you’re bid. I’m sorry,” he said quickly, lifting a hand again. “I didn’t come to quarrel. I mean it, you know, when I say I don’t want to hurt you. Changes are coming soon, and you could benefit from them.”
“Changes. You mean a coup. I swore an oath to the Crown, Spider.”
“It isn’t your Crown that we would remove, only the man who wears it. We aren’t the only ones who wish to see someone else on the throne. But the others would merely replace him with some different mortal politician, and what would that change?”
“Whereas you would replace him with a demon. That will certainly make me sleep soundly at night.”
“You’re hardly squeamish about the undead, necromancer.”
“Spider. You’ve lied to me, stalked me, tried to seduce me. With,” she acknowledged with a wry tilt of her head, “some success. Why don’t you tell me what the hell it is you really want?”
“I already told you—I want the vrykoloi free of the sewers, not hunted or ignored. Your mages treat spirits as a commodity to be used and demons as abominations to be destroyed, and I want to see that end.”
“I’m not without sympathy,” Isyllt said slowly, “but the fear is bred too deep into mortals. Change will take decades. Centuries.”
“Not if we take the throne.”
“The city wouldn’t stand for it. The country wouldn’t. You’re powerful, but so is the Arcanost, and the living outnumber the undead.”
“They wouldn’t know what had happened until we wanted them to. Phaedra has walked this city for months now unnoticed—humans excel at turning a blind eye to unsettling things.”
She stared into the sulfurous light of his eyes for a moment. He was a monster, both literally and as men judged such—a liar, a schemer, a murderer and manipulator, callous and cold. Small wonder, then, that she wanted to lean her head against his chest and let him comfort her. Already her magic quested toward him unbidden. Death loved a killer.
Isyllt drew a deep breath, closed her eyes and opened them again. “Not so blind as that. It will turn ugly and people will die—mortal and demon alike. It’s madness, and I won’t help you.”
He studied her, eyes glittering in the depths of his hood. “Then I can only tell you to stay out of our way. I’m fond of you, but Phaedra has no such weakness.”
She felt his glamour like a fog across her mind—she tried to fight, but by the time her vision cleared she shivered alone on the balcony.
* * *
Kiril resisted Phaedra’s entreaties to stay, but in the end couldn’t refuse to attend the Solstice ball. Only two days’ delay, he told himself. A chance to say a few discreet good-byes. He didn’t believe for a moment it would be so simple, but his newfound strength made it easier to ignore misgivings.
Phaedra’s magic worked. Unpleasant at first, both the consumption of blood the spell required and the lowering of his defenses, but after the initial nausea and dizziness faded he found his pulse strengthening, his breath coming easier than it had in years. All the little aches and scars he had grown accustomed to over the years faded from his awareness—no creaking knees, no aching wrists, no cold in his bones. Even the fatigue that had been his constant companion receded. It was dangerous, this demon gift, but his magic sparked inside him again, as it hadn’t in months, and for the moment he was willing to overlook the cost.
Three days ago the simple obfuscation he wore as he crossed the room would have pained him; now it was as simple as a breath, as it should be.
He found Varis lingering alone in a corner, which was unusual. Even more unusual was his costume—he wore 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, otherwise. The sparkling violet and gold of