraped dry and hoarse. “I saw her face. It was my mother.”