Page 71 of House of Dusk

Sephre had expected pain. Instead, she drifted, her limbs loose and soft and untethered.

Even the ache in her knee was gone. She floated in a wavery, watery light.

It reminded her of a day they had been patrolling along the eastern shoreline during the siege, and had found a tiny sandy cove tucked into the sharp crags, practically invisible from outside.

It was hot as blazes and they’d been hiking since dawn.

She’d planned to keep going for another hour, but Zander had been very convincing about the tactical necessity of a swimming break.

The Bassarans might be using underwater tunnels , he’d said, already stripping off his tunic.

We need to make a thorough search. Vyria had added, Just as well we take a dip.

Some of us are starting to stink like the Beetle’s ass, which had led to a long debate about whether beetles had asses, which had only ended in a water fight.

The sea had been such a vivid blue-green that it was like floating in the heart of a jewel, the world a bright and glittering place that could do no harm to anyone. She had held that day like a treasure, locked away deep. This was the first time she’d thought of it since the end of the war.

The rippling light surrounded her, but it had no source. Her feet touched no sand, no stone. Then something shifted, the light thickening before her, taking form.

It was the woman again. Younger than Sephre, but no willowy girl either.

Unremarkable, with curling dark hair that hung to her shoulders, held back by a twist of blue cloth.

Freckled olive-toned skin, a hawkish nose that might have seemed too sharp on another face.

Thick, dark brows and a pair of clear gray eyes that regarded Sephre steadily. Not beautiful, but compelling.

It wasn’t her own face, but it was close enough they might be mother and daughter. “Who are you?” she asked.

“An echo of a memory,” the woman said. “I have no name. I gave it up. Burned it to ash.”

Sephre breathed in. Strange that she could breathe here, in this watery realm. But she felt her chest rise, felt the flood of coolness in her lungs. “You’re her. The Maiden.”

Not some shadow named faithless or faithful to serve those who survived her. Not a legend or a story or a half-remembered tale. This was the woman herself. Or some part of her.

“Why can I see you?” she asked.

“You know why.” The woman regarded her steadily.

Sephre had suspected. Had seen the shadow of this truth in Nilos’s eyes. Even so, her lips did not want to move. To speak it. “I’m...am I you? Reborn?”

One corner of the woman’s mouth tilted up. “ Reborn . A mortal word, for something beyond mortal ken. You carry something of me.”

Even so, if that was true, it had other implications. When a spirit was reborn, any trace of the old body fell to ash. Sephre forced herself to ask the question. “Then the bones, the reliquary we took from Bassara...”

“Are not mine. They belong to another.”

She had expected it. Still, it shook her.

“If you wish to aid her,” said the woman, “then you must finish the work I could not.”

“What?” Sephre asked. “You mean the Ember King? Stopping him from breaking the cycle? What does that mean?”

A shadow passed over the woman’s face. “It means the end of all this. The return of something old and terrible.”

“That’s all you can tell me?”

“I’m sorry.” The woman shook her head. “So much is ash. I couldn’t...I needed to forget.”

“I understand.” Sephre had almost done the same. And who was she to judge another’s pain? Pain was not some coin to be counted and measured and tallied up. It just was . You endured or you escaped.

“But...” The woman frowned, lifting one hand, brushing her fingers close beside Sephre’s temple. She thought of Nilos, cupping her cheek, and breathed deep again. “There is a face. In your memories. A face I know.”

“That makes no sense,” said Sephre. “You died centuries ago. Everyone you knew is dead.” Even the Serpent wore Nilos’s face, now.

The woman didn’t seem to be listening. She twitched her fingers. “This one. This one I know.” Her voice trembled with an emotion Sephre couldn’t name. A tangle of love and loathing.

She stepped back, clutching what looked like a bundle of quivering threads. When she opened her hand, they wove themselves into an image.

Sephre stared into the colorless gray eyes, the bland, forgettable face that had sent her to poison a city. “Lacheron.” She blinked. Breathed in the certainty of it. “He’s the Ember King. He’s the one who commands the skotoi. But...how can it be him? Still living? After three centuries?”

The woman was still staring at Lacheron’s semblance. It reminded Sephre uncannily of the way Lacheron had stared at her, on the mountaintop. A hungry, searching look.

Then she blinked, shook her head, and the vision of Lacheron unraveled. “His vengeance drives him. And his master preserves him. So that he in turn will preserve his master.”

“His master?”

“The First Power. The eldest child of Chaos. The destroyer.”

What had Nilos told her, earlier? A legend of five children of Chaos. A murderous firstborn god, sealed into the abyss, who threatened to one day rise and claim the world for himself.

“Why would anyone serve a god who wants to destroy the world?” That was the part Sephre had never fathomed. “Vengeance is one thing, if he blamed the Serpent for not sparing his people during the plague. But isn’t this...overkill? Is there more to the story?”

There must be. Like the unseen roots of an ancient olive tree, driven deep, tangled into stone, anchoring the silver leaves above.

But she could not see the shape of them.

Only a barest inkling, sieved from a dozen different—and often conflicting—legends.

A maiden who fell in love with the Serpent.

A king who sought to slay death itself. A witch who stole the power of a god.

The haunted expression in the gray-eyed woman’s face.

And Lacheron himself, telling her what he had sacrificed.

I lost the one person who mattered most to me. And I know I will never get her back.

“Was the Ember King...someone important to you?” she asked. “Is that how he convinced you to slay the Serpent?”

The woman hesitated. Trying to remember? Or trying to forget? “I’m sorry. My memories are ash. All I can tell you is that his face is...familiar.”

Sephre clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter why he’s doing it. What I need to know is how to stop him. Especially if I can’t just stab him.”

“You can. With the right weapon.”

“Letheko? You’re talking about the blade of oblivion?”

The woman shook her head. “It had a different name, once. So much has been forgotten. Cast into the flames and burned away. I...I was not strong enough. And now I may have doomed the world I sought to save. Deprived you of the weapon you need most desperately.”

“No,” Sephre said. “You did the best you could. And it’s not your concern anymore. It’s mine. I’ll get that dagger back. I’ll stop him.”

“You can’t stop him if you are dead.”

“I’m not—” She broke off as a wave of nausea suddenly swept over her. The luminous waters buoyed her, but they were no longer mild and gentle. She felt herself leaching into them. Like salt, dissolving into the sea.

“You are mortal,” said the woman, sadly. “And you no longer carry the flame.”

Sephre struggled briefly with her heavy tongue, her numb lips.

“I don’t want the flame. I want this.” She thought of her pain, her sorrow, her guilt, all of it.

And the love too, the gem-bright water, the smiles, the laughter, the warm touch of gentle fingers on her back. It was who she was. She would carry it.

“Ah.” The woman nodded. “Full circle, then. What I destroyed, you will renew.” She reached out, lightly, as if she meant to press her thumb to Sephre’s brow. But she was already fading. Or maybe it was Sephre’s vision turning hazy.

Let go. Let it be. Let yourself feel.

Feel what?

Everything.

Was it her own mind? Or some other voice, the wisdom of the waters themselves? Did it matter? She felt the truth of it. And obeyed.

Her life. All of it, crashing through her, fresh with pain and joy. Her choices. Her losses. Her mistakes. None of it could be undone. This was no absolution.

But it was change. Time spun on, and in it, a chance to make things better.

Then she was surging up, buoyed by a great swell. Water filled her mouth, her ears, her nose. She sputtered, beating her arms, and found herself standing waist deep in a dark pool, sodden and streaming.

The Serpent and Timeus stood above her, on the stone bridge. The god still wore Nilos’s face. He bent to seize one of her hands, helping her climb out of the water. “Welcome, Sister Sephre.”

“She said not to call her that,” warned Timeus. “She’s not an ashdancer anymore.”

“No,” said the Serpent, his green gaze holding hers. “She belongs to the House of Dusk now.”