The Bone Palace - Amanda Downum [158]
He knew the path despite the deceptive mist, knew the number of strides to the tower, the number of steps to its peak. His knees didn’t ache this time, nor his traitorous heart. He almost laughed—he could think of more pleasant ways to spend his borrowed health. Maybe Isyllt was wrong—maybe they could have been happy somewhere else, had they abandoned all their oaths and duties.
Too late for might-have-beens now.
He heard shouting as he neared the top and quickened his pace. The air was thick with magic, Phaedra’s and Isyllt’s both, and the metallic scent of fresh blood.
The king and both sorceresses stood in the open first room, stationed in a rough triangle. Blood dripped from Isyllt’s nose and coursed from wounds on Mathiros’s cheek. Blood smeared the king’s sword as well, and Phaedra’s gown was rent across her ribs. The wound hadn’t slowed her. Through the laboratory door he glimpsed Savedra holding Nikos amidst a wreckage of broken glass and drifting notes.
“Phaedra,” he said as she raised her hand for another strike. “No.”
“Kiril!” Her face brightened. The same surprised hope lit Isyllt as well, and the sight was like a fist in his stomach. “You came.”
“To stop this. I can’t let you do this, Phaedra. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, Kiril.” Her lips pursed in a disappointed moue. “Not again.”
Her power hit him like a wave. The weight of it crushed him, while the demon blood in his veins answered her call, burning him from the inside.
She was stronger than the last time they’d faced each other, on another tower so many years ago. Then she had been clever and desperate—now she was a demon, and all the hate and madness that soaked the stones answered her. But Kiril was cannier with time, and knew better than to break himself against her onslaught. Instead he diverted her, twisted the raw red rush of her aside like a stone in a flood, while his defenses co-opted the strength of demon blood and made it his own.
One step at a time he crossed the room, through the bloody tide of magic, and took her in his arms. She swayed against him even as her magic hammered his. Isyllt fought too, flashes of silver-white and bone at the edge of his awareness.
“Let it go, Phaedra,” he whispered. Sticky warmth dripped into his beard, and a dozen scars ached as she tried to reopen the wounds. “This will bring you no peace.”
She touched his lips. “I would have forgiven you, if you’d only asked.”
He readied himself for the last assault he knew would follow.
He didn’t expect her to use a knife.
Isyllt shouted as the blade glittered in Phaedra’s hand, screamed as it slid home between Kiril’s ribs. Her throat ached with the force of it. He stumbled backward, into a wall, and slid slowly to the floor.
Phaedra watched him for a moment, her face grim and sad. Then she turned back to Mathiros. “Where was I?”
Isyllt stood frozen. Phaedra’s magic hung in red rags—now was the time to strike. But she could only stare at Kiril and will him to rise, to shake off the wound.
“Isyllt!” Nikos stood in the doorway, braced between the arch and Savedra’s supporting shoulder. “Stop her!”
A son’s plea. A prince’s command. Isyllt jerked toward Phaedra as the sorceress closed on Mathiros. The king dropped his sword, his face slack with despair. Kiril’s face was grey as ashes, his hand trembling as he reached for the knife. Blood spread shining across his black coat.
“Stop her,” Nikos yelled again.
“No,” she whispered, and turned to Kiril.
She took three strides before something inside her snapped like a kithara string and the force of her broken oath crushed her to her knees. Her vision greyed; the air in her lungs thickened and burned. She crawled, dragging useless legs behind her. Nikos was screaming. Mathiros was screaming. She ignored them all and crawled to Kiril’s side.
Her magic filled her like shards of glass; it would slice her to the