“I’m no mage,” Savedra said, eyeing the stone with distrust.
“You don’t need to be. All you need to do is wear it and pay attention. You’ll feel the pull.” Sending anixeroi out in this alone might be murder, but she needed fewer distractions to deal with her stalker. She closed her eyes in concentration as she called another light, fixing this one to the foreign magic in the stone.
“Where are you going?” Ashlin asked.
“We’re being followed. I’m going to deal with it.”
Savedra twisted the ring onto her left hand. The band dug into her flesh as she made a fist. “I feel it,” she whispered. The pink tinge of the new witchlight cast her face flushed and fevered.
“Then go,” Isyllt said. “I’ll catch up.”
As Savedra and the princess vanished into the fog, she hoped that wasn’t a lie.
CHAPTER 21
This might not have been the best plan,” Ashlin muttered, squinting into the eddying darkness. Her hair shone red in the unnerving light, dark with sweat at the nape. The sheen on her brow could have been blood.
Savedra laughed breathlessly. The ruins had been bad enough with Isyllt beside them; with her gone they were a dozen times worse. She wanted to take the princess’s hand again, but knew better than to interfere with someone holding a sword. The ruby shivered on her finger, tugging her deeper into the fog.
Something sharp and cold clawed her ankle, pricking through the soft suede of her boots. Savedra shrieked and kicked. Brambles, she prayed as she whirled, shrubs or rubble—The ground at her feet was clear.
“What—” began Ashlin, only to shout and jump in turn. “Something grabbed me!”
“Me too.” Sharp unseen fingers tugged at her hair and pinched her arm hard enough to bruise. “Shadows!” Each time she saw nothing, but she heard skittering in the fog, and mocking inhuman laughter.
“Keep moving.” Ashlin’s eyes were wild but her sword held steady. “Isyllt said all they can do is distract us.”
“This is more than distraction,” Savedra muttered, rubbing her arm.
They didn’t dare run, but they stumbled and scrambled as fast as they could. Savedra wept, from pain and fear and frustration, never knowing where the next vicious pinch or bite would come from. She tried to think of Nikos, but soon gave that up for the more immediate concern of not sprawling headlong and being eaten.
The tower appeared so quickly they nearly collided with it. A darker shadow against the sky, till the fog thinned to reveal pale, vine-laced stones. Reliefs had covered the walls once, but time had worn the figures soft and faceless. The ruby sparked with a sullen light as Savedra touched the carven sandstone.
“Here,” she gasped. “She’s here.” She held out a hand to Ashlin; her grin made her face ache. “Come on!”
The door was only a few yards away, a dark hole in the wall. She turned toward it—and walked straight into the shadow that detached from the wall to envelop her.
She screamed, short and shrill, before the blackness filled her mouth and choked her. Cold and clammy and slick as oil, it sank icy hooks into her flesh, a hundred pinpricks that stole her warmth and drained her strength. It coated her tongue, rolling slowly down her throat, and she couldn’t breathe, let alone fight—
Someone was shouting. She didn’t think it was her. Not Ashlin’s panicked cries but a man’s voice, over and over, the same command. She didn’t understand it, but the darkness must have: It peeled away, and a sudden blaze of violet light blinded her.
She lay on the broken stones, skirt tangled around her legs. Her lungs ached; her throat burned; her skin felt scoured raw.
Ashlin knelt beside her, easing her up and cradling her head against her armored breast. “Ma chara,” she breathed, stroking Savedra’s brow. The moisture that smeared under her touch was thicker than sweat. “Ma chrí. It was all over you, on your skin. I couldn’t cut you free—”
“I’m all right.” She coughed around the words, tasted blood and mucus. Pinpricks of blood glistened black on her hands—more streaked her fingers when she rubbed her face, and her dress clung wetly to her skin. She found no wound—the monster had sucked it from her pores. “What happened?”
“He saved you.”
Savedra looked up to see Varis leaning against the wall, pale and cold-flushed and ghastly beneath a cloud of witchlights. His jacket hung open, shirt unbuttoned to reveal the ugly marks on his throat.
“I thought it was the mimikoi toying with me when I heard your voice,” he said. “I decided they wouldn’t show me the princess.” He gave Ashlin a sardonic bow, and his knees buckled as he straightened.
“Uncle!” Savedra fell forward when she tried to stand, and crawled to him across the frozen ground. Her anger was nowhere to be found. “You’re hurt.”
“Just weak. I didn’t expect a banishing.” He stood, lifting her unsteadily with him.
“Was that one of Phaedra’s pets?” she croaked.
“No. An old horror, a remnant of the Hecatomb. I’m sure her magic fanned its appetite, though.”
Her hands tightened on his shoulders and she flinched from the starkness of bone. “She took Nikos.”
He nodded, leaning against the wall again. His skin was translucent in the lilac glare, veins dark and ugly. “I know. I tried to stop her.” He laughed bitterly. “Saints know I’d see all the Alexioi dead, but not like this.”
“What happened?”
“She sent me away. I’m lucky that’s all she did. What they intend is madness and worse, but”—he shook his head—“I’m not powerful enough to stop them. If Kiril—” He shut his teeth tight on that thought, and didn’t finish it.
“I won’t leave Nikos here.”
She expected refusal, but he studied her in silence. His knuckles brushed her cheek, soft as a benediction. “If he deserves even a fraction of your devotion, he’s a better man than I could ever have been.”
She laid her hand over his; blood stuck their skin together. “He’s just a man, but I love him. I love you both.”
She glanced over her shoulder, where Ashlin stood guard against the night, watching the fog to give them privacy. A path unfolded before her, but it was a dangerous one, and it wasn’t only her life she risked. But she couldn’t rescue Nikos only to see Varis executed. Sorcery and debt weren’t the only ways to bind—her mother had taught her that as well.
“Go with Ashlin,” she said. “I need you to keep her safe.”
“You can’t possibly mean that. After everything I’ve done.”
“The princess is pregnant.”
“All the more reason, then—”
The words stuck in her tender throat, but she forced them out. “The child is mine.”
That silenced him, and Savedra wanted to laugh as he blinked. “You can’t mean—”
“Funny, Uncle, that’s exactly what Nikos said. Yes. The Princess and I are lovers. She’s carrying my child.”
“And Nikos knows?”
“He’s accepted the baby as his. Need I be clearer?” she said as he stammered. “A Severos bastard stands to inherit the Malachite Throne.”
She had never seen Varis at a loss for words. After several speechless moments he slid down the wall, buried his face in his hands, and began to laugh. The laughter quickly turned to sobs.
Savedra drew Ashlin close. “Go with my uncle, please. He can keep the spirits off you, but he’s weak. Take him to Captain Denaris and get them both out of here.”
Green eyes narrowed. “Don’t try to set me aside.”
“I’m trying to keep you safe! Damn it, Ashlin. I may still lose Nikos. Don’t make me lose you too.”
“I might say the same,” Ashlin replied, but her resolve was weakening. “What am I supposed to do if you die?”
“Hold the throne. Keep the heir safe.”
“Unfair,” she whispered.
“I know. But I’ll ask it anyway.”
In answer Ashlin caught her shoulders and kissed her,
hard enough to split cold-chapped lips. “You owe me,” she whispered on a shared breath.
“Lord Varis,” she said, turning away. “Vedra means to coddle us both like blown glass. May I escort you back to the wall?”
“It would be a delight and an honor, Your Highness. I shall do my very best to be coddled.
“Congratulations,” he said to Savedra, wiping away tears and smudged kohl. “You’ve managed a scandal to put all mine to shame. I shall run mad with envy.” He twisted the orange sapphire off his finger and folded his hands around it, eyes sagging shut. “Here.” He took her hand and slipped it onto her right ring finger; it fit snugly—her hands were bigger. “This much protection I can grant you. As long as you don’t attack, no one should be able to harm you. I wouldn’t test it against Phaedra more than you must, though—her power is doubled in the demon days, and she has fresh blood at hand to spill.”
She couldn’t ponder the source, or she’d scream. “Thank you.”
His eyes were colorless by witchlight, and more serious than she’d ever seen. “I can only try to earn your forgiveness.”
“Start by keeping the princess safe.” She kissed his cheek, cold skin against colder.
She watched Ashlin and Varis till the fog swallowed them. Then she stepped into the tower’s black mouth.
Isyllt didn’t have to wait long before she heard Spider’s voice.
“Isyllt.”
He crouched on a broken pillar, a white-marble grotesque. She was so used to his mocking diminutives that the sound of her name in his mouth startled her. He uncoiled and leapt, landing silently before her. The red haze thinned around him. “I can’t let you interfere. You know that.”
Her blade rasped from its sheath. “Haven’t you always wanted to know how it would really have ended between us?” The chill in her voice was only bravado—after everything he’d done, the thought of killing him made her stomach ache. But she couldn’t face him and Phaedra together. Spellfire licked the edges of her blade.
“I wanted us to be friends.” The quiet sadness in his voice made her wonder how many friends he’d had in the catacombs. How many he’d sacrificed to further his plans.
“Spider—” The catch in her voice was real; the lowering of her blade was a feint.
She threw witchlights in his eyes and lunged, swinging the silver kukri. Fabric opened against the edge, and skin below that. He was gone before the stroke bit deeper, his animal hiss echoing in her ears. Isyllt spun, cold fire in her left hand and spelled silver in her right.
Her heartbeat’s advantage was already spent. He moved in a white blur and she staggered, a sudden pressure on her jaw warming to pain. Copper washed her tongue again, mingling with the acrid taste of nerves. Her jaw wasn’t broken; luck, or had he pulled the blow? She turned the stumble into a crouch, rocking on the balls of her feet as she tried to keep him in sight.
Easier tried than done—he moved silently and weightlessly as any ghost, but much faster. She blocked a blow that would have opened her throat, and it felt like dragging her limbs through honey. She was rewarded with the jolt of blade on bone and Spider’s quite audible cursing. He cradled his hand to his chest, black blood seeping between his fingers.
“This is foolish, little witch.”
“It certainly is.” She flung another blaze of light and lunged again. Her shoulder struck his chest and her knife turned on his ribs, slicing through cloth and skin and desiccated muscle. The smell of musk and anise and bitter earth filled her nose.
Spider snarled, fangs shining inches from her face. He tore the knife from her hand; it clattered across the stones, out of reach. His other hand seized her jaw, redoubling the ache from his last blow.
“I would have let you live,” he murmured as he forced her head back. She kicked and clawed, but it was like fighting a statue.
She hadn’t wanted to use the cold, not with Phaedra still to face, but she was out of options. She reached for the emptiness inside her—the Arcanost called it entropomancy, but to her it was the nothing, the chill that ran deeper than death.
“Oh, Spider.”
Isyllt teetered on the brink of the void; Spider froze, his jaw distending like a snake’s as he leaned in for the kill. She knew that voice, like slow-pouring water….
“This is not what we do.”
He dropped Isyllt and spun, fangs bared as he faced Tenebris.
The red fog curled away from her. Shadows deepened in its place, spilling ink-black from beneath pillars and arches to cling to her skirts. They twined her arms and nestled in her hair, pressing against her neck like children. Of her face Isyllt could see nothing, save for the angry glitter of her eyes and the gleam of her fangs when she spoke.
“Did you think we would take no notice of your revolution?”
“Why would you?” Spider spat. “You sleep away the years and do nothing while the mortals keep us locked in the darkness.”
“We are the darkness, little fledgling.” Humor and sadness veined her voice, a warmer current amidst the cold tide. “We are darkness and dust. It may be our nature to hunger for warmth and light, but we must extinguish them or be seared. We are hunters, teeth in the night, not shepherds to keep humans for chattel. The kingdoms of men mean nothing to us.”
“Rot in your ossuaries, then. I want something more, and I’m not alone.”
“Really?” Again the humor, sharper now. “You seem quite alone to me, little one.”
Which is why, Isyllt thought, you don’t use allies as scapegoats. She didn’t say it, though—she didn’t feel like attracting more of Tenebris’s attention.
“I, on the other hand,” the vrykola continued, “am not.”
A pale shape moved in the shadows and Spider recoiled. “Aphra!”
The elder vrykola was slight and fine-boned. She wore grey velvet, yellowed with age and rotting at the seams. Lace snagged and tattered on the broken flagstones. Her hair was the color of old ivory, her skin dull and grey until the light kissed her—then she glittered like raw marble, a statue brought to life.
“Spider.” Her voice was the whisper of dust across cathedral floors, the sound of stone dissolving in the relentless flow of time.
“You’re awake.”
Isyllt had never heard his voice sound so human, threaded with fear and longing and anger.
“Azarné came to us, told us what you’ve done.” She advanced on him slowly, inexorably, one long grey hand rising. “Oh, child. I thought you would fare better than this.”
“I only wanted—” His voice cracked and died. His shoulders slumped, legs wavering as he struggled to stand.
“You wanted the world. And that is no longer ours.” She touched his hair, and he fell to his knees as if she’d cut his strings. Black tears tracked his cheeks.
Stone scraped against Isyllt’s palms as she crawled forward. She hadn’t meant to move, but his weakness and misery were unbearable. He should die fighting—
“Hush, child.” Tenebris’s icy hands closed on her arms, drawing her gently up. “It’s better this way. She is his maker—the unmaking is also hers.” Shadow fingers stroked Isyllt’s bruised cheek, wiped a drop of blood from her split lip. “I’m sorry he hurt you.”
The vampire draped an arm across Isyllt’s shoulders, turning her away from Aphra and Spider. He was crying now, low keening sobs. The sound twisted Isyllt’s stomach. She tried to look back, but Tenebris held her, wrapped her in shadows like liquid silk.
“It’s better if you don’t watch.”
She was wrong—the wet sounds that followed were worse by themselves, mingled with Spider’s soft gasps.
Finally they stopped, and Tenebris drew her shadow-draperies away.
Isyllt turned to see Aphra bending over Spider. Blood shone black on the vrykola’s colorless mouth as she straightened, and on the ruin of Spider’s throat. His head hung against his chest, his hair a spiderweb shroud. He was too pale to show the petrification that took the vrykolos in death, but Isyl
lt watched his limbs tremble and grow still. Her vision blurred, and she scrubbed away a glaze of foolish tears.
Aphra laid a hand on Spider’s head again, a final caress. Then she twisted. His spine cracked like crushed gravel and his head fell and shattered on the ground. The rest of him toppled slowly after, disintegrating into a glittering drift of dust.
Aphra turned to Isyllt, fixing her with colorless crystalline eyes. “He did care for you,” the vrykola whispered. “As much as he was able.” She turned and vanished into the fog before Isyllt could think of anything to say.
Tenebris lifted the shadow of her face toward the sky. “We will return to the catacombs and take our wayward children with us. They won’t bother you again, at least tonight. The demon in the tower, though, is not of our doing, and none of our concern. Good luck, necromancer.”
And she was gone.
The wind chilled Isyllt’s face; she was crying again. She wiped her cheeks and began searching for her knife.
The climb might have lasted a year, but Savedra knew the tower had no more than four or five stories. Spirits crowded the stairs, scuttling and chirping, but didn’t touch her. The only light was the spark of her rings, orange and blood red. That glow drew her upward, though her heart pounded to break her ribs and queasy sweat greased her palms. The darkness changed as she climbed, greying with the promise of light.
The door at the top of the stairs stood open, lined in gentle lamplight. Savedra stood before it, pressing a sweat-and-blood-slick hand against the stitch in her side. She heard nothing from the other side; she heard nothing at all but the sick pounding of her heart. When her pulse slowed and the pain in her ribs dulled, she drew a breath and stepped across the threshold.
She didn’t know what a haematurge’s lair should look like, but whatever she expected, it wasn’t the disrepair she walked into. No blood or filth, but scattered books and rugs and missing furniture, like a half-vacated house. After the frozen night, the warmth of braziers stifled.
Her breath left in a deflated rush. No Nikos, no demons—where were they? Then a red lump in the corner that she’d taken for cushions stirred, and she jumped.
The Bone Palace Page 35
