CHAPTER 22
It was warm in the darkness, warm and still and soothing, save for the occasional interruption of voices and hands. Isyllt would have floated there forever, but nothing so peaceful could ever last. Black gave way to red, and then to brilliant gold as her crusted eyes cracked open. Tears blinded her and she tried to sink into the dark again. The voices returned, calling her out. A warm hand brushed her brow and she flinched.
“She’s waking up.”
“Isyllt?”
Her mouth was dry and chapped, sour with thirst and sleep. Her tongue peeled free from the roof of her mouth, but the only sound she could manage was a croak.
“Water,” someone called. Wet cloth swabbed her lips. Tepid moisture leaked between her lips, the sweetest she’d ever tasted. “Careful,” the voice said, and the rim of a cup touched her lower lip, clicked against her teeth as she tried to move. Water sloshed down her chin and across her chest, just enough spilling into her mouth to make her choke. The cup vanished and she nearly sobbed; she’d never been so thirsty.
A shadow moved in front of the blinding light and she had a heartbeat’s impression of a small room, and walls that rippled dizzyingly. The walls became curtains with another glimpse, the light a lantern hanging from the ceiling.
St. Alia’s. It had been a long time since she’d woken up in a hospital bed.
“What happened?” It took two tries to shape the sounds properly.
“You did something stupid.”
She tried to laugh at Khelsea’s dry voice, but it turned into a rasping cough, which gave way in turn to tears.
“Careful,” the inspector said, “or they’ll make me leave. Ciaran won’t be back for an hour.”
Isyllt wiped her eyes, alarmed at the heaviness of her limbs. The halo around the lamp slowly faded till she could make out Khelsea and the rest of the room. “He’s been already?”
“We’ve taken turns watching you, he and Dahlia and I.”
She tried to sit up and quickly abandoned the idea. “How long have I been here?”
“The better part of a decad. It’s the fourth of Ganymedos.”
“Saints.” Then she noticed the white armband on Khelsea’s orange coat. The woman’s skin was dull with fatigue, cheeks hollow and circles carved beneath her eyes. “The riots?”
“Burnt out, with half of Elysia. The city is calming, slowly. The king went to Little Kiva himself, to talk to the people and see the damage.”
That gave her a start, till she realized that “the king” meant Nikos now.
“Is he-”
“He seems well. Exhausted. Grieving. No one understands what happened in the ruins, though, except you and him and the pallakis.” Khelsea held out the cup and Isyllt took another greedy sip of water. “She was here too, the pallakis Savedra. She didn’t stay long, but she was grateful that you were alive.”
A nurse came soon to shoo Khelsea away, bringing lukewarm beef broth. Isyllt would have eaten the wooden bowl for last drops of salt and liquid. Her hands were shockingly white, veins stark blue through transparent skin. Her nails were blue as well, and she shivered despite the weight of blankets and glowing brazier.
Ciaran came soon after. He joked and teased and flattered her, but she saw her reflection in his dark eyes and knew she looked like death. Maybe she was.
She flinched away when he reached for her hand, remembering Phaedra’s skin cracking, Kiril’s heart slowing beneath her touch. She was death-she could never let herself forget that.
The nurses chased Ciaran off in turn and doused the light above Isyllt’s bed. She lay in the darkness surrounded by the breath of her fellow patients, their coughs and snores and whispered prayers. She was wrung dry, but tired of sleeping.
She stirred from a doze when the bells tolled a lonely hour. Eyes closed, she touched her ring, picking at the layer of grime that crusted the curve of the diamond. She could feel the difference in the stone already, the lightness. She tried anyway.
“Forsythia.”
There was no answer. She remembered a whispered goodbye. She hadn’t said one of her own.
She cried herself to sleep.
Two days later, she went before the king.
Nikos wore mourning white, which didn’t suit him, and no jewelry but his nose ring and sapphire signet. He’d cut his hair; for the first time Isyllt saw his father in the bones of his face.
“Lady Iskaldur.” They met again in his study, but no tea or informality this time, no clutter on his desk. The room was nearly bare-he would move to the king’s suites soon. “I’m glad you’re well.”
“Likewise, Your Hi-Your Majesty.”
His mouth twisted. “Awkward, isn’t it? No one quite has it memorized yet. Least of all me.”
“What happened, Your Majesty?”
“Phaedra… disintegrated. I was a bit cloudy at the time, but Savedra tells me it was spectacular. You passed out. We thought you were dead too, but when we came back with the guards you were breathing.”
“And-” Her throat closed. “And Kiril?”
His hand twitched against the desk. “We didn’t find his body. We searched, but there were spirits everywhere, and the riots-I’m sorry. He’ll have a tomb in the royal crypts for his service.”
She closed her eyes, too tired to care if he saw her pain. He didn’t know-that was obvious from his helpless misery-about Kiril’s betrayal or just what the missing corpse might mean. It would be a mercy if he never knew. “I understand. Thank you.”
Silence stretched for a time. “Savedra tells me how you helped her,” he said at last. “Before and after I was captured. Thank you. And thank you for stopping Phaedra. But…” He couldn’t meet her eyes.
“But I forswore myself,” she said softly.
Nikos nodded. “I would have done the same, I think, had it been Vedra hurt. But you broke your oath.”
He was right, of course. That didn’t stop her cheeks from stinging, or help the hollow sensation in the pit of her stomach. “I understand, Your Majesty.”
“You’ll be compensated for your service, of course.” His hands curled against polished wood. “I am sorry.”
“So am I,” she whispered. She straightened her shoulders. “Thank you, Your Majesty. Is that all you need of me?”
“Yes.” He stood, awkwardly, and she did the same. “Thank you for all your service, Lady Iskaldur.”
She bowed farewell. There was nothing else to say.
Savedra Severos met her in the halls. Mourning white suited her no better this time than it had when the queen died. She wrung her hands when she saw Isyllt, then forced them to her sides.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice rough. “Nikos told me-and after all you did-I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” Savedra flinched from her smile; she knew how ghastly she looked. “I understand the need. One can hardly make a habit of forgiving traitors.”
Savedra flinched again, and color rose in her cheeks. “Even so. Oh, here.” She tugged at her left hand, and Isyllt swallowed as she recognized the ruby glitter. “I don’t need this anymore.” Her right hand glittered too, a magnificent orange sapphire that Isyllt had last seen on Lord Varis.
“You can keep it,” she said, not reaching for the offered jewel. “You should. She was your relative.”
“I don’t want it! Please. It’s a mage stone.”
Isyllt lifted a reluctant hand. The ring was warm from Savedra’s skin. No echo of magic stirred as she closed
