hour.
The note was a short one, written in a simple private cipher.
She stifled a scream, smiling instead as if reading a pleasant trifle. Her hand was steady as she tucked the note into her sleeve, but only barely. Friends for enemies was a common substitution, gifts for harm another. The assassin would try again.
She might have gone to her mother and demanded more information, but when she turned she nearly stepped into Ginevra Jsutien.
“Imagine meeting you here.” Ginevra wore burgundy brocade today, a tasteful and sober high-necked gown that did nothing to hide her slender curves. Savedra envied the girl her dressmaker-not to mention her figure.
“Will your aunt be happy to see you speaking to me?”
“She’s gone to the washroom.” Yellow topazes flashed in the darkness of her hair as she tilted her head. “I thought I should ask you about your costume for the solstice ball, considering what happened the last time we wore the same colors.”
“Saints, the ball.” She’d had the beginnings of a costume since the end of summer, but hadn’t been in for fittings in decads.
“I know,” Ginevra said, her lips pursing in a charming moue. “I haven’t decided on anything either. Luckily my milliner is used to me by now.”
Savedra met Ginevra’s eyes for an instant; they were of a height. Tall, slender, black-haired-her hands tingled as an idea began to gain strength. “About what happened last time… How would you like to play a game with me?”
“Oh?” The sparkle in her grey eyes belied the lazy disinterest in her voice. “What sort of game?”
“How does your dressmaker feel about challenges?”
Nikos came to her at midnight, kissing her before she could finish a greeting. It had been decads since they spent the night together, and she felt every absent day as he pulled her close. She wanted to protest as he led her to the bed, guilt twisting a knife beneath her sternum, but his fingers were tangled in her laces and her hair, and the scrape of teeth and stubble against her neck replaced guilt with want.
They lay in breathless silence when the bells tolled; the hour of regret. Savedra pressed her face against Nikos’s neck and breathed in salt musk and the lingering cedar-and-saffron of his perfume.
“What’s wrong?” she finally asked, trailing her fingers down his arm. Gooseflesh prickled in the wake of her touch. “Something Kurgoth said?” She had thought briefly of spying on them, but decided against it. She didn’t want to lose the captain’s trust so quickly, and she had a costume to plan besides.
“He’s worried about Father.” He laughed humorlessly, his chest shaking against hers. “And imagine how bad it must be if a man like Kurgoth will speak of it. He’s nearly as emotionless as Father himself.”
“What’s the matter?”
“He says Father is tired, stretched too thin-worse than the usual stress of a campaign. Nightmares. And of course Father won’t speak of them.”
“Does he think Mathiros will share them with you?”
“He knows better than that. He hoped that I could persuade Kiril to help, but I think that ship has sailed.”
“You could command him. He is a sworn agent of the Crown.”
“He served my father out of love, and Father squandered that. Besides, Father hasn’t seemed inclined to listen to him lately, either. The old man deserves some rest.”
Savedra sighed and pulled Nikos closer. “Don’t we all?”
CHAPTER 16
Erisin celebrated the longest night of the year with masques and parties. Legend held that the masks were meant to confuse the hungry spirits who crept through the mirrors that night, but in more recent times it was an excuse for excess and indulgence before the Invidiae-the demon days that fell at the dark of the year.
In the palace, celebrants gathered in the White Ballroom. The room was exactly what its name implied, but that couldn’t do justice to the brilliance of mirror-polished marble and crystal chandeliers. Alabaster lamps chased the shadows from the corners-those seeking privacy could slip onto the terrace. Only the ceiling broke the flawless pallor, covered with a mural of the courtship of Sarai and Zavarian. Daises had been erected on either end of the hall-one for the musicians, the other for the king’s chair of state and the lower seats for the prince and princess. Those chairs were empty now, and the musicians tuned their instruments while the growing crowd mingled and loitered and laid waste to the food and wine.
Isyllt waited near the throne dais, trying to ignore the smell of food. Only long practice kept her still, hands folded placidly when she wanted to fidget and tug at the unfamiliar weight of her new gown.
She usually wore white at the solstice masque-the same dress, in fact, for the past three years, each time with a different mask. She would have resorted to it again tonight, choosing convenience over pride, had Savedra not summoned her with an urgent note and a referral to a milliner. A day and a half she would have spent at the Arcanost or searching for Phaedra had been stolen by fittings, but it was hard to regret the lost hours when she saw the finished gown.
Crimson velvet cinched her waist and fell in sumptuous folds to the floor. The hem and the long points of her sleeves were stitched with tiny beads-brass and silver, jet and seed pearls, all blazing in the lamplight. The cloth- of-silver girdle that circled her hips was also beaded. It was the most extravagant gown she’d ever worn. Savedra had quietly paid the bill, but Isyllt imagined she would have wept at the cost. It wouldn’t have deterred her, though, not after she felt the fabric swirl against her legs. It might, she thought with bitter amusement, be the closest to a bridal gown she ever came.
Savedra’s idea was a clever one-a shell game to catch an assassin. Unfortunately, one of the cleverest pieces of the costume was also the most annoying. Yards of sheer black gauze veiled her face and hair. She could see through it, but the room was blurred, colors muted, and she was left with the unnerving sensation of a shadow always in the corner of her eye. It also meant that she couldn’t eat or drink anything without looking ridiculous. She told herself that the loss of vision meant she shouldn’t dull her senses further with wine, but it was cold comfort.
She occupied herself trying to identify costumes and their wearers. Ancient kings and queens were always popular, with little regard for historical accuracy. Every year a bevy of nymphs braved the cold in diaphanous gowns, crowned with flowers either real or wrought of silk and silver. Spirits were plentiful, as were ridiculous imaginings of foreign dress. The artful barbarian furs were probably meant to be Vallish, and the blue paint and leathers must be the Tier Danaan of the western forests. She wondered if her friend Adam, half Tier himself, would be amused or merely scornful. One woman had constructed an elaborate gargoyle costume, complete with curling horns and wings made of real owl feathers. She would be a menace on the dance floor and her wings had already begun to shed, but Isyllt applauded the effort all the same.
The crowd thickened, voices rising in a formless birdlike chatter. The room warmed with each new body, till sweat prickled Isyllt’s scalp and rolled down the small of her back. Kebechet was right about the popularity of neroli-the air was thick with bitter oranges, along with sandalwood and attar of roses and other scents. She had nearly abandoned her dignity for a cool glass of wine when the trumpets sounded. Conversation died as Mathiros Alexios entered through the private door beside the dais, and the crowd knelt with a vast rustle of feathers and fabric.
Mathiros wore a simple black domino for the occasion, and a narrow gold circlet. His clothing was black as well, clean lines free of ornament. Amidst the pomp and grandeur, the effect was striking. More than one gaze lingered appreciatively as he climbed the dais steps.
Nikos and Ashlin followed a moment behind, and a wave of giggles threatened the respectful silence; Isyllt
