Isyllt swallowed, her throat gone dry. Erasing a moment’s memory was one thing, but a lifetime—“How?”
“With more murder, of course.” His voice was harsher than the winter outside. “I carried the souls I collected to the labyrinth beneath Erishal’s cathedral and offered them to her, along with three years of my life. She took my offering—she does so enjoy watching secular mages prostrate themselves. And slowly everyone who had ever known Phaedra began to forget her. The physical evidence—her papers and research—I stole from the Arcanost, so no one would be reminded.”
“Does that mean Mathiros?”
Kiril nodded. “Also has no memory of her. He couldn’t remember, or he would have spent the rest of his life a butcher. I took the burden from him to give him another chance. When he found Lychandra, I thought it had worked.”
“But you bore the burden.”
“I did. Phaedra was due that much. But I wasn’t alone, it turned out. Varis loved her, and was in Iskar when she died, beyond Erishal’s reach. He searched for years, and finally found her.”
“How did she survive?”
“She had learned how to transfer consciousness—soul—through blood. She kept a flock of familiar birds who had been drinking her blood for years, who served as her eyes and ears. They stole her rings off her corpse, and between blood and foci, she lived on in them.”
“A demon.”
“Yes. But her magic was stronger than the chain of flesh is to most demons. Eventually she grew strong again, more herself, and arranged for a mortal to drink the blood of her birds. Her consciousness grew again in a human body, and she began to regain her strength. I imagine being a flock of birds for years was… taxing. This was the demon Varis found, who he brought back to Erisín, and to me.”
It was a great law of magic: the combination of spirit and flesh that created a demon could only happen once. To find it so easily overthrown knocked the wind from her lungs. She forced her mind away from the implications and back to the story at hand.
“She didn’t try to kill you?”
“What would be the point?” He laughed harshly. “Mathiros had already cast me aside. And she knew her murder had never been my goal. All her rage is for him.”
“And he doesn’t remember why.” She remembered Phaedra’s fury in the palace—
You’ll remember me
—and Mathiros’s confusion.
“Yes. I should have struck her down when she came to me, or gone straight to Mathiros with the news. But I couldn’t do that to her again. Not after—”
Not after everything.
They sat in cold and silence for a moment, while the blue light of dawn rose behind the curtains. She didn’t say
that’s horrible
, because he knew it was. She didn’t say
how could you?
because she knew how he could. She didn’t say
I’m sorry
, because that didn’t help anything.
“She’s due her revenge,” Isyllt said at last. “I grant you that. But what about Forsythia, and all the others she and Spider have killed? Don’t they deserve the same?”
“Justice for all?” His eyebrows rose. “Have you become an altruist?”
She laughed. “I’ve become what you made me.” She rose, unsteady as liquor and fatigue surged through her limbs. “What are we going to do?”
“We?” He rose to meet her. “You would still stand by me?”
“You’ve done terrible things. I can’t say that I wouldn’t have done the same. I was made for terrible things, wasn’t I?”
“I may have made you a killer, but your strength and cleverness are your own. Don’t throw yourself away for me.”
A muscle worked in her jaw. “I thought you were done making decisions for me.”
He touched the disheveled wreck of her veil again, then cupped her cheek, skin to skin. She leaned into the touch. He lowered his mouth to hers.
Her left hand tightened against the nape of his neck; her right tangled in his robes. The taste of ouzo on both their tongues slowly melted into the familiar warmth that was his alone.
When they drew apart her pulse beat hard and fast in her lips and the ocean-rush of blood in her ears deafened
her. Her eyes were closed, but she felt his sharp intake of breath. He still wanted her, and that dizzied her more than liquor ever could.
She took his hand and led him to the bedroom. He didn’t argue.
T
he demon days were meant to be spent indoors, either at home with family or in a cathedral for prayer and meditation. No one ventured out between dusk and dawn for fear of the Invidiae, the jealous demon sisters who gave the dead days their name—most didn’t venture out at all. So when Thea Jsutien arrived before noon demanding to speak with her, Savedra was at a loss.
Her equally disgruntled maid dragged her out of bed and helped her scrub off the remnants of last night’s cosmetics. On any other day she would have made Thea wait, and wielded her wardrobe like a weapon. Today, slow and aching with fatigue and bruises from her fall, she very nearly left her rooms in a robe with her hair in snake-tangles around her face.
Instead she found a plain black dress and let Marjana comb her hair and braid it and knot it at the nape of her neck. She wore no jewelry, not even her pearls—jewels and fine things were said to attract the Invidiae, a legend
she had no desire to test. And if Thea had come to her here, she hardly needed to remind the woman of her station.
Marjana had left the archa waiting in the gallery’s solar, which offered an excellent view of the frost-decked gardens. It offered the garden’s chill as well—fire in every hearth was another luxury to be avoided; tea and cakes were right out. Savedra’s breath fogged the air as she sighed.
Thea had dressed simply as well. Savedra had never thought to see such a thing, but the woman could have been any merchant-wife in plain brown wool, her greying hair coiled neatly. She was of an age with Savedra’s mother, but today she looked much older.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Savedra said. “What can I do for you?”
Thea’s shadowed eyes narrowed. Deep lines framed her tight-set lips. “What have you done with my niece?” Her voice was dry and strained.
“What?” Her wits were too dull for fencing.
“You heard me. Where is Ginevra?”
Savedra’s mouth opened and closed again. She sat gracelessly. “I take it the answer is not House Hydra, then?”
Thea scowled. “She wasn’t with us when we left the palace last night. She never came home. Do you mean to tell me you aren’t responsible?”
“I certainly don’t have her bound in the back of my wardrobe.” Now she forced her sticky mind to work—when had she last seen Ginevra? At the ball, of course, but when? A glimpse of red across the room, or had that been Isyllt—
“I don’t know what you meant by those costumes—”
“Those costumes were as much Ginevra’s idea as mine,” Savedra said. “And making people disappear seems more your style than mine, don’t you think? I don’t know what’s happened to her, nor do I wish her harm. She managed not to grow into a scheming bitch, despite your best efforts.” Saying what she felt was much too pleasant; she couldn’t make a habit of it.
“Her mother’s blood. Talia has always been too trusting. And look what good it’s done her now.”
Savedra didn’t bother to hide her frown. It might be a trick. If Ginevra’s chances for the throne worsened, she doubted Thea would scruple to use the girl in some other way. But if it wasn’t…
“I may not wish Ginevra ill, but why would I help a house that wants me dead?”
Thea’s chin rose, firming the soft flesh of her neck. “House Hydra has no quarrel with the Severoi. I may not be fond of the Alexioi, but I want no trouble with Nadesda, and that’s what your death would earn me, now isn’t it? Not all the houses feel the same, I’m sure, but if someone has tried to kill you, it’s no scheme of mine.”
Savedra didn’t believe her for an instant, but in the end that didn’t matter. “Will you ask the king for help?”
Thea sniffed. “I’m sure he has enough to worry him.” Of course she wouldn’t want the Crown investigating anywhere near House Hydra—who knew what they might turn up? “Do you swear you had nothing to do with Ginevra’s disappearance?”
“I swear it.”
“Then—” Thea scowled. “Then help me. I want Ginevra home and safe, and for whatever reason she seems to like
you. I know you have resources, to have kept your place here so long…”
She wanted to tell Thea to go to hell and crawl back to bed. But if Ginevra was in danger, especially if it had anything to do with their subterfuge last night, she couldn’t turn away.
“All right,” she said at last. “I’ll see what I can find. I’m sure my mother will be glad to help, if it means forming a closer bond with House Hydra.”
Thea acknowledged the debt with a frown and a nod, and rose stiffly. “I hope for all our sakes that you find her quickly, then. The turning of the year is no time to have affairs in such disarray.”
When Savedra was alone she chafed her frigid hands. Then she stood, shaking out her skirts, and returned to her rooms for a cloak, wondering how she would bribe a coachman to take her out on Indrani.
Isyllt and Kiril lay together, her head on his chest and their legs entwined. The blankets trailed uselessly off the foot of the bed, but Isyllt didn’t mind the chill. She didn’t dare take her hands off him, for fear he would dissolve like smoke if she did. Beyond the curtains, the cold light of Indrani brightened.
“I only wanted to spare you pain,” he whispered, stroking the line of her shoulder blade as if he meant to memorize the shape.
“It doesn’t work that way.” Her fingers traced the valleys of his ribs and the planes and hollows of his stomach. His skin had softened with the years, flesh and muscle lost beneath, but she still felt the familiar strength in his hands.
“No. I begin to understand that.”
Their magic moved as well, tendrils of power teasing and exploring, raising gooseflesh as they ghosted over skin. Neither Ciaran’s clever hands nor Spider’s poppy-sweet kisses could match the sensation of magic so inextricably intertwined.
“Three years of your life?” she said at last, kissing the stark line of his collarbone between each word.
“That was what she demanded. I didn’t have a better offer.”
She frowned and raised her head; her hair slid across his chest and tangled both their arms. “But how can she know? Can even a saint see the end of your life, to know where to snip it short?”
“I don’t know. It may have been a hollow threat, merely meant to make me miserable. Shadows know it would have been easier if she’d snipped the thread three years ago, instead of leaving me like this.”
Isyllt bit his shoulder in response, hard enough to elicit a hiss of pain. “Don’t be stupid. She’s had her time, then. The rest is yours.”
“Mine.” He laughed, his chest jerking sharply against her. “Five years I gave to Nikolaos Alexios. Thirty years to Mathiros. Three to Erishal. I can scarcely remember what I did when my time was my own.”
“Give it to me, then. I’ll make use of it.”
He laughed, until she smothered it with a kiss and her hair fell around them like a veil.
“Come away with me,” he said later, so softly she barely heard it. Sleep lapped slowly over her, but that drew her awake again. No bells rang on the dead days, but she
guessed from the light that it was near the second terce—the hour of virtue.
“Where?”
“Anywhere but here. What’s left for us in Erisín?”
What was there for her? Twenty-four years of history. Ciaran and Khelséa and Dahlia, and a handful of other friends she saw less often. A lot of ghosts. The Arcanost and her classes. Her favorite shops and taverns and all the streets she knew as well as her own hands. Her home.
But what kind of home would it be without Kiril?
“It would break my oath.” How that oath was still intact she didn’t understand. But there had been no clause in her vow to serve and uphold about not keeping secrets from the king. The crafters of the oath had obviously understood the latitude her job often called for.
“You’ll suffer for it, true. But you’re strong enough to overcome it.”
“And let Phaedra and Spider throw the city into chaos?”
“Is it really our concern anymore? Erisín has endured worse than a coup.”
She couldn’t argue that. If it were only Mathiros she wouldn’t lift a hand to save him. Nikos had his own people. But no matter what Spider claimed, it was the city that would suffer for a revolution.
She didn’t realize she’d made a decision till she pulled away, dragging a sheet closer around her.
“I can’t leave. Not like this. I’ll resign my position and go with you when it’s over, but I won’t let Phaedra and Spider drag the city into their madness.”
Kiril sat up, the covers pooling around the sharp angles of his hips. The winter chill rushed to fill the space between them. “Phaedra won’t be easy to oppose.”
“I promised Forsythia justice. There will never be justice for all, but for this one I can do something.” She had never set great store on honor—it was transitory and subjective, and often directly opposed to practicality—but she needed some scrap of self-respect, and knew she wouldn’t keep it if her word meant nothing at all.