The Bone Palace (38 page)

They lay in breathless silence when the bells tolled; the hour of regret. Savedra pressed her face against Nikos’s neck and breathed in salt musk and the lingering cedar-and-saffron of his perfume.

“What’s wrong?” she finally asked, trailing her fingers down his arm. Gooseflesh prickled in the wake of her touch. “Something Kurgoth said?” She had thought briefly of spying on them, but decided against it. She didn’t want to lose the captain’s trust so quickly, and she had a costume to plan besides.

“He’s worried about Father.” He laughed humorlessly, his chest shaking against hers. “And imagine how bad it must be if a man like Kurgoth will speak of it. He’s nearly as emotionless as Father himself.”

“What’s the matter?”

“He says Father is tired, stretched too thin—worse than the usual stress of a campaign. Nightmares. And of course Father won’t speak of them.”

“Does he think Mathiros will share them with you?”

“He knows better than that. He hoped that I could persuade Kiril to help, but I think that ship has sailed.”

“You could command him. He is a sworn agent of the Crown.”

“He served my father out of love, and Father squandered that. Besides, Father hasn’t seemed inclined to listen to him lately, either. The old man deserves some rest.”

Savedra sighed and pulled Nikos closer. “Don’t we all?”

E
risín 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—
vardöger
, 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 Kârekin—Kârekin 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.