Page 16 of House of Dusk

She took her time, filling half her basket with rose petals and lavender for Sinoe’s morning bath. She even hunted out a gold-eyed jasmine that was still blooming, knowing it was Sinoe’s favorite. The heavy scent filled her nose, making her slightly dizzy. Or maybe it was the lack of sleep.

But all the while she watched. Such elaborate lushness didn’t grow and maintain itself.

She spotted a half-dozen gardeners clipping and digging and weeding.

Then, at last, one particular gardener: an older woman, a blue scarf twisted round her gray-threaded hair, her light olive skin tanned by the sun.

A woman who looked utterly harmless, moving slowly and deliberately about her simple work.

A woman who was neither simple nor harmless, as Yeneris well knew.

She paused on the opposite side of the rose trellis that Mikat was tending, making a show of searching for more blooms for her own basket.

“Progress?” That was Mikat. No pleasantries. Only business. Which was sensible, given the danger to them both in such meetings. Even so, Yeneris felt a pang, wanting more. Wanting to unfold herself from the small, tight thing she had become.

Foolish. Mikat had never been that sort of mentor.

And her harshness had kept Yeneris alive.

Had rescued her from the churn and despair of the camp, giving her purpose again.

I am hard o n you , I know, she’d once said.

But a sharp blade requires a whetstone .

And you wish to be my sharpest blade, don’t you?

“I haven’t seen the reliquary,” she said, reaching to pluck a perfect pink rose. “Sinoe hasn’t even spoken of it. They keep the kore’s bones sealed in the former queen’s chambers. I could try to break in, but it would be risky.”

Mikat considered a fading bloom, her expression hard, a pair of clippers ready in her hand.

“That might change now the king is back, though,” Yeneris added quickly. “And I’ve other news.”

“Go on.” The clippers snipped, severing the faded bloom.

“I went with the princess into the city last night.” She described what they’d encountered at the necropolis. The ghouls. And the scrying Sinoe had done, later, on the man with the serpent mark.

The clippers went silent. Mikat’s jaw tightened. “What does it mean? They cannot hope to restore the kore to life. They have her bones, but they cannot touch her spirit.”

“The king believes it,” Yeneris said. “He’s convinced that the agia of Stara Bron has that power. Do you...do you think that’s possible?”

Mikat studied one of the faded roses. “I do not question the power of the Stara Bron. The Phoenix has been the enkindler of life since the dawn of this world. But I do question this so-called sibyl.”

“There were ghouls at the necropolis,” said Yeneris. “Just as she foresaw. I fought them. She has true power, for all that she’s being misused horribly.”

Mikat’s gaze cut to her, sudden and sharp as a blade. “As horribly misused as our people, who died to slake her father’s greed? Do not forget that the woman is our enemy, Yeneris. Your enemy.”

“That isn’t what I—” She stopped herself.

Mikat cared about strategy, about useful information—“I only meant that there’s an opportunity.

A rift we could...exploit.” The word was sticky on her tongue, but she spit it out, because it was what Mikat needed to hear. Yeneris couldn’t afford to be doubted.

It worked. The older woman returned her attention to the rosebush. Yeneris plucked three more blooms. Her basket was overflowing. She needed to return.

“Yes,” said Mikat, bending to collect her clippings. “A good thought. The more we divide the girl from her people, the more likely we can use her gifts for our own purposes. Does she trust you?”

Yeneris thought of Sinoe’s hand in hers, the delicate scrape of her blade against the girl’s nails. “Yes. Or...she’s starting to.”

“Then continue. Learn everything you can of these plans. If she trusts you, she will not suspect you when it’s time to act.”

She ought to have taken her orders and gone, but Yeneris lingered. “Act how?”

“True or false, her prophecies endanger the kore.”

A chill curdled in her chest.

“Is that a problem?”

“No,” she said, though her lips felt slightly numb. “I know my duty.”

· · ·

Yeneris paced along the hall as briskly as propriety allowed. It was not nearly fast enough to outrun her own misgivings.

She ought to trust Mikat. Mikat had saved her. Mikat had reached into the dusty ashes of her broken world, and kindled an ember of purpose. Yeneris owed her everything, not least of all her own life.

That was the punishment for thieving. She’d seen the bodies, hung from the old stone pillars at the edge of the camp, blood clotting their severed wrists in warning. One of them had been a boy her own age. Twelve, at most.

It hadn’t stopped Yeneris. The sick ache in her belly was stronger than fear. And the Helissoni soldiers had tents full of supplies, just sitting there. She started small, learning to move slowly, silently. Snatching a single carrot here. A handful of barley there.

She grew more daring. A sack of lentils.

An entire cabbage, stowed beneath her ragged tunic.

Enough to not only dim her own hunger, but to share with a handful of others.

The boy with the broken foot that hadn’t mended.

The little girl who never spoke, only made small whimpering sounds, like stifled screams. All orphans of the war, like her.

Then came the day she dared too much. One of the soldiers was roasting a chicken, and Yeneris hadn’t tasted meat in months. She’d thought she had time when he stepped away to the latrine trench.

She was wrong.

His shout had frozen her, the bird clutched to her chest, the crisp, oily scent of it watering her mouth even as doom strode toward her.

Then, the miracle. An old woman, seemingly bent and harmless. A walking stick, thrust out at just the right moment. Yeneris was already running before the soldier hit the ground.

Mikat had found her later, smeared with grease, gnawing on the bones. You’re a clever girl. Quick and quiet. How would you like to steal something even better than chicken from our enemy?

The approach of heavy footsteps broke Yeneris from her memories.

Belatedly, she turned her attention outward again.

She was just crossing the small courtyard that separated the eastern hall from the northern wing, where Sinoe’s chambers lay.

A plashy fountain spangled the air with mist. Four stone lions prowled at the corners.

Azure tiles trailed a pattern of blue poppies across the floor.

Instinct drove her into the shadows behind the nearest of the lions. Her mind knew she looked a servant—dressed in the simple tunic of the household, her basket full of flowers for Sinoe’s bath—but her body knew the truth: that she was something else, something sly and unwelcome.

A voice growled, deep and familiar, turning her body taut. The king! She ran one hand lightly over her thigh, taking comfort from the hard press of the dagger hidden there. She imagined drawing it. Lunging out. Stabbing it straight through one of those heavy-lidded eyes.

Not your mission. Be silent. Pay attention .

She pressed herself against the stone, breathing slowly.

“Better to send the entire third wing,” he was saying. “Let them drag that fire-witch down from her sanctimonious mount and bring her here to account for herself.”

A second voice, softer, calmer. “Your anger is understandable, my king. But we must be cautious. We need the agia of Stara Bron as a willing ally.”

The Heron. Yeneris wished she could see the men. Voices could only convey so much. And Lacheron’s was as colorless as the man himself. But she didn’t dare move even the smallest bit.

“How, then?” demanded Hierax. His heavy footfalls stuttered to a stop. A faint flap of fabric suggested some imperious gesture.

“I will consult my records of Princess Sinoe’s previous scryings,” answered Lacheron. “Though it would be far better if—”

“No.” The king spoke flatly. “My daughter stays here.”

The faintest of sighs. “Sire, her visions are our best tool to reveal your enemies.”

“You saw her last night.” A slow step. Was the king pacing? “The toll it took on her. I...she is my daughter, Lacheron.”

Yeneris chewed down a surge of bitterness. I was someone’s daughter, too.

“Of course, sire. And I know it is the hardest thing in the world, to ask your child to risk herself like this. To watch her suffer, even knowing the cause is just, that it is all part of a greater purpose.”

Interesting. That actually sounded like true emotion, for once. Was he speaking from experience? Mikat’s people had found little information about the Heron’s past. No family. Barely any records at all, prior to his first appearance as Hierax’s advisor nearly two decades ago.

Whatever it was, he quenched it, continuing in his normal calm tone.

“It would crush any man. But you are not a man. You are the Ember King reborn. The only one with the power and determination to destroy death itself. That is why the Fates granted their visions to your daughter. They know that you stand at the brink of a change that will reshape this world. To reject their gift would be...profane.”

A clever bit of manipulation. Mikat was right to have warned Yeneris about the Heron.

“A new world awaits you, my king. But such things do not come without a cost, and I am sorry that your daughter must pay it. Perhaps I can find some means to help her control her gifts, once I return. I fear that she remains too free with them.”

“Yes,” agreed the king. “She is too free with many things. Which is why I will not risk her beyond these walls. You will find some other way to convince Agia Halimede to grant her blessing, Lacheron. And soon. My queen has waited long enough for her restoration.”

Just try it. Yeneris trembled, tension and fury and cold fear mixing in her veins, as she listened to the two men’s footsteps fade. Just try it, and you’ll find out soon enough that you are just a man. A man who can bleed and die like any other.