The Bone Palace

chapter 3

Kiril had given up many of his duties over the last three years, but he couldn’t prove it by the paperwork. A single lamp burned on his desk, spilling yellow light across stacked ledgers and rolled parchment and drifts of loose paper. Legal forms scribed in triplicate and foreign news and hand-scrawled notes in private ciphers. Agents who reported directly to the king still sent him copies of their reports, and he had plenty of contacts who communicated only with him. His slow slide from favor had done nothing to lessen the tide. Fallings out might be counterfeited, after all, or damaged friendships mended.
There was nothing false in his split from Mathiros, nor did it hold any hope of reconciliation. He had seen to that himself.
He glared at the two latest missives; the words blurred less than an armspan away. Lamps were bad for his eyes, the physicians swore to him, but he made no move to draw back the curtains. The day outside was rain-washed and gloomy, the autumn afternoon already dull as dusk. Neither did he reach for the spectacles folded on the corner of the wide rosewood desk. Instead he called witchlight, harsh and white.
The simplest of spells, it should have been effortless. Instead he felt the drain of it all the way to his bones. But it was much easier to read by.
The first letter was a report from the front. The king had not seen fit to send it to him, nor had the mage who took Kiril’s place at the king’s side, but the scribe was an old friend. For such a foolish enterprise, Mathiros had acquitted himself well enough. An armistice with the Ordozh, and only two hundred Selafa?n dead to show for it. That number might be lower had Kiril been at the front, and it might not.
Which rankles more, old man? he thought wryly, rubbing the bridge of his nose against an incipient headache. That he needs you and ignores you, or that he doesn’t need you at all?
But among the dead were forty mages, and that wasn’t a number to be shrugged aside. Kristof Vargas, Kiril’s replacement and former student, was a talented sorcerer but still cocky with advancement. Selafai didn’t have scores of battle mages to spare.
That rankled most of all. That Kiril had been set aside after long service he might forgive, but for a decade he had groomed Isyllt Iskaldur to be his successor, and Mathiros had ignored her as he ignored all of Kiril’s advice these days.
Leaving her in the city to stumble over tomb robbers, and secrets he couldn’t confide to her.
He banished the witchlight and touched both notes to the coals in the brazier, breathing in the acrid smoke of burnt parchment. The warmth eased the pain in his hands more than he cared to admit. His joints had begun to ache even before his heart failed three years ago, and the rheumatism had worsened with every winter since. Now even his magic couldn’t distract him from the pain.
It would pass. He’d endured worse.
When the last corner of parchment blackened and fell to ash, Kiril wiped the soot from his hands and rose, leaning against his chair. He didn’t need strength or magic to deal with tomb-robbing vampires, only wits and caution.
He snuffed the lamp and prepared to lie to someone he loved.
Rain hissed and tapped against the rooftops of Calderon Court, streaming past the warped panes of the great octagonal window in Isyllt’s living room and rinsing the city into a grey blur. The streetlights weren’t lit till true dusk, but lamps and candles flickered in other windows, bleeding pale and gold through the gloom. Isyllt’s stomach felt as cold and watery as the glass.
Her left palm ached against her teacup. During the chaos in Symir a would-be assassin had put a knife through her hand to steal her ring. She’d reclaimed the diamond, but all the skill of the Arcanostoi surgeons hadn’t been enough to save her hand. Foretelling the weather was a paltry compensation. She swirled her tea, watching leaves twist and spiral through the dregs. A pity she couldn’t foretell anything else.
Hours remained till sunset—only a formality, with the sky the color of old pewter, but one to be observed nonetheless. She set the teacup aside and wished for something stronger. The thought of the catacombs sent a not entirely unpleasant chill up her back, and she rubbed the scar on her shoulder. She had known of the vrykoloi since she first became an investigator, but only met one two years ago, after she’d come home from Symir. The meeting hadn’t begun well, but they had sorted things out since.
Her wards shivered a moment before a soft knock fell on her door. Her magic recognized the man outside and rubbed against him in friendly greeting, even as she tensed. Isyllt forced her hands to relax as she opened the door and smiled up at her master.
Once he would have kissed her cheek; once she would have kissed his mouth. Now they settled for a brief clasp of hands, and she felt the starkness of bone through skin. His short beard was finally more white than dark auburn, his hair even paler. Students had called him “the Old Man” since his thirties, but it had never seemed like the truth before. Shadowed black eyes met hers and he smiled wryly.
“I know,” Kiril said, shrugging out of his dripping oilcloak and hanging it on a peg. “Any day now I’ll be leaning on a stick and complaining about the stairs.”
“Don’t be silly.” Beneath the clinging scent of rain, he smelled of incense and herbs, orris and olibanum and resinous dragon’s blood, and under that the lightning tang of magic. Sharp and sweet and comforting—she still wanted to lean into it whenever he was near.
She also wanted to shake him; it shouldn’t take tomb-robbing demons to bring him to her door. It had been more than a decad since she’d spoken to him, and all their visits in the past several months had been strained and brief. After fifteen years, she wanted to tell him, she could tell the difference between honest distraction and willful avoidance.
Instead she ushered him in and moved to stir the fire and pour wine. After fifteen years she also knew how impossible it was to pry things from him that he didn’t want to share. His footsteps creaked unevenly across the floorboards; she wondered when he’d begun to limp. Fabric rustled as he sank into a chair near the great window.
Isyllt handed him a glass—a cunningly wrought cage cup, one of a pair he’d given her for a long-ago saint day—and sat down in the other worn and much-mended chair. Her apartments had been new and richly furnished fifty years ago, but nicks and scuffs had accumulated over a succession of government employees, and Isyllt was more apt to spend her salary on clothes and expensive wine than new furniture. Decades of pacing feet had worn the patterns from the rugs, and the smoke of lamps and candles darkened the high beams.
“What do you think of this?” Kiril asked, his voice carefully bland.
“I don’t know.” Leather creaked as she crossed her legs. “I don’t know what the girl had to do with the robbery, or why she was killed, or who even amongst demons would be mad or foolish enough to do something like this.” She sipped her wine, rolling tannin and warm spices across her tongue. “If Mathiros hears of this…”
Kiril’s mouth hooked down. “He’ll storm the catacombs with flame and silver and hang the charred bones from the walls. Yes.” He tasted the wine and nodded approval. “Which would be madness in its turn—the vrykoloi would certainly retaliate. But he isn’t rational where Lychandra is concerned.”
He stared out the window; the light died by inches and thunder growled in the distance. The gloom washed his face grey, filled the hollows of his cheeks and eyes with shadows. Isyllt couldn’t remember the first time her breath had caught when she looked at him too long, but it had never stopped since. Her hand tightened on her cup till the filigreed silver cage bit her palm.
The ache of memory wasn’t enough to distract her from his frown, or the faint movement of his fingers against the arm of the chair. “What is it?” she asked. “You know something.”
“It’s nothing,” he said after a pause. At least he had the grace to look rueful when he lied to her. She pushed the fleeting sting aside—there had always been things he couldn’t tell her. A hazard of their work. “Investigate as you see fit. If we can find those responsible and return what was stolen, perhaps Mathiros need never learn of this.” His frown deepened. Did it pain him to hide things from the king he’d served so long? Isyllt didn’t think he would have kept secrets three years ago. Three years ago he could have swayed the king from any foolish vengeance. But maybe there had always been secrets between Kiril and Mathiros too. “Perhaps Aphra and Tenebris know something.”
She nearly smiled. Many in Erisín avoided even the word vrykoloi, for fear of attracting unwanted attention—Kiril named their elders as he might old friends.
He turned back to her and the firelight picked out glints of garnet in his hair, lined the weary creases on his face. “You’re not going alone, are you?”
“I’m taking Ciaran. He knows his way around the sewers.” The musician’s days of fencing and sneak-thievery might be over, but he hadn’t forgotten them any more than she’d forgotten hers. Elysia branded its children deep.
Kiril’s eyebrows rose. “You and he are still close, then?”
She chuckled. She’d had other relationships over the years, before and after Kiril, but of all her lovers in Erisín, she only spoke to him and Ciaran. “I’m not made of rosewood and strings—it will never be serious. I trust him at my back.” But not like I trust you. She washed the thought away with a swallow of wine.
He nodded and raised his own cup. “That’s good. You need more people you can trust around you. Perhaps you should consider taking an apprentice of your own.”
Her smile felt brittle. “I don’t need to worry about that yet, do I?” Was his health the secret he was keeping? He had never truly recovered from the attack he suffered after the queen’s death, but she hadn’t imagined things had worsened so much.
He stared into the ruby-black depths of his glass and the spiderweb lines around his eyes deepened. Isyllt wanted to soothe them away, along with the bruised shadows on his eyelids and the weariness that showed in every line of his lean frame. But all her magic was useless for that. No healing for either of them, only death.
Kiril looked up and smiled, and lied again. “You’re right. Let’s solve this mystery first. We have plenty of time to worry about other things.”
She smiled back, and tried to make herself believe it.
As the sun sank behind its vault of clouds, Isyllt sat on the foot of Ciaran’s narrow bed and waited for him to finish fussing with his clothes. The little room—practically compact was the kindest description—smelled of baking and spices from the kitchens below and all the familiar scents that clung in his clothes and hair: orange-and-clove wood polish, pine oil, and the rich musk of his skin. Charms hung in the windows, cords of dried leaves and shining beads; she didn’t recognize the foreign magics, and Ciaran never told the same story twice when she asked.
He wore dark colors tonight, snug lines that wouldn’t trip him up in narrow places, none of his usual flamboyance. Isyllt was dressed much the same—plain leather trousers and a short jacket—but chains of opals and amethysts clattered faintly when she moved, a wealth of gems wrapped around her throat. A peace gift for the vrykoloi, who valued beauty and things of the earth.
Ciaran gave his boots a final stamp and pulled on his coat, double-checking all the weapons secreted about him. Isyllt stood, rolling her shoulders to settle the bone-and-silver kukri knife sheathed down her back, and tugged on her other glove.
“Will the Crown reimburse me for my time?” Ciaran asked as he braided his long dark hair.
“I’ll add it to my expense account.”
He leaned in to kiss her; his mouth tasted of mint and cumin. “For luck,” he said with a wink.
Ciaran might never swear devotion to her, but he was warm and pleasant company. Friends for sixteen years, lovers on and off for many of those—sometimes his company was almost pleasant enough to make her forget the loneliness of the last three years.
“In that case—” She pulled him back and kissed him again.
They entered the city’s cloacae through an old service door built into the Garden’s wall, rain splashing the cobbles around them and running cold fingers through Isyllt’s upswept hair. Rust clogged the lock, but the key Khelséa had given her finally clicked. Hinges shrieked as the metal door swung open and the effluvium of the tunnels wafted around them. Ciaran’s long nose wrinkled.
“Are you certain this is wise?”
She grinned. “No. That’s why you came with me.”
Darkness swallowed them as the door swung shut. Isyllt’s witchlight glistened on damp walls and slime-slick stairs leading under the city. The roar of water echoed through the stairwell as they descended. Sewage ran in open channels, while cleaner water sluiced through great pipes on its way to taps and fountains.
They followed the narrow walkway beside the canal, breathing shallowly against the stench. The rain helped, pouring down from gutters, sweeping the city’s waste toward the river Dis. The ledges on either side were perhaps a man’s height across, and the canal thrice that width, spanned by narrow stone arches every few dozen yards. Water churned black and frothing an armspan from their feet. Its noise was deafening—they would never hear anyone approaching.
Not that the vrykoloi would make a sound if they didn’t want to. But for all that some Erisinians hung charms against vampires and told bloody and improbable stories, there had been no real trouble between the humans and the underdwellers for generations. The ancient Severoi kings—generally thought of as sorcerous and too tolerant of demons—had brokered a truce, granting the vampires freedom in the undercity in exchange for the safety of the citizens. Or at least only discreet murders. Ghosts and demons and ordinary human killers were much more common a threat in the city.
So why rob a royal crypt? Impossible to imagine it would go unnoticed, or that the Crown wouldn’t take action. She hoped the vrykoloi’s opinion of the truce hadn’t changed.
They climbed a rusty ladder down to the next level of sewers. Isyllt had no idea how far the tunnels truly sprawled. Generations of kings and city councils had added to them, and most maps conflicted. Every so often a new sewer line or enlarged crypt would open into a strange tunnel that no one could account for. Hopefully the vrykoloi or other mystery diggers knew what they were about, and sections of the city wouldn’t collapse into the ground one day.
The din of water faded as they climbed lower and the tunnel walls roughened. Moisture dripped from the ceilings, splashing in puddles and echoing along low corridors. The air grew heavy with moss and rust and stone, a cloying taste over Isyllt’s tongue. The weight of earth around them was enough to silence even Ciaran, and she strained her ears for any sound of company. The conjured light bobbed at her shoulder, threw their shadows wild and flickering against the walls.
Kiril had showed her this way years ago, while they crawled through the tunnels in search of other quarry. In the days when they worked together, wading through death to the knees. The vrykoloi must surely have heard them coming by now—
She never heard a sound, even as a white shape stepped out of the darkness in front of them. Breath hissed between her teeth and her boots scraped stone as she stumbled back, right hand reaching over her shoulder. Behind her, Ciaran cursed softly.
Witchlight glittered in wide yellow eyes, glistened on ivory fangs bared in a grin. Animal teeth in a mockery of a human face. Batlike ears hung with gold and silver hoops pricked forward under cobweb hair.
“Spider.” A whisper, but too loud in this place. She dropped her hand. The ring hung quiescent against her sternum and she held her breath against a relieved sigh.
“Hello, little witch.” He straightened, his head nearly brushing the ceiling—a creature of sharp angles and spindle-thin limbs, attenuated to the point of grotesquerie. “I thought I heard your heartbeat.” He bowed with marionette grace. “What brings you to my doorstep?” His eyes flickered briefly over Ciaran and returned to her.
The scars on her left shoulder tingled. Spider still carried silver burns from their first meeting as well. “I need to speak with your elders.”
He cocked one white brow. “Really? Do you come on your own business, necromancer, or your Crown’s?”
Her smile felt tight. “Somewhere in between. It’s important.”
He moved between eye-blinks, between heartbeats. She never saw him stir, and then he had closed two yards to stand beside her, stooping till his face was near hers. Not yellow like an animal’s, his eyes, but brilliant and crystalline as brimstone. His nostrils flared. “Your heart is beating very fast.”
Isyllt tilted her head and smiled, breathing in his unnerving aroma of decaying leaves and anise, old blood and older earth. “You do have that effect on me.”
Fangs flashed with his laugh. “Would you like to see my scars?”
“Maybe some other night. I want to see the elders before dawn.”
Spider sighed—an affectation, since she was certain he didn’t need breath—and stepped back. “Oh, very well. Your companion—”
“Comes with me,” Isyllt said. She was willing to risk both their lives on Ciaran’s discretion. He’d use anything as fodder for a song, but could usually be convinced to change the important bits.
Spider nodded. “Then follow me, witch. I’ll take you down.”
In another flickering movement he vanished down the tunnel. Ciaran’s hand closed on Isyllt’s elbow, and she wasn’t sure whom he meant to reassure.
Spider led them deeper into the earth, through narrow twisting crawlspaces that she and Ciaran cursed and struggled their way through. The walls glistened with moisture, sparked with flecks of crystal. She was thoroughly lost before long; only the vrykoloi’s goodwill would see them safely out again. The silver knife weighed heavy on her back.
Finally the cramped corridor opened, only to end abruptly in a black pit. Isyllt sent her witchlight dancing over the precipice, but its glow couldn’t reach the bottom.
“Watch your step,” Spider said, laying a cold hand on her arm.
“Do we fly down from here?”
His eyes glittered. “Almost.”
And before she could reply, he scooped her into his arms and leapt over the edge.
Isyllt didn’t scream, mostly because she didn’t have enough breath. A dizzying rush of air, then the jolt of landing. Spider’s long legs absorbed most of the impact, but the force still rippled through her hard enough to crack her teeth together. Her control slipped and the light went out.
She couldn’t breathe. Spider’s arms, impossibly strong for their gauntness, cradled her against his chest. Her heart tripped against her ribs and her stomach thought it was still falling. Colors swam in front of her as her eyes strained against the black and the taste of blood filled her mouth; she’d bitten her lip.
Spider’s breath wafted cold against her cheek. “I remember what you taste like.” His tongue, long and rough as a cat’s, brushed her mouth and she shuddered.
Then he was gone. Wavering on her feet, she called the light again in time to see him scurrying up the rock, nimble as his namesake. He returned a moment later carrying Ciaran.
“Don’t worry,” he said as he deposited the minstrel. “That’s nearly the hardest part.”
The light flickered treacherously across the floor, but couldn’t touch the walls or ceiling. No matter how softly Isyllt stepped, the scuff of boot-soles on stone carried through the wide empty space. Sweat chilled beneath her jacket.
Ciaran took her arm again as they followed the vampire, making a show of helping her over the uneven ground. “Why did I come with you, again?”
“Because you love me. And because I’m going to pay you.”
“As long as I had a good reason.” His fingers tightened on her sleeve, warm through the leather.
The sloping cavern floor ended at wide stone doors. Skulls embedded in white rock grinned madly in the capering light. Human and otherwise, some so foreign Isyllt had no idea what their original owners might have looked like. The gates of the vampires’ ossuary palace, through which very few mortals had ever returned alive.
Spider turned. “Douse your light, little witch. Some of my brethren have more delicate eyes than I.”
She swallowed and felt Ciaran’s tension through his fingers. The opalescent light died and darkness rushed over them, so thick she could taste it. The door opened with a soft scrape and dank air gusted out, fragrant with stone and the snake-musky sweetness of the vrykoloi. Like walking into an animal’s den, but so much worse; goose pimples stung her skin.
Spider’s long fingers claimed her right hand and glove leather slipped against sweat-greased flesh. “Follow me.”
Death breathed over her as they walked, whispered in her head; her ring spat diamond sparks. Ghostlights glimmered in the darkness, pinpoints of blue and green. Not enough to see by, but they gave her an idea of the great size of the chamber. The floor was slick underfoot now, smooth as polished flagstones. Water dripped in the distance, a slow plink into a pool that scattered echoes through the black.
They weren’t alone. Isyllt felt eyes on them, felt whispering voices too faint to hear. Surrounded. Ciaran held her crippled hand tight enough to ache, and her right was trapped in Spider’s. She wouldn’t reach her knife in time if they were attacked. Sweat trickled down her back, soaking her linen camisole. Her heart beat strong and fast in her throat.
Isyllt smiled, baring her teeth to the dark. Somewhere in the shadows, laughter answered.
Spider paused for a moment, squeezing her hand when she drew breath to speak. Then he turned. “Lady Tenebris will see you, but your friend waits here.”
Isyllt’s left hand tightened awkwardly on Ciaran’s. “Don’t worry, little witch,” the vampire said, amusement coloring his voice. “You’re our guests here. Perhaps the bard will sing for us—we seldom host musicians.”
“Far be it from me to refuse an audience,” Ciaran said. His voice was calm, despite his trembling hands. “I’d be honored.”
Isyllt brushed his arm in reassurance before Spider’s hand closed on her elbow and pulled her forward again.
He led her down a flight of shallow steps. The air grew closer around her, dust tickling her nose. The smell of snakes and old blood grew stronger and she fought a sneeze. Her shoulder brushed a doorway as he steered her to the right and she felt the closeness of walls.
“There’s a chair in front of you,” he said. “The Lady will join you soon.”
Isyllt moved carefully forward until her knees bumped stone. A bench, strewn with pillows of threadbare velvet and soft-worn brocade. The stone leeched warmth from her flesh as she sat. She tugged off her right glove, shaking her hand dry. Her breath was harsh and loud in the stillness.
An icy draft heralded the vrykola’s arrival, a presence that made the hair on Isyllt’s nape prickle. She rose and bowed low, grateful not to stumble or crack her head on anything.
Tenebris’s laugh crawled over her skin, cold and slick as oil. “You sit so bravely in the dark.” A match crackled and orange-gold light blossomed, brilliant enough to make Isyllt’s eyes water. A candle flame quickened and acrid blue smoke coiled through the air. “Is that better?”
“Yes, Lady. Thank you.” Isyllt blinked back moisture and reached for the chain around her neck. The room was smaller than she’d imagined after the vastness of the hall outside, low-ceilinged and narrow. Tattered hangings draped the walls, and a broken chair crouched in the far corner. “My master sends his greetings, and gifts.” Gems slithered into her palm, warm from her skin. Amethysts glowed in the candlelight and opals spat iridescent fire.
“Lovely,” Tenebris murmured. Shadows trailed her like gossamer, fluttering from her gaunt limbs. Isyllt couldn’t see her features, save for a faint glitter of eyes and the flash of teeth when she spoke.
Aphra and Tenebris were old, the oldest of the vrykoloi as far as Kiril knew, and they were even less human than Spider. Arcanost scholars knew very little about the origins of the vrykoloi, and even scientific curiosity and prestige weren’t enough for most to brave the undercity. Isyllt wondered if she could scavenge the beginnings of a monograph from this audience.
Tenebris spilled the jewels from palm to palm in a shimmering stream. “Send my regards to Lord Orfion. It is a pity we don’t speak as we once did, but the years weigh heavy.”
Isyllt looked at her hands to hide her frown.
“Aphra won’t join us tonight,” the vrykola said, turning away. Her shadow-draperies fluttered farther from the light. “She sleeps much lately, and is not easily roused. What is it that we can do for you, necromancer?”
Isyllt swallowed, her throat dry. “Some of your people have taken up tomb robbing, Lady.”
Tenebris paused. Or more aptly, she stilled. For a heartbeat Isyllt had no sense that anything else was in the room with her. “Tomb robbing?”
“The royal crypts, no less. The late queen’s jewelry was stolen.”
One gaunt hand waved, shedding darkness like a flame shedding smoke. “Which queen is that, child? I fear I’ve lost track.”
“Lychandra, wife to Mathiros Alexios, who still reigns.”
“Alexios. Pity the Severoi aren’t still on the throne. Or the Korinthes—I remember them. What makes you think vrykoloi were responsible for this theft?”
“I smelled them, Lady. It’s not a scent easily counterfeited.”
Tenebris chuckled again. “No, I imagine it is not.” Silence filled the room again, wrapping them in cold coils.
“The king hasn’t heard of this yet,” Isyllt finally said, “but when he does he’ll be… angry. His temper is easily ignited, especially where his wife is concerned.”
“I fear I cannot help you. Aphra and I would never countenance such a thing, but there are those who stray from the fold, who don’t follow the order of the catacombs. I can claim no responsibility for these rabble, nor hope to chastise them to any effect.”
Isyllt swallowed again. “My master and I would keep this from the king, if possible, but to do that we must recover what was stolen. Is there nothing you can do to help us?”
Tenebris sighed, a sound like slow-pouring water. “I shall inquire. Perhaps one of the young ones has seen something, heard something.” She melted from one shadow to another and stood beside Isyllt; the candle didn’t flicker in her passage. “I smell your blood. It’s… distracting.”
Isyllt pressed her tongue against her sore lip; the taste of metal filled her mouth. Her shoulders tightened and tingled. Tenebris’s hand brushed her cheek, silk-wrapped bones like the sticks of a lady’s fan.
Then she was gone, back on the far side of the room. “It’s better when we sleep. Sleep is soothing, dulls these appetites.” She glided toward the door. “It would be best if you returned to the upper world, necromancer. Investigate as you will. Perhaps Spider can help you—he is still young and curious, and doesn’t yet feel the pull of earth. He was fond of the last mage who braved the underground, too.” Her voice chilled. “If you find these rabble who threaten our peace, dispose of them as you see fit.”
With that, Isyllt was alone.
Biting back another frown, she called witchlight as she left the room, trailing it behind her so she wasn’t blind. Bones glimmered against grey stone, intricate swirls of phalanges and vertebrae bleached slick and pale as cream, ribs curving like buttresses along the ceiling. The death-sense of the place dizzied her; her ring was a band of ice.
She might have lost herself in the twisting ossuary corridors, but she heard the familiar sound of Ciaran’s voice. His smoky baritone led her back to the broad stairs and into the main hall. A smile tugged her lips as she recognized the ballad—of course Ciaran would sing love songs to vampires.
Her tiny light glittered on walls inlaid with gems and bone. A cathedral, all soaring columns and statued alcoves. She wanted to stop and gawk, but forced herself to keep walking, eyes on Ciaran.
He sat on a bench against the wall, surrounded by his deathly audience. A few of them fled at her light, melting into the shadows or skittering up the walls like insects, but most remained, giving her no more than a passing glance. She waited till he finished the last verse and silence filled the vaulted room once more. Eerie eyes glittered, reflecting opalescent flame. No tears, but the rapt expressions on bone-pale faces were just as eloquent.
Ciaran smiled as she approached, his face alight. He loved an audience, no matter how unusual. “Sound carries beautifully in here. It would make a marvelous concert hall.”
“You should discuss that with Lady Tenebris the next time we visit. But I’m afraid we need to leave now.” She glanced at the gathered crowd, but recognized none of the faces. “Where’s Spider?”
“Here,” the vampire said, appearing at her elbow. “I’ll escort you up.”
The vampires stared at Ciaran as he stood and straightened his coat, their eyes hungry. He bowed with a flourish as graceful as any he might offer a crowd at the Briar Patch, or an orpheum. A slender arm reached out of the shadows, almost shyly, and pressed something into his hand. Isyllt caught his sleeve and pulled him away before anyone demanded an encore.
When the tall stone doors shut behind, Isyllt finally let out a sigh. The back of her neck still prickled furiously and her muscles were strung tight as kithara strings.
Spider smiled crookedly. “How was your meeting?”
She kept walking. “Trying,” she said at last, voice low. “She doesn’t care about any of this. It’s not just our skins—” a vague upward gesture encompassed the city above them “—I’m trying to save, you know.”
“I know.” Spider took her arm with casual grace. “That’s what happens to the very old ones. They grow torpid, dull. All they want to do is sleep, the rest of the world be damned.”
“She said you might help me.”
He nodded, pale hair drifting like cobwebs around his face. “I will, little witch, I will.” The doors vanished into shadow behind them and soon the light lapped at the cliff wall they’d descended. “I’ll listen in the dark and see what I find.”
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “And how is it that you know what to listen for?”
He grinned. “I’m very good at listening in the dark.”
“Who was the other mage Tenebris mentioned, who you were so fond of?”
“Another sorceress, years ago. Decades, it must be. She wanted to learn our secrets, and even managed to charm one or two out of us. She’s dead now, I fear.”
He turned at the wall instead of hauling them back up the way they’d come as Isyllt expected. “There’s an easier way back.” He led them to a narrow door in the rock, where a stair twisted up into shadow.
Isyllt raised her eyebrows. “You couldn’t have brought us down this way?”
“It’s not as much fun.” He bent close, till she could smell his coppery poison-sweet breath. “I’ll find you when I have something to report.” He bowed over her hand and pressed a cold kiss against her knuckles. “The stair will take you back to the bottom of your sewers. Don’t use it again without permission.”
Before she could speak he was gone, leaving only a lingering chill in her flesh.
The stair was narrow and low, with only room for one at a time to pass. The steep uneven stairs were worn shallow in the centers, and Isyllt wondered how long the vrykoloi had passed this way in the silent dark.
Ciaran went first, the light bobbing ahead of him. Darkness crawled up the stairs in their wake, whispering against Isyllt’s back. Her skin still tingled with the aftermath of nerves. A liability, Kiril called her craving for danger, but he understood it. They waded in death, drank it and swallowed it whole; sometimes it was good to be reminded that they still lived, and wanted to go on living.
“What did the vrykola give you?” she asked Ciaran as they climbed.
He paused to fish in his trouser pocket and pulled out a coin. Gold, crusted along the edge with a dark grime Isyllt didn’t care to identify. The profile stamped on the face wasn’t one she recognized. Ciaran peered at it for a moment, then laughed.
“It’s a chrysaor.” The winged boar that had been the crest of House Korinthes. “She tipped me with two-hundred-year-old gold.”
As her pulse slowed she felt the long walk down. Her legs burned and her breath ached in her lungs. By the time they reached the top of the stairs even so small a magic as the witchlight drained her strength, and fatigue laid a heavy yoke across her shoulders.
The reek of the sewers struck them as the stones swung open, thick and fetid after the smell of rock and earth. The door closed silently behind them, blending seamlessly into the rough wall of the tunnel.
Ciaran sighed, the sound nearly lost in the rush of water. “I need a drink. Come back to the Briar with me—the Crown’s treat.”
Isyllt chuckled. Dust and mud itched on her face and scalp and she craved a hot bath, but wine and pleasant company might suffice. “I think the Crown can afford a bottle or two—”
She broke off as the sapphire began to pulse against her chest and the sharpness of surgical spirits cut through the sewer reek. That and the intake of Ciaran’s breath were all the warning she had.
Weight hit her from behind, driving her to the floor and scoring her palms on stone as she caught herself. Cold hands held her, pinning her arms and clamping her jaw. Much too strong. Ciaran shouted.
Steely fingers yanked her head to the side, ripped at her collar. She twisted, but couldn’t break free, tensed against the strike—
Needles through her skin, sinking into flesh where neck met shoulder. Razor teeth, jaws like a vise. She screamed once, short and sharp. Only a moment till the poison started to work.
Her knife gouged her spine as the vampire’s weight pressed her down; she couldn’t reach the dagger in her boot. But blades had never been her weapon of choice. The witchlight exploded, from candle wisp to blazing star, a burst of light and searing cold.
Someone shrieked. Teeth ripped out of her shoulder, blood gushing. Isyllt pushed to her feet, dragging the kukri free of her ruined jacket. The silver blade shattered the light, threw back shards of brilliance. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she didn’t see the vampire’s rush in time to dodge it.
He caught her low in the stomach, driving the air from her lungs and lifting her off the floor. She stabbed wild and clumsy as they both became airborne.
The water hit her like a wall. Frothing current buffeted them, grabbed her leather clothes and pulled her down. The vampire sank with her, their limbs tangled together. Grit and debris rushed past them, stinging Isyllt’s eyes. Rank, sour water flooded her mouth and she tried not to gag. She shoved left-handed against the vampire’s face, slicing her glove open on a fang. His hand caught her right wrist and forced the blade away. Her back bumped the bottom of the canal, scraping along slime-slick stone as the water bore them on. Her shoulder burned; her lungs burned.
Burned. Burning. A gentle warmth coursing through her veins, soothing aching flesh and taking the pain away…
The venom of a vampire’s bite, working its way into her blood. The poison that calmed their prey, rendered them quiet and pliable while the vrykoloi drank their life away. She’d felt it before with Spider, as sweet and strong as poppy wine once it took hold.
The vampire’s grip numbed her arm—her strength was nothing against his. But she wasn’t alone.
Her diamond flared. Leather cracked and peeled and flaked away, and the spectral glow lit up the water as trapped ghosts answered her call. Their terrible chill seared her bones.
The vampire recoiled from the light, face hidden behind writhing dark hair. His hold loosened and Isyllt swung her knife. Clumsy, hampered by wet leather and wounded shoulder, but the blade sliced along his stomach. Black blood clouded the water, shredding and dissolving in the flow. She thought her lungs would burst as she kicked upward.
She gasped as she broke the surface, lungs screaming. Her right arm was numb to the elbow; she could barely feel the knife hilt against her hand. Her clothing dragged her down, threatened to pull her under again.
A hand closed on hers and lifted her out of the sewer. She gasped in pain as she fell onto stone, scraping her knuckles as she tried to keep hold of her weapon. The witchlight was gone, drowned in the morass of her pain and panic.
“Saints, you reek.” Spider’s voice. She struggled to her knees, raising the knife. “Put that down, witch.”
“Who—” She gulped another breath. Her stomach roiled. “Who was that?”
“I believe that was the rabble Tenebris mentioned.”
Starbursts of color swam in front of her eyes. She felt warm, though she couldn’t stop shivering. Heat trickled down her shoulder. Calling another light was an effort, and the flame sputtered and wept incandescent sparks. “Where’s Ciaran?”
Spider shielded his eyes with one long hand and pointed down the tunnel. “Back there. He’s in better shape than you.”
With trembling fingers she unbuckled her torn jacket and peeled it off. Her blood was nearly black in the eerie glow. The pain made her bite her already tender lip, but it wasn’t as bad as it should be. The poison would take hours to work out of her body. Languorous warmth lapped inside her head, promising peace if she would only close her eyes….
She shook her head, the pain in her neck holding lethargy at bay. Her stomach cramped and she retched, spitting fetid water and the remains of her lunch over the stones. She scrubbed a hand over her mouth and tried to control the nausea. Spider’s mouth quirked, but he wisely remained silent.
When her head stopped spinning she took the vampire’s proffered hand and leaned on his arm. The current had carried her farther than she’d realized. “What happened to the one who attacked me? I doubt I killed him.” A situation she would remedy if she had another chance. Her boots squelched with every step, water shifting between her toes.
Spider shrugged. “The water took him. I’ll try to find his trail once you and your friend are safely gone.”
She glanced up at him, eyes narrowing. “How did you know to come back?”
“I caught Azarné following you. I thought she meant you harm.”
“Azarné?”
“Her.” He pointed to a slender shape crouching beside Ciaran.
The light spilled over a delicate face half-hidden under elf-locked black hair. The vrykola who’d given Ciaran the coin. Eyes wide and gold as an owl’s stared up at Isyllt. “I wouldn’t have hurt you.” Her voice was soft and husky and accented. “I only wanted more music.”
Isyllt knelt by Ciaran and brought the light closer. Blood trickled down one side of his face, but his eyes were clear. He wrinkled his nose at the reek that clung to her. “Are you all right?” she asked.
He nodded carefully. “A bit bruised, but whole. The lovely lady intervened before things became unpleasant.” He picked up Azarné’s small bronze hand and kissed her knuckles. She blinked, hair sliding over her face.
“It was Myca,” the vrykola said. “He didn’t stay to fight me.” Her tiny mouth twisted with distaste.
Spider frowned. “Who attacked Isyllt?”
Azarné shrugged. “I didn’t see. They were already in the water.”
Ciaran stood, wiping at the blood on his face. Only a little cut on his scalp, Isyllt thought, but she wanted to inspect it in better light. Her own bleeding had slowed, but she was already dizzy. Her head pounded and the witchlight sputtered with every throb. The sapphire was silent once more.
“Let’s get you home,” Spider said, glancing down the dark tunnel.