plain black scholar’s robes, with none of his customary glitter or gaud. A mask of bronze-painted leather hung against his chest, and a small bronze-bound book hung from a chain around his waist. Mnemos, the saint of scholars and of memory.
He arched an eyebrow at Kiril’s own black robes. “You’re not even trying.”
“I could say the same of you.”
“It’s a costume, darling. I’m not supposed to be myself.”
“Where are all your paramours and hangers-on?”
“I’m in seclusion tonight. Keeping up with them grows so tiring.” He said it with a disdainful flick of his wrist, but the fatigue was real-Kiril saw it in his hollowed cheeks and fragile eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
Varis began another dismissive excuse, but Kiril was already looking closer,
He stretched out a hand, ignoring Varis’s feeble attempt to block him, and turned down the other man’s high collar. The bruise was violent against his pallor, purple blotching to green at the edges, the punctures in the center scabbed. An identical long-faded mark shadowed the other side of his neck.
“There are others, aren’t there?”
“I’d be happy to show you. We could find a coat closet-it would be like old times.”
Kiril’s frown deepened. “How long?”
“Months now. It’s… worth the pain.” His eyes darkened, color rising beneath his powder. “Are you going to criticize my taste in vices? That’s always so tiresome.”
“It’s Spider, isn’t it?” The defiant tilt of Varis’s chin was answer enough. “Of course it is. Is that how they’ve won your support of their mad scheme?”
“What scheme? Besides the one you’ve been so instrumental in.”
Kiril shook his head, newly absent fatigue returning. Reality could never be ignored for long. “Phaedra and Spider are planning to take the throne. How I don’t know, and I doubt they know for certain either. Phaedra thinks it will be a matter of stealing the right body. Any others she can bind to her with blood. Perhaps she’s right-I’ve seen more ridiculous plans succeed.”
Varis was too pale to blanch, but his lips thinned and a muscle worked in his jaw. He had always been the most vocal of the Arcanostoi against vinculation-the binding of spirits. He had seen firsthand what it was to have choices stolen, to be trapped in service. Kiril didn’t think he was hypocrite enough to condemn the practice against spirits and condone it for humans.
“I know you loved her once,” he said, softer than he had intended. “But if you cleave to her now it will destroy you.”
Varis turned to him, naked of his armor. “I loved you once too,” he said. “I survived that.”
“You left. And that’s what you should do now.”
A flash of red caught his eye. Across the room Isyllt threaded her way through the crowd, dark and burning in black and crimson. Even veiled he would know her anywhere.
Varis followed the direction of Kiril’s gaze, and his armor reassembled itself piece by chilly piece. “Spoken like a man who should take his own advice,” he drawled. His smile was nearly a sneer, but his eyes were sad. “Go, then. It’s love that kills us all, in the end.”
Of all the dangers Isyllt had anticipated that night, encountering Kiril wasn’t one of them. In retrospect that was foolish, since he always attended the masque, but she had tried to put him out of her thoughts after their last meeting. When she saw him crossing the room toward her, she wanted to turn on her heel and flee. Instead she stood her ground, shoulders tightening.
“The color becomes you,” he said after a brittle pause. He smiled wryly, acknowledging all the unpleasant associations that went with the compliment.
“You look well yourself.” She didn’t mean to say it, but it was true. He stood straighter, walked without the pained motions she’d grown used to. His silver domino brought out the white in his beard and made his eyes all the blacker.
“Will you dance with me?” he asked.
A knife wound would have hurt less. Even when they were together they had hardly ever danced. But she wouldn’t flinch from the pain, not here in front of all the court.
“Of course, my lord.” She placed her hand in his and let him lead her to the dance floor. Only the very edge- neither of them liked to be the center of attention.
The dance was a slow and stately one, with little thought needed for the steps. She might have wished otherwise. Anything to dull the awareness of his hand on her hip, their fingers laced together. He wore his black diamond on his left hand and the stones shivered when their rings touched, even through her glove.
“I’m sorry,” he said after several measures of silence. His mouth twisted. “It’s not easy for me to say this.”
Her crippled hand twitched against his shoulder. “If this is about my investigation-”
“No. At least, not entirely.”
She fell silent again.
“I’ve done many things that I’ve come to regret,” he said at last. “I don’t want you to be one of them. I’ve treated you poorly-both during this investigation and over the past three years. Will you forgive me?”
She swallowed. She tried to cling to her anger, to wear it like a shield, but it cracked before the sincerity in his voice. “I trust you’ve had reasons for what you’ve done during this case. As for the past… You’ve done nothing that needs forgiveness. Not to me.”
“I’ve hurt you. I’ve made decisions for you that I had no right to make.” He waited, eyes dark and solemn.
“I forgive you,” she said. Then her voice and composure cracked. “Of course I forgive you. I love you, you idiot.” She missed a step and they both stopped, leaving other couples to maneuver around them.
“I know.” He cupped her cheek, gauze slithering against their skin, his voice rough with something not quite pain or wonder. “I’ve never understood it, but I know.”
“We ought to step outside,” she said as flatly as she could manage, “or I may make a scene.”
That drew a startled chuckle. “I could never abide scenes.” He led her toward the terrace door; glances from the crowd followed them. She scanned the darkness, stretched out questing tendrils, but found no trace of Spider or anything else inhuman, nothing but a drunken couple groping each other below the terrace.
She turned back to Kiril and stripped aside her veil. “What are you playing at, Kiril?”
“Not playing,” he said softly. “Not with you.” He touched the edge of her veil-carefully avoiding her skin, but she felt the warmth of his hand through the gauze. She couldn’t stop her sharp indrawn breath.
“You are-” It took her a moment to gather her thoughts. The bottom had fallen out of her stomach and she couldn’t let it take her wits with it. “You’re protecting a demon and a blood sorceress!” she whispered. “Don’t you dare deny it.” This wasn’t the place for such conversations, but she couldn’t leave the matter unspoken any longer.
He laughed, but humor died quickly. “No, I won’t deny it.”
“Why?”
A silence settled around them, heavy as a shroud. “Phaedra has a vendetta against Mathiros. She is… justified. I can’t stand in her way.”
“You’re oathsworn to the Crown.”
“Not anymore.”
Her hands tingled with shock. “You mean-”
“I’m forsworn. For months now.” His mouth quirked. “You thought I was merely growing old and feeble. That may be true, but it also took all my strength to break the geas. I’m only now recovering.”
“Why doesn’t Mathiros know?”
Kiril shrugged. “The mage who took my oaths died peacefully in his sleep years ago. A more paranoid king would have had me swear them anew, but Mathiros trusted me.” His lips thinned, eloquent bitterness. “Had he
