Page 20 of House of Dusk

SEPHRE

I t began to rain just before dusk. Sephre should have stopped earlier, but the hum in her bones pressed her to keep going, even when Timeus began to flag.

He was a good lad, and didn’t complain, but she saw how he lost the bouncy spring of his earlier energy the longer they trudged along the trail.

More alarmingly, he’d gone silent, no longer asking if she thought that hills to the south looked like a sleeping lion, or whether she’d ever seen a camel, or what they were going to do if they actually caught up with the green-eyed stranger.

Sephre still didn’t have a good answer for that one.

Try to learn as much as she could. Try not to get killed.

Try even harder not to get her novice killed.

In the end, she’d told Timeus simply to keep his head down, follow her lead, and above all not say anything to incite a possible agent of the god of death to violence.

Fates, she wished Halimede had not forced her to bring the boy.

Yet she didn’t turn back, not even when the rain drummed down, soaking them both even through the thick cloaks they wore for travel. Timeus began to sniffle. She had to find them shelter. She wasn’t going to get the boy sick on top of everything else.

The land was softer here, between the hills.

Farmers had taken advantage of the terrain; they passed fields of barley and beans, even a few vineyards.

Through the blur of the rain, she spotted a distant villa, the dark spears of a line of cypress leading to the gates.

They could throw themselves upon the mercy of the landowner to escape the rain, but it would take them out of their way, and likely involve far more conversation and explanations than she was prepared for.

A better option was the small barn ahead, just off the road. They could take shelter, maybe even find some hay to pillow their heads. Sephre pointed to it. “There. We’ll stop for the night. Continue in the morning.”

Timeus’s expression bloomed with relief, giving her another pinch of guilt. “Do you think we can start a fire?” he asked, as they approached the low stone building. “We could toast our bread and cheese, and dry—oh. Hello!”

He had halted, just ahead of her, in the open door of the barn. Between the fog of the rain and Timeus’s collection of lanky limbs blocking her way, it took Sephre a moment to see who he was talking to.

Her breath caught. Another traveler had taken shelter here already. A man. He had his cloak drawn about him, so she couldn’t see much. But still, it was enough.

A close-shorn scalp, shadowed with dark stubble. Handsome, but with a sort of predatory leanness that unnerved her. And bright, leaf-green eyes.

For a moment, Sephre considered turning round, walking back out into the torrent of rain. But then what? They’d come looking for this very stranger. And here he was, offered up to them by the Fates like a festival cake on a platter.

A cake that might be full of venomous serpents.

A cake that definitely had a sword, tucked against his side, the hilt just visible beneath his cloak.

Sephre caught Timeus by the shoulder before he could say anything rash. “Let me do the talking,” she whispered, holding him there until he nodded. Then she slid past him, into the barn.

It was small and low and smelled of hay. Several bales of dry grass were heaped against the stone walls. Not a good place for a fight, Sephre’s old instincts warned. Too crowded, too close. Not to mention that wielding her flames in such a combustible place seemed...unwise.

But there was no reason to expect violence. The man hadn’t leapt to his feet and challenged them. On the contrary, he’d remained exactly where he was, settled comfortably against a loose heap of hay. She wondered if he’d found it that way, or if he’d cut open one of the bales to make himself a bed.

She felt his green eyes moving over her. “Fates keep you, stranger,” she said. “I see we’re not the first to look for shelter here. You won’t mind if we share with you?”

He could hardly refuse, unless he was the landowner himself, which she doubted. His clothing was of good quality, but worn. There were patches, neatly mended, on the cloak, and he wore simple sandals like her own, with no ornament.

He gave a shrug. “The shelter isn’t mine to offer.”

It wasn’t really an answer, but she advanced into the barn anyway, gesturing for Timeus to set down his pack in the corner, as far away from the stranger as she could manage, and near to the door.

Sephre positioned herself between them, casually laying her pack so that it would trip the stranger if he tried to come at them.

Fates, her heart was thrumming. Sephre missed her sword. Missed the heft of it, the power it gave her. But that power was tainted. It had never been just, never holy.

She curled her palm, calling to the holy spark within her. A yellow flame licked up from her skin, spearing brilliance across the dim barn.

“My name is Sister Sephre,” she said, “and this is my novice, Timeus. We come from Stara Bron.”

“Nilos.” His eyes seemed even brighter in the light of her flame, and one corner of his mouth was quirked with either humor or irritation.

Sephre hesitated, then spoke again. “The Fates be kind to you, Nilos. We have bread and cheese to share, if you’d like to join us.”

It was a risk. If he accepted, they would be bound by the ancient rites of hospitality.

The Furies would not be kind to Nilos if he broke them.

Like, say, by shoving his sword into her gut.

Sephre would be bound, too. But she hadn’t come seeking violence.

She was here to learn, to gather information, that was all.

“Thank you.” He reached for something beside him. Sephre tensed, but it was only a travel sack, very much like her own. “I’m not empty-handed, myself. I’ve wine and fresh figs to share.”

Nilos drew the parcels from his pack. She tried to glimpse what else might be inside, but he flipped the leather flap closed before she could see. He unrolled a cloth between them, then tipped a hefty sack, tumbling dark purple figs into a juicy, tempting pile.

“Oh, I love figs,” exclaimed Timeus. Ignoring—or more likely oblivious to—Sephre’s warning glance, he abandoned his safe corner to bring forth their own provisions. “It’s like a picnic,” he said, cheerily adding the bread and cheese to the spread.

He was about to reach for one of the figs when Sephre caught his wrist. “You’re too hasty, brother,” she said, fighting to keep her voice calm. “I should ask the Phoenix for her blessing first.”

Timeus curled back on himself, looking chagrined. “I’m sorry, sister. I—I forgot. I’m sorry.”

He hadn’t forgotten. There was no such thing.

If any of the gods were going to bless a meal, it would be the Beetle.

But hopefully Nilos wouldn’t know any better.

Sephre trusted the Furies to take vengeance against the man if he violated the bonds of hospitality, but better not to get poisoned in the first place.

And he looked like the sort of man who might well risk the anger of the Furies to get what he wanted.

“God of Flame and Spirit, bless this meal.” Sephre swept her hands over the food, letting the flame lick between her fingers. If there was baleful poison in any of it, the flames would find it, as they found all that was corrupt and impure.

Nothing. She stifled a sigh. It would be easier to have some clear sign that Nilos was the enemy they sought.

“Here,” said Nilos. “You might as well bless the wine, too.” He held out a clay jar, one corner of his thin lips quirked. He was laughing at her. Because he found her supposed piety amusing? Or because he knew it was a pretense?

Fine, then. She took the jar. Her fingers brushed his as she did, and for a brief moment she thought she saw something shift in his expression. Pain? Concern? Surprise?

It was gone before she could name it. All she could do was uncork the jar, and foolishly wave her flickering fingers over the mouth of it.

The wine, like the figs, was untainted. And by the scent of it—sweet and earthy, with a faint hint of some warm spice—very good. Grudgingly, Sephre took a small sip. Then another. It was, in fact, very good wine.

She would have returned the jar, but Nilos was busy slicing a bit of the cheese for himself. She passed it to Timeus instead. “Not too much. We need to stay clear-headed.”

They ate in silence for a time. She needed to learn more, but what to ask? How much to give away?

“Where are you traveling?” she asked, watching Nilos twist one of the figs between his slender fingers. He hadn’t eaten much. Neither had she. Timeus, with the appetite of youth, had been the one to heroically polish off the majority of the meal.

“South, to Amoura,” said Nilos. “To meet a friend. I came by way of Potedia,” he added. “And yourselves?”

“We were in Potedia as well,” she answered, deciding to stick as close to the truth as she could.

She’d never been a good liar. Avoid fighting with a weapon you don’t know how to use , her first captain had said.

“On temple business. A man from the village died of snakebite, but we were too late to cleanse his spirit.”

Nilos frowned at his fig. “A shame. And where do you travel now?”

“Kessely.”

“Did someone die there, too?” he asked, so smoothly she almost missed his brief squint of irritation. Amoura, my ass . He was definitely hiding something.

“Not that we know of. We trust the Fates to guide us where we are needed.”

“Needed for what?” He used a small knife to slice off a bite of the fig, eating with a clean precision, no dribbles to turn his chin sticky, like hers. “Forgive me, I’ve never been particularly devout. What is it that ashdancers do, exactly?”

Sephre swabbed a damp sleeve over her mouth. She still tasted the fig, even sweeter than the wine.