The Bone Palace

by Downum, Amanda

  Ginevra lay in a heap against the wall, her hands bound behind her with heavy rope. The crimson dress was black with grime, the hem snagged and bleeding beads. Her lustrous copper skin was dull and ashen, her eyes hollow, but save for a rust-colored smear across her mouth she seemed unharmed.

  Bruised eyelids fluttered as Savedra whispered her name. “Vedra.” The hope in her smile was terrible. “You came.”

  Savedra dropped to her knees beside the girl, touching her face with trembling fingers. No fever, at least, and no more chilled than one would expect from sitting on frigid stone. Someone had given her a blanket, but it had slid aside and become trapped under her legs.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’m so tired, though—”

  “Yes,” a voice said behind them. “Better if you rest.”

  Savedra’s nerves snapped and she leapt like a startled cat. She fetched up crouched against the wall beside Ginevra, her knife flashing in her hand.

  Lychandra Alexios stood before her, still gowned in white. Savedra had thought herself prepared, but she moaned at the sight, eyes squeezing shut and the knife falling from numb fingers.

  Fabric rustled as Lychandra—Phaedra, she told herself, Phaedra—knelt beside Ginevra. “Sleep. It’s easier that way.”

  Now Savedra understood why Phaedra’s voice had chilled her when they met at Varis’s house. Lychandra’s throat, Lychandra’s lips shaping the words, but the tone and inflection were wrong. She forced herself to look again.

  Phaedra smiled, and that too was familiar and all the more terrible for it. “Startling, isn’t it? I still catch myself off guard in mirrors. Varis spoke of your cleverness, but I admit I didn’t think you’d make it this far. But not unscathed.” One cold finger touched Savedra’s face, came away pink and sticky.

  She held out a long brown hand. Seeing no safer option, Savedra took it, letting the demon draw her to her feet. Her dagger slid from the folds of her skirts and clattered against the floor.

  “What are you doing to her?” she asked, looking down at Ginevra.

  “Keeping her safe. If she were awake she would only wear herself out with panic.” The sorceress hadn’t let go of Savedra’s hand; she raised it now to study the ruby ring. Identical stones shone on her fingers. Savedra tensed for wrath, but all Phaedra said was, “Wherever did you find this?”

  “In Carnavas,” she answered, her mouth dry and sticky. “In your workroom.” At least Phaedra’s demon birds weren’t here now—that was something to be thankful for.

  “Ah. I always wondered what happened to it.” Luminous orange eyes moved from Savedra to Ginevra and back again. “Would you like her?”

  Savedra blinked stupidly. “What?”

  “This body. I thought at first to wear it myself, but we came up with a better plan.” Her gaze softened, the dead woman’s face ghastly with sympathy. “I understand what it’s like to be trapped in the wrong flesh. Varis explained it to me—the cruel trick of your birth. I could fix it. It’s the least I can do for him. I’m not entirely sure how the process would work between two anixeroi,” she said, frowning, “but it would be a fascinating experiment.”

  Savedra’s mouth opened and closed again on an unspoken denial. She stared at Ginevra’s slender limbs, her smooth cheeks, the rise and fall of her breast. Beautiful and graceful and feminine, even bound and filthy. Everything Savedra had ever wanted to be, everything she was in her dreams until waking returned her to the truth.

  “Is it so simple?” she asked. Would the hijra call it miraculous, or abhorrent?

  “It’s not simple,” Phaedra said, sculpted brows pulling together in indignation. “It’s a delicate and complex thaumaturgical process. It’s been my life’s work. But it is possible.”

  “It would make me a demon.”

  “That’s a broad, clumsy word that the Arcanost relies on too heavily. But strictly speaking, a demon is created from the merging of flesh—living or dead—and a spirit or a ghost. I’m not sure what you would call the transfer of a living soul into a different living body.”

  Madness, Savedra would call it. Abomination. Temptation.

  Nikos had always said he loved her, not the flesh she wore. Did he really mean that?

  “No,” she said at last. “I can’t.”

  Phaedra frowned. “You could if you were desperate enough. But never mind. I can certainly find a use for her myself.”

  “Please. Where is Nikos? I need to see him.”

  “You came to rescue him? How sweet.” Phaedra gestured toward another doorway. “He’s here.”

  The adjoining room looked like a mad sorcerer’s laboratory ought—vials and bottles and dishes, books lining the walls and lamps and candles cluttered on tables. In the center of the room on a stone bench lay Nikos. His shirt and jacket were gone, revealing hand-shaped bruises on his shoulders and short, scabbed cuts tracking the vein down one forearm. Savedra’s heart clenched, but he still breathed.

  “What are you doing to him?”

  “Transfusion. I drain his blood—slowly, of course—and replace it with my own. When enough is replaced, I can transfer my mind and my power with it. I balked at first, about wearing a man’s flesh, but Spider convinced me that was foolish. It’s just another experiment, after all, not to mention the quickest means to our end.”

  “And what happens to Nikos?”

  Phaedra paused. “He’ll be consumed. Subsumed. Some memories may linger—I collect more every time I do this.” She touched her temple as if they pained her.

  “You can’t,” Savedra said. “Please, you can’t. Let him go.”

  Phaedra’s eyes flickered toward her. “Can’t I?” she snapped. But her temper died. “Is he anything like his father?”

  Savedra shook her head. It took her two tries to manage “No.”

  “A pity, then.” She brushed a stray curl off his brow; his eyes flickered beneath pale lids. “Speaking of his father—” She smiled, and it looked nothing like Lychandra. This was a predator’s smile. “I think I hear him coming now.”

  Isyllt met Mathiros Alexios at the base of the tower, and came perilously close to regicide when he materialized out of the fog beside her.

  “Majesty.” She lowered her knife. His face was ashen and wild-eyed; scratches dripped blood down his cheek and brow, and more blood glistened on his drawn sword. Demon or mortal she couldn’t say.

  She thought he might attack her, but his gaze focused. “Iskaldur. What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for your son, Majesty, and for the woman responsible.”

  “Phaedra.” A whisper, more to himself than to her. She couldn’t keep the surprise from her face. “Yes,” he said with a harsh laugh. “I know her name. I remember her.” His eyes narrowed. “You know.”

  No point in dissembling now. “I’ve heard the story.”

  Black brows pulled together. “And do you think I deserve whatever fate she has in mind for me?”

  “Yes. But she’s a madwoman who’s already tearing the city apart, and Nikos doesn’t deserve to suffer because you were an idiot. Your Majesty.”

  Mathiros’s scowl broke and he laughed, harsh and raw. “I should have taken you to the Steppes after all. The horselords would like you.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind when this is over.” She gestured toward the tower. “Phaedra is up there, somewhere, and likely Nikos too. Shall we go up?”

  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 days were past. Instead Kiril lowered Varis’s hand, squeezing gently before he let go. They were past farewells and benedictions, too, so Kiril turned without a word and stepped into the darkness of the bone palace.

  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 bone if she seized it. But her death-sense remained: As soon as she touched him, she knew the wound was mortal. The blade shuddered with his heartbeat when she touched the hilt. A scalpel, a tiny thing, but it had found its mark.

  “What do I do?” she asked, touching his fa
ce 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.