Page 142 of House of Dusk
With a cry of triumph, the girl cracked the thing in two.
A pulse of light burst from the split clay. The dark claws holding Sinoe abruptly shuddered, then splintered, releasing the princess. She straightened slowly, sheathed in pale flame. With a delicate shake of her shoulders, the Phoenix spread her flaming wings once more.
Her eyes blazed silver-blue, pitiless as the noon sun. Sephre quivered as they settled upon her, feeling all the heaviness of her former vows. The ones she had turned from. She knew, in the depths of her bones, that it would be no more than a cosmic wink for this terrible, bright creature to smite her then and there.
Thank you. The words resonated in her head, in her chest. The Phoenix dipped her head, speaking to all of them.You have done me a great service. This trial is past.
“You’re very welcome,” said Ichos, with enviable poise. He cleared his throat. “In that case, may we please have my sister back?”
But there will be others.
The uncanny silver-blue eyes of the Phoenix returned to Sephre for one more heartbeat.Be ready.Then she flared so brightly that it bled all color and shape from the world. The beat of flaming wings filled Sephre’s ears. A breath of hot, sweet air washed over her. And below the dais, the slim, golden princess crumpled to the ground as a great rush of brightness leapt from her into the sky.
Sephre was aware of the other girl, the quick, clever one, crying out. And more voices. Ichos. Beroe. Soldiers and ashdancers. But the roar dimmed, because her own work was not yet done.
The Fates had made that clear enough. She didn’t even need to take a single step. Letheko was right there, at her feet. Waiting for her.
All she had to do was take it. Then she could end this. End Lacheron. She closed her eyes briefly, a lump clotting her throat.Seph. Please,whispered Zander. Swallowing the bitterness, she bent and reached for the dagger.
It seemed to ripple beneath her fingers, jittery, not quite a part of this world. Her flesh recoiled from it. This was a dagger that could shatter souls. She didn’t want to touch it.
Good. This doesn’t make you a hero any more than the last time you snatched up a sword. It’s just what needs to be done. So do it.She forced her fingers to tighten. It was suddenly too hard to breathe.
Lacheron lay another five paces further. He was only just shoving himself upright when she knelt beside him and pressed the tip of the blade to his throat. He froze, searching her face. Briefly, she caught something vulnerable in his expression. A yearning that she ached to look upon, no matter how she despised the man.
Then it fled. He laughed, long and bitter. “No. You hate me as much as she did. Butshestill loved me, even when she discovered how I’d used her. I could see it in her eyes, even as she cursed me and swore she would stop me.” His throat bobbed as he drew in a long breath. “My daughter is gone. She burned herself out of this world. Which means that dagger is useless to you.”
A chill rippled through her. She fought to keep her grip on the weapon. “You’re lying. Letheko can kill a god.”
“Letheko,” he scoffed. “I thought as much. Only someone who can name that dagger truly can wield it. And that is not her name.”
She wanted to protest. And yet his words woke an echo. The vision in the waters. She had said something similar.It had adifferentname, once. So much has been forgotten. Cast into the flames and burned away.
“You see?” Lacheron’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “You cannot stop me, captain. Even if it takes another three centuries.”
No. Not again.Neveragain. She did not accept this. Not everything was lost to the flames. The Maiden might have burned her own memory to ash, her story might be warped and woven into other tales, but something had endured.Remember. Halimede’s dying words. But was she talking about Sephre?
Because there was someone else who now remembered things long lost.
I remember her name. Martigone. Use it well.
“Martigone,” she said, and watched the arrogance bleed out of him, as if the word were itself a blade. Which, she realized, shivering, it was. Letheko, the blade of oblivion, the forgotten dagger, had been named for the woman who wielded it. A woman who had burned herself out of the world in penance, and left only echoes.
Sephre felt those echoes, rippling through her own life. Through this moment, staring into the eyes of a man who had used her, too. Sent her to kill, never mind the cost to her own soul.
His gaze flicked to the blade in her hand, then back to her face. All she saw in him now was grim resignation. “Go on, then,” he said. “Better oblivion than endless pain and suffering.”
Yes. He had suffered. Like so many others. Timeus. Dolon. Vyria. Ichos. Sinoe. Even Sephre herself.
And it had twisted him. In all his three centuries, he had learned nothing but how to make others suffer. It had made him cruel and rapacious and merciless.
What had he said, just before he stabbed the dagger into Hierax?
No great leader. No hero reborn. Only a fool of a man. And soon, not even that.
She plunged the dagger of oblivion into the Ember King’s throat, and he was no more.
CHAPTER 40
