The Bone Palace
Page 7
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?”
“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 s
he 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.