The Bone Palace

by Downum, Amanda

  No one could survive the fall, no matter how powerful a mage. Phaedra certainly hasn’t. Kiril hopes and fears that the river might have claimed the body, denying them confirmation but sparing them the sight, but they receive no such mercy.

  She sprawls on the rocks beside the ice-edged water, close enough to soak her skirts. Grey and crimson splatters freeze on stone, clot and crust in the unbound darkness of her hair. Her limbs are broken twigs, neck grotesquely twisted. Birds take flight in a rush of black wings as Kiril and Mathiros approach. They made short work of her; her hands are already picked to the bone, eyes and tongue gone, lips ripped free to bare a white rictus of teeth. They even took her glittering rings, and lesser gems and gold thread from her girdle.

  The sight of her bare hands gives Kiril a moment’s unease, but no trace of life or unlife lingers in her shattered corpse, no hint of a ghost.

  “Leave her for the beasts,” Mathiros mutters, his voice raw and hollow.

  At another time, Kiril would have shot him a pointed glare. Now he doesn’t want to look his liege in the face. “That would be unwise, Highness,” he says instead.

  Mathiros grunts and nods. “Do as you see fit, then.” He turns and strides back to the path, boot heels ringing on the stones.

  When the prince is gone, Kiril kneels beside the body. He might have closed her eyes, but the lids are ruined, and straightening her limbs is out of the question. Instead he calls spellfire. It licks cold and silent around his fingers, flaring brighter when he touches Phaedra’s frozen gore-stiff gown, running and pooling as if the damp fabric were soaked in oil. The blue-white flames grow only colder as they burn, but cloth and flesh char and crumble all the same, till all that remains is greasy ash and a few blackened nubs of bone.

  The ashes freeze Kiril’s hands to aching as he scatters them into the river.

  CHAPTER 12

  A pleasant side effect of necromancy was that Isyllt’s magic warded off any foreign life that tried to take root in her flesh, from plagues like the bronze fever to the little coughs and colds that spread through the streets every day. But even that required a modicum of strength and self-preservation.

  Which was how Isyllt found herself bedridden and feverish for days after she summoned Forsythia, coughing and sneezing and choking on phlegm. Her former disregard of the influenza quickly vanished, leaving her weak and aching and wishing for death. She might have asked the landlord’s daughter to put her out of her misery when the girl came with soup and ginger tisane, but if so her request was ignored.

  The fever brought dreams. Strange, dark dreams, full of wings and towers and the smell of cinnamon. And blood, always blood, oceans and messes of it. Slit throats and torn veins and the thick black vomit of fever victims. More than once she woke gasping in the dark, the taste of copper in her mouth, certain that the slickness on her skin was more than sweat.

  On the seventh day she woke to afternoon sunlight and the feeling that she’d been beaten with truncheons and dragged behind a carriage. Her eyes were crusted with grit, and the taste in her mouth didn’t bear contemplating. Despite a head stuffed with snot and dirty rags, she knew someone else was in the apartment. She croaked a question that even she didn’t understand.

  A rattle of dishes answered from the other room, followed by soft footsteps. The smell of something full of salt and garlic cut through the clinging reek of sweat and sickness, and Isyllt flopped back on her clammy pillows with a sigh.

  “For a powerful sorceress, you whine a lot when you’re sick.”

  She started, sticky eyes opening again. The voice, and the shadow that fell across the bed, belonged not to the landlady’s daughter but to Dahlia.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “The girl downstairs let me in. I told her I worked with you, but mostly I think she was tired of listening to you moan.”

  Isyllt snorted and propped herself up on the pillows. The bedding stank, and her nose had cleared enough to remind her of it. Her scalp and back and breasts itched with dried sweat. Only sweat. Though from the ache tightening beneath her navel, her courses would begin soon. “You can make yourself useful, then. Is that lunch?”

  Dahlia handed her a tray of bread and soup; the garlic and ginger in the broth were enough to sting her sinuses.

  “You’re lucky,” the girl said. “People are dying of the influenza.”

  “They always do. The young and the old, the weak and the starving.”

  “It’s worse this year—the fever is worse. I heard a man in Harrowgate died vomiting blood two days ago.”

  That made Isyllt flinch. Her spoon shook, spilling broth back into the bowl. She sopped bread instead and forced herself to chew and swallow. It burned the back of her throat, but she felt more alive after a few mouthfuls.

  “So you work with me now?” she asked, trying to put aside thoughts of plague.

  Dahlia shrugged, perching on the edge of a chair. Her eyes flickered around the room; Isyllt hoped she wasn’t casing it. “I convinced Meka to help you. And you might need more help, looking for Forsythia’s killer.” She lowered her voice at the words, and Isyllt didn’t blame her. The memory of Forsythia’s sobs was enough to steal warmth from the room.

  “I might,” she mumbled around a mouthful of bread. Isyllt didn’t insult the girl by mentioning the danger. She’d come back after witnessing an unpleasant summoning, and risked a sickbed; that didn’t speak of cowardice or squeamishness. She swallowed and studied Dahlia more closely. “You want more than a few weeks employment, don’t you?”

  The girl’s jaw tightened. “I’m not asking for anything besides what my time is worth. Forsythia was kind to me—I want to see her avenged.”

  But Isyllt had seen the desire in her at the Arcanost. And she had come back now, when any fool knew that necromancers weren’t safe or pleasant company. “Shiver or spark?” she asked.

  Blue eyes flickered and met hers. “Shiver.” Her chin rose with the word.

  Sparks, as those with the talent for projective magic were often called, were accepted at the Arcanost no matter how poor or connectionless, if only because an untrained pyromancer was a threat to everyone around them. Shivers—those who could sense magic or hear spirits—were eight for an obol, and without something else to recommend them would go untrained, or find work as hedge magicians or ghost-whisperers. Or go mad from voices they couldn’t stop.

  Isyllt shrugged, setting the tray and empty bowl aside. “That doesn’t mean you can’t learn to do more. A well-trained sorcerer can do a little of almost anything.”

  “Can you?”

  She snorted again and shoved back the covers. “I’m too well-trained. Overspecialized. I’m so steeped in death and decay that my magic isn’t good for much else. But I can teach you theory. If you want to learn.”

  Dahlia watched her, eyes narrow and wary. Isyllt remembered that chariness. Was her need to learn worth the possibility of hurt and betrayal? She looked away before the girl was pressed to answer, concentrated on getting out of bed. The room had grown while she was ill, or at least the wardrobe seemed much farther away than she remembered. “Are you an orphan?”

  Dahlia shrugged. “I don’t know who my father was, or where he might be. My mother is alive, but all she cares about these days is opium. Since I wasn’t going to steal to help her buy it, I left home.”

  “She named you Dahlia.”

  Another shrug, this one almost fierce. “It was her name when I was conceived. The Rose Council took it away later, before I was born, when her habit started interfering with her work. She said it would save me time choosing one when I grew up.” Her mouth twisted, pinched white.

  “Charming,” Isyllt muttered. She made it to the wardrobe, leaning heavily on the carved oaken doors. “You don’t have to keep it.”

  “Why not? She was right, after all. I’ll be back in a few years, no matter what else I do.”

  The bitter resignation in her voice distracted Isyllt from clean clothes. “It’s
hardly that bad. Even if you don’t want to study magic, there are plenty of trades that will let you work off apprentice fees. The temples, if nothing else—”

  Dahlia laughed, sharp and startled. “You don’t know, do you?” When Isyllt raised expectant brows she laughed harder. “I’m androgyne. Not a boy or a girl. I’ll be hijra when I turn sixteen.”

  Isyllt blinked, closed her mouth on whatever words had died unspoken on her tongue. She had seen skirts and a lanky adolescent prettiness and given it no more thought. But now, studying the length and weight of bone, the shape of her face, she supposed Dahlia would make an equally pretty boy. She had glimpsed the veiled and marked hijra and heard the normal rumors, but knew next to nothing of the truth.

  “And that leaves you with no choice but to be a prostitute?”

  Dahlia raised her hands. “It’s what they do.”

  “The Pallakis Savedra doesn’t. If we’re being charitable, anyway.”

  The girl—Isyllt would be hard-pressed to change that thought now—snorted. “She’s the prince’s mistress, and one of the Eight besides. She doesn’t have to do much of anything. Some of us need money. Food. A place to be.” A hint of wistfulness threaded the last.

  Isyllt tried to quash an upswell of sympathy. There was only so much she could do. But she could offer something, at least.

  “You have a few years to decide, at least. I’ll hire you as an assistant until I catch this killer, and my offer of instruction stands. Are you interested?”

  Dahlia chewed her lip, twisting her hands in her skirts. “All right,” she said at last. “For Syth. I’ll help you.”

  “Good.” Isyllt smiled and gathered an armful of clothes. “For your first job, you can run me a bath.”

  “I’m sorry,” Savedra said, not for the first time. She lay propped in her own bed, into which the court physician had scolded her after inspecting her stitches and changing the dressing on her arm. A bottle of opium-laced wine sat on the table beside her, as yet unopened—she needed her wits more than a surcease of pain at the moment.

  Nikos and Ashlin had traded their normal places. He paced the length of the carpet at the foot of the bed, and she leaned against the doorframe, arms folded tight. Savedra couldn’t bring herself to look at either of them. “I never should have put the princess at risk,” she said to her lap, to her scabby white-knuckled hands. “It was foolish and thoughtless and—”

  “I take my own risks, thank you,” Ashlin snapped. The talon scratches were stark and red on her cheek and brow. She was pale, despite her unabated temper, eyes shadowed. “None of this is your fault.”

  She meant more than demon birds, but Savedra couldn’t accept the absolution. She carried a store of little secrets daily, like a child’s cache of treasures, but this one was too big, too heavy.

  Distant voices rose to fill the silence, the sound of shears and wheels and rakes. In addition to the looming solstice celebration, the palace staff now had an extra strain. A rider had passed Savedra and Ashlin on the road back from Evharis, and they had seen the dust of a marching army blurring the sky behind them. The king would be home soon.

  Nikos stopped his circuit and lifted a hand before either of them could speak again. “There’s no point in recriminations. I’m only happy neither of you was harmed worse. What exactly did you find, anyway? The secret history of the vrykoloi?”

  He joked, but Savedra’s mouth pinched too tight to smile. She caught herself fidgeting with the edge of her bandage and dragged her hand away. Ashlin stayed quiet, waiting for her to speak. Something blossomed behind her breastbone, so hot and sharp she wanted to cry. Saints help her. She’d dared one foolish love; she wasn’t sure she could survive another.

  “Please,” she said at last. She couldn’t lie, not to him, but neither could she lay the inadequate story bare. “Let me keep this for a time. It’s… a family mystery. Let me look for answers before I share it.” Her hands twisted in her lap, till her stitches itched and throbbed. “Forgive me.”

  “Vedra. Love.” Three swift strides brought Nikos to her bedside. He cupped a hand against her cheek, tilting her head up. “You’ve done nothing that needs forgiveness. Keep your secrets. I trust you.”

  She was her mother’s daughter. She didn’t flinch. That felt as damning as any lie. “Thank you,” she whispered. From the corner of her eye she saw Ashlin flinch for both of them, turning her face to the wall.

  No, this wasn’t a secret any of them could survive.

  Despite her promises of rest to the physicians, Savedra was out of bed within the hour. Her maid frowned and tsked, but helped her bathe and dress and pin up her hair. She needed armor as well as wits to face her family.

  Fog drifted heavy through the streets, and even with her cloak and the shelter of a carriage, she was chilled through by the time she reached Phoenix House. The last light of evening glowed behind the rooftops, tinting the grey haze with sepia and rose. The maid directed her to her mother’s study, where Nadesda and Sevastian sat with the remains of a quiet supper and letters sprawled on a table between them. Sevastian’s sleeves were rolled up, his shirt open at the throat, and Nadesda wore a dressing gown and her hair unpinned, sable coils unraveling across her shoulders. The quiet domesticity caught in Savedra’s throat.

  Her father rose to embrace her, his beard tickling her cheek with his kiss. “You look exhausted. I thought you were going to Evharis for your nerves.” A teasing smile accompanied the last.

  She tried to smile back, but it felt more like a grimace. “Hello, Father. I’m sorry, but I need to speak with the archa.” The rudeness of it made her throat ache, but she didn’t have the strength for a pleasant visit tonight.

  Sevastian’s brow creased but he nodded. “Of course.” He caught his jacket off the back of his chair.

  “Father, I am sorry—”

  He smiled ruefully and laid a warm hand on her shoulder as he passed. “I knew she would be archa when I married her. One grows accustomed.”

  When the door clicked shut, Savedra knelt before her mother’s chair and winced; she’d bruised a knee somewhere during the flight from Carnavas.

  “Vedra, what on earth are you doing?”

  “I won’t beg a mother’s indulgence, but as a daughter of this house I crave a boon, Archa.”

  Nadesda’s eyebrows rose. “What boon is that?”

  “Three questions, answered honestly.”

  Her mother studied her for a moment, the ghost of a frown tightening her lips. “Very well. Three honest answers you may have.” She rose and crossed the room, elegant as ever in her robe and bare feet, and touched the charm of silence on her wide mahogany desk. “Well?” she said, when the distant noises of the house had faded to nothing.

  Savedra chewed the tip of her tongue and tried to organize her thoughts. “Who was Phaedra Severos? Darvulesti was the name she married into.”

  Nadesda frowned. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “I feel I should. A distant cousin, perhaps? Someone I met at Evharis?” She shrugged. “I’m sorry. But we do have family records, if you need to know.”

  Savedra’s fingers clenched in frustration; the motion made her wounded arm burn. She smoothed her skirt before wrinkles set in the heavy silk. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” she muttered.

  “Is that your second question?”

  She snorted. “No. What do you know about Varis’s schemes?”

  Her mother’s frown deepened. “I’m sure he has some, but he hasn’t taken me into his confidences. He’s been keeping things from me, I know. He never could lie to me, not since we were children.”

  Savedra sighed, but as she drew breath to speak Nadesda raised her hand. “No,” she said slowly. “It’s true that he hasn’t told me anything, but I am the archa of this house. I know more than that. Are you certain you want to?”

  She nodded, jaw too tight for speech.

  “He’s been to Sanctuary.” Her mouth quirked disdainfully on the name. “Talking to the sort
of people one finds there. He wants the Alexioi off the throne, and I think he’s finally prepared to take steps.”

  The words settled in her stomach like stones. For a moment Savedra thought she would retch. “Why? Why would he? I thought—” Her voice cracked. “I thought he loved me.” Stupid, stupid and childish. Her face twisted with the need to cry, but her eyes stayed dry. “And why Varis? When has he ever cared for politics?”

  That was more than three questions, but Nadesda didn’t bother reminding her. “Oh, Vedra. He’s always cared. And he’d do it because he loves you, don’t you see? No,” she said before Savedra could protest. “You don’t. You can’t. What do you know about Varis’s scandals?”

  “Who can keep track of them?” she snapped. “He mocks the Arcanost, questions their teachings, insults half the Octagon Court and seduces the rest. He wears the most awful virulent colors imaginable and brings demimonde opera singers to court. What does any of that have to do with Nikos, or me?”

  “Those are the ones everyone sees. Those are his armor. But there was another, once, before you were born. Before he was born, even.” Savedra caught herself leaning forward as Nadesda’s calm earnestness dulled the edges of her anger and frustration. “Alena Severos and King Nikolaos were lovers.”

  That set Savedra back on her heels, which she regretted when her knees creaked. “Before she married Tselios?”

  “Yes, and before the king married Korina, though after the betrothal. Oh, it was never announced, but everyone marked how they shared too many glances and too little conversation, tried not to touch one another in public but always seemed to end up alone together.”

  Varis had always been clear that “Uncle Tselios” was only his mother’s husband, but had never even hinted that he knew who his real father was. “You mean—”