The king went to Little Kiva himself, to talk to the people and see the damage.”
That gave her a start, till she realized that “the king” meant Nikos now.
“Is he—”
“He seems well. Exhausted. Grieving. No one understands what happened in the ruins, though, except you and him and the pallakis.” Khelséa held out the cup and Isyllt took another greedy sip of water. “She was here too, the pallakis Savedra. She didn’t stay long, but she was grateful that you were alive.”
A nurse came soon to shoo Khelséa away, bringing lukewarm beef broth. Isyllt would have eaten the wooden bowl for last drops of salt and liquid. Her hands were shockingly white, veins stark blue through transparent skin. Her nails were blue as well, and she shivered despite the weight of blankets and glowing brazier.
Ciaran came soon after. He joked and teased and flattered her, but she saw her reflection in his dark eyes and knew she looked like death. Maybe she was.
She flinched away when he reached for her hand, remembering Phaedra’s skin cracking, Kiril’s heart slowing beneath her touch. She was death—she could never let herself forget that.
The nurses chased Ciaran off in turn and doused the light above Isyllt’s bed. She lay in the darkness surrounded by the breath of her fellow patients, their coughs and snores and whispered prayers. She was wrung dry, but tired of sleeping.
She stirred from a doze when the bells tolled a lonely hour. Eyes closed, she touched her ring, picking at the layer of grime that crusted the curve of the diamond. She could feel the difference in the stone already, the lightness. She tried anyway.
“Forsythia.”
There was no answer. She remembered a whispered goodbye. She hadn’t said one of her own.
She cried herself to sleep.
Two days later, she went before the king.
Nikos wore mourning white, which didn’t suit him, and no jewelry but his nose ring and sapphire signet. He’d cut his hair; for the first time Isyllt saw his father in the bones of his face.
“Lady Iskaldur.” They met again in his study, but no tea or informality this time, no clutter on his desk. The room was nearly bare—he would move to the king’s suites soon. “I’m glad you’re well.”
“Likewise, Your Hi—Your Majesty.”
His mouth twisted. “Awkward, isn’t it? No one quite has it memorized yet. Least of all me.”
“What happened, Your Majesty?”
“Phaedra… disintegrated. I was a bit cloudy at the time, but Savedra tells me it was spectacular. You passed out. We thought you were dead too, but when we came back with the guards you were breathing.”
“And—” Her throat closed. “And Kiril?”
His hand twitched against the desk. “We didn’t find his body. We searched, but there were spirits everywhere, and the riots—I’m sorry. He’ll have a tomb in the royal crypts for his service.”
She closed her eyes, too tired to care if he saw her pain. He didn’t know—that was obvious from his helpless misery—about Kiril’s betrayal or just what the missing corpse might mean. It would be a mercy if he never knew. “I understand. Thank you.”
Silence stretched for a time. “Savedra tells me how you helped her,” he said at last. “Before and after I was captured. Thank you. And thank you for stopping Phaedra. But…” He couldn’t meet her eyes.
“But I forswore myself,” she said softly.
Nikos nodded. “I would have done the same, I think, had it been Vedra hurt. But you broke your oath.” You let my father die, said the catch in his voice. “It’s—” Again he stopped short. This time, she imagined, the unspoken word was treason. “Not something that can be known. I can’t ask you to return to my employ.”
He was right, of course. That didn’t stop her cheeks from stinging, or help the hollow sensation in the pit of her stomach. “I understand, Your Majesty.”
“You’ll be compensated for your service, of course.” His hands curled against polished wood. “I am sorry.”
“So am I,” she whispered. She straightened her shoulders. “Thank you, Your Majesty. Is that all you need of me?”
“Yes.” He stood, awkwardly, and she did the same. “Thank you for all your service, Lady Iskaldur.”
She bowed farewell. There was nothing else to say.
Savedra Severos met her in the halls. Mourning white suited her no better this time than it had when the queen died. She wrung her hands when she saw Isyllt, then forced them to her sides.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice rough. “Nikos told me—and after all you did—I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” Savedra flinched from her smile;