Page 19 of House of Dusk

“My brother would be honored by your visit.” Penthea spoke the words by rote.

Sephre remembered that numbness and disorientation, as if a great hand had plucked her up and set her back down at an angle from the rest of the world.

She felt it still, when the memories surged up unexpectedly.

“He was more religious than me,” she added, a flicker of something sharper crossing her face.

“He said when he was an old man he’d go on a pilgrimage.

There’s an old sky-temple path up on Mount Kronus.

He meant to walk it, to purify his spirit.

” She drew in a shuddering breath, her gaze moving to Sephre, hopeful.

“Folk say that ashdancers can speak with the spirits of the dead.”

“We were too late to reach his spirit,” Sephre admitted. “But we...” Fates, could she really tell this grieving woman she’d just burned her brother’s corpse to ash? “We did what we could.”

“Then...can I offer you a cup of wine?” Penthea offered, uncertainly.

“No, thank you. We just wanted to ask a few questions about your brother.”

Penthea frowned. The little girl watched them wide-eyed from behind her mother, clearly finding the two visiting ashdancers far more interesting than her work.

“Castor? What do you want to know?”

“Anything you can tell us,” said Sephre.

Penthea opened her hands, as if trying to shape something in the air. “He was kind. Gentle. I don’t think I ever heard him speak harshly to anyone. When he was a boy, he insisted on looking after the orphaned lambs. He used to sing to them, and he’d stay up all night nursing them.”

“He made me this,” offered the little girl, tugging something from her basket, holding it up proudly. A small dog, felted of soft gray wool, cleverly embroidered with dark eyes and a playful expression. Clearly the girl treasured it.

Penthea reached out, drawing her daughter close. “He never married. I think there was someone, a boy from another village, but he went for a soldier and died across the sea. He was a good brother. A good son. A good uncle.”

Sephre swallowed.

“So surely he won’t wander the labyrinth long,” Penthea went on. “And maybe he’ll find love in his next life.”

It was all Sephre could do to nod. Thankfully Timeus came to her rescue, offering a proper invocation. “May the gods guide him. It sounds to me as if he found plenty of love in this life.”

Penthea nodded, actually smiled slightly. If nothing else, the visit seemed to have comforted her. But it hadn’t given Sephre any answers.

“Did you...that is, do you know the meaning of his tattoo?”

“Tattoo?” Penthea looked puzzled.

Sephre cleared her throat. “The inking he had, on his back.”

Penthea shook her head. “I had no idea. I’ve no notion where he could have gotten such a thing. I doubt he’s ever been more than ten miles from the village.” She frowned. “What was it?”

“A...star sign, we think.”

“Maybe it was a tribute to the soldier he loved,” offered Timeus. Sephre cut her eyes to him. The boy was either utterly naive, or far more clever than she’d given him credit for.

She plunged onward. “Was anything strange going on before he died?”

Penthea blinked. “Strange?”

Right. If there had been skotoi roaming about, someone would have raised an alarm long before this.

“There was a stranger in the village,” piped the little girl.

Penthea shushed her. “I’m sure that’s not what the sister means, Naida.”

“But she asked about anything strange,” Naida insisted. “A stranger is strange.”

Sephre’s skin prickled. “Do you get many travelers here?”

“No,” said Penthea. “But it was probably just one of the merchants who come through every summer. Naida doesn’t remember them, that’s all.”

“No,” said the girl. “He wasn’t a merchant. He had a sword.”

“A sword?”

“He was very handsome, too, even though he didn’t have any hair. I think maybe he was a hero in disguise, like in the shiny pig story.”

“You mean Breseus and the Golden Boar?” asked Timeus, doubtfully.

Naida nodded. “You didn’t see him, Mum, because you were busy at the dye pots. But he was a stranger, because he didn’t even know how to get to Kessely. I told him,” she continued, puffing up with pride, “and he gave me a gold coin to thank me!”

Penthea started. “A gold coin? Where is it?”

Naida hesitated, perhaps realizing she ought to have kept that part of the tale to herself. But she dug into one pocket, producing a small, glimmering disk.

Penthea murmured a prayer. Sephre leaned forward, squinting at the coin. “May I see that, Naida? I’ll give it back,” she added quickly.

The girl allowed her to take it, though her eyes remained fixed on the coin as Sephre turned it in her fingers.

It was old. The olive boughs marked it as Helissoni, but she didn’t recognize the profile stamped into the metal. And no wonder. Helissoni history was crammed full of monarchs. Blood inheritance was rare. There were always plenty of claimants naming themselves this or that great hero reborn.

Some only ruled for a few months. Or, in the case of one very unlucky queen, nine days. Most of them had currency minted in their honor. Sephre turned the coin over. Her fingers froze.

The opposite side was stamped with another image. A ring. A serpent biting its own tail.

She offered the coin back to Naida. Clearing her throat, she asked, “Naida, do you remember what color the man’s eyes were?”

Naida nodded, tucking the coin back into her basket. “I remember because they were the same color as the wool Mama was spinning that day.” She pointed to the handloom in the corner. “Green.”