Page 33 of House of Dusk
Naida nodded, tucking the coin back into her basket. “I remember because they were the same color as the wool Mama was spinning that day.” She pointed to the handloom in the corner. “Green.”
CHAPTER 10
SEPHRE
It began to rain just before dusk. Sephre should have stopped earlier, but the hum in her bones pressed her to keep going, even when Timeus began to flag. He was a good lad, and didn’t complain, but she saw how he lost the bouncy spring of his earlier energy the longer they trudged along the trail. More alarmingly, he’d gone silent, no longer asking if she thought that hills to the south looked like a sleeping lion, or whether she’d ever seen a camel, or what they were going to do if they actually caught up with the green-eyed stranger.
Sephre still didn’t have a good answer for that one. Try to learn as much as she could. Try not to get killed. Try even harder not to get her novice killed. In the end, she’d told Timeus simply to keep his head down, follow her lead, and above all not say anything to incite a possible agent of the god of death to violence. Fates, she wished Halimede had not forced her to bring the boy.
Yet she didn’t turn back, not even when the rain drummed down, soaking them both even through the thick cloaks they wore for travel. Timeus began to sniffle. She had to find them shelter. She wasn’t going to get the boy sick on top of everything else.
The land was softer here, between the hills. Farmers had taken advantage of the terrain; they passed fields of barley and beans, even a few vineyards. Through the blur of the rain, she spotted a distant villa, the dark spears of a line of cypress leading to the gates. They could throw themselves upon the mercy of the landowner to escape the rain, but it would take them out of their way, and likely involve far more conversation and explanations than she was prepared for.
A better option was the small barn ahead, just off the road. They could take shelter, maybe even find some hay to pillow their heads. Sephre pointed to it. “There. We’ll stop for the night. Continue in the morning.”
Timeus’s expression bloomed with relief, giving her another pinch of guilt. “Do you think we can start a fire?” he asked, as they approached the low stone building. “We could toast our bread and cheese, and dry—oh. Hello!”
He had halted, just ahead of her, in the open door of the barn. Between the fog of the rain and Timeus’s collection of lanky limbs blocking her way, it took Sephre a moment to see who he was talking to.
Her breath caught. Another traveler had taken shelter here already. A man. He had his cloak drawn about him, so she couldn’t see much. But still, it was enough.
A close-shorn scalp, shadowed with dark stubble. Handsome, but with a sort of predatory leanness that unnerved her. And bright, leaf-green eyes.
For a moment, Sephre considered turning round, walking back out into the torrent of rain. But then what? They’d come looking for this very stranger. And here he was, offered up to them by the Fates like a festival cake on a platter.
A cake that might be full of venomous serpents.
A cake thatdefinitelyhad a sword, tucked against his side, the hilt just visible beneath his cloak.
Sephre caught Timeus by the shoulder before he could say anything rash. “Let me do the talking,” she whispered, holding him there until he nodded. Then she slid past him, into the barn.
It was small and low and smelled of hay. Several bales of dry grass were heaped against the stone walls. Not a good place for a fight, Sephre’s old instincts warned. Too crowded, too close. Not to mention that wielding her flames in such a combustible place seemed...unwise.
But there was no reason to expect violence. The man hadn’t leapt to his feet and challenged them. On the contrary, he’d remained exactly where he was, settled comfortably against a loose heap of hay. She wondered if he’d found it that way, or if he’d cut open one of the bales to make himself a bed.
She felt his green eyes moving over her. “Fates keep you, stranger,” she said. “I see we’re not the first to look for shelter here. You won’t mind if we share with you?”
He could hardly refuse, unless he was the landowner himself, which she doubted. His clothing was of good quality, but worn. There were patches, neatly mended, on the cloak, and he wore simple sandals like her own, with no ornament.
He gave a shrug. “The shelter isn’t mine to offer.”
It wasn’t really an answer, but she advanced into the barn anyway, gesturing for Timeus to set down his pack in the corner, as far away from the stranger as she could manage, and near to the door. Sephre positioned herself between them, casually laying her pack so that it would trip the stranger if he tried to come at them.
Fates, her heart was thrumming. Sephre missed her sword. Missed the heft of it, the power it gave her. But that power was tainted. It had never been just, never holy.
She curled her palm, calling to the holy spark within her. A yellow flame licked up from her skin, spearing brilliance across the dim barn.
“My name is Sister Sephre,” she said, “and this is my novice, Timeus. We come from Stara Bron.”
“Nilos.” His eyes seemed even brighter in the light of her flame, and one corner of his mouth was quirked with either humor or irritation.
Sephre hesitated, then spoke again. “The Fates be kind to you, Nilos. We have bread and cheese to share, if you’d like to join us.”
It was a risk. If he accepted, they would be bound by the ancient rites of hospitality. The Furies would not be kind to Nilos if he broke them. Like, say, by shoving his sword into her gut. Sephre would be bound, too. But she hadn’t come seeking violence. She was here to learn, to gather information, that was all.
“Thank you.” He reached for something beside him. Sephre tensed, but it was only a travel sack, very much like her own. “I’m not empty-handed, myself. I’ve wine and fresh figs to share.”
Nilos drew the parcels from his pack. She tried to glimpse what else might be inside, but he flipped the leather flap closed before she could see. He unrolled a cloth between them, then tipped a hefty sack, tumbling dark purple figs into a juicy, tempting pile.
