smile felt cold and ugly on his face; Mathiros was finally finished ignoring him.
He might have ignored the summons, but the guards were clearly prepared to break down the door, and violence was unlucky on the demon days. So he descended the stairs and opened the door, smiling benignly as if they delivered an invitation to tea.
Adrastos’s frown didn’t lessen as they walked to the waiting carriage. He was only ten years Kiril’s senior, but time and worry had stooped him and worn his bones fragile as a bird’s. A hawk once, now his wrinkled neck and bald head made him a vulture. His eyes were sharp as ever, though.
“What’s the matter, Adras?” Kiril asked. The man had never liked him much, having a healthy distrust for sorcery and spies, but they had always respected each other’s efficiency.
“Trouble in the palace. I’ll let the king explain—he knows more than he’s telling me.” He was quiet for a moment as the carriage wheels clattered over stone. “You shouldn’t have left him.”
Kiril’s lips thinned in something that was almost a smile. “One might argue that it was he who did the leaving.”
“He was a fool. A grieving fool. But we swore to defend him, and I always took that to mean even from himself.”
“We all have our limits, Adras. I’m glad you haven’t yet found yours.”
He tugged a window open and watched the darkened streets flash by. The city was silent, muffled beneath low clouds that promised snow, but its peace was a ruse. He felt the tension, tasted it on the wind, stretched taut and waiting. And in that tension he smelled the conflagrant spice of Phaedra’s perfume.
The strain he sensed waiting in the city was manifest in the palace. They passed patrols of soldiers, and worried servants lurked in corners. More than one tried to question Adrastos, but the seneschal waved them away, unflagging as he delivered Kiril to the king.
Mathiros waited in his study, hands laced white-knuckled in front of his face. He didn’t stir until the door was shut, and when he did his joints popped loudly. Kiril fought a sympathetic wince; they were neither of them young anymore.
“You summoned me?”
The full weight of Mathiros’s black eyes turned on him, burning with rage and revelation. “What did you do, Kiril?” He stood, hands flat on his desk. His sword lay across the paper-strewn surface—still sheathed, but an eloquent promise all the same.
“For months I’ve had dreams. Black, murderous dreams of a woman I didn’t know. I thought I was going mad. Even now I can barely remember her real face. The night of the ball she was screaming at me to remember, and I still didn’t understand.”
“But you remember now.”
“Yes. Why did I ever forget?”
Little point in keeping secrets now, when all their old scars were being ripped open.
“I took the memories from you,” Kiril said. “From everyone. It was the only way I could think to keep your secrets. To keep you safe.”
Mathiros laughed, cold and harsh. “It didn’t work. And now she’s taken Lychandra’s face to taunt me. She’s taken my son.”
That drew Kiril’s head up. But of course Phaedra wouldn’t abandon her plans just because he wasn’t there to help her. She was stubborn as Mathiros when she chose to be.
“I’m sorry,” Kiril said with a sigh. The honesty of it surprised him. “I’m sorry that Lychandra’s memory is tangled in this mess. And I’m sorry for Nikos. It’s you Phaedra means to destroy—Nikos merely has the misfortune of being too close.”
The king flinched at the sound of her name. “And isn’t that an irony, that Nikos and I might ever be too close. How long have you known?”
“Long enough.”
“This is treason. I could have you killed.”
“It is, and you can certainly try.”
Their eyes met, and it was Mathiros who broke. The king had never been one for cowardice, so he must still have a sense of shame. He stepped around the desk, leaving the sword where it lay. “Where is she?”
All Kiril’s anger was spent, only the bitter lees remaining. Just as he’d promised Isyllt, there was no satisfaction in any of this. “She lairs in the ruined palace. I imagine she’s waiting for you already.” He turned, infinitely weary.
“You can’t leave,” Mathiros said, entreaty threading the words. “Me, perhaps, but not Nikos. This isn’t his doing.”
He thought of Nikolaos, and of his own father, nearly forgotten after so many years. “Sons should never suffer for their fathers’ sins, and yet they always do.