The soldier—in fact a lieutenant, and named Cahal—led her not into the palace proper, but to the Gallery of Pearls. She’d never been inside before, and would have paused to study the portraits and busts that lined the broad hall had she not had to hurry to keep pace with her escort.
In Savedra’s rooms she also found the princess, and Hekaterin Denaris, the captain of Nikos’s private guard. The grim cast of their faces was identical. The air was heavy with sandalwood—incense burned on the altar across the room, shedding smoke in lazy coils.
“Nikos has been taken,” Savedra said when the door was safely locked and Cahal guarding the hall. “Snatched from the palace crypts. Whoever grabbed him wasn’t human.”
“Black Mother.” After months of creeping, Phaedra moved quickly enough now. But she had to, if she wished to see all her plans realized in the next four days.
“We have to get him back,” Savedra went on. “We have to stop her.”
“Does Mathiros know?”
“He does,” Ashlin said, “though not the details. But he’s closing us out, and I won’t sit by helpless.” Her hand closed on Savedra’s shoulder. “We won’t.”
Isyllt nodded. “Phaedra has him. And while she’s thwarted my attempts to scry her, I might have more luck with the prince.”
The casting would have been stronger in Nikos’s own quarters, but also more likely to draw attention. So they rolled up the fine carpets and pushed furniture aside till they had space to work. Captain Denaris brought a map of the city, and Savedra found an earring that Nikos had left in her room, a raw emerald caged in gold. Isyllt stationed one woman at each corner of the map—wife, lover, guard, and sworn agent. The earring she set in the center.
Hands clasped, pink and pale, olive and brown. Isyllt took Ashlin’s sword-calloused hand in her left, Savedra’s soft one in her right, and fixed the prince’s image in her mind.
A shiver traced a circuit through the four of them, pricking gooseflesh as the magic rose. Isyllt didn’t often practice spellcraft on the demon days—the power sharper, clearer, as if a veil had been drawn away. The cost, of course, was that they shone like a beacon to every spirit for miles around.
The red fog of Phaedra’s obfuscation answered at once, choking them with blood and cinnamon. Hands tightened as they shuddered against it, bones grinding through flesh.
“Hold on,” Isyllt whispered, gathering her power, imagining a blade to cut away the shroud, cold and clean. She couldn’t match Phaedra strength for strength, but it wasn’t Phaedra the spell was meant to find. And unlike Phaedra, Nikos wanted to be found. The earring began to rattle against the map, gold and stone scraping across parchment. Isyllt pressed against the weak spot in the fog, felt it give like skin beneath a knife’s edge.
She opened her eyes to see the earring spinning across the map, spiraling tighter and tighter till it chose a spot and stayed there, shivering in the lamplight.
Directly over the ruined palace.
Kiril stood in his library as dusk settled against the windows, trying to decide which books he couldn’t bear to leave behind, trying to think of nothing beyond that choice. Everything else could be left, or sent for. He couldn’t afford to delay for possessions, no matter how dear. He couldn’t delay till sunrise, either, not if he truly meant to leave. He didn’t relish the thought of traveling during the dead days, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done so.
Isyllt no longer needed him. She hadn’t for a very long time. He couldn’t let himself need her.
He had told himself he was rescuing her, fifteen years ago, from misery and poverty and an untimely death. It was likely true, but he had still known all the other dangers he was exposing her to. And if she thrived under them, an orchid blossoming at the threat of death, that did nothing to lessen the cruelty of his choice.
He had also known since the beginning how dangerous she might become, but he hadn’t truly appreciated it until the first morning he woke to her weight in his arms. Her magic and cunning made her a weapon without him, but he had honed her and guided her. And turned her to his own heart.
A hammering at the door roused him, sharpening his pulse. His wards showed him the unhappy soldiers gathered on his doorstep. Adrastos Agyros was with them, stooped and huddled in his winter cloak. Kiril’s