Bone Palace, The - Amanda Downum Page 0,120

own glimpse of that white dress being fitted in Varis’s library. She caught Nikos’s shocked expression before he schooled his face.

She didn’t need to hear the whispers hidden by hands and fans to know what they said; the king had not danced with anyone in three years. But he offered his hand to this ghost now, and she took it, and together they claimed the floor. They moved in silence, never breaking the form of the dance. From the set of Mathiros’s mouth, he might have taken a mortal wound, and remained standing by will alone.

The dance ended and the music died, the musicians waiting for a cue, a clue as to the king’s will. The woman curtsied and stepped back, somehow vanishing into a crowd that gave her as much space as possible. She might have melted into the stones for all Savedra could tell. Mathiros stared after her, one hand clenching at his side. The courtiers waited, breathless, not knowing what they had witnessed.

Not knowing the woman in white was a witch and a murderer.

Finally Mathiros shook himself and turned away. When he sank back into his chair, the musicians stumbled into the beginning of a pavane.

A moment later Mathiros stood again. The crowd had no time to bow before he strode from the dais and out the private royal exit. Glowering, Kurgoth followed at his heels. Murmurs rippled across the room, then died as Nikos gestured for the musicians to continue.

After several moments Nikos leaned toward Ashlin, gesturing Savedra onto the dais as well. “I don’t like this,” he said. “I’m going to see what’s wrong. Charm the guests while I’m gone, won’t you?”

He rose gracefully, bowing over Ashlin’s hand and pressing a kiss on her knuckles. He also plucked her a feather from his tail, earning a laugh. He gave the crowd a jaunty wave as he rose; everything is fine, it said, carry on. Savedra wondered if anyone believed it.

“Charm them, he says,” Ashlin muttered. As the music died she rose, smiling as though someone had a knife to her back. “Play something livelier, won’t you?” she called, her voice carrying across the hall. “I’ve been sitting far too long.”

Immediately a dozen courtiers knelt before the dais, imploring her for a dance. Savedra recognized an Aravind, a Hadrian, and a member of the Iskari ambassador’s staff—the rest were strangers, or too well masked.

A man dressed as a circus acrobat twisted out of the crowd, vaulting over the kneeling Hadrian to land before the princess. He bowed toward the startled laughter and whistles from the crowd, then bent his knee to Ashlin. Laughing, she stepped down to take his hand.

Too late, Savedra saw the flash of steel. She shouted, lunging forward; gauze and velvet tangled her and it felt like trying to run in a nightmare.

Ashlin flung herself back as the assassin struck. Someone in the crowd screamed, then another. The blade scored a line across her stomach, thwarted by leather. Savedra fumbled for the knife on her calf, her movements slow as cold honey. Ashlin was faster; she drew a blade from her vambrace and regained her balance, rocking on the balls of her feet.

“Yes,” she said, baring her teeth in a grin. “That’s better. Give me a proper fight.” The man shifted toward the terrace doors and Ashlin moved to block his escape. Savedra had watched her in a dozen practice combats, but had never seen her eyes shine with bloodlust like this.

Captain Denaris appeared at Savedra’s side, sword in hand. The crowd shouted in confusion and alarm, those closest to the fight stumbling back while those in the rear pressed forward. “Idiots,” Denaris muttered, and Savedra didn’t know if she meant the spectators or the participants. Either way, she was inclined to agree. A red shadow paused at the terrace doors; Isyllt had returned.

Ashlin feinted and lunged, and her blade sliced across the man’s chest. Savedra waited for him to stumble, waited for blood. Instead the torn cloth gapped, exposing leather armor.

Another strike, and this time his blade cut through Ashlin’s sleeve. She hissed and blood darkened the leather just below her shoulder. The sight curdled Savedra’s stomach and ended her paralysis.

She leapt down the stairs, ripping off her veils; pins scattered across marble tiles. Lunging forward, she cast the gauze like a net over the assassin’s head. He kicked, knocking her feet from under her and sprawling her across the stones, dazed and breathless. But he also cursed as the veil tangled