The Bone Palace (35 page)

“Of course it isn’t. What else?”

“Spider’s ideas are attracting attention in the catacombs. The idea of roaming free above”—her lips twisted—“of
hunting
free—appeals to some of us.”

“To you?” Across the room, Isyllt saw Ciaran flinch.

The vampire bared her teeth. “I
am
a predator. We can survive on sips and drops, on willing donors, but it will never be the same. We all want the kill.” She dropped her head. “But Spider wants more than that. He wants to rule the city.”

“Do you want that too?”

Azarné was silent for a long time. So still she could have been a statue. When she moved again it was without her unnerving demon grace. She sank onto the edge of the chair and stared into nothing. Embers popped and fell in the hearth.

“I came to Erisín… years ago, with a delegation from Iskar, part of the Sultan’s retinue. I never went home again. Many memories of my life have faded, but I remember the court, the petty cruelties of the seraglio. We hurt each other to pass the time, to pretend we had any power but what the sultan granted us. The nobles did the same, and so much worse. Mortals with authority—and those without—do terrible things every day. So imagine what a true monster would do if given power over others. We already hunt and kill for need and for pleasure, and never mind your truce. If we could do so with impunity it would be a hundred times worse.”

Her eyes flashed as she moved, the only warning Isyllt
had. In the next heartbeat the vampire stood before her, so close she could feel the chill seeping from Azarné’s flesh. The teacup shattered on the floor, spraying both their skirts with liquid.

“You should stop him,” the vrykola whispered, leaning in on her tiptoes. “It will be ugly if you don’t.”

Nerves scalded her skin. Every instinct warned her to recoil; instead she stepped forward. Porcelain shards crunched and bit beneath her slippers as she glared down at the vampire. “You stop him then, if you know how ugly it will be. It won’t be only mortals bleeding for this, I promise you that. Your elders let this happen—they can bloody well do something about it. I can’t begrudge Spider his revolution, if the rest of you are this
useless
.”

Azarné hissed, pupils widening. Isyllt’s hands throbbed with anger and stress. Ciaran whispered the vampire’s name.

In an eyeblink she moved to the door. “Perhaps you’re right, necromancer. I’ll tell Lady Tenebris what you said.” And then she was gone, and the latch clicked shut behind her.

O
n the twenty-seventh of Hekate, the King’s army returned to Erisín. They rode through the Dawn Gate at first light, as was traditional for victories. Historically, any action not ending in a rout and hasty flight to the city walls was considered a victory. They flew the tower and crescent moon of Selafai, white on grey, and the crowned griffin on blue of House Alexios. The banners would have snapped but for the night’s rain. The rain also turned the haze of dust that trailed them into a sucking mire, and coated the soldiers in mud to the knee.

Despite the weather, helms and mail still gleamed and many of the horses were fresh enough to step proudly and toss their heads. Crowds choked the sidewalks, cheering and tossing hothouse flowers. Orange-coated police lined the barricades, keeping the streets clear and preventing any overly enthusiastic onlookers from rushing the procession, or soldiers’ families from demanding news of
their missing kin. Those questions would be asked later, away from the public eye.

And behind them, far from the cheers and flowers but toiling through the same mud—and more horse shit—came the refugees.

Savedra didn’t stand with Nikos to welcome his father home. Some propriety they wouldn’t test. But her station—and sharp elbows—earned her a place at the front of the crowd of courtiers gathered in the breathless cold of the palace courtyard. The prince and princess stood at the front, the king’s aged seneschal beside them. Garlands and banners flapped around them, the wind stripping petals from hothouse flowers and scattering them across the stones. The cobbles had been scrubbed till they gleamed, and every stray bit of wood and metal polished. The staff all wore smiles firmly fixed, but Savedra was sure they didn’t appreciate the king’s timing.

The assembled court heard the approaching hooves before the trumpets sounded, the din of the crowds that followed. Three riders passed the gate at a time—first three of the king’s honor guard, then the king himself flanked by two others, and then the final three, all on matching black horses. After them came the generals and officers and any soldiers who had kin in the palace. The others would have gone to the garrison by the western gate in Lastlight.

The honor guard opened their formation, circling their horses to the right until they stood in a line behind the king. Mathiros Alexios was not a tall man. He had been lean and strong in his youth, and age had thickened him but not lessened his strength. His ash-and-iron hair
and beard were cropped close as any soldier’s—shaggy now, after days on the road—and his skin was brown and seamed after a lifetime of sun and wind. He wore plain leather and mail under his blue cloak, and nothing resembling a crown. He didn’t need one—the ferocity of his dark eyes was authority enough. Hard to remember sometimes, amid the scheming and complaints of the Octagon Court, just why the Eight rarely managed to outmaneuver or outvote him in the council. But as his gaze swept the courtyard a hundred heads bent rather than meet his eyes.

He stripped off his leather gauntlets and swung down from the saddle, patting his black mare affectionately. When his boots hit the ground the crowd knelt as one, with a sound like a wave foaming over stone. Only Nikos and Ashlin kept their feet, straight and shining.

Nikos had dressed with restraint for the occasion, though Savedra knew it chafed him—silks and velvets as always, but all in black, broken only by the gold and sapphires of his jewelry. The color wasn’t his best, but it flattered in a severe sort of way. In a rare display of camaraderie, Ashlin matched him, lithe and slim in black leathers. The rubies she wore in a bloody spray across her throat were the only mark of her station. Savedra and the princess’s maids had tried to strip the dye with harsh rinses, but her hair was still several shades darker than normal, a rich honey-gold, glinting here and there with copper.

“Welcome home, Father,” Nikos said, his voice carrying over the stamp and jingle of the horses. He bowed first, deep and formal, then offered a hand to clasp. Savedra had never seen Nikos embrace his father in all the years she’d known them.

Ashlin bowed as well, with a soldier’s crispness.
Mathiros’s eyes glittered as he took her hand. Despite all the tensions of the marriage and the quarrels among the Alexioi, the king had always been fond of his warrior daughter-in-law. It made the treason she and Savedra had committed all the more dangerous.

When the king had greeted his heirs he raised his seneschal from his knees and gave the man an affectionate slap on the shoulder. Then he raised a hand to the crowd, and the courtiers clambered gratefully off the frozen stones. As she stood, Savedra saw Lord Orfion through the crowd, deep in the shadow of the far wall. His face was impassive as ever, but she caught the tired slump of his shoulders as he turned away.

The council that followed the king’s return was a farce.

No, Kiril corrected himself ruefully. The meeting was a necessity, to learn the state of the kingdom before tomorrow’s open court. It was to Mathiros’s credit that he had summoned his councilors after no more delay than a bath and a meal. It was his own presence in the council chamber that was farcical.

The long room was the same as ever—paneled and polished, the rich carpets faded by decades of feet. Fires burned in hearths on either side, their warmth and glow warring with the grey chill that seeped relentlessly through the half-moon mullioned window at the far end. Chairs creaked as counselors leaned toward or away from the heat; paper rasped and crinkled as they sorted through stacks of briefs and notes. An intimately familiar scene, one he’d sat through countless times. Now it was merely salt in the wound of his betrayal, and he was the only one who felt the sting.

Facing Mathiros was more painful than watching
Phaedra in her stolen flesh. Love betrayed might give rise to hate and bitterness, but the original love could never be entirely erased. Even now he saw in the king echoes of the boy he had sworn to serve, the man he’d followed and supported unflinchingly.

He saw echoes of the old king, too, more than he wanted to.
Strong
was what people had most often called Nikolaos Alexios.
Cold
and
hard
were next, the closest one could come to the truth while still being politic.
Cruel
was a better word still, or perhaps merely uncaring. Nikolaos had taken no joy in harming those around him, but neither had he ever taken their feelings into account.

Kiril was twenty-one when he first met Mathiros, a promising young mage with no family to speak of, clever and quietly ambitious. The sort of agent the old spymaster had looked for—the sort Kiril looked for now. The prince had been ten, already grown scarred and hard in his father’s shadow, but not yet dead inside. He turned toward Kiril like a sapling toward the sun.

Kiril had thought to shape the boy into a better king than his father, a better man—for the most part, he succeeded. Mathiros learned a little wisdom and more restraint, smoothed the harsh edges of his temper and acquired a modicum of diplomacy. The country had warmed to their forthright warrior prince, and welcomed—or at least tolerated—a warrior king while expansionist emperors held Assar’s Lion Throne. Phaedra’s death had nearly cost them everything, but they overcame even that. And when Mathiros found Lychandra, Kiril had almost thought that everything would turn out for the best.

Instead she was, inadvertently, the thing that destroyed them.

Adrastos and the priestess Sophia Petreos were deep in argument over the refugee problem and how it might be solved. Mathiros listened—or feigned listening—nodding and grunting at appropriate intervals, but Kiril doubted his mind was on any of the matters at hand. He hadn’t seen the king so tired in years, cheeks sunken beneath his beard and his eyes branded with sleepless circles. Blunt fingers moved restlessly against the table, the papers before him, the arm of his chair. Mathiros didn’t startle, but his eyes flickered whenever the shadow of a bird flitted past the window.

Looking closer, Kiril saw the sorcery laid on him, faint as a whisper. Phaedra’s arm was long—or her wings swift. Scarcely visible, but he was still glad he was the only mage in the council. His would-be successor—a young man with talent and a surfeit of ambition who Mathiros had chosen over Isyllt—was still in Ashke Ros, and Sophia had reached the rank of high priestess through cunning and connections, not mystical acumen.

Nikos noticed his father’s unease, if not the witchery behind it; more than once he tried to catch Kiril’s eye, but Kiril busied himself with papers and gave no response. The prince had proved himself more than capable in his father’s absence, and Kiril had no quarrel with him, but neither would he lead him on with promises of aid. His service to House Alexios was over and done.

So why are you here, old man?

He knew the answer, much as it pained him. He had come because even now he was waiting for Mathiros to change his mind. To apologize, to make some gesture toward mending their split.

It was as ever a vain hope. The king ignored him as
he had for years. Kiril was no more than a shadow in his chair for all the heed Mathiros paid him. The other counselors had long followed the king’s example. Some still came to him in private, of course.

The argument broadened to include the treasurer and Secretary of State, and to encompass the matter of military spending. Kiril kept his face and body still when he wanted to bolt from the room. He shouldn’t have come—no matter how this ended, he would get no satisfaction from the outcome.

The city was in too much clamor to venture out that day. Instead Isyllt buried her frustrations by teaching Dahlia the basics of magic theory, though she could give the task only a fraction of the attention it deserved.

When dusk rinsed the sky with violet, she realized what she should have done days ago. Shame stung her cheeks—it was too easy for even a necromancer to forget the dead. She stopped in the middle of a restless circuit.