Amanda Downum - The Bone Palace

A few moments later she heard footsteps and the door opened. She caught a glimpse of the page’s wide dark eyes peering around the corner, and then the crown prince of Selafai entered the room, a tea tray balanced on one hand.

Isyllt rose and bowed, the ring bouncing against her chest as she straightened; the spell was quiescent. Nikos Alexios came to her barefoot, wearing a hastily tied brocade robe over loose silk pajama trousers. Sleep still tousled his black curls and stubble darkened his jaw. He blinked at her, disconcertment comical on his handsome face-no one wanted to be awakened before dawn by a necromancer.

He shoved papers across the polished mahogany desk and set down the tray. “Lady Iskaldur. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” He sat, and she followed suit.

She had known the prince for years, since she first became apprenticed to the king’s own sorcerer and spymaster; they were nearly of an age. Though never close, he greeted her at balls and social functions, and she and Kiril had dined with Nikos and his mistress-and later with his wife-from time to time. He looked so much like his dead mother, from his brown Archipelagan skin to his long-lashed golden brown eyes. Those eyes were wary as he regarded her now.

She took the cup of tea he offered, letting it warm her hands. An unlooked-for honor, to be served by the prince, but she knew it was nothing but habit, his ongoing efforts to be nothing like his father. His pleasantness and approachability weren’t a lie, precisely, but he did nothing without reason.

“I’m afraid I need to ask your whereabouts last night, and earlier this evening.”

He paused in the midst of spooning honey into his tea, then relaxed a little when she smiled. “Last night I was at the Orpheum Tharymis with Thea Jsutien and her husband. The Rain Queen is worth seeing, by the way, though their tenor was only adequate. Tonight I stayed in, hiding from my lovely harpy of a wife.” He made a wry face as he wiped up a stray drop of honey, and the gold marriage ring in his left nostril flashed. “Kistos saw me, and my guards, but of course they’d lie for me.” He offered her a smile in return. “Why? What might I have been doing?”

“Murdering a woman in the Garden.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Why me?”

She set down her untasted tea and pulled the chain from beneath her shirt. “Not you in particular-anyone who could have put their hands on this.”

He sucked in a breath as gold and sapphire glittered in the light. A nearly identical ring sat on his right hand. “That was my mother’s.”

Just the answer she’d feared. “You’re sure?” She held it out. “It couldn’t be some older ring that was lost?”

The spell tingled in her head as he touched the band, so faint she barely felt it. Nothing like its reaction to her or Khelséa. But if it was his mother’s ring, he might have touched it a hundred times.

He ran a finger along the gold; he had his mother’s long sandalwood hands. Many still felt the queen’s loss keenly after three years, but Isyllt suspected her grief was more selfish than most.

“I’m sure,” Nikos said. “This should be in her tomb.”

Isyllt’s aching eyes sagged shut. “Shall we go and pay our respects, Your Highness?”

She finished her cooling tea while the prince dressed, but all she tasted was bitterness and blood. Tomb robbers. The queen’s tomb. Hadn’t Lychandra’s death been painful enough, that they were forced to relive it now? Kiril might never have set her aside if not for that day. He would still be at the king’s side, at least, if not hers.

What would Kiril do when he learned of this? She could only thank the saints that Mathiros was in Ashke Ros and not here to receive the news. He was too sensitive to any mention of his wife-the desecration of her crypt would drive him into a rage.

Dawn bruised the eastern sky as they crossed the grounds and the palace came alive around them, servants starting their day and guard shifts changing. Today was an owl day, at least, auspicious for piety and offerings to the dead. Though most people preferred to save their piety for well after daybreak. Nikos fidgeted with his embroidered sleeves, finally shoving his hands into his coat pockets.

Crickets chirped in the garden as they followed the mossy flagstone path to the temple, and trees and banners rustled in the breeze. The air held the fragrance of the season’s last blossoms; soon the cold rain of autumn would turn sharp and bitter and give way to frost.

The domed temple rose over the trees, white marble ethereal in the grey light. The same Sindhaïn architecture as the dead palace, and the comparison made her shiver-maybe she shouldn’t have ridden past it after all. The temple doors stood always open, symbolic sanctuary and hospitality, but in truth every inch of the place was warded, and the comings and goings of the pious carefully watched. Old magic sighed in Isyllt’s ears as she crossed the tiled threshold.

Colored glass lanterns hung from the vaulted ceiling, scattering prisms of blue and green across the walls. An acolyte bowed to Nikos as the prince paused to collect a dish of incense and a lamp.

A hundred broad stairs led down into the catacombs, worn shallow from a century and a half of feet. Frescoes watched with stony eyes, saints and spirits and long-dead kings, darkened by passing hands.

The air chilled as Isyllt and Nikos descended, thickened with dust and incense. Their footsteps echoed down the passageway no matter how lightly they tried to tread. Witchlights burned at intervals, set into recesses in the walls. The shadows they cast were eerier than darkness might have been.

They passed sealed doors and open ones, shelves of sarcophagi set into the walls. Kings and queens so old Isyllt didn’t know their names. Many were empty, the intended occupants long turned to dust beneath the old palace, but a few coffins had been salvaged and relocated. Such catacombs riddled Erisín, though the tombs outside the palace were smaller, plainer affairs, and the temples closed their crypts except on holy days.

Some newer coffins were made of glass, to show off the preservation spells cast on their occupants. A flashy macabre custom, but it kept second-rate necromancers in business. Isyllt studied the dusty glass with amusement; Nikos kept his eyes on the hall ahead.

Finally they came to the Alexios family crypt and Nikos pulled out an iron key from a cord around his neck. The lock clicked and the heavy door opened soundlessly into darkness. Nikos paused to light his lamp, but Isyllt had already summoned witchlight. The pale glow sent their shadows crawling across the floor and up the walls, but did nothing to dispel the cold.

These sarcophagi were all stone-the Alexioi tended to conservatism. Nikos’ mother, the newest death, rested on a marble plinth in the center of the room. The likeness carved upon the stone lid was very good. Lychandra hadn’t worn that look of peace when she died, but by the time the body had been prepared she was serene. Isyllt had cleaned the queen’s corpse herself and cast the first of the preservation spells while Kiril recovered.

A smell distracted her from memories, the sharp scent of lightning. “Someone’s been here. It reeks of magic.”

Nikos sniffed and stifled a sneeze at the dust. He set aside his lamp and incense and crouched beside the chests piled around the plinth to inspect the locks. “Broken.” He made a face as though he wanted to spit. “Kistos could do a better job with a hair pin.” He stared down at the velvet-lined bottom of a gilded box. “All her jewels…”

“They weren’t given as alms?”

He shook his head wearily. “Father couldn’t bear the thought of seeing them again on some other woman’s breast. How did thieves get in here?”