Bone Palace, The - Amanda Downum Page 0,104

the rest of you are this useless.”

Azarné hissed, pupils widening. Isyllt’s hands throbbed with anger and stress. Ciaran whispered the vampire’s name.

In an eyeblink she moved to the door. “Perhaps you’re right, necromancer. I’ll tell Lady Tenebris what you said.” And then she was gone, and the latch clicked shut behind her.

PART III

Aubade

CHAPTER 14

On the twenty-seventh of Hekate, the King’s army returned to Erisín. They rode through the Dawn Gate at first light, as was traditional for victories. Historically, any action not ending in a rout and hasty flight to the city walls was considered a victory. They flew the tower and crescent moon of Selafai, white on grey, and the crowned griffin on blue of House Alexios. The banners would have snapped but for the night’s rain. The rain also turned the haze of dust that trailed them into a sucking mire, and coated the soldiers in mud to the knee.

Despite the weather, helms and mail still gleamed and many of the horses were fresh enough to step proudly and toss their heads. Crowds choked the sidewalks, cheering and tossing hothouse flowers. Orange-coated police lined the barricades, keeping the streets clear and preventing any overly enthusiastic onlookers from rushing the procession, or soldiers’ families from demanding news of their missing kin. Those questions would be asked later, away from the public eye.

And behind them, far from the cheers and flowers but toiling through the same mud—and more horse shit—came the refugees.

Savedra didn’t stand with Nikos to welcome his father home. Some propriety they wouldn’t test. But her station—and sharp elbows—earned her a place at the front of the crowd of courtiers gathered in the breathless cold of 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