Page 92 of House of Dusk
He assumed too much. Yes, she had been lied to. But that didn’t mean she was ready to embrace the return of the god of death. Her breath swept in and out, too fast. She fought to slow it, to regain control. Instinctively she reached for the holy flame, but that place inside her was cold and chill and clogged with ashes now.
Nilos was silent as a still pool. It made her feel loud and unseemly.
“I...I agree that there’s more to the story.” A deep breath. “You told me the Maiden came to Stara Bron. That she was Embraced. And you were right. I found her journal in the archives. She...” Her throat spasmed. She swallowed. Went on. “She called herself faithless. Said that she had betrayed someone. She seemed...full of regret.”
She watched Nilos as she spoke. Saw the catch of his breath. The slight pinch of his lips.
“You seem surprised,” she said. “Didn’t you know all that?”
For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer. He seemed to be gathering something, deep inside. “I...wasn’t certain. How she felt about what she’d done.”
“Whatdidshe do?” Sephre asked. “Who did she betray?”
Silence.
“You know the truth,” she accused him. “Just tell me.”
“The truth.” He huffed, giving a small shake of his head. “I’m not sure I can claim that. I don’t have—” He bit down on whatever he was going to say—“I only have fragments. Shards of a shattered vase, pieced together. There are still gaps. It won’t hold water.”
“You know more than I do.” Why was he hesitating? Not just uncertainty. “Are you afraid you’ll lose your dashing aura of mystery and danger?”
That won her a small smile. “I did work rather hard to cultivate that. But you’re right. You deserve answers. I’ll tell you what I can.”
He leaned back, staring into the fire. When he spoke again, his voice had the lilt of a storyteller. “Centuries ago, when the old empire ruled the Middle Sea, there was a terrible illness in the land. It ravaged the weak and the strong, the old and the young. And each of them the Serpent took, into his domain, to pass through the labyrinth and cleanse their souls of all mortal dross, so that they might be reborn in his sister’s pure flame.”
The flames of the campfire snapped. Sephre shivered, her chill still bone deep.
“In that time, a man called Heraklion ruled. He was, by all accounts, a good king. He wept to see his people suffer. He cast himself down in ashes, begging the Serpent not to claim any more innocents. Yet still his people died, and he could do nothing. Some began to call him the Ember King then, for he ruled a dying land.”
“Why didn’t the Serpent help?” Sephre asked.
“He did, in the only way he could, by keeping the skotoi in check, by easing the passage of the spirits that passed through his realm. Even the Serpent cannot alter the cycle of mortal life and death.”
“But the Ember King didn’t believe that?”
“Apparently not. He decided the only way to end the plague was to slay the Serpent. But it’s no small thing to kill an immortal. To craft a suitable weapon, the Ember King sought out the most rare and alien of metals, taken from a forbidden crater far to the north, where it was said a star once fell. For a full month he labored, crafting the blade of oblivion, which you call Letheko. Infusing it with ancient magics of the abyss, binding it to his terrible purpose. But the Ember King knew the Serpent would never allow him close enough to strike the blow. He would have to send another in his place. Someone the Serpent would never suspect. A young woman.”
Sephre shifted so sharply she nearly upended her bowl of soup. “You’re saying theMaidenis the one who slew the Serpent? Not Heraklion?”
Nilos prodded the fire, staring into the leaping sparks. “Yes.”
“So the world nearly ended because the Serpent couldn’t resist a pretty face?” She huffed, shaking her head. “The Maiden must really have been something. Let me guess. Was she beautiful as the dawn? Gentle as a dove and pure as cream?”
“No.” Nilos’s smile was crumpled, as if he’d left it wadded in a chest for too long. “She wasn’t beautiful. And she belonged to the dusk, not the dawn.”
“The House of Dusk?” Sephre frowned. “She was a balewalker?”
“A novice. Newly arrived from the royal city with a large dower. Not gentle, but fierce and wise and full of love for the world. And the Serpent was weary of his work. Weary of the pain, weary of the constant vigilance required to guard his realm, to keep the skotoi in check as the plague sent more and more spirits for them to feast on. She was his one solace.”
A muscle in his cheek flickered. He was clenching his jaw. “She brought him songs and stories from the mortal world. She told him of sunset and stars and the infinite swell of the sea. The perfect sweetness of a ripe peach. The utter contentment of a long day of work and a warm fire at the end of it. She made him laugh. And she made him want something more.”
“But it was all part of the Ember King’s plan,” said Sephre.
“Yes. The blade of oblivion would only work if the Serpent took mortal form. Knowing this, the Maiden begged him to come to her in the mortal world, in mortal flesh. Just one day. Even one hour.”
He was silent so long that Sephre coughed. “And then?”
“Then the Serpent fell, his power shattered. That’s all I remember.”
