the palace courtyard. The prince and princess stood at the front, the king’s aged seneschal beside them. Garlands and banners flapped around them, the wind stripping petals from hothouse flowers and scattering them across the stones. The cobbles had been scrubbed till they gleamed, and every stray bit of wood and metal polished. The staff all wore smiles firmly fixed, but Savedra was sure they didn’t appreciate the king’s timing.
The assembled court heard the approaching hooves before the trumpets sounded, the din of the crowds that followed. Three riders passed the gate at a time-first three of the king’s honor guard, then the king himself flanked by two others, and then the final three, all on matching black horses. After them came the generals and officers and any soldiers who had kin in the palace. The others would have gone to the garrison by the western gate in Lastlight.
The honor guard opened their formation, circling their horses to the right until they stood in a line behind the king. Mathiros Alexios was not a tall man. He had been lean and strong in his youth, and age had thickened him but not lessened his strength. His ash-and-iron hair and beard were cropped close as any soldier’s-shaggy now, after days on the road-and his skin was brown and seamed after a lifetime of sun and wind. He wore plain leather and mail under his blue cloak, and nothing resembling a crown. He didn’t need one-the ferocity of his dark eyes was authority enough. Hard to remember sometimes, amid the scheming and complaints of the Octagon Court, just why the Eight rarely managed to outmaneuver or outvote him in the council. But as his gaze swept the courtyard a hundred heads bent rather than meet his eyes.
He stripped off his leather gauntlets and swung down from the saddle, patting his black mare affectionately. When his boots hit the ground the crowd knelt as one, with a sound like a wave foaming over stone. Only Nikos and Ashlin kept their feet, straight and shining.
Nikos had dressed with restraint for the occasion, though Savedra knew it chafed him-silks and velvets as always, but all in black, broken only by the gold and sapphires of his jewelry. The color wasn’t his best, but it flattered in a severe sort of way. In a rare display of camaraderie, Ashlin matched him, lithe and slim in black leathers. The rubies she wore in a bloody spray across her throat were the only mark of her station. Savedra and the princess’s maids had tried to strip the dye with harsh rinses, but her hair was still several shades darker than normal, a rich honey-gold, glinting here and there with copper.
“Welcome home, Father,” Nikos said, his voice carrying over the stamp and jingle of the horses. He bowed first, deep and formal, then offered a hand to clasp. Savedra had never seen Nikos embrace his father in all the years she’d known them.
Ashlin bowed as well, with a soldier’s crispness. Mathiros’s eyes glittered as he took her hand. Despite all the tensions of the marriage and the quarrels among the Alexioi, the king had always been fond of his warrior daughter-in-law. It made the treason she and Savedra had committed all the more dangerous.
When the king had greeted his heirs he raised his seneschal from his knees and gave the man an affectionate slap on the shoulder. Then he raised a hand to the crowd, and the courtiers clambered gratefully off the frozen stones. As she stood, Savedra saw Lord Orfion through the crowd, deep in the shadow of the far wall. His face was impassive as ever, but she caught the tired slump of his shoulders as he turned away.
The council that followed the king’s return was a farce.
No, Kiril corrected himself ruefully. The meeting was a necessity, to learn the state of the kingdom before tomorrow’s open court. It was to Mathiros’s credit that he had summoned his councilors after no more delay than a bath and a meal. It was his own presence in the council chamber that was farcical.
The long room was the same as ever-paneled and polished, the rich carpets faded by decades of feet. Fires burned in hearths on either side, their warmth and glow warring with the grey chill that seeped relentlessly through the half-moon mullioned window at the far end. Chairs creaked as counselors leaned toward or away from the heat; paper rasped and crinkled as they sorted through stacks of briefs and notes. An intimately familiar scene, one he’d sat through countless times. Now it was merely salt in the wound of his betrayal, and he was the only one who felt the sting.
Facing Mathiros was more painful than watching Phaedra in her stolen flesh. Love betrayed might give rise to hate and bitterness, but the original love could never be entirely erased. Even now he saw in the king echoes of the boy he had sworn to serve, the man he’d followed and supported unflinchingly.
He saw echoes of the old king, too, more than he wanted to.
Kiril was twenty-one when he first met Mathiros, a promising young mage with no family to speak of, clever and quietly ambitious. The sort of agent the old spymaster had looked for-the sort Kiril looked for now. The prince had been ten, already grown scarred and hard in his father’s shadow, but not yet dead inside. He turned toward Kiril like a sapling toward the sun.
Kiril had thought to shape the boy into a better king than his father, a better man-for the most part, he succeeded. Mathiros learned a little wisdom and more restraint, smoothed the harsh edges of his temper and acquired a modicum of diplomacy. The country had warmed to their forthright warrior prince, and welcomed-or at least tolerated-a warrior king while expansionist emperors held Assar’s Lion Throne. Phaedra’s death had nearly cost them everything, but they overcame even that. And when Mathiros found Lychandra, Kiril had almost thought that everything would turn out for the best.
Instead she was, inadvertently, the thing that destroyed them.
Adrastos and the priestess Sophia Petreos were deep in argument over the refugee problem and how it might be solved. Mathiros listened-or feigned listening-nodding and grunting at appropriate intervals, but Kiril doubted his mind was on any of the matters at hand. He hadn’t seen the king so tired in years, cheeks sunken beneath his beard and his eyes branded with sleepless circles. Blunt fingers moved restlessly against the table, the papers before him, the arm of his chair. Mathiros didn’t startle, but his eyes flickered whenever the shadow of a bird flitted past the window.
Looking closer, Kiril saw the sorcery laid on him, faint as a whisper. Phaedra’s arm was long-or her wings swift. Scarcely visible, but he was still glad he was the only mage in the council. His would-be successor-a young man with talent and a surfeit of ambition who Mathiros had chosen over Isyllt-was still in Ashke Ros, and Sophia had reached the rank of high priestess through cunning and connections, not mystical acumen.
Nikos noticed his father’s unease, if not the witchery behind it; more than once he tried to catch Kiril’s eye, but Kiril busied himself with papers and gave no response. The prince had proved himself more than capable in his father’s absence, and Kiril had no quarrel with him, but neither would he lead him on with promises of aid. His service to House Alexios was over and done.
He knew the answer, much as it pained him. He had come because even now he was waiting for Mathiros to change his mind. To apologize, to make some gesture toward mending their split.
It was as ever a vain hope. The king ignored him as he had for years. Kiril was no more than a shadow in his chair for all the heed Mathiros paid him. The other counselors had long followed the king’s example. Some still came to him in private, of course.
The argument broadened to include the treasurer and Secretary of State, and to encompass the matter of military spending. Kiril kept his face and body still when he wanted to bolt from the room. He shouldn’t have come- no matter how this ended, he would get no satisfaction from the outcome.
The city was in too much clamor to venture out that day. Instead Isyllt buried her frustrations by teaching Dahlia the basics of magic theory, though she could give the task only a fraction of the attention it deserved.
When dusk rinsed the sky with violet, she realized what she should have done days ago. Shame stung her cheeks-it was too easy for even a necromancer to forget the dead. She stopped in the middle of a restless circuit.
“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
