Page 14 of House of Dusk

Yeneris floundered in the sea of words, trying to stay afloat.

It was jarring to hear the fabled Serpent-slaying weapon named Letheko , so close to her own people’s word for “forgotten.” But then, the Helissoni stories had always seemed so foolish to her.

Why would one of the god-beasts grow jealous of the others?

They were immortal creatures, vast and unknowable.

Not like mortals, who loved and feared and hungered and hated .

Some people want their gods to be mirrors , her mother had told her, once.

But the wise know that a true god is a doorway.

And that we can never understand what is on the other side, until we step through.

In the Bassaran legends it was mortals who brought pain and disaster to the world. Just as they still did, today. Easy, then, to believe this was just more Helissoni superstition. More of Hierax’s myth. And yet . . .

She thought of the ghouls at the necropolis. How those uncanny shadows had slithered and coiled like serpents. No mortal had caused that, surely. Not unless they’d dabbled with the abyssal powers.

A sudden blaze of light dazzled her. Blinking, she saw that Lacheron now stood beside the brazier. She hadn’t even noticed him light the coals, too lost in thought. Sloppy of her.

“Sibyl, you must seek visions in the smoke,” he said. “Tell us where the dagger lies.”

Sinoe did not move, except to shift her shoulders, as if she was bracing herself.

“It’s a shame the Ember King reborn doesn’t remember where he left Letheko,” said Ichos, his wry tone scraping the silence. “He was the great hero who wielded it, after all.”

The king moved so fast, Yeneris only had time to draw in a sharp breath. Then Ichos was coughing, sputtering, as Hierax’s gold-banded fingers squeezed his throat. Standing, the king was tall. Taller than his son, now dangling in his grasp like a fish on a hook.

“I suffer no disloyal tongues,” Hierax didn’t shout, but somehow his voice still carried, resonant, implacable. “Not in my own house. Perhaps it is time to cut this one out.”

The king held a sword. The blade pressed close to his son’s cheek. Yeneris bit the inside of her cheek.

Ichos went suddenly limp. “No,” he managed to gasp. “Please, Father. A joke.”

“I did not laugh,” said Hierax. The dagger trembled, the tip just beside Ichos’s mouth now.

It was Sinoe who broke the moment, abruptly pacing forward to stand beside the brazier. “Father,” she said. “Do you wish me to scry on my brother? Or on your prisoner?”

A strange question. But it had an instantaneous effect. The king released Ichos. The prince stumbled back a pace, turning to stare at the far wall, so that Yeneris couldn’t make out his expression. Only the hard set of his shoulders.

Hierax rejoined Sinoe and Lacheron, his expression cool once more. Yeneris suspected he was the kind of man who packed every grudge and resentment away carefully, like fine jewels in a silken box, to take out later and admire.

“Let us begin,” said the king.

Yeneris tensed, waiting. She had heard wild tales of Sinoe’s powers.

That the girl fell into fits and spoke in the language of the Fates, which could only be translated by mystics and sages.

That when she was in the thrall of prophecy her tears became blood, spattering sigils on the stones that told the future.

Yeneris had discarded most of what she heard as fancy.

The Sibyl of Tears had never prophesied in public before, after all.

Even the incident at the necropolis might be merely coincidence, a dream that happened to match reality.

Whether they were true or false made no difference. Hierax used them to gain and hold power. All that mattered now was to take what she could of this night and use it for her own purposes. And to ensure that nothing betrayed her.

But as Yeneris hunched back into the shadows, easing from one foot to the other, Sinoe suddenly turned to stare directly at her.

A thrum of panic. Was she discovered already?

But there was no accusation in the woman’s gaze, only a sort of fine, firm resignation. “The pouch, Yeneris.”

The pouch? Oh. The pouch. She’d almost forgotten the thing, a small silky bag that she’d been given on her first day of service, the one the master of chambers had made her swear to keep on her at all times.

She’d looked inside, of course, and found only a tiny glass vial sealed with wax, containing what looked like honey.

Medicine, she’d been told. In case the princess felt unwell.

She must always have it ready, if Sinoe asked for it.

She drew the pouch from her tunic. “Bring it here,” said Sinoe.

Yeneris approached, her steps clashing too loud against the polished marble. The king paid her no heed. She might have been an ant, crawling along the wall, so small to him. Lacheron did watch, but with half-lidded disinterest, his thoughts churning elsewhere.

Sinoe, though...Her attention was so fierce it nearly made Yeneris stumble. She was shamed to find her fingers trembling as she held out the pouch.

The princess nodded, but did not take it. “Keep it ready. Use it if there’s blood.”

Blood? A shiver rippled up her spine. She wanted to ask what it meant.

If they’d been alone, she would have, but here, before the king and his heron, she felt her throat constrict.

A wild fear clamped onto her, that if she spoke a single word, they would know what she was.

They would hear it in her voice, in spite of all the years she’d spent filing off the edges.

So she nodded, stepping to the side. Sinoe’s gaze held her for one heartbeat longer. She was frightened. That was clear as starlight. And there’s nothing you can do about it. Nothing you should do about it. Remember why you’re here.

“Let us begin.” Sinoe’s gaze released Yeneris, turning to the prisoner.

“Bring him,” said Lacheron.

The man began to struggle again as the soldiers dragged him forward. To gasp and gargle against his gag. One of the soldiers cuffed him hard across the face.

“No, you fools,” snapped Lacheron. “He must be conscious. The sibyl requires his pain if she is to see clearly.”

Pain? Yeneris felt a queasy twist. That was how Sinoe’s scrying worked? It was fed by pain?

The prisoner staggered, still awake, but clearly reeling. The soldiers wrestled him up to the brazier. One of them jerked the man’s bound arms out, so that they were above the smoldering coals.

The other drew a small dagger from her belt, then looked to Lacheron.

“The hand,” he said. “Only enough to bleed.”

A slash, and the prisoner’s palm was suddenly spurting blood, a red stream that spattered the coals.

As the prisoner’s blood struck the flames, clouds of dark gray smoke boiled up.

Hierax and Lacheron both stepped back, away from the heavy stuff.

The soldiers retreated as well, dragging the prisoner with them.

When she caught a whiff of the smoke, Yeneris understood why.

It was foul, bitter as betrayal, making her eyes smart.

The princess stood alone, then, wreathed in gray veils. No cough shook her. How could she breathe in that smothering cloud? She stood straight, the thin linen of her layered tunic flaring and shifting, making her look as if she had become a part of the smoke itself.

Her round face no longer seemed childlike. She had become something ancient and terrible as the sea. Just watching her made Yeneris’s belly swoop up and down, billowed by unseen waves. Sinoe’s open eyes stared into the smoke. Gems glittered below her eyes. Tears, running down each smooth cheek.

Beside Yeneris, Ichos stood tense as a warhorse on the edge of battle. Lips crumpled, like a bit of cast-off rubbish. She thought he might be muttering something, very low.

Then Sinoe began to speak, and her voice devoured Yeneris’s whole world.

Though it wasn’t, truly, her voice. Not the low, musical tones she’d used to tease Yeneris. Not the firm, clean command that summoned breakfast. Not the light, silly sunshine that read aloud in the library, rapturous over some romantic trifle.

“ Long has the old enemy watched and waited. Now he seeks to strike his second blow, and the world will not survive it.”

This was the voice of a prophet. A voice that belonged to the sea, or a mountain, or a storm. Too large for a mortal. If Yeneris hadn’t been watching Sinoe’s lips, she never would have believed the words came from her.

“ The first light must reveal the weapon of unmaking.” Sinoe writhed, her body a guttering flame. “When it is found, when the Maiden steps forth from flame to take her rightful place, only then shall the old enemy fall.”

Yeneris sucked in a sharp breath. Was she talking about the kore?

Sinoe trembled and shook, no longer speaking.

Only shaking out rough breaths as if she’d been running up the path of a thousand steps.

Yeneris gripped the small vial. There was no blood, but how much more of this could the woman take?

Then suddenly the prince was striding forward, pulling his sister back from the brazier, tearing her free from the oily clouds of smoke. “Enough. You have your answers.”

Sinoe shuddered, sagging into her brother’s arms. Yeneris watched, feeling impotent and stupid. The girl’s hair fell over her face, a sweep of darkness, gemmed with those stubborn crimson glints.

The servant who had brought the brazier leapt forward at a gesture from Lacheron, and began to smother the flames. Slowly, the smoke cleared. But the king’s expression did not.

“So. It’s true. The Serpent will return.”

Lacheron was silent for several heartbeats, brow furrowed, a look of calculation. Then he nodded. “Indeed. And you must be prepared to meet him, my king. You must have the maiden reborn at your side.”

Hierax glowered. “And yet Agia Halimede continues to refuse to restore her.”

Yeneris held herself very still, but the words shook her deep inside. Restore the kore to life? Impossible. Unthinkable. How could such a thing even be possible?

“She cannot deny you now,” said Lacheron. “Not with the word of the Fates on your side. And it seems she holds other secrets, as well.”

He paced over to the scribe, who Yeneris now saw had been dutifully recording Sinoe’s words. He bent over the tablet, a strange, quick energy seeming to spark in each movement. He was excited. Eager. On the hunt.

“ The first light must reveal the weapon of unmaking ,” he read out, then turned to face the king. “And what is the first light?”

“Dawn,” said the king.

“Indeed. The Sibyl of Tears has made our path clear. We will find answers in the House of Dawn. We must go to their temple. We must go to Stara Bron.”