Page 103 of House of Dusk
Sinoe had moved down the table to the left. Yeneris continued her search to the right, running her fingers lightly over a collection of glass lenses set in brass, a heavy clear stone that seemed to hold a dragonfly at its heart. An old wooden box, beautifully inlaid with a pattern of leaping waves. There was a word—a name?—worked into the waves. She thought the first letter might be an M, but it was hard to be certain, as the script was old Imperial. It reminded her of the tilework that decorated the Blue Palace, inscribed with ancient invocations. Her mother had taken her there a handful of times when she was a girl, before the war. It wasn’t a true palace any longer. Bassara had no king, only the Nine Elders. But it had once been a part of the old empire. No one knew exactly what the Blue Palace had been, before the cataclysm, only that it had clearly been treasured. She remembered running her hands up one of the old pillars, finding traces of gold still speckling the pale stone, outlining the ancient, impenetrable words.
Because the past was always with them. Bassara endured. Even when the earth had cracked open and devoured half of their island during the cataclysm, her ancestors had not abandoned their home. They had rebuilt. And they would do so again. The next expedition to Bassara would not fail, not with the kore’s bones to protect them. It might be only a small settlement, at first. But it would grow. And ultimately create a safe haven for all Bassarans to return to.
She held that vision, briefly, sweetly. Herself, standing there in the Blue Palace, no longer a child but a woman grown. That was the future she was here to earn for herself, and for her people.
Yeneris slid the latch open, then gingerly tilted the lid. Her breath caught in surprise. Of all the things she might expect to find in the unholy workshop of an evil sorcerer, a child’s doll was not remotely on the list. And yet here it was. A delicate, lovely thing. And much loved, judging by the smudges of small fingers scattered across the smooth clay limbs and sweetly painted face.
Was it cursed? Or could it be some sort of weapon? Maybe there was a poisoned needle hidden under the doll’s lovely embroidered tunic.
Or maybe it was exactly what it looked like. A beloved keepsake from three centuries ago.
For all that the Helissoni went on about being this or that famed person reborn, Yeneris had never truly credited the notion. No spirit returned to the world whole and intact like that, with full memory of some past life. It was a typical Helissoni view, of course. To think oneself so important, so unassailably independent from the rest of the world. Even if Lacheron carried some fragment of the spirit that had once belonged to Heraklion, he surely could not have his memories, let alone his keepsakes. Maybe the man had found the artifact? It might’ve been stored here, in Helissa City, in some old treasury or storehouse.
She recalled what Mikat had said.The man has an uncanny ability to survive.Maybe it was more than luck. But surely even a sorcerer could not extend his life for three full centuries.
The slithering voice of the skotos pierced her musings. The creature seemed to be growing angry.We havedone allyou asked.We slewthe blueone. We comehere,into thisdecrepit form,to speakwith you.And yetyou plotin secret.You givethe abyssalblade to the foolwho believeshimself king.What purposedoes thisserve?
A very good question. Yeneris carefully closed the box, sealing away the doll. Something red winked at her from further along the table. Her heart jogged faster.
A half-dozen clay amulets were laid out on a waxed cloth. Yeneris snatched one up with trembling fingers. She turned, catching Sinoe’s attention with a sharp wave. The princess joined her, breathless, eyes wide as she took in Yeneris’s discovery.
Break the amulet, and the bracelet will open.
She didn’t think. Her fingers simply moved, twisting the clay sharply. The crack echoed, too loud. Foolish. She was a fool. And yes, she couldn’t regret it. Not if—
Sinoe lifted her wrist to display the golden bangle, still ruthlessly whole.
Yeneris’s hopes plummeted. She studied the snapped bits of clay, only realizing now that they were unmarked. No star signs or sigils, only plain red clay. “He hasn’t finished them,” she whispered. “We’ll have to try to come back later.”
“Enough,” Lacheron’s voice rose again. “You have your orders. Do this, and you will have what you wish. The interlopers will rule you no longer. We will all be free. Now go. I have work to do.”
A long, slow hiss spun out. Yeneris craned her neck, trying to see the ghoul, but all she could see now was Lacheron, standing alone. And a faint ghost of black smoke drifting to the floor. Having served its purpose, the ghoul had returned to the netherworld, destroying its temporary form. Yeneris ducked back down, gripping Sinoe’s arm, holding her still, panic jolting through her veins. They’d delayed too long. Lacheron’s steps approached from the far side of the room. Toward the door? Fates, she hoped so. She didn’t relish being locked in here with a host of sleeping skotoi, but it was better than being caught.
“He’s coming this way!” breathed Sinoe.
The princess was right. The steps were not moving toward the door. They were coming straight toward the worktable. Keeping hold of Sinoe’s arm, Yeneris scuttled along the plinths, as if they were children playing catch-me-if-you-can. Except that getting caught would be deadly. For Yeneris, at least. Sinoe had value, as Hierax’s daughter, and more so as a sibyl. Lacheron would not kill her. Probably.
Heart thrumming, Yeneris pulled Sinoe beside her just as Lacheron reached the worktable. She could see him standing there for a long moment. Heard the faintest rasp of an old latch. Then words, too low to make out.
More steps. He was pacing along the worktable. Yeneris sent a plea to the Fates. Sinoe’s hand slid into hers, gripping tight as the Heron passed by on the far side of the plinth where they hid.
Sinoe’s grip spasmed. Yeneris turned, meaning to reassure the princess that she would keep her safe. But it wasn’t fear that had gripped her fingers so tight. She pointed to Lacheron, who had paused beside one of the braziers, and made the key-turning gesture again.
Yeneris squinted. It was hard to see. Lacheron had done something to the brazier. More incense, maybe, to hide the stench of the corpses.
Then she saw what Sinoe had seen. The wink of something red, tucked into the Heron’s sash. The key! But how could she possibly get it?
Yeneris rested a hand on the hilt of her favorite dagger. The one so sharp it could slice flesh like a ripe fig. Easy enough to slit the man’s throat. Destroy the Ember King here and now, before he could do whatever horrible, blasphemous thing it was he planned with the kore’s bones.
A breath, close beside her ear. “Wait. Look.”
Easier said than done. Yeneris’s eyes stung, tears blurring her vision. The smoke had thickened, thanks to whatever Lacheron had cast onto it. It reminded her of Sinoe’s prophesying. Even more so when she realized that Lacheron stood close beside the brazier, arms spread, muttering. An invocation to the Fates? Was he praying?
Then a new voice spoke. It came from nowhere, and everywhere. It seemed to be inside Yeneris’s skull, to fill it until there was no room for her own thoughts. And yet she could not fathom a single word. It was no language she knew, or even recognized. She looked to Sinoe, who shook her head.
Lacheron swayed slightly as the terrible voice droned on. Yeneris watched in fascinated horror as flames leapt from the brazier—strange sparks of dark purple radiance that seemed to suck her eyes into them, tiny windows into some other world. One of the sparks landed on Lacheron’s wrist, flaring, singing his skin, and yet he did not even flinch.
Like Sinoe in the grip of prophecy, the man was in some sort of trance.
