The Bone Palace - Amanda Downum [159]
“What do I do?” she asked, touching his face with trembling fingers. “What can I do?”
“Forgive me.” A bubble of blood burst on his lips. “Pull the knife out and let me die swiftly. Or leave it in, and let me spend a few more moments with you. Whichever option seems best to you.”
She cradled his head in her lap. Tears and blood dripped off her chin. “I’ll kill her,” she whispered. “I swear it.”
“Don’t.” His hand groped for hers, clung tight. Already cold, but some strength remained. “No revenge. You see what it does to you. But yes, you should stop her. It would be a mercy.” Each word was softer than the last. His dark eyes began to dim.
“You don’t have to die,” she whispered, lowering her head. Her hair and her tears fell over his face. “Not truly.”
“And become a demon? Undead? Could you stand the sight of me?”
She sobbed at the thought. Cold and empty, forever, dead and undying—
“I love you. Always you.”
“I knew it would be you—”
The words faded into a long rattling breath and the last spark inside him guttered. Death surrounded them, an owl-winged shadow reaching for Kiril. Isyllt flung herself against it, scrambling for power that sliced and crumbled at her touch.
She followed him into the dark.
The dark would not have her.
Savedra didn’t watch Mathiros die.
Nikos tried to intervene but his knees gave way, dragging them both to the floor. She pulled his head against her chest and buried her face in his hair, whispering meaningless sounds to drown the wet noises coming from Phaedra and the king.
When she opened her eyes again, Mathiros hung like an empty husk in Phaedra’s hands. Blood coated him, dripping from his fingers to dapple the floor. More slicked Phaedra’s hands and mouth. As Savedra watched, the red stains vanished into her skin—the splatters on her white gown remained. When the last drops were gone, the sorceress let him fall. Her face crumpled as she stared at the sunken corpse, exultation fled.
“How does it feel?”
Savedra started, scarcely recognizing Isyllt’s voice. The necromancer still knelt by Kiril, her face a half-mask of blood beneath the shroud of her hair.
“Was it worth it?”
“For a moment,” Phaedra said, almost too soft to hear. “For a moment it was. Now… it doesn’t matter now. It’s done.”
A spark of steel caught Savedra’s eye. Ginevra was awake, bound hands groping across the floor for Savedra’s knife. If Phaedra noticed the movement, she gave no sign.
“Now what?” Isyllt asked. Her eyes flickered—she noticed, and was trying to keep Phaedra distracted.
The demon stared at her hands, clean of blood. “Now I finish it, I suppose. I don’t want to wear this flesh anymore.”
“It won’t be different in anyone else’s,” Savedra said, finding her voice at last.
Phaedra turned. “It will, for a time.” Behind her, Ginevra had finished sawing through her bonds and chafed her raw wrists, jaw clenched against any sound of pain.
“Mathiros is dead,” Isyllt said. “Spider is dead. Kiril is dead.” Her voice was too hollow to crack. “You have your revenge, but your plans are ruined.”
“Perhaps you’re right. I only wanted—” Phaedra shook her head. “I don’t know what I wanted. Rest, perhaps.” She glanced at Savedra and Nikos. “Keep your prince. The other is all I need.”
At last she turned toward Ginevra, in time for the girl to launch herself off the floor, knife in hand.
Clumsy and slow, but Phaedra only gaped as the blade flashed toward her, rocked back as it struck her face. Ginevra fell, wan and sweating, and Phaedra stumbled back, one hand clapped to her cheek.
“You—” She pulled her hand away, and blood glistened on her palm. Mathiros’s blood, Savedra supposed. The slice laid her cheek open to the bone; flesh gapped as she spoke. Dark rivulets ran down her chin to stain her bodice.
“Dead flesh doesn’t feel pain,” she told Ginevra. “I’ll be more careful when I’m wearing