Page 91 of House of Dusk
“Better not to move,” said a voice. “The burns are still raw.”
The dazzle resolved into a modest campfire. She lay a few feet from the flames, belly pressed into a woolen blanket, softening the lumps of stones beneath. Her body felt as if someone had broken off her limbs, then tried to knit them back together again using threadbare string and cheap glue. Even lying perfectly still, a deep ache throbbed across her right shoulder.
A chill, too. She was still wearing her habit, but there was something wrong with it. One shoulder was torn away, leaving her skin bare to the night.
And itwasnight. This was not the darkness trying to tug her back to oblivion. Gingerly, she turned her head, spying a stream of milky stars above. And closer, a man sitting cross-legged beside the fire, using a sanding stone to smooth the flanks of a small wooden horse.
Nilos tilted his head, eyes reflecting the flames, so that for one brief moment he looked like an ashdancer. Pain flared, deep in her chest this time. She moved her lips, her parched tongue, trying to speak. It came out a hiss, like dry grasses rattling in the wind.
He tucked the wooden horse away. Shifting closer, he slid one hand around her midsection, deftly avoiding the aching swaths of what must be a highly impressive burn. “Here.”
She was too weak to pull away, could only grit her teeth as he helped her to sit, then pressed something cool to her lips. A clay cup. Water. She drank eagerly, too thirsty to mind the indignity of it, to think of anything but her body’s needs.
But when the cup was empty, she had to face the rest of it. Why she was here. What Nilos wanted. She tensed, trying to turn her right wrist to look for the Serpent’s mark, but the movement triggered another sickening wave of agony.
“I haven’t taken it,” said Nilos.
Sephre tried again, moving more gently this time. The truth of it was there on her skin. She let out a breath. “Why not? Do I need to be awake?”
His hand tensed on her waist. He was too close. She could smell him: sweat and incense and a sharp, herbal scent. She would’ve pulled away if she thought she could do so without falling over. Furies’ tits, she’d forgotten how damned miserable burns could be.
“No. I’ve taken most of the others that way. Far easier to slip dreamfast into someone’s drink than to explain the metaphysics of restoring a dead god.” The corner of his mouth quirked wryly. “But it’s harder, the older the mark. Easy enough to remove it from a newborn babe. More of a challenge with someone like you.”
“I think you just called me old.”
“It’s no insult to be old. Especially considering the alternative.”
Yarrow, she realized. That was what he smelled like. And sunbane. Together they made one of the best salves to treat burned flesh. He hadn’t only rescued her. He’d treated her wounds.
“Is that what this is?” Some of her strength was returning now. She coiled it tight, used it to prop herself further upright, away from his hand. “You need to keep me alive long enough to finish your work?”
“It’s not the only reason,” he said, with an infuriating smile.
She refused to ask him to explain. It was what he wanted, no doubt. Instead, she scanned their surroundings. How far had he taken her from Stara Bron? Judging by the sky, she’d been unconscious for at least eight hours. Carrying her would have slowed Nilos down some, but she’d already seen how fast the man could move.
They were camped against the hillside, on a narrow shelf of rock scrubby with short pine and tanglekiss. To the west, the deeper darkness of a tall hill chewed the edge of the night sky. She recognized the outline, though it looked less like a sleeping lion from here. They were well south of Stara Bron. She saw no other lights against the hills. Villages were sparse in these parts. There might be no one else around for miles.
She fought the urge to curse, aware that Nilos was watching her keenly, for all that he made a show of tending to the pot bubbling over the small fire.
“Did anyone follow?” she asked, finally.
“No one from the temple,” he said. “Though there’s been a young man with a very fine sword at my back for the past three days, until I left him a false trail heading north.”
“Prince Ichos,” said Sephre. “Did it work?”
“For now.” He bent over the pot, tipping the contents into two bowls. Returning to her side, he held one out. She hesitated only a moment before the growl of her belly forced her to take it. If he’d wanted to kill her, he’d had plenty of chances. She’d been utterly at his mercy. Sephre took a tentative sip. The soup was good, filling her with deceptive warmth.
“I could take your mark now,” he said. “If you’re willing.”
“Willing?” She seized on the word like a dog after a bone.
He had his own bowl tilted up, so that she couldn’t see his face, only the bob of his throat, swallowing. When he lowered it, his expression was inscrutable. “It’s easier that way. And you’d be free. You could return to your temple and beg forgiveness. Go back to stifling yourself.”
“Stiflingmyself?” She set down her bowl, half finished. “The holy flame is a blessing!”
He said nothing, only took another sip of the broth. She narrowed her eyes, understanding this feint. He was trying to draw her out. To trick her. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? For me to let you take the mark so you can go and bring back the Serpent.”
“The world needs the Serpent,” he said. “You see that now, don’t you? The lies you’ve been told?”
