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,
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.
CHAPTER 15
Isyllt’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.
Cursing and rubbing her eyes, Isyllt dressed and rousted Dahlia from the divan where the girl had spent the night curled like a kitten. “Come on,” she said. “This will be educational.”
The Arcanost’s largest dining hall had been repurposed to hold the wounded. Lamps and braziers lined the room, supplementing the wan light from the high clerestory windows. The space was already thick with the heat of a hundred bodies, and the smell of sweat and vomit and sour blood clung to the walls. Isyllt’s nose wrinkled as they stepped inside, and Dahlia grimaced. She couldn’t imagine students would want to eat here again soon.
Injuries ranged from missing limbs to trench foot, with a myriad of infections and illnesses in between. Isyllt’s magic was useless for true healing, but she could numb wounds better than wine or opium, and set and stitch neatly enough. She had the foresight to tuck her ring into her inner jacket pocket, so patients wouldn’t panic at the sight of a necromancer descending on them.
More complicated than sword wounds or septicemia was the Ordozh magic some soldiers had fallen afoul of. The Arcanost knew little of the eastern arts-many were inclined to write them off as hedge magic and superstition. Isyllt had always found hedge magic to be reliable in a limited way, no matter what scorn the Arcanostoi heaped on the practice. Certainly the curses she found now had worked well enough. Some were bloody, others merely debilitating-one lieutenant had been made anathema to horses. None would bear him or endure his presence, not even from the back of a supply cart. Now he suffered from exhaustion and gangrenous feet from trailing the army all the way home.
Not only Selafain soldiers came seeking treatment-a few Rosians slipped in as well. The Arcanostoi in charge tried to chase them out, but when Isyllt caught them she made sure they saw her ring and her displeasure. In return, they sent all the wounded refugees to her, and soon she was surrounded. She knew only a handful of Rosian words, none useful for medicine, and most symptoms were described through pantomime.
By noon her lack of breakfast had begun to tell on her, but her appetite was nowhere to be found. By the fourth bell she felt wrung dry and knew she had to eat something no matter how unpleasant the thought was. Dahlia served as a mirror-her smock was smeared with blood and pus and vomit, hair tousled and locked with sweat. Her olive skin was pasty, but her jaw was set and hands steady. Isyllt nearly patted her shoulder, but stopped when she saw the state of her own hands.
“Let’s find lunch,” she said when the influx of patients finally slowed. Her voice was raw and ugly.
Dahlia made an unhappy face at the idea of food, but began hunting for a clean rag. Filthy linen lay in drifts and swags around them and the nearest bowls of water were pink with blood and clotted and stringy with other waste.
They found clean towels and soap at the far end of the hall, and Isyllt scrubbed her hands till they stung. As she wiped her face for the third time, a conversation on the far side of a doorway caught her attention.
“I’m sorry,” said a tired man in black robes, “but this isn’t the place for influenza victims. Try St. Alia’s, or St. Allakho’s.” That last told Isyllt about the other half of the conversation-one didn’t suggest a charity hospital to those with alternatives.
A woman laughed, harsh and brief. Isyllt moved closer-a Selafain woman, dark-haired and olive-skinned under
