“This would be an embarrassing way to die,” he said after a heartbeat’s pause.
“And an embarrassing reason to be executed.” The words rasped hoarse and breathless; the pulse in her throat left little room for air. She let him lean in to kiss her, but couldn’t relax into his embrace. Sticky warmth trickled down her scalp-she’d scratched herself. Good thing she hadn’t poisoned the sticks.
“What’s the matter?” Nikos whispered. His mouth tasted of wine. Her lip rouge wouldn’t survive this kiss.
“Kat thinks something is wrong. I’m inclined to agree. I’d rather know exactly where you and Ashlin are until we leave the island.”
He sighed. “I don’t remember appointing you to my guard. Or Ashlin’s either.” But he drew back and straightened his coat. Her arms tingled where he had held her. A trio of laughing hunters staggered past them, oblivious. “Let’s find our princess, then,” he said when they passed, “if it will make you feel better.”
She twined grateful fingers through his and drew comfort in the steady throb of his pulse. “Thank you.”
She tried to return the hair stick to its proper place, but already curls pulled loose from their pins. Jewels and feathers snagged and fluttered free as they ran deeper into the maze.
They wound their way to the heart of the maze, where a marble statue of Zavarian, saint of hunters, stood amid a wide circle of hedges. A colored lantern hung beside the saint, washing the stone blue and shining on Ashlin’s bright hair. Savedra’s growing worry burst into sharp relief, until she saw the glitter of topazes and shimmer of blue silk beside the princess.
Savedra lunged forward, catching Ashlin’s arm and hauling her away.
“Too late,” the princess said with a startled laugh. “I’ve already won.”
Ginevra’s eyes narrowed. “You really think I’m a murderer, don’t you?” The words were nearly lost beneath the shouts of the approaching hunters. For an instant they stood still as stone themselves beneath the saint’s blind eyes. Nikos lingered at the end of the path.
“What’s going on?” Ashlin asked, the flush of the chase fading from her cheeks.
It was all Savedra could do not to flinch from Ginevra’s gaze. “Captain Denaris thinks something is wrong. I thought it prudent to find you.”
“I outgrew my nursemaid years ago, Vedra-”
Savedra was so busy watching Ginevra that she nearly missed the rustle of leaves and glint of metal from the far wall of the hedge. Nikos shouted, but she was already turning, knocking Ashlin to the ground.
The shot shattered the stillness before they struck the grass.
Ashlin cursed, then grunted as Savedra landed on top of her. Ginevra yelped, high and startled. Someone shrieked nearby. Savedra rolled, tangling her and Ashlin in her skirts, trying not to lose her bearings. She looked up in time to see Nikos dash for the shaking hedge, but before she could draw breath to curse his stupidity Captain Denaris had pushed him aside and lunged into the shrubbery herself, shouting for her guards.
Ashlin swore breathlessly in Celanoran, struggling out from under Savedra.
“Stay down,” she hissed, elbowing the princess in the ribs. They crawled into the narrow shelter of the statue’s plinth, where Ginevra crouched shaking. Blood trickled black down the girl’s cheek, spotting the bodice of her gown.
“Are you hurt?” Savedra asked, fumbling with her skirts till she could reach her knife. The dagger would be no use against pistols, but it was warm and solid in her hand.
“Not badly.” Ginevra touched her cheek, throat working as she swallowed. “This was flying shards, I think. The statue took the bullet for me.” She smiled shakily. “I suppose this doesn’t make you any more inclined to trust me.”
Nikos crouched beside them, while guards circled the four of them and kept the crowd of courtiers at bay.
“He wasn’t aiming at Ashlin,” he said quietly. “Not even if he was an abysmally poor shot.”
Savedra and Ginevra exchanged a glance. Their skirts puddled together, blue silk and blue velvet, flecked with grass and stray feathers.
“Well,” Ginevra said, pulling her smile on firmly once more. “I’ll let you know what colors I’m wearing before the next party.”
CHAPTER 7
Despite her insistence on continuing, Isyllt knew she was slowing the others down. Her head swam, a slow nauseous spiral inside her skull, and every so often she had to pause to lean on the nearest wall or arm. She could ease pain, but her magic was useless to repair damage.
No one complained, but Khelsea and Spider exchanged frequent glances. Nothing like someone else’s insanity to draw people together.
It was madness, but it was also the best of her options. If she retreated now the vrykoloi would move their hiding place, and that would cost too much time.
The way back up was less perilous, if slow and painstaking. By the time they returned to the lowest level of sewers she was caked with sweat and grime, and the ache in her legs nearly dwarfed the sharp throb in her head.
Isyllt wasn’t sure when the feeling began. At first it was lost beneath the nausea and tinnitus, one more tiny unpleasantness amid the aches and bruises. If the lantern bled painful colored halos and sounds echoed queerly, that was only to be expected after a blow to the head. Then her ring began to itch-not the chill that bespoke death, but a greasy crawling sensation like she’d dipped her hand in oil. Soon after a tingle spread across her scalp and nape. Then she saw the first of the sigils traced on the walls, glowing softly to her
She wasn’t the only one discomfited: Spider’s eyes flickered back and forth and his shoulders drew up like a vulture’s. Azarne’s delicate jaw clenched and she fretted with her tattered skirts. Was mortal magic as alien to them as their glamourie was to her?
She’d felt this before-all students at the Arcanost were taken to the ruined palace early in their studies as an abject lesson of magic gone awry, and she’d helped set the yearly wards once or twice. You could still catch traces of it in the inner city if the wind shifted the right way. But it was milder above, faded by decades of sun and rain and clean air. Here the
Khelsea didn’t twitch like the others, but her frown grew the farther they went, till finally she set the lantern down and crouched to consult the map. Isyllt knelt beside her and leaned close, but the ink writhed and blurred across the page and wedged splinters behind her eye sockets. She closed her eyes for an instant and would have fallen if not for her death grip on Khelsea’s shoulder.
“Do you know where we are?” She didn’t have to shout here; the water pipes had been diverted, lest the presence of the palace taint them.
“Near the center of Elysia.” From the inspector’s pinched expression, she could have given a more precise answer.
“Can you feel it?” Isyllt asked.
“The palace?” The unhappy lines around her eyes deepened. “No. But knowing it’s there is bad enough. Can you?”
She nodded. “The stones are steeped with it. Old, sour magic.”
Khelsea’s lips thinned. “Lovely. Is it dangerous?”
“We won’t run mad or fall over dead. Probably. The wards seem to be working. But stagnant magic breeds things the way stagnant water does, and attracts little nasty spirits. And vampires, apparently.” She stood carefully and pried her fingers free of the other woman’s jacket.
Khelsea shook her head as she rose. “And they just kept building the city around it. Like it was a tree no one wanted to cut down.”
“Even dead trees have deep roots,” Azarne said. “And I can’t imagine this attracting anything sane, even
