The room was smaller than she’d imagined after the vastness of the hall outside, low-ceilinged and narrow. Tattered hangings draped the walls, and a broken chair crouched in the far corner. “My master sends his greetings, and gifts.” Gems slithered into her palm, warm from her skin. Amethysts glowed in the candlelight and opals spat iridescent fire.
“Lovely,” Tenebris murmured. Shadows trailed her like gossamer, fluttering from her gaunt limbs. Isyllt couldn’t see her features, save for a faint glitter of eyes and the flash of teeth when she spoke.
Aphra and Tenebris were old, the oldest of the vrykoloi as far as Kiril knew, and they were even less human than Spider. Arcanost scholars knew very little about the origins of the vrykoloi, and even scientific curiosity and prestige weren’t enough for most to brave the undercity. Isyllt wondered if she could scavenge the beginnings of a monograph from this audience.
Tenebris spilled the jewels from palm to palm in a shimmering stream. “Send my regards to Lord Orfion. It is a pity we don’t speak as we once did, but the years weigh heavy.”
Isyllt looked at her hands to hide her frown.
“Aphra won’t join us tonight,” the vrykola said, turning away. Her shadow-draperies fluttered farther from the light. “She sleeps much lately, and is not easily roused. What is it that we can do for you, necromancer?”
Isyllt swallowed, her throat dry. “Some of your people have taken up tomb robbing, Lady.”
Tenebris paused. Or more aptly, she stilled. For a heartbeat Isyllt had no sense that anything else was in the room with her. “Tomb robbing?”
“The royal crypts, no less. The late queen’s jewelry was stolen.”
One gaunt hand waved, shedding darkness like a flame shedding smoke. “Which queen is that, child? I fear I’ve lost track.”
“Lychandra, wife to Mathiros Alexios, who still reigns.”
“Alexios. Pity the Severoi aren’t still on the throne. Or the Korinthes—I remember them. What makes you think vrykoloi were responsible for this theft?”
“I smelled them, Lady. It’s not a scent easily counterfeited.”
Tenebris chuckled again. “No, I imagine it is not.” Silence filled the room again, wrapping them in cold coils.
“The king hasn’t heard of this yet,” Isyllt finally said, “but when he does he’ll be… angry. His temper is easily ignited, especially where his wife is concerned.”
“I fear I cannot help you. Aphra and I would never countenance such a thing, but there are those who stray from the fold, who don’t follow the order of the catacombs. I can claim no responsibility for these rabble, nor hope to chastise them to any effect.”
Isyllt swallowed again. “My master and I would keep this from the king, if possible, but to do that we must recover what was stolen. Is there nothing you can do to help us?”
Tenebris sighed, a sound like slow-pouring water. “I shall inquire. Perhaps one of the young ones has seen something, heard something.” She melted from one shadow to another and stood beside Isyllt; the candle didn’t flicker in her passage. “I smell your blood. It’s… distracting.”
Isyllt pressed her tongue against her sore lip; the taste of metal filled her mouth. Her shoulders tightened and tingled. Tenebris’s hand brushed her cheek, silk-wrapped bones like the sticks of a lady’s fan.
Then she was gone, back on the far side of the room. “It’s better when we sleep. Sleep is soothing, dulls these appetites.” She glided toward the door. “It would be best if you returned to the upper world, necromancer. Investigate as you will. Perhaps Spider can help you—he is still young and curious, and doesn’t yet feel the pull of earth. He was fond of the last mage who braved the underground, too.” Her voice chilled. “If you find these rabble who threaten our peace, dispose of them as you see fit.”
With that, Isyllt was alone.
Biting back another frown, she called witchlight as she left the room, trailing it behind her so she wasn’t blind. Bones glimmered against grey stone, intricate swirls of phalanges and vertebrae bleached slick and pale as cream, ribs curving like buttresses along the ceiling. The death-sense of the place dizzied her; her ring was a band of ice.
She might have lost herself in the twisting ossuary corridors, but she heard the familiar sound of Ciaran’s voice. His smoky baritone led her back to the broad stairs and into the main hall. A smile tugged her lips as she recognized the ballad—of course Ciaran would sing love songs to vampires.
Her tiny light glittered on walls inlaid with gems and bone. A