Page 48 of House of Dusk

Sephre straightened her shoulders. “That’s fine. I think I know someone who does.” So long as she could find him before Ichos did. Or hope that he found her, as he’d threatened. But either way, she had to leave Stara Bron. And for that, she was going to need help.

“Tell me what you need,” said Dolon, so simply and earnestly that Sephre’s eyes prickled. “You’re not alone,” he went on. “You still have siblings here. Not just me. Abas. Vasil. Even Beroe, in her own way.”

Sephre snorted, swallowing hard to clear the lump from her throat.

“Right. Except that her own way involves burning away my memories to save my soul. But...thank you.” She reached out, gripping Dolon’s hand.

It could work. If Dolon could distract the soldiers, she might be able to slip out, reach the stables. Be gone before they knew it.

A tread of boots in the corridor crushed her frail hope. When the door swung open, she counted six soldiers, all of them hard and grim-faced. “Come,” one of them ordered crisply. “Your agia awaits.”

· · ·

With every step up the mountain, the possibilities for escape dwindled, and Sephre’s desperation grew.

Even in her prime and fully armed, she could never have stood for long against six armed opponents.

Her only hope now was to convince Beroe to release her.

Which was about as likely as convincing a fish to breathe air.

Still, she held that hope as an ember against despair. Until she reached the summit, and saw Lacheron. He was as nondescript as ever, fading into the stones beside Beroe, resplendent in her new robes of office. And yet the triumph blazing in his eyes was as bright as the blue flames in Beroe’s.

He’d won. She understood that, with the last crumbling of her hopes, when she saw the slim, sheathed blade Beroe held before her.

The new agia lifted her chin as the soldiers escorted Sephre to stand before her.

“You see, Lord Lacheron. All will be well. The Phoenix has gifted us the tools we need to address this matter without further pain.”

Lacheron stared at Sephre for a long moment, his expression strangely tense. Then he gave a short shake of his head. “Yes. Perhaps that is for the best. So long as she is Embraced, the Ember King will be satisfied that she is no longer a threat.”

“Then I will entrust you with this, to deliver to him.” Beroe held out the dagger.

As Lacheron took the blade, a ripple of something—pain?

hunger?—passed over his face. He tucked the weapon away, into the folds of his tunic, then nodded to Beroe, all calm civility again.

“King Hierax will be pleased to know he has an ally here in Stara Bron. And I know he will be eager to show his thanks, should you accept his offer.”

“What offer?” Sephre demanded, alarm shrilling through her.

“That is not your concern.” Lacheron frowned at her, and she had that same sense that he was searching for something, that she was a mirror granting him only a dark and blurred reflection. “I pray that the flames of the Embrace grant you peace. Goodbye, daughter of flame.”

He couldn’t possibly mean it. He wanted this, damn him. If there was any trace of regret in his voice, it was because he’d lost his chance to be the one to murder her.

Beroe, meanwhile, had extended her hands, cupping blue flames in each. She looked radiant, resplendent, terrible. “Come, sister. Be free.”

Sephre lurched back, panic beginning to dig claws into her, tearing at her muscles to run. The soldier farthest to the left wasn’t properly braced. Could she knock him down? Run for the stairs? She forced calm into her voice. “No. Please, agia.”

The tiniest flash of impatience wrinkled Beroe’s brow. “You want this, sister. You told me yourself.”

“Yes,” Sephre admitted, sliding a single step to the left. “I did, once. But I can’t. I need my memories. I need to go out there and rescue Timeus!”

“You should accept your mercy and be glad of it,” Lacheron chided her. “The boy is dead. As you would be, if you were so foolish as to enter the labyrinth. No living thing can endure that foul place.”

“The balewalkers did,” Sephre countered, and saw the man flinch. Beroe remained unmoved, still a beatific vision of unrelenting redemption.

But Sephre didn’t want redemption. She wanted to find Timeus. Not to make amends, not for absolution, but because it was the right thing. Let her own spirit be devoured, but she would not abandon that boy.

She bolted. Shoved her shoulder hard into the leftmost soldier, who gave a gratifying yelp as he toppled. Two more bounds, and she was halfway to the steps.

More hands grappled her. A fist slammed into her belly, leaving her gasping. They wrenched her back, spinning her to face Beroe.

“It will all be over soon, sister.” The new agia’s eyes burned full blue now. Her hands were wreathed in Phoenix-fire as she reached out to gently touch Sephre’s cheek. “You are still an ashdancer. You swore to honor your agia. Trust me to do what is best for you. To save you from this corruption.”

“I. Don’t. Want. It.” Sephre ground the words out. “And you can’t Embrace me if I don’t accept it. Please, Beroe. You’re not stupid. You saw that codex. You trusted Halimede. Lacheron is lying .”

For a moment, she thought the words had reached Beroe.

The blue veil parted, and she glimpsed the woman’s true, mortal eyes, brown and clever.

Then the celestial flames roared back. And Sephre knew there was no hope.

Whatever was in Beroe now was something more than mortal.

And it wanted only to consume. To purify. To burn.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” said Beroe, inexorably. “I have to save you from yourself.”

And then the blue flames were in Sephre’s eyes. Dancing over her skin. Hungry, searching, yearning. A brilliance that stole away all shadow. There was no place to hide. No place for those old shames and pains to shelter. All of it burst into sharp relief. She screamed as heat flared through her.

No. Not now. She could not lose herself. She shoved the flames back, casting them away. My name is Sephre. I murdered a city and betrayed a friend, but I will carry all that if it means I can save a boy’s life. My name is Sephre, and I will not forget. Sephre. Sephre. Sephre.

The grip of the flames loosened. She took the opening, lashing out. Kicking. Wrenching. Biting. Beroe screamed.

Blood. She tasted blood and ash. But she was still Sephre, and Sephre she would remain, until death took her.

Which might be very soon, if she didn’t get out of here.

Beroe was no longer a figure of gentle release.

She was wrath and fury. Sharp white teeth that bit off each word as if it were fresh meat.

“Keep your memories, then! Keep the taint!” the new agia spat. “But you will not despoil the flame!”

The fire flared higher, brighter. A whirling inferno that held no kindness, no gentleness. It clawed at her relentlessly. Sephre clung to the only thing she could. Herself.

There was a rushing, like the indrawn breath of a great beast. Then, nothing. She was still chanting her own name as she fell to the stones, shivering and gasping. Her teeth chattered. “S-Sephre. I’m Sephre.”

“Yes,” said Beroe, her voice cool, tinged with regret. “Sephre. Only Sephre.”

Sephre couldn’t make sense of the words. She lifted her hands. Her palms were cold. Her entire body was so cold, so cold.

Something gold glimmered in Beroe’s cupped hands. A ball of soft yellow flame.

Understanding howled through Sephre then. Her flame. Beroe had taken it. Even now, the agia was turning, holding the handful to the split stone, feeding the yellow sparks back to their source.

When Sephre had first come to Stara Bron, she had overheard two of her fellow novices gossiping about a red brother who had left the order three months prior.

Apparently a soothsayer had named him the reborn heir to a powerful cloth merchant.

The merchant had given a large donation to Stara Bron, and the red brother had given up his flame in order to accept his new role. But he had done so willingly.

Don’t , she ordered herself. She couldn’t stop to mourn. She had to go. Timeus .

Lacheron was frowning. “Agia, she must not be allowed to—”

Sephre stopped paying attention. All that mattered now was escape. She spun, kicking out, catching one man in the knee. Slammed a fist into the neck of the woman beside him. Then threw herself toward the stairs.

“Stop!” shouted Beroe.

Sephre did not stop. She pelted down the steps, ignoring the throbbing of her head, the ice in her chest. A bolt of blue flame exploded against the stones beside her.

She ducked, and ran on. If she could just reach the ridge below, she could cut across the mountainside.

It would be a rough scrabble, likely too rough for Beroe, especially if she meant to keep her new robes pristine.

There. The last turn. Just a few more steps.

Pain exploded across her shoulder. Blue sparks danced in her eyes. Her next breath was like sucking down a storm, lightning hammering her chest. She smelled burning hair. Burning flesh.

Then she was falling, slamming into the stones. The world stuttered, shadows grasping at her vision.

Death. This was death. She thought that naming it might make her less terrified, but no. She was trembling. She’d always thought she would meet her death bravely. Fates. Forgive me, Timeus.

She could beg it of him. Not the others. But Timeus, at least, she had tried to save.

Darkness fell over her. This was it, then.

Hands grasped her arms. The shadow shifted, becoming a man. “Not so fast,” he said. “You’ve still got something I need, sister.”

That voice! Sephre blinked, her vision still bleary.

“Did you miss me?” Nilos stood over her, his green eyes wickedly bright.

She couldn’t work her lips, not even to curse him. He gave her a wry smile. “I told you we’d meet again. We’ve much to discuss, you and I.” He crouched, hefting her into his arms. The movement set off a spiderweb of pain. Her shriek came out a tormented croak.

“Shh.”

Was he really trying to shush her? She tried to glare at him, but the shadows returned, swarming over her vision. Her body went limp, and darkness took her.