“Forsythia.”
The diamond sparked and the ghost materialized with a pale flicker of witchlight. She turned slowly, inspecting her new surroundings. Her skin and gown were shades of smoke and moonlight, her hair a watery gold; the grain of the paneling was visible through her slender form. Her throat, at least, was unmarred. She fixed her lightless eyes on Isyllt. “Hello, necromancer.”
“How are you feeling?”
The ghost gave the question serious consideration. “Better,” she said at last. “Clearer. The others have talked to me, explained things.”
The other ghosts in the diamond, she meant. Isyllt
nodded. “Good. Do you mind answering some more questions?”
Forsythia smiled wryly; Isyllt wished she could have seen the expression in life. “I have nothing but time, don’t I?”
“Sit down.” Isyllt nodded toward a chair and turned to fetch incense and the last of a bottle of her favorite Chassut red. She lit sticks of sandalwood and olibanum in a brazier, and poured wine for herself and Forsythia, and after some consideration for Dahlia too. The ghost looked askance at the goblet Isyllt set beside her chair, but her outline was clearer already.
“Did you know what Whisper gave you?” Isyllt asked, sitting in the opposite chair. Dahlia drew closer, crouching unobtrusively on the floor.
“The ring, you mean?” Forsythia fingered the neckline of her gown again. “I knew it was a precious thing, something the likes of us don’t come by honestly. I knew better than to wear it or show it to anyone. But it was beautiful, and a gift, so I couldn’t bear to part with it.” The hollows of her eyes turned to Isyllt. “If I had, would you even be here?”
Isyllt had no answer for that, and sipped her wine to rinse the bitter taste away.
“Have you seen Whisper?” Forsythia asked.
“Yes.” The bitterness was inescapable. “He’s dead too.”
Forsythia made a noise between a choke and a sob, one pale fist pressing against her chest. Grey coils of smoke drifted toward her, into her, solidifying her and filling in details; the ragged lace at the neck of her dress was visible now. “Was it you?”
“No.” She didn’t see the need to explain more about her
involvement. “He was… half-mad with grief for you. He wanted to find your killer. He was going to tell me why he robbed a royal tomb, but didn’t get the chance. Did he tell you?”
“He told me lots of things. He liked to talk, after.” She crossed her legs, and Isyllt almost mimicked the gesture. “Most of what he said I didn’t understand—he talked about the tunnels, about how strange the city was to him, how he missed the wind and the rain. He brought me other gifts, sometimes, bits of jewelry or ribbons, scraps of lace. I asked him once if he stole them—not from anyone who missed them, he said. I guessed then that they were grave-goods. I suppose it should have repulsed me.” She shrugged defensively. “But no one else brought me gifts like that, for the joy of something beautiful.”
Dahlia stirred, hugging her knees to her chest. “Was he kind to you?” she asked softly.
“Yes.” Forsythia shifted in the chair; the upholstery buttons were no longer visible behind her. “He was a monster—I knew that. But he was always polite. He always
asked
. And he was so cold, so clean. I couldn’t stand the stink of men—sweat and beer and onions, foul breath. Sometimes I dreamt their stench soaked into me and I could never scrub it off.” Her hands closed in her skirts convulsively. “The blood was nothing compared to that.”
She shook herself and sat up straighter. There was color in her cheeks now; she might have passed for a living woman to anyone who didn’t know better. “I’m sorry. You asked me about the ring. He talked about a woman—a sorceress, I think. He and his friends worked for her, or with her. He could be… vague. I never wanted to press him—I didn’t think it was any of my business. He said—” She
frowned in concentration. “He said she would help them change things, to walk in the streets again. And once he said… they had to find her a body. I didn’t want to know anything else about that.”
Even after Azarné’s warning, the reminder chilled her. Why was Kiril protecting a demon? She had freed a demon once herself, a little voice reminded her—but, she argued back, he hadn’t been in the habit of murdering women for their blood.
“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 promises 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.
I
syllt’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.