The Bone Palace (40 page)

“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.