The Bone Palace

by Downum, Amanda

  “Did he say her name, or the names of any of his friends?”

  Forsythia shook her head. “Not the woman’s. He mentioned the other vampires, though—they all had false names, like us flowers. It made me laugh. Myca, I think one was. And Spider. Something like that, anyway.”

  She knew better than to be angry, but it simmered beneath her breastbone anyway. That he had played her from the start she might forgive—it was, after all, a danger of her work—but the ease with which he’d betrayed his fellow vrykoloi galled.

  “Does that help you?” Forsythia asked. Her black eyes robbed her face of expression, but her hands plucked nervously at her sleeves.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “You’ll find them? The ones who killed me? The ones who killed Whisper?”

  “I will.” Satisfaction or not, this was a promise she meant to keep.

  That night, Kiril sought Phaedra out.

  She made her home in ruins, which was sensible in spite of her flair for the theatric. No one trespassed beyond the ironbound wall that guarded the ruined palace, and stray whispers of magic would not be remarked upon. If anyone marked her coming or going, it would be just one more ghost story to scare children in Elysia.

  Not all such stories were false; spirits watched him as soon as he set foot beyond the gate. Tiny, hungry things clustered at the edges of the path, dark tangles at the edge of his vision. None were brave enough to challenge him, but had he been weak or injured or merely blind to them they might have dared.

  The miasma of the ruin scraped like sharkskin against his senses—where the wind touched him he expected to bleed. The magic was no longer strong enough for that, but the pain and rawness still wore on his nerves. Did Phaedra’s madness leave her immune to the effect, he wondered, or exacerbate it?

  He followed the scent of her magic to a tower, one of the few structures that hadn’t yet succumbed to time and the elements. It bore their marks, however, delicate redents and figures worn soft and faceless, once-white sandstone now stained yellow as bone. Perhaps it was this tower in which Tsetsilya Konstantin had purportedly died. That would appeal to Phaedra. The spirits that lingered here were stronger, fattened on scraps of magic.

  She set no guard upon the stairs, but he felt her wards acknowledge him and let him pass. His chest and knees ached by the time he reached the top, which only strengthened his resolve to be done with this.

  She had settled in the topmost floor. Scavenged rugs covered cold stone, and books were stacked against the walls. Notes and pens lay scattered across a table beside tangles of jewelry and crumpled playbills. A plum-red gown and matching veils draped a chair, slippers kicked halfway across the room. The glowing brazier was no match for the night’s chill.

  An adjoining room had become her laboratory. Vials and instruments gleamed by candlelight, and journals and stray parchment covered the tables in drifts. It was here he found her, naked, leaning over a tray of surgical knives. Her nudity and the cold glitter of steel were both disconcerting, but so odd in combination that he didn’t know what to make of it.

  “Hello, Kiril,” she said without looking up. “Would you help me with this?”

  He stepped forward, though the calmness in her voice was no safe gauge of her mood. Her hair was piled high and sparkling with garnets, her face flawlessly made-up. He knew certain brothels that would have paid a great deal for the effect, especially with a scalpel in her hand.

  “What are you doing?” He decided not to mention the brothels.

  She sorted through saws and clamps and blades, finally selecting a long cylindrical boring knife, the sort used to retrieve samples when a full autopsy was unfeasible. “I need a bit of liver, and the angle is bad to do it myself.” She held out the knife handle first. “Be a dear and fetch me some?”

  He almost asked if she was joking, but there was no humor in her eyes, only the intensity that came over her when she worked. “You’re well turned out for surgery.”

  “I’m going out with Varis. This will only take a moment, and I’d rather do it now before I forget.”

  “All right.” Bemused, he knelt at her right side, trying not to wince as his knees met the floor. The candles were insufficient, so he summoned the white glow of a witchlight. He laid his left hand below her ribs, pressing the skin taut. “Here?” he suggested, tapping the spot between thumb and forefinger. When she nodded he set the tip of the knife in place, skin dimpling under steel. With one last glance to confirm her willingness, he twisted the blade home.

  “Does it hurt?” he asked, as she made a soft noise. He twisted the knife again and withdrew it. Anatomy classes would be much more interesting if they all had undead to experiment on, but the legal and ethical concerns would likely tie up the Arcanost for years.

  “Only if I let it,” she said, wiping away a drop of blood. “It’s cold, though.”

  A sliver of greyish-red meat glistened inside the curve of the blade. Phaedra took the knife from him and tapped the liver into a glass dish. When the cover was in place she sealed it with a touch, and spoke a word of stasis to keep the sample fresh. As fresh as years-dead flesh could ever be.

  “Thank you. And since you’re here, you can help me dress.” She shot a glance over her shoulder as she turned toward the other room. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m leaving.” The words were harder to voice than he’d imagined. “The city, that is.”

  “Before the ball? You haven’t even seen my dress.” Teasing, but her brow creased.

  “I can’t sit through the final act of this revenge play of yours. They’re always tragedies, you know.”

  Her eyes flashed in the witchlight. “I know tragedy very well.”

  “Then I leave it to you. My part in this is done.”

  She turned, gown forgotten. “It doesn’t have to be. I could use your help, you know, when I take the throne.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Really? When did you decide this?”

  She shrugged. “We’ve discussed it for some time now, Spider and I.” Her pet vrykolos, the one who’d led Isyllt into danger—Kiril stifled a reply as she continued. “Since we’re removing a king to begin with, why not take advantage of the opportunity?”

  “Why indeed. What does Varis think of this?”

  She glanced away. “I’m sure Varis would be happy to see the Severoi back in power, even if the circumstances were unorthodox.”

  “Of course.”

  Her lips pursed in a frown. “You don’t approve.”

  “You hardly need my approval at this stage. As I said, I’m finished.”

  She closed the distance between them and laid a hand on his chest. “Don’t leave. You helped one king—help me. Or better yet, be a king. I promised to make you young and strong again, and I can. New life for both of us, and a throne besides. Haven’t you dreamed of that?”

  He took her hand in his. “I know where my strengths lie. Whose body would you steal for me?” The answer came as soon as he voiced the question. “Nikos, of course. What better way to take the throne? And whose flesh for you?”

  “Does it matter? Someone young and beautiful. Would you like to choose?”

  Her neediness unsettled him—he would rather see her raging. “It might work, but not for me. I have no desire to rule, and even less to steal someone else’s life that way. Nikos has done nothing to earn your enmity.”

  She sagged against him, cold and soft. “Not enmity—expedience. Isn’t that always the way of it?”

  He took her by the shoulders and eased her away. “I’m sorry, Phaedra. I can’t help you anymore.”

  “But I can help you. Not a new body, perhaps, but strength I can give you. I promised I would.” She pressed close again, too strong for him to move without violence. “You broke yourself for me—I know that. Let me make you whole again.”

  “I told you, I have no desire to be your pet.” The denial came more slowly than it should. He needed to leave, before her madness infected him. Before her p
romises wore him down.

  “You won’t be, I swear. Besides—” She smiled up at him through her lashes. “Don’t you think you could stop me if I tried?”

  “I prefer not to make foolish assumptions,” he said dryly, “especially where my freedom is concerned.”

  “Don’t you see, freedom is what I’m offering you? You gave your life in service to a king who abandoned you, and spent your strength helping me. I can give you that back, with no vows to bind you.”

  He could never trust her. It was madness and foolishness and he had to refuse, but the words didn’t come. He was so tired—he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt strong, even before Phaedra came. He was so tired of weariness and regret.

  She took his hand and led him to the laboratory.

  CHAPTER 15

  Isyllt’s plans of further investigation died the next morning when a city runner knocked on her door an hour past the dawn bells, summoning her to the Arcanost. Nearly half the army had returned with some wound or another, and the hospitals were already straining to treat everyone with influenza. With physicians overwhelmed, mages were called upon to treat the injured.

  Cursing and rubbing her eyes, Isyllt dressed and rousted Dahlia from the divan where the girl had spent the night curled like a kitten. “Come on,” she said. “This will be educational.”

  The Arcanost’s largest dining hall had been repurposed to hold the wounded. Lamps and braziers lined the room, supplementing the wan light from the high clerestory windows. The space was already thick with the heat of a hundred bodies, and the smell of sweat and vomit and sour blood clung to the walls. Isyllt’s nose wrinkled as they stepped inside, and Dahlia grimaced. She couldn’t imagine students would want to eat here again soon.

  Injuries ranged from missing limbs to trench foot, with a myriad of infections and illnesses in between. Isyllt’s magic was useless for true healing, but she could numb wounds better than wine or opium, and set and stitch neatly enough. She had the foresight to tuck her ring into her inner jacket pocket, so patients wouldn’t panic at the sight of a necromancer descending on them.

  More complicated than sword wounds or septicemia was the Ordozh magic some soldiers had fallen afoul of. The Arcanost knew little of the eastern arts—many were inclined to write them off as hedge magic and superstition. Isyllt had always found hedge magic to be reliable in a limited way, no matter what scorn the Arcanostoi heaped on the practice. Certainly the curses she found now had worked well enough. Some were bloody, others merely debilitating—one lieutenant had been made anathema to horses. None would bear him or endure his presence, not even from the back of a supply cart. Now he suffered from exhaustion and gangrenous feet from trailing the army all the way home.

  Not only Selafaïn soldiers came seeking treatment—a few Rosians slipped in as well. The Arcanostoi in charge tried to chase them out, but when Isyllt caught them she made sure they saw her ring and her displeasure. In return, they sent all the wounded refugees to her, and soon she was surrounded. She knew only a handful of Rosian words, none useful for medicine, and most symptoms were described through pantomime.

  By noon her lack of breakfast had begun to tell on her, but her appetite was nowhere to be found. By the fourth bell she felt wrung dry and knew she had to eat something no matter how unpleasant the thought was. Dahlia served as a mirror—her smock was smeared with blood and pus and vomit, hair tousled and locked with sweat. Her olive skin was pasty, but her jaw was set and hands steady. Isyllt nearly patted her shoulder, but stopped when she saw the state of her own hands.

  “Let’s find lunch,” she said when the influx of patients finally slowed. Her voice was raw and ugly.

  Dahlia made an unhappy face at the idea of food, but began hunting for a clean rag. Filthy linen lay in drifts and swags around them and the nearest bowls of water were pink with blood and clotted and stringy with other waste.

  They found clean towels and soap at the far end of the hall, and Isyllt scrubbed her hands till they stung. As she wiped her face for the third time, a conversation on the far side of a doorway caught her attention.

  “I’m sorry,” said a tired man in black robes, “but this isn’t the place for influenza victims. Try St. Alia’s, or St. Allakho’s.” That last told Isyllt about the other half of the conversation—one didn’t suggest a charity hospital to those with alternatives.

  A woman laughed, harsh and brief. Isyllt moved closer—a Selafaïn woman, dark-haired and olive-skinned under layers of scarves and hoods. A young man sat on a bench behind her, shaking beneath bundled clothes.

  “St. Allakho’s is full,” the woman said. “And so is St. Alia’s, even if they were taking charity cases.”

  The man sighed, running a wide brown hand over his face. Isyllt didn’t recognize him, but the jade and agates in his rings marked him as a healer-mage, one of the rare few who chose to focus on magical theory instead of taking the more lucrative path of a physician. “Then you should take him home, keep him warm and dry and make sure he has plenty to drink. Broth and tisanes are best. Burn incense if you wish. We’re overwhelmed here too.”

  “How many houses in Birthgrave do you think are warm?” the woman asked, but she was already turning away, helping her companion to his feet. As he stood, Isyllt saw his face for the first time—sallow with jaundice, the whites of his eyes a fierce yellow. Movement made him cough, deep and wet and tearing.

  She took three strides toward them before she realized she was moving. The woman glanced at her, and looked away again when Isyllt didn’t speak. As she led her friend down the hall, Isyllt turned to the other mage.

  “That isn’t—”

  He cut her off with a gesture, rings flashing. His dark face was lusterless with fatigue. “It is influenza.” The words were dull with rote response. “We don’t understand the jaundice yet, but the other symptoms match.” His voice lowered as he leaned close. “Bronze fever doesn’t spread in the winter, and the last thing the city needs right now is a panic.”

  She couldn’t argue with that, though for a moment she wanted to. Her jaw worked once, then closed tightly. “I understand.”

  Relief flickered in his eyes. “Good. Then if you’ll excuse me—” He waved one blunt hand toward the rows of waiting wounded.

  “Is that what I looked like when I was sick?” she asked Dahlia when he was gone.

  The girl shrugged. “Not quite so bad, but yes.”

  Isyllt shuddered, chilled through. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s find something warm to drink.”

  The royal audience began at noon, and the throne room was packed tight an hour before the bells rang. Savedra stood in an alcove near the dais that afforded her a view of most of the hall and the Malachite Throne as well, if too many taller people didn’t crowd in front of her.

  The hall was a riot of color—gold and green and creamy marble, the rich blue banners of House Alexios, stained glass windows, and all the people contained within. Members of the Eight stood beside—or at least in the vicinity of—merchants and shop clerks and tradesmen, and a few who might have been beggars, all gathered to petition the king, or hear him, or simply remind themselves that he existed.

  Savedra saw her mother at the far end of the hall, surrounded by the heads of other families. The Octagon Court could put aside ancient rivalries for a few hours, if it meant a good view of the proceedings. Ginevra Jsutien stood with her aunt—she caught Savedra’s eye across the room and smiled. Savedra smiled back unthinkingly, and bit the inside of her lip as she glanced away. Friendships had been rare since she moved into the palace—why couldn’t she find one she could trust?

  The third bell tolled the hour, and a moment later horns announced the entrance of the king. The audience knelt as he strode the length of the hall, grim and austere as ever. His eyes were still shadowed and sunken after a day and night’s rest. Nikos followed, restored to his peacock splendor in green and saffron. Behind them came a handful of the Royal Guard in formal grey-and-white live
ry. A colorless reminder that they served the Malachite Throne, not the house that held it.

  The issues brought forth by the supplicants were the standard sort: squabbles amongst the Eight, conflicts between merchants, bureaucrats requesting money for city projects. All things Nikos had handled in his father’s absence, but having the king’s attention for even a few moments was soothing to many.

  While Aravinds and Hadrians squabbled over borders and orchards, the crowd shifted beside Savedra. A subtle rearrangement of limbs and body heat, but she tensed, turning before a soft voice spoke.

  “Savedra Pallakis. May I speak with you?”

  She looked up and up again at the captain of the king’s private guard. Mikhael Kurgoth was a lanky, rawboned man, scarred and seamed, with incongruously baby-fine sandy hair. He had led the royal guard for as long as Savedra had lived in the palace. A foreign mercenary made good, his rise to authority had been nearly as unlikely as hers. He could have been a general, but had chosen more than once to remain beside the king.

  “Of course, Captain.”

  His dark eyes narrowed, deepening the creases at the corners. He stood very close amidst the press; beneath the crisp grey linen of his surcoat he smelled of oiled leather and steel and fresh soap. “Will you carry a message for me? I must speak to the prince.” His tongue slid across his teeth as if he disliked the taste of the words. “In private.”

  Curiosity prickled, but Savedra kept her face smooth, her gaze moving over the crowd. “Of course. In the Queen’s Solar, perhaps, before the sixth bell?”

  “Yes,” he said, squinting in consideration. “I’ll be there. I needn’t mention discretion to you.”

  “Indeed,” she replied dryly. “You needn’t.”

  His mouth quirked. “Your pardon. Thank you, Pallakis.”

  The next moment he was gone, melting back through the crowd to stand beside the dais once more, just in time for Mathiros to dismiss the quarreling houses and call for the next supplicant.