The Bone Palace - Amanda Downum [114]
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.
“Forsythia.”
The diamond sparked and the ghost materialized with a pale flicker of witchlight. She turned slowly, inspecting her new surroundings. Her skin and gown were shades of smoke and moonlight, her hair a watery gold; the grain of the paneling was visible through her slender form. Her throat, at least, was unmarred. She fixed her lightless eyes on Isyllt. “Hello, necromancer.”
“How are you feeling?”
The ghost gave the question serious consideration. “Better,” she said at last. “Clearer. The others have talked to me, explained things.”
The other ghosts in the diamond, she meant. Isyllt nodded. “Good. Do you mind answering some more questions?”
Forsythia smiled wryly; Isyllt wished she could have seen the expression in life. “I have nothing but time, don’t I?”
“Sit down.” Isyllt nodded toward a chair and turned to fetch incense and the last of a bottle of her favorite Chassut red. She lit sticks of sandalwood and olibanum in a brazier, and poured wine for herself and Forsythia, and after some consideration for Dahlia