The Bone Palace - Amanda Downum [32]
“We’ll find them.” He turned his hand to catch hers, tracing his thumb over the web of scars she wore like a lace glove. “I won’t let you get hurt again.”
That made her laugh, despite the tightness in her stomach. “I get myself hurt. I learned from the best.”
He smiled ruefully. “True.” His eyes flickered toward the bedroom and the smile twisted. “I’m glad you have someone to look after you.”
“Kiril—” His name caught in her throat.
He squeezed her hand. “I know. I made my choices—I have no business regretting them now.”
“You can always unmake them.”
He laid a finger on her lips. “I’m sorry. I only came to see that you were all right, and to hear what you’d learned.” His face darkened as he touched the bandage again. “We’ll find the ones who did this.” He brushed a damp strand of hair out of her face and kissed her forehead. “But first, rest.”
He turned and left before she could speak.
Tears burned her aching eyes as Isyllt stumbled back to the bedroom. Ciaran pulled her close, stroking her tangled hair while she cried.
“Enough foolish grief for any tragedy,” she whispered against his shoulder.
He rocked her gently and sang her lullabies until she finally slept.
The sun crested the line of the eastern mountains as Kiril left Isyllt’s apartment, chasing away the blue softness of dawn and spilling long shadows across the ground. Fog coiled thick as milk in the streets, slowly unraveling in the light. Smoke drifted across the sky and temple bells tolled the start of morning rites, rousing faithful and faithless alike. The narrow arch of the rear entrance framed the sloping streets and sun-gilt spires, windows sparkling bright as gems. The beauty of the city at daybreak still caught in his throat sometimes, even after so many years. Much the way his hand ached with the memory of Isyllt’s cheek.
For all the familiar morning clatter, this corner of Archlight was too quiet for the hour. Besides the sorcerers who had ridden north with the king, there were always students who chose the uncertainty of a soldier’s life to the certainty of a scholar’s poverty. How many of those two hundred dead might have taken classes when they returned?
He should never have let Isyllt go underground. Which was ridiculous—besides the fact that she was well-trained and knew all the dangers, asking her not to take a risk would only make her more determined to do so. Telling her not to do her job would raise a dozen questions, each sharper than the last. And he had long forfeited the right to ask her to stay out of harm’s way for his sake.
Old fool. And more folly, his resolve still wavered every time he saw her. Three years of nothing but mentor and pupil, as they should have stayed from the beginning. Three years, and she still asked him to unmake his choice. He breathed deep, trying to banish the smell of her hair with the stink of the streets.
He had put her in danger from the very beginning, of course, from the moment he recruited her. Trained her and used her and sent her out to kill or be killed. His loyalty to the king had demanded it, and he never hesitated. She knew the price of the game, he’d told himself, she accepted it. But after the last assignment cost her a hand, and his own relationship with the king grew strained and bitter, he had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t see her hurt that way again.
And now his secrets had nearly killed her once more.
He shook such worthless thoughts aside, focusing on the strain in his muscles instead, the creak of his knees as he climbed the winding staircased streets; regrets were useless. His chest burned by the time he reached his house on the far side of the quarter, but it was only the pain of tired lungs, not his traitorous heart. He’d owned the house for years, but only taken up residence the past spring, after the last disagreement with the king finally sealed the rift that had been growing for three years. Mathiros had never forgiven him for Lychandra’s death, for his failure to do the impossible. More bitter still were all the impossible things