The Bone Palace

by Downum, Amanda

  “I’m sorry,” he said. The pain in his voice made her flinch. She preferred him glib and mocking. “So very sorry.”

  “Yes, well.” She rose, less gracefully than she might have wished, and led him to the door. “We knew the risks when we took the job.”

  She didn’t answer the door for the next two days. She wept, raged, flung books and muffled her sobs and curses in pillows. Her magic was still burned to the root, or she might have wrought worse destruction.

  The second night she sat down in the ruin of her bedroom and knew she couldn’t stay. Kiril had asked if she could stand to see him as a demon. She knew she could. Even now her hands ached at the thought of touching him. If he came to her now, cold and lifeless, she would run to him as she always had. Nothing, it seemed, could burn her need for him so deep that it wouldn’t grow back.

  She couldn’t go on like this, not with the wounds so fresh.

  * * *

  Dahlia came the following day, when Isyllt had stopped crying long enough to clean up some of the wreckage. She wouldn’t have answered that knock either, but the latch clicked anyway.

  “I took your spare key when you were sick,” the girl said, lingering in the doorway. “I thought it might be useful.”

  Isyllt snorted. “I suppose I’m lucky you didn’t steal the dishes while I was in St. Alia’s. Though the glasses might have fared better if you had.” She nudged a shattered wine stem with one toe and set the broom aside.

  “I would have come sooner,” Dahlia said, closing the door behind her, “but I needed to think.” Her face was still sallow, thinner than it had been two decads ago. The effect aged her, made the androgyne clearer in her bones.

  Isyllt waited, leaning against the cupboard.

  “I want to be your apprentice,” the girl said in a rush. “If you’ll still have me. I don’t want to—to end up like my mother, or Forsythia, or any of those other girls. I want…” Her hands traced shapes in the air as she searched for words.

  “Choices?” Isyllt suggested.

  “Yes.”

  She laughed softly; it made her chest ache. “I understand. And I would teach you, though I won’t be fit to anytime soon, nor fit company, but—”

  Dahlia’s face was already closing. She raised her eyebrows as her jaw tightened. “But?”

  Isyllt sighed. “I’m leaving Erisín.”

  “Oh. Why?”

  Her mouth twisted. “I’m running away. There are ghosts here I can’t face. Decisions I can’t make. I need distance.”

  “Oh.” Dahlia folded her arms across her chest. “I could go with you,” she said quietly.

  Isyllt frowned, running her tongue over her teeth as she tasted the idea. “I suppose you could.” It was a bad idea; that was probably why she found herself considering it. “People have the habit of dying in my company.”

  Dahlia laughed, as scathingly as only an adolescent could manage. “People have a habit of dying in Oldtown, too. I’d like to see something different before my turn comes.”

  Coward, she named herself, to take a child into danger because she didn’t want to go alone.

  She met Dahlia’s eyes, already narrowed against the threat of rejection. Not quite a child, and no stranger to risk. Old enough to make her own decisions, perhaps.

  Isyllt knew exactly how well making those decisions for her would go.

  “Something different.” She pressed her tongue against her teeth thoughtfully. “I think we can manage that.”

  APPENDIX I

  Calendars and Time

  Selafai and the Assari Empire both use 365-day calendars, divided into twelve 30-day months. Months are in turn divided into ten-day decads. The extra five days are considered dead days, or demon days, and not counted on calendars. No business is conducted on these days, and births and deaths are recorded on the first day of the next month; many women choose to induce labor in the preceding days rather than risk an ill-omened child.

  The Assari calendar reckons years Sal Emperaturi, from the combining of the kingdoms Khem and Deshra by Queen Assar. The year begins with the flooding of the rivers Ash and Nilufer. Months are Sebek, Kebeshet, Anuket, Tauret, Hathor, Selket, Nebethet, Seker, Reharakes, Khensu, Imhetep, and Sekhmet. Days of the decad (called a mudat in Assari) are Ahit, Ithanit, Talath, Arbat, Khamsat, Sitath, Sabath, Tamanit, Tisath, and Ashrat.

  In 727 SE, the Assari Empire invaded the western kingdom of Elissar. Elissar’s royal house, led by Embria Selaphaïs, escaped across the sea and settled on the northern continent. Six years later, the refugees founded the kingdom of Selafai, and capital New Tanaïs. They established a new calendar, reckoned Ab urbe condita but otherwise styled after the Assari. Selafaïn years end with the winter solstice, beginning again after the five dead days, six months and five days after the Assari New Year. Selafaïn months are Ganymedos, Narkissos, Apollon, Sephone, Io, Janus, Merkare, Sirius, Kybelis, Pallas, Lamia, and Hekate. Days of the decad are Kalliope, Klio, Erata, Euterpis, Melpomene, Polyhymnis, Terpsichora, Thalis, Uranis, and Mnemosin.

  Selafaïns measure 24-hour days beginning at sunrise. Time is marked in eight three-hour increments known as terces. The day begins with the first terce, dawn, also called the hour of tenderness. The second is morning, the hour of virtue; then noon, the hour of reason; afternoon, the hour of patience; evening, the hour of restraint; night, the hour of comfort (also known as the hour of pleasure or of excess); midnight, the hour of regret; and predawn, the hour of release.

  APPENDIX II

  The Octagon Court

  The Octagon Court refers to both the district in Erisín that houses Selafai’s eight noble houses and the governing body formed by the houses’ archons. Both were established in 134 AUC, after the capitol was moved from New Tanaïs to Erisín. The Council of Eight gathers in Erisín twice a year, usually near the vernal and autumnal equinoxes, to discuss policy and meet with the king. A three-fourths majority of the Eight can override royal policy. The last time such a majority was reached was in the reign of Ioris Severos, who promptly ignored the consensus; the Octagon Court in turn removed him from the throne, bloodily.

  The Eight:

  House Alexios is the youngest of the Eight. Isola Alexios was a general at the time of the Hecatomb, and used her military influence to wedge her family into the gap left by the fall of House Korinthes. The Alexioi have traditionally been a martial family; following in Isola’s tradition, Typhos Alexios was a general before he led the coup against Ioris Severos and claimed the throne for himself. Their family estate is in Nemea, and their crest is a rampant griffin, gold on blue.

  House Severos came to power just after the founding of the Octagon Court, replacing House Kylix. It has long been thought that the illness that decimated the Kylices was very convenient. Their 106-year hold on the Malachite Throne was the longest unbroken reign of any house. Notable among their monarchs were Darius II, the sorcerer-king who stood with the Arcanostoi against the demon plague of 353 and brokered a truce with the vrykoloi, giving the vampires control of Erisín’s underground. Ioris Severos was also notable for being mad, or at least so venal and self-centered that the Octagon Court reached a majority to remove him. Severoi lands are in the northeast, bordering Ashke Ros and Sarkany. Their crest is a silver phoenix on black.

  House Jsutien is a founding member not only of the Octagon Court but of the kingdom. In the sixth year of her reign, Pandora Jsutien oversaw the removal of the throne from New Tanaïs to Erisín. Her daughter Naomi was instead famous—to the chagrin of her family—for filling the newly renovated palace with scores of her lovers. Despite her excesses, the Jsutiens held the throne until Kallisto I died childless in 215, passing rulership to her Petreos husband and his kin. Years of thwarted ambitions to reclaim the throne have stung Jsutien pride. Recently they have allied themselves with House Aravind, increasing their wealth with southern trade. Their crest is a bronze hydra on crimson.

  House Konstantin is an old house whose Selafaïn blood has been thinned
by foreign marriages. Their family holdings border Vallorn and Veresh, and they have many alliances among the northern peoples. They had strong ties to House Korinthes, but haven’t been close to any ruling family since the Hecatomb. Their presence in Erisín has been slight in recent years, but other houses eye their mountain stronghold with suspicion, and wonder when the Konstantins will appear on Erisín’s doorstep with a barbarian army in tow. Their crest is a grey wolf on white.

  House Aravind retains the closest ties to the old blood of the Sindhi, the people who ruled the Sindhaïn Archipelago and southern coast before the coming of Embria Selaphaïs. Their southern holdings are rich in trade but weak in strength of arms. They have long been considered one of the least ambitious houses, but in recent history they have begun to ally themselves with the Jsutiens. Their crest is a green serpent on scarlet.

  House Hadrian was once a military power to rival the Alexioi. Lately, however, their wealth has come from agriculture, and fewer of their scions rise to military prominence. They have grown to be seen as a sleepy, provincial family, and younger members flock to Erisín for lives of fashion and debt. Their crest is an orange lion on white.

  House Petreos held the Malachite Throne for thirteen years, the shortest time of any house. Iodith Petreos inherited the throne at her father’s death, and ruled for ten years—she is most remembered for establishing the Vigiles Urbani, and for dying in a suspicious accident in 228, allowing House Korinthes to take the throne. The Petreoi hoped for a return to power when Nikolaos Alexios married Korina Petreos, but the marriage was loveless, and Mathiros Alexios favored his mother’s family no more than his father’s. It is widely supposed that Korina’s ties to a Mortificant cult did nothing to help her relations with her husband and son; Sophia Petreos, the current high priestess of Erishal, tries to distance her house from such cults. The house’s crest is a cockatrice, vermilion on brown.

  House Ctesiphon was another house present for the founding of Selafai. Though their star has risen several times, they have never held the throne. They are currently nearing the end of a thirty-year exile after their archon Kraetos attempted to assassinate Nikolaos Alexios. Their crest is a crouching sphinx, grey on indigo.

  The Fallen House:

  House Korinthes is not the only house to have fallen from glory, but is certainly the most notorious. Beginning with the rumors surrounding Iodith Petreos’s death and ending with the Hecatomb, their 73-year reign is generally considered a shadow on Selafaïn history. Demos I was a ruthless ruler, as was his daughter Damia. Demos II was a burgeoning tyrant when Tsetsilya Konstantin’s death triggered the destruction of the palace and the devastation of Erisín. Historians often speculate what sort of king Ioanis might have been, but most are just as glad not to know. Their crest was a winged boar, red on black.

  extras

  meet the author

  AMANDA DOWNUM was born in Virginia and has since spent time in Indonesia, Micronesia, Missouri, and Arizona. In 1990 she was sucked into the gravity well of Texas and has not yet escaped. She graduated from the University of North Texas with a degree in English literature, and has spent the last ten years working in a succession of libraries and bookstores; she is very fond of alphabetizing. She currently lives near Austin in a house with a spooky attic, which she shares with her long-suffering husband and fluctuating numbers of animals and half-finished novels. She spends her spare time making jewelry and falling off perfectly good rocks. To learn more about the author, visit www.amandadownum.com.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed THE BONE PALACE, look out for

  THE KINGDOMS OF DUST

  The Necromancer Chronicles Book Three

  by Amanda Downum

  It rained all the way to the prison.

  The coach rattled and juddered through Kehribar’s uneven streets, jarring Isyllt Iskaldur’s spine with every pothole. Beyond the window, rain softened square buildings and spindle-sharp spires, bled haloes of amber and citrine around the scattered city lights. Watchfires burned on distant walls, orange pinpricks against the night.

  The lights, the streets, the scents embedded in the carriage cushions were all foreign to her. Even the rain tasted different, the alchemy of wind and water subtly altered as it blew off the Zaratan Sea. By day she could distract herself with sights and sounds, but at night homesickness stole over her. Even nights like this, when she had work to do.

  Another bone-jarring bounce, and Isyllt’s companion cursed again. Isyllt kept her invective to herself for fear of biting her tongue off mid-jolt.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Moth asked when the road smoothed again.

  “Easier if you don’t,” Isyllt said. “I’ve made the arrangements. Best to keep this as quiet as possible.” Wisdom for any jailbreak, even one arranged through bribery and veiled threats instead of swords and black powder bombs.

  “I don’t like you going into an Iskari prison alone.”

  Isyllt smiled ruefully, tugging the curtain shut against the damp. When had her apprentice become her caregiver? The first time she’d cried herself to sleep in Moth’s lap, no doubt. “I promise to come out again.” And not alone, if all went well.

  It might have been an argument, but Moth had a magpie’s curiosity—or merely an adolescent’s—and a new city to explore. She’d gone out every night since they’d arrived in Kehribar, winding farther and farther each time. Dangerous to be sure, but the girl had grown up a street rat and had no use for coddling. Six months ago she had been Dahlia, a whore’s androgyne child with a prostitute’s life awaiting her. Now she was an apprentice mage, and shed more of her old life with every new place they traveled. She was due her freedom.

  Six months ago Isyllt had been a Crown Investigator, student to Selafai’s spymaster. Now she was jobless, her master dead, her home miles away, abandoned to ghosts and memories. What was she due?

  The carriage slowed, knocking Isyllt’s shoulder against the bench. She snorted humorlessly—due a cut purse or a cut throat, if she couldn’t shake the maudlin distraction that fogged her wits. She might no longer be employed as a spy, but she wasn’t yet out of the game.

  The driver tapped on the connecting panel. Wet wood squealed as it opened. “We’re here, effendi,” the man called. “The Çira gan Serai.”

  “Thank you.” Her Skarrish was atrocious, but functional. She had money enough to ease translation.

  “Be careful,” Moth said, leaning close as Isyllt opened the door. Light warmed the curves of her face, still soft with youth. Less so now than mere months ago.

  Isyllt couldn’t say the same in return—prickly adolescent pride wouldn’t allow it. I always am, she nearly said, but they both knew that was a lie. “I’ll try. Send the carriage back for me.”

  Her boots splashed in a puddle as she stepped down, and the wet summer night settled over her. The rain had slacked into haze. She shut the door and rapped her knuckles on the side, and the carriage rumbled into the mist and dark, leaving her alone in front of the bulk of the Çiraan.

  The Çiraan Serai, the people called it, the Çiraan palace, a dour stone fortress crowning the westernmost of Kehribar’s five hills. It was one of the few buildings in the city that had never truly been a palace. At the height of the Ataskar Empire every bey and sultan and merchant prince had built one, and after its fall they had been repurposed one by one into brothels and hostels and gambling halls. The dark façade before her had only ever been a prison.

  Once it had faced a courthouse—a hope of justice, or a mockery of it—but over decades of revolution and power shifts the court had been burned and abandoned and eventually razed, leaving the Çiraan alone in a wide, desolate courtyard. The closest neighborhoods were poor and mostly empty, populated with squatters and stray dogs and patrolled by the city guard. The Çiraan wasn’t isolated as many prisons were, but the guards were known for their brutal efficiency; escape was the stuff of folktales.

  An old friend was inside.

&
nbsp; Her nape prickled. Only the attention of the archers on the watchtowers, perhaps, but she thought not. A shadow had haunted her steps for decads, and she’d had no luck shaking it. Her years of “good service”—as spying, theft, and murder were euphemistically called—had won her enemies, and now she was far from home, far from her friends and allies, with no king to protect her. No one to avenge her. And she meant to walk into an Iskari prison.

  Isyllt touched the diamond ring on her right hand, the briefest indulgence of nerves. Then she straightened her shoulders and strode toward the black iron gates.

  He was dreaming when the guards came for him. Blue shadows beneath fir trees, the crunch of snow and clean taste of winter, the wind on his face as he ran for the joy of it—the echo of booted footsteps banished that, returning him to the dank filth of his cell. Adam was glad to wake; those dreams were worse torture than anything his jailors could do.

  At first he thought it was the daily meal that woke him, but the footsteps were too loud and numerous and only one rat pressed its cold nose against his neck—they came by the dozens when food arrived. Then the lock clicked, and the door that hadn’t opened since his cellmate died scraped inward. The unexpectedness of it stunned him as badly as the onslaught of light and sound.

  He lay still as rough hands seized him, though the touch of skin made his flesh crawl. The iron they closed around his wrists was easier to bear. Vermin scurried through rotten straw as the guards hauled him up. He was glad to be rid of the roaches, but he’d miss the rats.

  Was he going to the headsman after all? The thought made him stand straighter, though gummy tears blinded him and he already ached from the weight of the chains. Had they forgotten him while bureaucrats shuffled paperwork? He chuckled, and the guards startled at the sound. Three of them—one for the torch and two for him. Once he might have tried those odds, but it would be suicide now. Or just pathetic.