The Bone Palace - Amanda Downum [145]
She opened her eyes to see the earring spinning across the map, spiraling tighter and tighter till it chose a spot and stayed there, shivering in the lamplight.
Directly over the ruined palace.
Kiril stood in his library as dusk settled against the windows, trying to decide which books he couldn’t bear to leave behind, trying to think of nothing beyond that choice. Everything else could be left, or sent for. He couldn’t afford to delay for possessions, no matter how dear. He couldn’t delay till sunrise, either, not if he truly meant to leave. He didn’t relish the thought of traveling during the dead days, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done so.
Isyllt no longer needed him. She hadn’t for a very long time. He couldn’t let himself need her.
He had told himself he was rescuing her, fifteen years ago, from misery and poverty and an untimely death. It was likely true, but he had still known all the other dangers he was exposing her to. And if she thrived under them, an orchid blossoming at the threat of death, that did nothing to lessen the cruelty of his choice.
He had also known since the beginning how dangerous she might become, but he hadn’t truly appreciated it until the first morning he woke to her weight in his arms. Her magic and cunning made her a weapon without him, but he had honed her and guided her. And turned her to his own heart.
A hammering at the door roused him, sharpening his pulse. His wards showed him the unhappy soldiers gathered on his doorstep. Adrastos Agyros was with them, stooped and huddled in his winter cloak. Kiril’s smile felt cold and ugly on his face; Mathiros was finally finished ignoring him.
He might have ignored the summons, but the guards were clearly prepared to break down the door, and violence was unlucky on the demon days. So he descended the stairs and opened the door, smiling benignly as if they delivered an invitation to tea.
Adrastos’s frown didn’t lessen as they walked to the waiting carriage. He was only ten years Kiril’s senior, but time and worry had stooped him and worn his bones fragile as a bird’s. A hawk once, now his wrinkled neck and bald head made him a vulture. His eyes were sharp as ever, though.
“What’s the matter, Adras?” Kiril asked. The man had never liked him much, having a healthy distrust for sorcery and spies, but they had always respected each other’s efficiency.
“Trouble in the palace. I’ll let the king explain—he knows more than he’s telling me.” He was quiet for a moment as the carriage wheels clattered over stone. “You shouldn’t have left him.”
Kiril’s lips thinned in something that was almost a smile. “One might argue that it was he who did the leaving.”
“He was a fool. A grieving fool. But we swore to defend him, and I always took that to mean even from himself.”
“We all have our limits, Adras. I’m glad you haven’t yet found yours.”
He tugged a window open and watched the darkened streets flash by. The city was silent, muffled beneath low clouds that promised snow, but its peace was a ruse. He felt the tension, tasted it on the wind, stretched taut and waiting. And in that tension he smelled the conflagrant spice of Phaedra’s perfume.
The strain he sensed waiting in the city was manifest in the palace. They passed patrols of soldiers, and worried servants lurked in corners. More than one tried to question Adrastos, but the seneschal waved them away, unflagging as he delivered Kiril to the king.
Mathiros waited in his study, hands laced white-knuckled in front of his face. He didn’t stir until the door was shut, and when he did his joints popped loudly. Kiril fought a sympathetic wince; they were neither of them young anymore.
“You summoned me?”
The full weight of Mathiros’s black eyes turned on him, burning with rage and revelation. “What did you do, Kiril?” He stood, hands flat on his desk. His sword lay across the paper-strewn surface—still sheathed, but an eloquent promise all the same.
“For months I’ve had dreams. Black, murderous dreams of a woman