Page 68 of House of Dusk

SEPHRE

S ephre jogged along the tiled streets of the city.

It’s still the labyrinth of the dead. It just looks like Bassara.

But telling herself that didn’t quiet the thrum of her heart, the icy stab every time she heard another desperate wail.

This place might not be real, but the spirits here were.

And that cry sounded so anguished. So lonely.

Hold on, little one.

Sephre halted, holding her breath, listening.

There it was again, more of a whimper now, but closer.

She spun, scanning the street. Was it pulled from her memory, somehow?

Mirrored back at her by the magic of the labyrinth?

It looked, felt—Fates, even smelled —so real.

It was only when she looked up that she knew otherwise.

The sky above was the same dull, grim gray she’d seen in the underworld.

So featureless it made your heart heavy to look at.

She was in a courtyard. Most of the Bassaran homes had these open spaces just inside the main entrance.

This one even had a lemon tree growing in one corner, though the tree was brown and withered.

There were several bodies. A woman curled near the tree, looking as if she were asleep.

Two older men collapsed in a tangle at the base of the stairs that led to an upper level.

A young man flung out more violently across the stones.

There was a cracked amphora beside him. The other three were easier to ignore, but the man she could not help but see.

The way his empty eyes stared so beseechingly up at the sky, the tongue swollen by poison.

These were the faces from her nightmares.

Another whimper. She spun, searching. It had come from the direction of the lemon tree. Sephre padded closer, eyeing the woman lying there, knees tucked, arms wrapped around herself. Like a child curled against a nightmare.

A flutter of movement, the faintest stirring. Sephre knelt, tugging at the dead woman’s arms. Not shielding herself. Shielding a bundle of cloth. A bundle that whimpered in Sephre’s arms. Fingers trembling, she plucked back the cloth, to reveal . . .

Nothing. A wisp of mist that spun away, leaving only the echo of a wail. The cloth fell from Sephre’s hands.

You did this.

It was the dead woman. A gray shimmer had risen from her curled corpse, to hang before Sephre. The details were hazy, but the eyes were sharp. Pale silver, unblinking, they transfixed her.

More whispers, behind her. Sephre stood, spinning, found that she was surrounded. The young man, the two older men, and more. Dozens of spirits had gathered. She could see nothing but the mist of their formless bodies, the piercing brightness of their accusing eyes. You did this. You.

“I...” Her voice faltered. “Yes,” she said. “I was part of this. I’m...”

She was going to say sorry , but her throat closed on the word. It wasn’t what they needed from her.

“Are you real?” she asked. “Or are you just a memory?”

Your memories don’t have faces, said the first spirit, the young woman. Only him. Only the soldier you loved. The soldier you killed. But here, here we have faces. Here you cannot hide from what you did.

Real, then. She caught another apology, swallowed it.

You torment yourself for giving him peace. And yet we are the ones in torment. Trapped forever in this place.

“Trapped?” Nilos had said there were too many spirits here. Was this why?

The wall of shadow binds the flame at the center of the labyrinth . We cannot be reborn. And the demons grow stronger, feeding on us. We grow weak. But you are strong. You could make us st rong.

The spirits pressed closer. Sephre shivered at the touch of chill fingers. Then gasped in pain as they dug deeper, jabbing into her flesh. She wrenched away, teeth chattering as if she’d been caught in a winter rain.

Was this the answer? To give herself to these spirits? A sacrifice to balance what she did?

No. She thought of what Nilos said. You can’t balance some great cosmic scale. You can’t win. But she could keep trying. Keep struggling. Keep trying to do whatever good she could.

The hands had followed her, tearing, scraping painfully over her living flesh. Her body was ice. She could not move, but she could still speak. “I’ll help you. Where is this wall of shadow? Can you take me there?”

A stillness. Then a sigh. The surging spirits subsided, like an angry sea turning calm. But they remained close, their chill seeping into her until she felt she had lost all sense of what it was to be warm.

Yes .

Steps cracked against stone. Sephre blinked, dizzy. The world had shifted again, the walls above her were black and glossy again. The sky above a dull gray. Somewhere, a faint trickle of water chimed, setting her teeth on edge. But the spirits remained, clotted close around her.

“Sephre?”

Someone was running toward her. Nilos. His clothing had seemed bland and forgettable back in the mortal world, but now the brown tunic was like a piece of rich earth. He was real and alive and the sight of him broke the rime of ice that held her.

The spirits retreated, opening a path between them. Nilos crossed it in three quick steps, and then he was there beside her, green eyes blazing into her with a mixture of alarm and relief. He reached for her, hands sliding along her upper arms, almost an embrace.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She gave a hollow huff. “I’m still alive.” And so was he. “You took Castor’s mark?”

“Yes.” A shadow passed over his face.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m still alive.” His lips quirked, but she heard the echo of her own grimness in the words. Right now, being alive was the closest either of them could get to all right . He knew that as well as she did. She could see it in his eyes.

His grip on her arms tightened a fraction. She leaned into his warmth for a heartbeat. Two. Three. Then she pulled back.

“I know why there are too many spirits here,” she said.

The gray mist still gathered around them murmured and muttered, pale eyes glinting in expectation. Sephre turned to them. “Take us to the center. Take us to this wall of shadow.”

· · ·

“A wall of shadow?” Nilos asked, as they followed the host of shifting spirits along another featureless corridor.

He paused, offering Sephre a hand as they came to one of the myriad pools.

There seemed to be more of them now. She hoped it was a sign that they were drawing closer to the center of the labyrinth.

The dread building in her was as bad as the tension before any battle.

Not knowing what she might lose. Not knowing if she would be brave enough to survive it.

“That’s what they said. It’s blocking the way to the holy flame. Which means none of the spirits can reach the Phoenix to be reborn.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. Most of these spirits died ten years ago, in the war. Bassarans who died when...when the city fell.” She kept walking, aware of his eyes on her. “But there are Helissoni soldiers too.” She’d spent some time searching, while they walked.

She had not found Zander. And she could not bear to think what that might mean. Couldn’t imagine him being torn by sharp teeth, his soul unraveling forever. They hadn’t even been able to shroud him. Boros had said a prayer, and Sephre had dabbed a bit of oil on his brow—lamp oil, not holy oil.

And likely she would never know if it had been enough. She’d simply have to live with it. Without any absolution, except what she gave herself.

But neither would she forget it. Because there was a difference. The pain of losing him was a torment, but only because of how much she’d loved him. She could not have one without the other.

“I’m sorry,” said Nilos. He might not know all of her past, but she could feel the weight of his understanding. Though weight was the wrong word. It didn’t hold her down. Nor did it lighten her burdens. She still carried them. But now he walked beside her on this path, and she was glad of it.

“I think you’re right,” she said. “About the labyrinth. About the struggle. About the holy flame and the Embrace. It’s not always the wrong choice. But I—I don’t want to forget. I want to do better. And I want to keep caring.”

“We’ll find the boy. His flame will keep him strong.”

“Fates, I hope so. He’s a good lad. A wise lad.” She hesitated, but if she was going to bare her soul, she might as well go all the way. “But he’s not the only one I care about.”

Nilos coughed, and stumbled, though he managed to make it look like a sudden decision to drape himself against the wall. He eyed her warily.

She took a step closer. He did not flinch away, which was a good sign. She’d been afraid she might end up looking the fool. Which, granted, was probably the least of her concerns right now. Though not according to her thrumming heart, apparently.

The slim wedge of air between them grew warm. She hadn’t seen him move, but he felt closer. When he sighed, it stirred the loose threads of her hair against her cheek. He reached out, tucking the strand behind her ear, fingers brushing her neck.

“Sephre, I—”

He broke off. Sephre shuddered at a sudden chill. The spirits pressed close around them, silver eyes bright, their whispers skittering over her skin. We are here.

· · ·

The heart of the labyrinth was an open space fitted like a bowl within curved black walls.

It reminded Sephre of the shrine at Stara Bron, except at its center was a wide, flat pool.

There was little else to draw the eye. A few gnarled trees bent along the edge of the pool, but they were dead and leafless.

Dark red vines twisted across the stones, dry, leathery leaves rustling like half-heard whispers from another room.