The Bone Palace - Amanda Downum [127]
He arched an eyebrow at Kiril’s own black robes. “You’re not even trying.”
“I could say the same of you.”
“It’s a costume, darling. I’m not supposed to be myself.”
“Where are all your paramours and hangers-on?”
“I’m in seclusion tonight. Keeping up with them grows so tiring.” He said it with a disdainful flick of his wrist, but the fatigue was real—Kiril saw it in his hollowed cheeks and fragile eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
Varis began another dismissive excuse, but Kiril was already looking closer, otherwise. The sparkling violet and gold of Varis’s magic had dulled, and the more ordinary colors beneath had paled as well. Not a shadow in the heart such as a mage might see in Kiril’s own aura, nor the darkness in the lungs that showed in consumptives—this was a thinning of the blood itself.
He stretched out a hand, ignoring Varis’s feeble attempt to block him, and turned down the other man’s high collar. The bruise was violent against his pallor, purple blotching to green at the edges, the punctures in the center scabbed. An identical long-faded mark shadowed the other side of his neck.
“There are others, aren’t there?”
“I’d be happy to show you. We could find a coat closet—it would be like old times.”
Kiril’s frown deepened. “How long?”
“Months now. It’s… worth the pain.” His eyes darkened, color rising beneath his powder. “Are you going to criticize my taste in vices? That’s always so tiresome.”
“It’s Spider, isn’t it?” The defiant tilt of Varis’s chin was answer enough. “Of course it is. Is that how they’ve won your support of their mad scheme?”
“What scheme? Besides the one you’ve been so instrumental in.”
Kiril shook his head, newly absent fatigue returning. Reality could never be ignored for long. “Phaedra and Spider are planning to take the throne. How I don’t know, and I doubt they know for certain either. Phaedra thinks it will be a matter of stealing the right body. Any others she can bind to her with blood. Perhaps she’s right—I’ve seen more ridiculous plans succeed.”
Varis was too pale to blanch, but his lips thinned and a muscle worked in his jaw. He had always been the most vocal of the Arcanostoi against vinculation—the binding of spirits. He had seen firsthand what it was to have choices stolen, to be trapped in service. Kiril didn’t think he was hypocrite enough to condemn the practice against spirits and condone it for humans.
“I know you loved her once,” he said, softer than he had intended. “But if you cleave to her now it will destroy you.”
Varis turned to him, naked of his armor. “I loved you once too,” he said. “I survived that.”
“You left. And that’s what you should do now.”
A flash of red caught his eye. Across the room Isyllt threaded her way through the crowd, dark and burning in black and crimson. Even veiled he would know her anywhere.
Varis followed the direction of Kiril’s gaze, and his armor reassembled itself piece by chilly piece. “Spoken like a man who should take his own advice,” he drawled. His smile was nearly a sneer, but his eyes were sad. “Go, then. It’s love that kills us all, in the end.”
Of all the dangers Isyllt had anticipated that night, encountering Kiril wasn’t one of them. In retrospect that was foolish, since he always attended the masque, but she had tried to put him out of her thoughts after their last meeting. When she saw him crossing the room toward her, she wanted to turn on her heel and flee. Instead she stood her ground, shoulders tightening.
“The color becomes you,” he said after a brittle pause. He smiled wryly, acknowledging all the unpleasant associations that went with the compliment.
“You look well yourself.” She didn’t mean to say it, but it was true. He stood straighter, walked without the pained motions she’d grown used to. His silver domino brought out the white in his beard and made his eyes all the blacker.
“Will you dance with me?” he asked.
A knife wound would have hurt less. Even when they