Page 139 of House of Dusk
Well, whoever the mysterious woman was, Yeneris hoped that she was on their side. Her movements were compact, not especially graceful, but they held the sureness of someone who knew how to use her body to commit violence.
“Silence,” Hierax’s bellow rippled over the crowd, stilling the mutters and hum of questions. “Daughter, you are overwrought.” He gestured to the soldiers at the base of the dais. “See to the princess. Take her back to the palace.”
“Why, Father?” Ichos called out, his tone mocking, but his expression deadly serious. “You’ve always been more than happy to have the Sibyl of Tears at your beck and call, to have her voice at your command. Maybe you should listen to her now, when she offers you guidance once again.”
Good. She was glad the prince had finally found his spine. But his father was less pleased.
“I will not have my authority questioned by ingrates,” growled Hierax.
“What exactly should I be grateful for, Father?” asked Sinoe, pacing toward the dais as she spoke. The crowds peeled back from her like waves, yielding her the bright, open shore.
“For being locked in the palace for half my life? For being summoned only when you need your pet prophet, and never to be simply your daughter? For having the visions the Fates granted me twisted by that lying, treasonous wretch you call your advisor?”
With every accusation, the rumble from the crowd grew louder, and more and more eyes turned toward the dais. Toward Hierax. A fine hum of danger bristled in the air, but it was a spectacle, too. Like a public execution. No one would look away from this.
“My prophecies were meant to be a gift,” proclaimed Sinoe. “A glimpse of the great patterns of the world. A chance to see the dangers that threaten our people, and make choices that would serve all humanity.”
It wasn’t true prophecy. Yeneris knew that. Lacheron’s bangle bound Sinoe’s gift. And yet even so her voice held a strange and numinous power, the cadence of the immortal, the unknowable, the divine.
“Instead, they were twisted to serve another purpose. Misinterpreted by a man who seeks only his own vicious ends. That man convinced you to give up your wife. My mother.” Sinoe’s godlike voice snagged slightly, becoming briefly, heartbreakingly mortal. “To wage a war and slaughter thousands for a lie. Alie.”
Silence washed over the temple. It felt as if the entire world was waiting for the Sibyl’s next words.
“But you can end it now. There is no Faithful Maiden to restore. The only looming evil is the one standing beside you. Lord Lacheron isn’t your ally, Father. He’s used you. Used all of us. But you can end it now. Cast him down. Imprison him. End this.”
Hierax regarded his daughter in silence for a long and terrible moment. His face was flushed crimson, his features twisted with outrage.
“I will do nothing of the sort,” he bellowed. “Your lies mean nothing. I am the Ember King, reborn to save this world! You will accept this, or you will be silenced.”
“I will not be silenced,” cried Sinoe. “I am not yours to command. I am the voice of the Fates, the Sibyl of Tears, and I say this here and now. You are not the Ember King!”
CHAPTER 39
SEPHRE
Sephre had managed to work her way through the crowd of soldiers and servants, all the way to the dais while the princess spoke. She might not be a giant serpent, but the Sibyl of Tears was still an excellent distraction.
Now Sephre skulked in the shadow of one of the pillars, leaning out to measure to distance between herself and Beroe. The agia stood beneath the bright sun, her gold ornaments glinting and shimmering, turning her into a living pillar of light. Sephre risked a glance toward Timeus. She’d sent him to the far side of the Stara Bron delegation, to try his best to spread a warning through the rest of the ashdancers. She hoped they would listen.
Sephre doubted anything she said would sway Beroe. But maybe the Sibyl of Tears would have more luck. Beroe was frowning, listening to the girl speak. Then came the final passionate accusation.
You are not the Ember King!
The temple fell utterly silent. It seemed as if the thick hot sunlight turned to amber, prisoning them in the moment. Except for one tiny flicker of movement behind the king. Someone creeping toward Hierax, almost a mirror to Sephre herself. A tall, brown-skinned girl barely older than Timeus, moving with an admirably compact grace. She looked fierce and wary and infinitely capable.Fates, I hope she’s on our side.
Hierax’s thunder shattered the silence. “Enough. My daughter claims to speak for the Fates. Let us see what the Phoenix has to say. Agia Beroe, invoke the Blue Summons!”
Beroe hesitated. Sephre saw it, the tiny crease between her brows. Her wary glance toward the sibyl. Sephre clenched her fists, her body bent as if she could will the woman to reject the command.Don’t do it.
The crease faded, swept beneath a mask of resolve. Beroe lifted her hands. Blue flames leapt to her fingers. She began to speak. “Daughter of dawn, mother of flame, child of chaos and bringer of life, I call to you, as agia of the House of Dawn. I bear the—oof!”
Sephre caught her around the waist, carrying them both to the ground in a tangle. She shifted, grappling Beroe’s arms, keeping her weight on the other woman’s legs to stop her thrashing. “Don’t do it! If you care anything for the Phoenix, you can’t bring her here!”
Beroe spat blue fire into her face.Thatwas a trick Sephre hadn’t seen Halimede use. She jerked back, her memory spinning to the last time she’d faced Beroe’s flames. The scorching heat of them, blistering her skin. The scent of her own hair burning.
A spasm of old pain rippled through her shoulder. A dim voice pleaded for her mercy. A baby wailed. But she did not turn aside. She accepted who she was. Who she had been. It was part of her, but not all of her. The flames sizzled against her skin, but they did not burn. Coolness welled from her own flesh to meet them. Quenching them. Beroe gave a huff of surprise as her flames found no purchase.
“I’m not yours to burn,” Sephre growled. “I belong to the House of Dusk now.” She dug her fingers into Beroe’s wrists, prisoning her there. Making her listen. “Lacheron means to kill the Phoenix. That’s why he wanted the blade of oblivion. He’s working for—”
