The Bone Palace - Amanda Downum [157]
She expected tricks and traps, but the way was clear. Past the dizzying taint of the stones, she felt power gathering at the top of the stairs.
Phaedra waited for them, still clothed in white and stolen flesh. Not the gown she’d worn to the masque, but a new one of silver-trimmed velvet. Not a practical color for a haematurge. It didn’t flatter her complexion, but was striking all the same.
Mathiros stumbled on the last step. “Lychandra—”
“No.”
“No.” He dragged a hand across his face; blood smeared from his cuts, welled fresh. “No. Phaedra.”
Isyllt shuddered at her smile. “Yes. You do remember.”
“Phaedra!” Isyllt’s hand tightened on her knife as those orange eyes turned to her. “Spider is dead. You’ve lost your vampires. The palace is warned about you. It’s over.”
The demon blinked. “Even if that’s true, I have the king and the crown prince.”
“And me to deal with.”
Her lips curled. “I can stop the prince’s heart where I stand. But enough threats—go home, necromancer. For Kiril’s sake I’ll spare you.”
“This has nothing to do with any of them,” Mathiros said. “This is between us.”
Phaedra nodded. “Yes. Come inside.”
Mathiros squared his shoulders and stepped into the room. Isyllt, cursing, followed. Magic settled over her, rust-red and sticky, nearly tangible as Phaedra’s power grew. It spread in webs throughout the room, winding around the woman who sprawled in the corner—Ginevra Jsutien, and that was one mystery solved.
“Where is Nikos?” Mathiros asked.
“Here.” She led them to an adjoining room, where Nikos lay on a stone bench. Savedra knelt beside him, murmuring softly and insistently as she tried to help him up. Her hazel eyes flashed white when she saw Phaedra and the king.
“If I—” Mathiros’s throat worked under his beard. “If I surrender to you, will you let Nikos free?”
“I have no desire to harm him,” Phaedra said.
“She’s lying,” Savedra said, her voice cracking. “She means to take his body, make him a puppet to steal the throne. He won’t survive that.”
Phaedra’s eyes narrowed. “Technicalities.” Her stance was relaxed, unconcerned, but she crackled with power. Mathiros, on the other hand, had lowered his sword, shoulders hunched and face twisted. Isyllt had never known him to balk at anything, but against his dead wife’s face and his son’s life in the balance he was shrunken, helpless.
Isyllt sighed. She would have to do this herself.
Kiril rode through the burning city, warded against spirits and men. His diamond ring blazed with the death in the air, but the destruction wasn’t as bad as it might have been. The quarter would be decimated, but the Vigils’ barricades still held, and the thickening snow damped fires and tempers alike. He sensed newly fledged demons, and passed a few—the shambling dead, mostly, opportunistic spirits worming into fresh corpses, still clumsy and dazzled by incarnation. His stolen horse balked, but responded to soothing words and steady hands.
Soldiers and police gathered at the gates of the old palace. One slab of ironbound oak had been broken down, and tendrils of red mist snaked around splintered boards. The commanding officer recognized him, and the man’s face lit with sick relief. All Kiril’s attention was for Varis, however, when he saw the other mage leaning against the wall, sharing a wineskin with—of all people—the crown princess.
Kiril handed his reins to a nervous soldier who needed something to occupy him. The crowd parted for him as he joined Varis.
“Still not very good at taking your own advice,” Varis said by way of greeting.
“No better than you are.” He took the proffered skin, letting cheap wine rinse away the taste of char.
“Mathiros is still in there,” Varis said, more soberly. “So are Savedra and Isyllt and the prince.”
Kiril closed his eyes. There was nothing in those walls for him but grief. Isyllt had made her choice, and not asked for his help. He should have abandoned all of this.
But he was here.
Varis touched his face. They might have kissed, but those