Page 5 of House of Dusk
Halimede looked unconvinced, but did not press the matter. “Very well. Then you and Sister Beroe can—”
“Agia, please, we must tell King Hierax,” Beroe protested. “We must make preparations. At the very least, we should set watchers on the tombs. We all know the stories. The skotoi will rise with their master. They will seek entry to this world.”
Now the woman was treading into pure fancy. There were no skotoi. Oh, Sephre had no doubt they had existed, long ago. It was one of the reasons the House of Dawn had been founded. The Phoenix granted her flame to the first ashdancers so they might keep the unholy creatures of the underworld at bay. Not content simply to feed on the spirits of the dead trapped within their endless labyrinth, the skotoi would sometimes claw their way into the mortal realm. And when they did, the ashdancers had been there to stop them.
Until the day three centuries ago when the god of death himself—the Serpent—broke free, wreaking devastation across the lands, releasing a scourge of demons and tearing open the earth itself. Sephre had seen the marks of it, sailing through the shattered islands that were all that remained of the old empire. She had stood on the shores of Bassara, looking up to the high curve of the cliffs that overshadowed the deeply cut harbor, where an ancient imperial palace lay sunken beneath the sea.
The same fate might have taken all the mortal lands, if the Ember King had not slain the Serpent. With their master gone, the demons of the labyrinth faded, their power diminished. They were nothing but stories now.
“If the skotoi return, we will meet them,” said Halimede, unruffled. “We will stand against them, as we swore in our vows, when the Phoenix first entrusted us with her flame. But for now, we have a more immediate calling.” She nodded to the corpse. “Let Iola receive an invocation of the merciful flame.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” asked Beroe. “We don’t know for certain that she was innocent. The mark could be a sign of willing devotion.”
“It makes no difference,” said Halimede. “We pray for all the dead. Not only the innocent.”
Beroe crimped her lips before replying, “Of course, Agia. Sister Sephre, perhaps you might care to—”
“I need to speak with the agia.” Sephre forced her gaze away from the corpse, but it did no good. The images chased after her. Not just this body, but all the others, the silent staring eyes. Fates, she had to get out of here. And her unwanted bean sprout was as good an excuse as any other.
The agia’s expression remained tranquil. But a tiny spark of blue flame lit her dark eyes. “Yes. I have a matter to discuss with you as well, sister. Come. We will speak in my office.”
• • •
When Sephre first came to Stara Bron, she had expected stillness and silence. That she would spend much of her time alone, surrounded by grim gray walls, slotted neatly into a bare sleeping cell or sterile shrine.
But while the ashdancers might be tasked with guarding and purifying the dead, their temple was no forbidding tomb. Emerging from the crypt, Sephre followed Halimede along a wide hallway striped with golden sunlight. The air smelled of pine and wild olive, blown in from the high rocky slopes, a breath of her own long-distant childhood. Through the arched windows, she glimpsed endless blue sky, a rumpled green valley far below. She filled her lungs with the sweet, chill air, letting it drive back the smell of death. She felt a twinge of guilt leaving Beroe with the corpse. But for all her flaws, Beroe was scrupulously devout, and highly capable. She would not stint in her prayers for the girl.
While you go and hide in your garden.But surely there was nothing to hide from, except her own memories. Like Halimede said, this could be simply coincidence. Still, her belly twisted. If this truly was some harbinger of the Serpent’s return, what would become of Stara Bron? Soft, sweet-hearted Sister Obelia, who had spent half her nights last fall nursing three orphaned kittens back from the brink of death to flourishing sleekness? Would scholarly Brother Dolon truly have to put down his inks and brushes, and go forth to battle the demons of the underworld?
He would. They all would. She had lived with these people for nine years, listened to their small complaints and silly jokes, brewed them tonics, even—rarely—trusted them with her own secrets. They might live simple lives, but every one of them had taken the same vows. Every one of them carried the fire of the Phoenix, knowing that it was the one power that could banish any demon.
Her heart ached at the thought. Fates. And what about Timeus? Would his brown eyes haunt her some day, just like Zander’s? No. Not if she could help it.
She followed Halimede into the shimmering brightness of the cloister. Like much of Stara Bron, the pillars that edged the four walkways were carved of morninglass, a soft, golden stone flecked with bits of mica that reflected even the frailest light of dawn into trembling sparks. Now, at noon, it made even the agia lift a hand to shield her gaze.
Time to strike. “Agia, Brother Timeus isn’t going to work out.”
A pause. Then Halimede flowed onward, her white robes swirling in her wake like smoke. “You ascertained so much in a single morning? What exactly did he do?”
“He...”He called me captain. He thinks I’m a hero.“He just...isn’t suited to the work.”
“Oh? It must be something truly dire, then. Did he put henbane in Brother Dolon’s tonic instead of hollyhock?”
Was the agia teasing her? It had been an honest mistake, and Sephre had done her penance for it, weeding the overgrown nettles until her knuckles swelled to the size of lemons. “He’s a good lad, but he’ll better serve Stara Bron somewhere else.”
Halimede’s steps slowed. She halted between two of the golden pillars. The blue sparks in her eyes glinted as she fixed them on Sephre. “How many novices have you sent away now? Six?”
Sephre coughed. “Five. It wasn’t my fault Sister Colocasia ran off to get married.”
The agia waited. Holding her gaze was like trying to stare down the sea. Worse, Sephre could feel the woman’s pity. Or maybe she meant it to be sympathy. Compassion. Whatever its name, Sephre did not want it. Did not deserve it.
“How is Sibling Abas doing?”
Sephre cursed herself. She ought to have expected the question. “They’re doing well enough. The tremble hasn’t gotten any better, but I think their mind is more clear.” Her throat tightened, remembering her last visit to the infirmary. How frail her old mentor had become in just a few months. And the apoplexy had taken more than just Abas’s flesh and physical strength. Abas had taught Sephre much, but there were so many things now lost within the fog of their wounded mind, no matter how hard they tried to fish them free. The sweet gum that worked so well to soothe menstrual cramps. The best way to propagate jewelvine.
“We’re working on remembering the recipe for that azarine ink Brother Dolon is so desperate for.” A feeble feint. Not enough to distract the agia. Sephre tried again. “I’ve been copying down everything I can. All the other recipes Abas taught me.”
“A record is not the same as living knowledge,” said Halimede. “Which is why it’s vital to honor what we gain from experience.”
