“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Khelséa did a double take and grinned. “The Vigils always get a few invitations for diplomacy’s sake. I made sure I got my hands on one.”
“Nice dress.”
“Isn’t it?” She spread her arms and spun, flaring tattered layers of red and gold and orange skirts and trailing sleeves. The orange was nearly the same shade as her uniform, but the low-cut and tight-laced bodice drew a different sort of attention. Her hair was unbraided for once, hanging in shining coils down her back. “Gemma made it. Yours is lovely too, but why are there three of you?”
“Assassin bait.”
“Charming.” The inspector drained her wine cup and set it on a passing servant’s tray. “Excellent timing, though. I thought I would have to dance with a stranger.” She claimed Isyllt’s arm and led her to the floor.
“Isn’t Gemma with you?”
“She’s attending Solstice services. Her sister is a priestess of Erishal.”
“Ah.” The priesthood quietly disapproved of secular necromancy; Isyllt was certain that it was because the priests had far less fun.
The dance was a wild one, with couples circling the floor and trading partners at a hectic pace. Isyllt was breathing heavily by the second measure.
A familiar note caught her attention amid the miasma of sweat and wine and perfume—cinnamon. Isyllt stiffened, cursing the blur of the veil as she scanned the room. The dance swept her on and she lost the scent.
Another circuit and she caught it again. There—a woman in white lingered by a pillar, a lace shroud pooling around
her feet. An equally cumbersome length of veil hid her face. No inch of skin was visible, but the gown made up for that by clinging to every curve between her neck and thighs; she would have to unstitch it to take it off again. Isyllt felt the woman’s answering stare through two layers of fabric. Then she was out of sight again.
Isyllt’s hands clenched Khelséa’s when they came together again. “She’s here,” she said, her voice harsh and ragged.
“Who?”
“The haematurge. Phaedra Severos.”
Khelséa’s full lips tightened. “What should we do?”
“I don’t know.” She forced her aching hands to loosen. “If I confront her here all our secrets will be spilled, and I don’t have the support of the Crown. I don’t even know what she wants.”
“I doubt it will be pleasant, whatever it is.”
The dance ended and Isyllt scanned the crowd, but found no trace of Phaedra. She whispered a warning in Savedra’s ear, then succumbed to heat and thirst and claimed a glass of wine and plate of food, retreating to the shadows of the terrace with them. She wouldn’t be much use to anyone if she passed out.
Couples lingered on the balcony, and on the steps leading to one of the palace’s many gardens. Most had found the darkest shadows for privacy, and all politely ignored each other. Isyllt claimed a far corner and set her plate and cup on the railing. The night air was a shock as she pulled aside her veil; her cheeks burned and her breath escaped in a shimmering cloud. Her skin crawled with gooseflesh and sweat-damp fabric chilled instantly. She drained half her wine in one swallow.
Below, the lawn glittered with frost, hedges pale and spectral through drifting haze. Blue and white lanterns swayed in the breeze. Dark trails marked the grass, evidence of lovers trysting in the garden. Isyllt wasn’t sure any amount of lust was worth freezing one’s toes, or other delicate parts.
“We need to talk, little witch.”
Witchfire crackled around her fingers as she spun, bruising her back on the stone balustrade and knocking her precariously balanced plate into the bushes. Someone giggled in the shadows below the railing.
“Softly,” Spider said, raising a hand. He wore a hooded cloak—anyone who glimpsed his face would tell themselves it was a mask. “You don’t want to cause a scene.”
“What are you doing here?” She let her fire die, drawing shadow and silence more tightly around them. “The palace is warded.”
His smile was mocking. “Mortal wards are so rarely as strong as you like to think them. I’m here to admire the festivities. And to see you.”
She took another sip of wine and set the cup safely away from stray elbows. “To pledge your affection again?”
“To warn you.” He moved closer, till she could have wrapped herself in his cloak; his nearness did nothing to lessen the cold. “You’re meddling in something you shouldn’t. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“See my throat slit for a sacrifice, you mean? It was you, wasn’t it? You snatched Forsythia off the street, held her while Phaedra bled her dry. And then killed your friend Whisper to throw me off the trail.”
“I did what was necessary. I think you understand such things.”
“Yes.” Her smile was cold and sharp. “I understand. But I don’t murder random strangers for my magic.”
“No, only for your Crown.” His lip curled on the word. “Anyway, Forsythia wasn’t random. Whisper’s affection for her distracted him, clouded his judgment. The others, however—” He shrugged. “We are hunters of opportunity.”
He sounded so reasonable. And, Isyllt supposed, he was. She would never ask a wolf to justify which deer it killed. But neither had a wolf ever been a deer.
“I, on the other hand, hunt and kill with purpose. And part of my purpose is to protect this city from demons and murderers.”
Spider’s lip curled, baring fangs. “You kill where you’re bid. I’m sorry,” he said quickly, lifting a hand again. “I didn’t come to quarrel. I mean it, you know, when I say I don’t want to hurt you. Changes are coming soon, and you could benefit from them.”
“Changes. You mean a coup. I swore an oath to the Crown, Spider.”
“It isn’t your Crown that we would remove, only the man who wears it. We aren’t the only ones who wish to see someone else on the throne. But the others would merely replace him with some different mortal politician, and what would that change?”
“Whereas you would replace him with a demon. That will certainly make me sleep soundly at night.”
“You’re hardly squeamish about the undead, necromancer.”
“Spider. You’ve lied to me, stalked me, tried to seduce me. With,” she acknowledged with a wry tilt of her head, “some success. Why don’t you tell me what the hell it is you really want?”
“I already told you—I want the vrykoloi free of the sewers, not hunted or ignored. Your mages treat spirits as a commodity to be used and demons as abominations to be destroyed, and I want to see that end.”
“I’m not without sympathy,” Isyllt said slowly, “but the fear is bred too deep into mortals. Change will take decades. Centuries.”
“Not if we take the throne.”
“The city wouldn’t stand for it. The country wouldn’t. You’re powerful, but so is the Arcanost, and the living outnumber the undead.”
“They wouldn’t know what had happened until we wanted them to. Phaedra has walked this city for months now unnoticed—humans excel at turning a blind eye to unsettling things.”
She stared into the sulfurous light of his eyes for a moment. He was a monster, both literally and as men judged such—a liar, a schemer, a murderer and manipulator, callous and cold. Small wonder, then, that she wanted to lean her head against his chest and let him comfort her. Already her magic quested toward him unbidden. Death loved a killer.
Isyllt drew a deep breath, closed her eyes and opened them again. “Not so blind as that. It will turn ugly and people will die—mortal and demon alike. It’s madness, and I won’t help you.”
He studied her, eyes glittering in the depths of his hood. “Then I can only tell you to stay out of our way. I’m fond of you, but Phaedra has no such weakness.”
She felt his glamour like a fog across her mind—she tried to fight, but by the time her vision cleared she shivered alone on the balcony.
* * *
Kiril resisted Phaedra’s entreaties to stay, but in the end couldn’t refuse to attend the Solstice ball. Only two days’ delay, he told himself. A chance to say a few discreet good-byes. He didn’t believe for a moment it would be so simple, but his newfound strength made it easier to ignore misgivings.
Phaedra’s magic worked. Unpleasant at first, both the consumption of blood the spell required and the lowering of his defenses, but after the initial nausea and dizziness faded he found his pulse strengthening, his breath coming easier than it had in years. All the little aches and scars he had grown accustomed to over the years faded from his awareness—no creaking knees, no aching wrists, no cold in his bones. Even the fatigue that had been his constant companion receded. It was dangerous, this demon gift, but his magic sparked inside him again, as it hadn’t in months, and for the moment he was willing to overlook the cost.
Three days ago the simple obfuscation he wore as he crossed the room would have pained him; now it was as simple as a breath, as it should be.
He found Varis lingering alone in a corner, which was unusual. Even more unusual was his costume—he wore plain black scholar’s robes, with none of his customary glitter or gaud. A mask of bronze-painted leather hung against his chest, and a small bronze-bound book hung from a chain around his waist. Mnemos, the saint of scholars and of memory.
He arched an eyebrow at Kiril’s own black robes. “You’re not even trying.”
“I could say the same of you.”
“It’s a costume, darling. I’m not supposed to be myself.”
“Where are all your paramours and hangers-on?”
“I’m in seclusion tonight. Keeping up with them grows so tiring.” He said it with a disdainful flick of his wrist, but the fatigue was real—Kiril saw it in his hollowed cheeks and fragile eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
Varis began another dismissive excuse, but Kiril was already looking closer,
otherwise
. The sparkling violet and gold of Varis’s magic had dulled, and the more ordinary colors beneath had paled as well. Not a shadow in the heart such as a mage might see in Kiril’s own aura, nor the darkness in the lungs that showed in consumptives—this was a thinning of the blood itself.
He stretched out a hand, ignoring Varis’s feeble attempt to block him, and turned down the other man’s high collar. The bruise was violent against his pallor, purple blotching to green at the edges, the punctures in the center scabbed. An identical long-faded mark shadowed the other side of his neck.
“There are others, aren’t there?”
“I’d be happy to show you. We could find a coat closet—it would be like old times.”
Kiril’s frown deepened. “How long?”
“Months now. It’s… worth the pain.” His eyes darkened, color rising beneath his powder. “Are you going to criticize my taste in vices? That’s always so tiresome.”
“It’s Spider, isn’t it?” The defiant tilt of Varis’s chin was answer enough. “Of course it is. Is that how they’ve won your support of their mad scheme?”
“What scheme? Besides the one you’ve been so instrumental in.”
Kiril shook his head, newly absent fatigue returning. Reality could never be ignored for long. “Phaedra and Spider are planning to take the throne. How I don’t know, and I doubt they know for certain either. Phaedra thinks it will be a matter of stealing the right body. Any others she can bind to her with blood. Perhaps she’s right—I’ve seen more ridiculous plans succeed.”
Varis was too pale to blanch, but his lips thinned and a muscle worked in his jaw. He had always been the most vocal of the Arcanostoi against vinculation—the binding of spirits. He had seen firsthand what it was to have choices stolen, to be trapped in service. Kiril didn’t think he was hypocrite enough to condemn the practice against spirits and condone it for humans.
“I know you loved her once,” he said, softer than he had intended. “But if you cleave to her now it will destroy you.”
Varis turned to him, naked of his armor. “I loved you once too,” he said. “I survived that.”
“You left. And that’s what you should do now.”
A flash of red caught his eye. Across the room Isyllt threaded her way through the crowd, dark and burning in black and crimson. Even veiled he would know her anywhere.
Varis followed the direction of Kiril’s gaze, and his armor reassembled itself piece by chilly piece. “Spoken like a man who should take his own advice,” he drawled. His smile was nearly a sneer, but his eyes were sad. “Go, then. It’s love that kills us all, in the end.”
Of all the dangers Isyllt had anticipated that night, encountering Kiril wasn’t one of them. In retrospect that was
foolish, since he always attended the masque, but she had tried to put him out of her thoughts after their last meeting. When she saw him crossing the room toward her, she wanted to turn on her heel and flee. Instead she stood her ground, shoulders tightening.
“The color becomes you,” he said after a brittle pause. He smiled wryly, acknowledging all the unpleasant associations that went with the compliment.
“You look well yourself.” She didn’t mean to say it, but it was true. He stood straighter, walked without the pained motions she’d grown used to. His silver domino brought out the white in his beard and made his eyes all the blacker.
“Will you dance with me?” he asked.
A knife wound would have hurt less. Even when they were together they had hardly ever danced. But she wouldn’t flinch from the pain, not here in front of all the court.