The Bone Palace
Page 30
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.
“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.
“No!” shouted Lord Orfion, as Isyllt and Phaedra faced each other across the room. Isyllt’s diamond crackled with witchlight and Phaedra’s rubies glowed sullen scarlet. They ignored him, rings flaring bright and brighter still. Neither woman moved, but Isyllt hissed in pain and Phaedra gasped. Then a wall of white light blazed between them and both stumbled back.
“I said no,” Kiril said, deathly calm.
“You won’t stop me again,” Phaedra said. A shadow that smelled of rust and cinnamon filled the room; Nikos cursed and Ashlin’s hand tightened on Savedra’s arm like a vise.
Heartbeats later the shadow passed, revealing the garden door open to the night, and Phaedra vanished.
“Father!” Nikos knelt beside Mathiros. The king was grey and trembling, his coat unbuttoned. “Are you all right?”
“I—She was—” Mathiros scrubbed a hand over his face.
Kurgoth moaned and stirred, and Ashlin turned to help him. Blood streaked his face, but he seemed to have stopped coughing it up. Isyllt’s nose was bleeding as well; she wiped at it absently and scowled. The look she shot Kiril was cold and harsh.
“Father,” Nikos said, helping Mathiros to his feet, “I saw her. It was—”
“You saw nothing!” Mathiros snarled, jerking away. “An assassin. A demon.” His eyes narrowed, training on Ashlin and her bleeding arm “What’s happened?”
She flexed her shoulder absently and winced. “An assassin in the ballroom. Not a demon, though—he died easily enough.”
He nodded. “Mikhael, are you hurt?”
The captain spat blood on the expensive carpet. “I’m standing.”
“Good enough. Find me Adrastos. I want the palace sealed and searched immediately. Kiril—” He had the grace to look abashed, at least.
Kiril tugged his mask off. “I am at your disposal, Majesty.”
“Help Adrastos, then. I want to know where these bastards came from.”
“Of course.” His eyes sagged shut as he turned away, and Savedra fought to keep the naked sympathy from her face.
And with that Mathiros, Kurgoth, and Kiril all left the room, leaving the others standing in the draft. Ashlin, ever practical, closed and latched the garden door.
Nikos sat down hard on the chair his father had vacated. He was the one trembling now, his face ashen. Savedra abandoned propriety and went to him, clasping his shaking hand between hers.
“What is it?”
“I saw her,” he whispered, his voice scraped dry and hoarse. “I saw her face. It was my mother.”
CHAPTER 17
The Solstice ball was meant to last throughout the longest night. But while none of the guests had expected to see their beds before dawn, this wasn’t how they’d imagined the party would end.
Savedra helped calm the guests now sequestered in the ballroom while Isyllt and the palace mages questioned them: Had anyone spoken to the assassin, or the woman in white? Had anyone seen them arrive? No one had, of course, though several courtiers began to second-guess themselves and others developed acute cases of hindsight.
“I knew something was wrong with her from the moment I saw her,” said an Aravind matron, fanning herself excessively. “My aunt is a mage, you know, and I have a bit of a shiver myself. But no one else paid her any mind….”
Nikos handled the whole thing gracefully, sending for more refreshments, issuing polite orders and reassurances, and never letting Ashlin out of arm’s reach. The princess clearly wanted to snap at him, but the courtiers were already responding to his concern. If she’d known the good a public assassination attempt would do, Savedra thought wryly, she could have saved herself long hours skulking in gardens.
Mathiros led the search patrol himself, despite arguments from Nikos, Kurgoth, and Adrastos. It looked very brave, of course, but Savedra could feel the court clinging tighter to Nikos in the absence of his father.
Good, she thought, and resisted the urge to smirk at Thea Jsutien.
Tempers and nerves began to fray when a young dandy from House Hadrian stopped complaining about his headache and began to shake and cough instead. Within the hour he was limp and feverish, propped in a corner while his erstwhile bosom companions edged away and breathed through handkerchiefs. Soon half the hall was arguing for fresh air, or braziers for warmth, or incense to keep the illness at bay—the other half demanded to leave, or to call their personal physicians. No one wanted to say influenza, which was an illness for the poor or unlucky, but everyone knew the signs.
During an especially loud argument over the virtues of incense versus fresh-sliced onions to ward off the ill vapors, Isyllt appeared at Savedra’s side.
“We won’t get anything useful from them now,” she muttered, “not even silence. I need your help.”
Savedra followed her down the side hall, and eventually onto a porch leading into the gardens. “Where are we going?” she asked. “And can I fetch a cloak first?”
“To the temple, and no. We need to be there and out again before we’re noticed.” By lantern-light Isyllt’s face was grim and pale. “I kept your secrets—now I need you to keep one for me.”
Savedra nodded and followed Isyllt across the lawn, tucking her hands beneath her folded arms.
Isyllt held onto her as they entered the temple; the sleepy acolyte didn’t look up as they started down the black mouth of the stairs. Savedra wanted to question, to protest, but wasn’t sure how far a whisper would carry—the slither of their skirts over timeworn stone was unnerving enough. She tested each step carefully and tried not to imagine all the things that might be waiting for them at the bottom.
At the foot of the steps Isyllt conjured a light, which Savedra took as a sign that they were safe to speak.
“Where are we going?” she asked, and winced at the broken weight of silence.
“The Alexios crypt.” A muscle worked in Isyllt’s square jaw. The light turned her eyes into cold mirrors. Savedra withheld the rest of her questions, at least until they reached the door.
“Do you have a key?” she ventured then.
“Always.” She laid a hand on the lock plate, and Savedra’s nape prickled with the same sensation she’d felt earlier.
“What is that?”
“Entropomancy. The essence of death and decay.” Isyllt’s voice cracked. “I don’t like to use it. It hurts.”
It also worked. She set her shoulder against the door and pushed, and it scraped inward. Savedra touched the ruin of the lock and her fingers came away red with rust.
Isyllt turned her attention to the queen’s coffin and Savedra’s stomach twisted. “I thought Nikos said the seal on the sarcophagus was intact.” Her skin crawled, ears straining for the sound of footsteps. Mathiros would send them to the headsman for this.
“It is.” Isyllt’s eyes met hers across the carven lid, cold and pale as the marble. “Whatever we find here, swear to me you won’t speak of it until I do.”
“All right. I swear.”
Isyllt laid her hands on the queen’s stone breast and frowned. She stood like that for long moments. Finally blue sparks crackled from her fingers and she straightened. “Help me move the lid.”
Savedra thought she would be sick. She fought it down, forcing herself to take the last steps across the room and set her hands on the coffin.
On the count of three she and Isyllt push
ed. Muscles corded and her still-healing arm burned fiercely from the effort. Stone gave way with a terrible scrape, inch by inch until the head of the sarcophagus was open. Wan and sweating, Isyllt summoned the light closer, filling the interior with its opalescent glow.
Empty.
False dawn lit the sky when Isyllt finally left the palace, chasing the Hounds into the west; the Dragon’s breath did nothing against the cold. The palace guards had found nothing, and had finally released the guests. Dancing away the longest night was one thing, but no one wanted to face the dawn of the demon days.
Isyllt imagined she would be seeing all too much of the demons this year.
Kiril joined her in front of the palace gates as she waited through the line of angry and frightened courtiers. More of them had already begun to cough and sniffle, which might merely be chill and fatigue, or the influenza’s touch.
She didn’t look at him for several moments, though she didn’t pull away from the line of warmth he offered, either. A scream coiled in her throat and she feared to let it loose.
“Let me see you home,” he said.
“Afraid your blood witch will come for me?”
“Yes.”
The honesty of it knocked the acerbity out of her. She let him help her into a carriage, and didn’t speak again. The things she had to say couldn’t be spoken in the open. She wasn’t sure she could speak them at all.
When they stepped onto the frost-rimed stones of Calderon Court, she knew she had to try. “Come inside.”
She didn’t take his cloak when she shot the bolt behind them, or offer tea. Familiar ritual was no comfort now, and he knew where she kept the cups. She went straight to that cupboard and poured herself a shot of ouzo. Its anise-and-coriander fire numbed her throat enough to let the words free.