The Bone Palace (49 page)

“Phaedra!” Isyllt’s hand tightened on her knife as those orange eyes turned to her. “Spider is dead. You’ve lost your vampires. The palace is warned about you. It’s over.”

The demon blinked. “Even if that’s true, I have the king and the crown prince.”

“And me to deal with.”

Her lips curled. “I can stop the prince’s heart where I stand. But enough threats—go home, necromancer. For Kiril’s sake I’ll spare you.”

“This has nothing to do with any of them,” Mathiros said. “This is between us.”

Phaedra nodded. “Yes. Come inside.”

Mathiros squared his shoulders and stepped into the room. Isyllt, cursing, followed. Magic settled over her, rust-red and sticky, nearly tangible as Phaedra’s power grew. It spread in webs throughout the room, winding around the woman who sprawled in the corner—Ginevra Jsutien, and that was one mystery solved.

“Where is Nikos?” Mathiros asked.

“Here.” She led them to an adjoining room, where Nikos lay on a stone bench. Savedra knelt beside him, murmuring softly and insistently as she tried to help him up. Her hazel eyes flashed white when she saw Phaedra and the king.

“If I—” Mathiros’s throat worked under his beard. “If I surrender to you, will you let Nikos free?”

“I have no desire to harm him,” Phaedra said.

“She’s lying,” Savedra said, her voice cracking. “She means to take his body, make him a puppet to steal the throne. He won’t survive that.”

Phaedra’s eyes narrowed. “Technicalities.” Her stance was relaxed, unconcerned, but she crackled with power. Mathiros, on the other hand, had lowered his sword, shoulders hunched and face twisted. Isyllt had never known him to balk at anything, but against his dead wife’s face and his son’s life in the balance he was shrunken, helpless.

Isyllt sighed. She would have to do this herself.

Kiril rode through the burning city, warded against spirits and men. His diamond ring blazed with the death in the air, but the destruction wasn’t as bad as it might have been. The quarter would be decimated, but the Vigils’ barricades still held, and the thickening snow damped
fires and tempers alike. He sensed newly fledged demons, and passed a few—the shambling dead, mostly, opportunistic spirits worming into fresh corpses, still clumsy and dazzled by incarnation. His stolen horse balked, but responded to soothing words and steady hands.

Soldiers and police gathered at the gates of the old palace. One slab of ironbound oak had been broken down, and tendrils of red mist snaked around splintered boards. The commanding officer recognized him, and the man’s face lit with sick relief. All Kiril’s attention was for Varis, however, when he saw the other mage leaning against the wall, sharing a wineskin with—of all people—the crown princess.

Kiril handed his reins to a nervous soldier who needed something to occupy him. The crowd parted for him as he joined Varis.

“Still not very good at taking your own advice,” Varis said by way of greeting.

“No better than you are.” He took the proffered skin, letting cheap wine rinse away the taste of char.

“Mathiros is still in there,” Varis said, more soberly. “So are Savedra and Isyllt and the prince.”

Kiril closed his eyes. There was nothing in those walls for him but grief. Isyllt had made her choice, and not asked for his help. He should have abandoned all of this.

But he was here.

Varis touched his face. They might have kissed, but those days were past. Instead Kiril lowered Varis’s hand, squeezing gently before he let go. They were past farewells and benedictions, too, so Kiril turned without a word and stepped into the darkness of the bone palace.

He knew the path despite the deceptive mist, knew the
number of strides to the tower, the number of steps to its peak. His knees didn’t ache this time, nor his traitorous heart. He almost laughed—he could think of more pleasant ways to spend his borrowed health. Maybe Isyllt was wrong—maybe they could have been happy somewhere else, had they abandoned all their oaths and duties.

Too late for might-have-beens now.

He heard shouting as he neared the top and quickened his pace. The air was thick with magic, Phaedra’s and Isyllt’s both, and the metallic scent of fresh blood.

The king and both sorceresses stood in the open first room, stationed in a rough triangle. Blood dripped from Isyllt’s nose and coursed from wounds on Mathiros’s cheek. Blood smeared the king’s sword as well, and Phaedra’s gown was rent across her ribs. The wound hadn’t slowed her. Through the laboratory door he glimpsed Savedra holding Nikos amidst a wreckage of broken glass and drifting notes.

“Phaedra,” he said as she raised her hand for another strike. “No.”

“Kiril!” Her face brightened. The same surprised hope lit Isyllt as well, and the sight was like a fist in his stomach. “You came.”

“To stop this. I can’t let you do this, Phaedra. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Kiril.” Her lips pursed in a disappointed moue. “Not again.”

Her power hit him like a wave. The weight of it crushed him, while the demon blood in his veins answered her call, burning him from the inside.

She was stronger than the last time they’d faced each other, on another tower so many years ago. Then she had
been clever and desperate—now she was a demon, and all the hate and madness that soaked the stones answered her. But Kiril was cannier with time, and knew better than to break himself against her onslaught. Instead he diverted her, twisted the raw red rush of her aside like a stone in a flood, while his defenses co-opted the strength of demon blood and made it his own.

One step at a time he crossed the room, through the bloody tide of magic, and took her in his arms. She swayed against him even as her magic hammered his. Isyllt fought too, flashes of silver-white and bone at the edge of his awareness.

“Let it go, Phaedra,” he whispered. Sticky warmth dripped into his beard, and a dozen scars ached as she tried to reopen the wounds. “This will bring you no peace.”

She touched his lips. “I would have forgiven you, if you’d only asked.”

He readied himself for the last assault he knew would follow.

He didn’t expect her to use a knife.

Isyllt shouted as the blade glittered in Phaedra’s hand, screamed as it slid home between Kiril’s ribs. Her throat ached with the force of it. He stumbled backward, into a wall, and slid slowly to the floor.

Phaedra watched him for a moment, her face grim and sad. Then she turned back to Mathiros. “Where was I?”

Isyllt stood frozen. Phaedra’s magic hung in red rags—now was the time to strike. But she could only stare at Kiril and will him to rise, to shake off the wound.

“Isyllt!” Nikos stood in the doorway, braced between the arch and Savedra’s supporting shoulder. “Stop her!”

A son’s plea. A prince’s command. Isyllt jerked toward Phaedra as the sorceress closed on Mathiros. The king dropped his sword, his face slack with despair. Kiril’s face was grey as ashes, his hand trembling as he reached for the knife. Blood spread shining across his black coat.

“Stop her,” Nikos yelled again.

“No,” she whispered, and turned to Kiril.

She took three strides before something inside her snapped like a kithara string and the force of her broken oath crushed her to her knees. Her vision greyed; the air in her lungs thickened and burned. She crawled, dragging useless legs behind her. Nikos was screaming. Mathiros was screaming. She ignored them all and crawled to Kiril’s side.

Her magic filled her like shards of glass; it would slice her to the bone if she seized it. But her death-sense remained: As soon as she touched him, she knew the wound was mortal. The blade shuddered with his heartbeat when she touched the hilt. A scalpel, a tiny thing, but it had found its mark.

“What do I do?” she asked, touching his face with trembling fingers. “What can I do?”

“Forgive me.” A bubble of blood burst on his lips. “Pull the knife out and let me die swiftly. Or leave it in, and let me spend a few more moments with you. Whichever option seems best to you.”

She cradled his head in her lap. Tears and blood dripped off her chin. “I’ll kill her,” she whispered. “I swear it.”

“Don’t.” His hand groped for hers, clung tight. Already cold, but some strength remained. “No revenge. You see what it does to you. But yes, you should stop her. It would be a mercy.” Each word was softer than the last. His dark eyes began to dim.

“You don’t have to die,” she whispered, lowering her head. Her hair and her tears fell over his face. “Not truly.”

“And become a demon? Undead? Could you stand the sight of me?”

She sobbed at the thought. Cold and empty, forever, dead and undying—

“I love you. Always you.”

“I knew it would be you—”

The words faded into a long rattling breath and the last spark inside him guttered. Death surrounded them, an owl-winged shadow reaching for Kiril. Isyllt flung herself against it, scrambling for power that sliced and crumbled at her touch.

She followed him into the dark.

The dark would not have her.

Savedra didn’t watch Mathiros die.

Nikos tried to intervene but his knees gave way, dragging them both to the floor. She pulled his head against her chest and buried her face in his hair, whispering meaningless sounds to drown the wet noises coming from Phaedra and the king.

When she opened her eyes again, Mathiros hung like an empty husk in Phaedra’s hands. Blood coated him, dripping from his fingers to dapple the floor. More slicked Phaedra’s hands and mouth. As Savedra watched, the red stains vanished into her skin—the splatters on her white gown remained. When the last drops were gone, the sorceress let him fall. Her face crumpled as she stared at the sunken corpse, exultation fled.

“How does it feel?”

Savedra started, scarcely recognizing Isyllt’s voice.
The necromancer still knelt by Kiril, her face a half-mask of blood beneath the shroud of her hair.

“Was it worth it?”

“For a moment,” Phaedra said, almost too soft to hear. “For a moment it was. Now… it doesn’t matter now. It’s done.”

A spark of steel caught Savedra’s eye. Ginevra was awake, bound hands groping across the floor for Savedra’s knife. If Phaedra noticed the movement, she gave no sign.

“Now what?” Isyllt asked. Her eyes flickered—she noticed, and was trying to keep Phaedra distracted.

The demon stared at her hands, clean of blood. “Now I finish it, I suppose. I don’t want to wear this flesh anymore.”

“It won’t be different in anyone else’s,” Savedra said, finding her voice at last.

Phaedra turned. “It will, for a time.” Behind her, Ginevra had finished sawing through her bonds and chafed her raw wrists, jaw clenched against any sound of pain.

“Mathiros is dead,” Isyllt said. “Spider is dead. Kiril is dead.” Her voice was too hollow to crack. “You have your revenge, but your plans are ruined.”

“Perhaps you’re right. I only wanted—” Phaedra shook her head. “I don’t know what I wanted. Rest, perhaps.” She glanced at Savedra and Nikos. “Keep your prince. The other is all I need.”

At last she turned toward Ginevra, in time for the girl to launch herself off the floor, knife in hand.

Clumsy and slow, but Phaedra only gaped as the blade flashed toward her, rocked back as it struck her face. Ginevra fell, wan and sweating, and Phaedra stumbled back, one hand clapped to her cheek.

“You—” She pulled her hand away, and blood glistened on her palm. Mathiros’s blood, Savedra supposed. The slice laid her cheek open to the bone; flesh gapped as she spoke. Dark rivulets ran down her chin to stain her bodice.

“Dead flesh doesn’t feel pain,” she told Ginevra. “I’ll be more careful when I’m wearing yours.”

Ginevra’s grey eyes were dark with pain and hopelessness, but she gave Savedra a fleeting smile.

“I find,” she said softly as Phaedra walked toward her, “that I’m tired of being anyone’s pawn or plaything.” She turned the knife. Savedra’s lips moved as she understood, too slow to stop it.

The blade flashed one last time, as Ginevra drove it into the soft flesh beneath her chin.

Savedra screamed as Ginevra fell. Phaedra shrieked in rage. Isyllt breathed a name.

“Forsythia.”

A whisper was all the dead needed. Her ring sparked and the ghost appeared beside her, translucent and wild-eyed.

Isyllt reached for her magic as well, for the biting cold that gave her strength, but it fell to ashes at her touch. Her power would return, Kiril had said. She could endure this. But for the moment she was useless.

“What’s happening?” Forsythia asked, watching Phaedra kneel in the spreading pool of Ginevra’s blood. “Is that—”

“That’s her. I need your help to stop her.”

Transparent hands knotted in her skirts. “I can’t. I can’t.”

“You can.” Isyllt levered herself off Kiril’s shoulder, trying not to think of the cooling flesh beneath her. “You’re the only one who can. If we don’t she’ll do this over and over again.” She touched Forsythia’s shoulder, numbing her fingers to the bone. “I’m too weak to do it alone.”

The ghost straightened. “What do you need from me?”