The Bone Palace - Amanda Downum [156]
Savedra’s mouth opened and closed again on an unspoken denial. She stared at Ginevra’s slender limbs, her smooth cheeks, the rise and fall of her breast. Beautiful and graceful and feminine, even bound and filthy. Everything Savedra had ever wanted to be, everything she was in her dreams until waking returned her to the truth.
“Is it so simple?” she asked. Would the hijra call it miraculous, or abhorrent?
“It’s not simple,” Phaedra said, sculpted brows pulling together in indignation. “It’s a delicate and complex thaumaturgical process. It’s been my life’s work. But it is possible.”
“It would make me a demon.”
“That’s a broad, clumsy word that the Arcanost relies on too heavily. But strictly speaking, a demon is created from the merging of flesh—living or dead—and a spirit or a ghost. I’m not sure what you would call the transfer of a living soul into a different living body.”
Madness, Savedra would call it. Abomination. Temptation.
Nikos had always said he loved her, not the flesh she wore. Did he really mean that?
“No,” she said at last. “I can’t.”
Phaedra frowned. “You could if you were desperate enough. But never mind. I can certainly find a use for her myself.”
“Please. Where is Nikos? I need to see him.”
“You came to rescue him? How sweet.” Phaedra gestured toward another doorway. “He’s here.”
The adjoining room looked like a mad sorcerer’s laboratory ought—vials and bottles and dishes, books lining the walls and lamps and candles cluttered on tables. In the center of the room on a stone bench lay Nikos. His shirt and jacket were gone, revealing hand-shaped bruises on his shoulders and short, scabbed cuts tracking the vein down one forearm. Savedra’s heart clenched, but he still breathed.
“What are you doing to him?”
“Transfusion. I drain his blood—slowly, of course—and replace it with my own. When enough is replaced, I can transfer my mind and my power with it. I balked at first, about wearing a man’s flesh, but Spider convinced me that was foolish. It’s just another experiment, after all, not to mention the quickest means to our end.”
“And what happens to Nikos?”
Phaedra paused. “He’ll be consumed. Subsumed. Some memories may linger—I collect more every time I do this.” She touched her temple as if they pained her.
“You can’t,” Savedra said. “Please, you can’t. Let him go.”
Phaedra’s eyes flickered toward her. “Can’t I?” she snapped. But her temper died. “Is he anything like his father?”
Savedra shook her head. It took her two tries to manage “No.”
“A pity, then.” She brushed a stray curl off his brow; his eyes flickered beneath pale lids. “Speaking of his father—” She smiled, and it looked nothing like Lychandra. This was a predator’s smile. “I think I hear him coming now.”
Isyllt met Mathiros Alexios at the base of the tower, and came perilously close to regicide when he materialized out of the fog beside her.
“Majesty.” She lowered her knife. His face was ashen and wild-eyed; scratches dripped blood down his cheek and brow, and more blood glistened on his drawn sword. Demon or mortal she couldn’t say.
She thought he might attack her, but his gaze focused. “Iskaldur. What are you doing here?”
“Looking for your son, Majesty, and for the woman responsible.”
“Phaedra.” A whisper, more to himself than to her. She couldn’t keep the surprise from her face. “Yes,” he said with a harsh laugh. “I know her name. I remember her.” His eyes narrowed. “You know.”
No point in dissembling now. “I’ve heard the story.”
Black brows pulled together. “And do you think I deserve whatever fate she has in mind for me?”
“Yes. But she’s a madwoman who’s already tearing the city apart, and Nikos doesn’t deserve to suffer because you were an idiot. Your Majesty.”
Mathiros’s scowl broke and he laughed, harsh and raw. “I should have taken you to the Steppes after all. The horselords would like you.”
“I’ll bear that in mind when this is over.” She gestured toward