Page 77 of House of Dusk

SEPHRE

S ephre had managed to work her way through the crowd of soldiers and servants, all the way to the dais while the princess spoke. She might not be a giant serpent, but the Sibyl of Tears was still an excellent distraction.

Now Sephre skulked in the shadow of one of the pillars, leaning out to measure to distance between herself and Beroe.

The agia stood beneath the bright sun, her gold ornaments glinting and shimmering, turning her into a living pillar of light.

Sephre risked a glance toward Timeus. She’d sent him to the far side of the Stara Bron delegation, to try his best to spread a warning through the rest of the ashdancers. She hoped they would listen.

Sephre doubted anything she said would sway Beroe. But maybe the Sibyl of Tears would have more luck. Beroe was frowning, listening to the girl speak. Then came the final passionate accusation.

You are not the Ember King!

The temple fell utterly silent. It seemed as if the thick hot sunlight turned to amber, prisoning them in the moment.

Except for one tiny flicker of movement behind the king.

Someone creeping toward Hierax, almost a mirror to Sephre herself.

A tall, brown-skinned girl barely older than Timeus, moving with an admirably compact grace.

She looked fierce and wary and infinitely capable. Fates, I hope she’s on our side.

Hierax’s thunder shattered the silence. “Enough. My daughter claims to speak for the Fates. Let us see what the Phoenix has to say. Agia Beroe, invoke the Blue Summons!”

Beroe hesitated. Sephre saw it, the tiny crease between her brows. Her wary glance toward the sibyl. Sephre clenched her fists, her body bent as if she could will the woman to reject the command. Don’t do it.

The crease faded, swept beneath a mask of resolve. Beroe lifted her hands. Blue flames leapt to her fingers. She began to speak. “Daughter of dawn, mother of flame, child of chaos and bringer of life, I call to you, as agia of the House of Dawn. I bear the— oof !”

Sephre caught her around the waist, carrying them both to the ground in a tangle. She shifted, grappling Beroe’s arms, keeping her weight on the other woman’s legs to stop her thrashing. “Don’t do it! If you care anything for the Phoenix, you can’t bring her here!”

Beroe spat blue fire into her face. That was a trick Sephre hadn’t seen Halimede use. She jerked back, her memory spinning to the last time she’d faced Beroe’s flames. The scorching heat of them, blistering her skin. The scent of her own hair burning.

A spasm of old pain rippled through her shoulder.

A dim voice pleaded for her mercy. A baby wailed.

But she did not turn aside. She accepted who she was.

Who she had been. It was part of her, but not all of her.

The flames sizzled against her skin, but they did not burn.

Coolness welled from her own flesh to meet them.

Quenching them. Beroe gave a huff of surprise as her flames found no purchase.

“I’m not yours to burn,” Sephre growled. “I belong to the House of Dusk now.” She dug her fingers into Beroe’s wrists, prisoning her there. Making her listen. “Lacheron means to kill the Phoenix. That’s why he wanted the blade of oblivion. He’s working for—”

Pain cracked sharp and sudden across the bridge of her nose. Stars shattered her vision. She tried to shake her head to clear it, which only set off a cascade of further agony. Furies’ tits, she’d forgotten how much a head-butt hurt .

She scrabbled to right herself, to grapple Beroe again, only to find herself surrounded by a hedge of spears. Beyond the soldiers, Beroe clambered to her feet. Lips open, eyes blazing, hands entreating the sky.

“I bear the holy flame!” she cried. “I stand anointed and ready to receive you. Come, Holy One, and honor your ancient vow!”

If the world had a heartbeat, those words halted it. Sent out a ripple that surely must have been felt by every living creature, ants to elephants. Sephre felt it hum over her skin, itch at her gums, drag tears from her eyes. Don’t listen, she screamed silently. Don’t come!

If Sephre had still belonged to the Phoenix, maybe the god might have listened. Could she refuse the summons? Or did it bind her, that old ancient promise, even if it meant her own doom?

A brightness fell through the open oculus above, harsh and clear, trailing sparks of gold and crimson.

An ache caught Sephre, a memory of flame.

Not burning, but warming her, keeping her safe, driving back the nightmares.

Then her vision paled, and she had to throw a hand over her eyes.

The last thing she saw was Beroe, arms lifted, face turned up to welcome the brilliance, her expression rapturous.

Then a gasp of—shock? Surprise? Indignation?

Sephre lowered her arm, wondering what it meant.

Beroe still stood, arms spread in supplication, but her eyes were no longer on the sky.

She was staring down at a fragile figure swathed in gold who stood below the dais.

Princess Sinoe, the Sibyl of Tears, wreathed in a bright corona of flame that spread from her shoulders in a rippling cloak.

No. Not a cloak. Wings . Sephre watched, her mouth dry with wonder, as the flaming wings beat inward, into the princess, infusing her with their brightness.

The girl gave the smallest sigh, like a child slipping into sleep after a restless night.

Her eyes blazed with a pure white light, utterly consumed by what she carried. She lifted them to Beroe.

I have come, daughter. I honor the old promise.

Her lips moved, but the words came from elsewhere, from the sky, from the earth, from the pulse of Sephre’s heart.

Before her, the entire world trembled. Beroe had gone ashen, her fingers twisting into her sleeves.

Sephre almost felt sorry for her. She could not have expected this.

For the Phoenix to claim the princess as her vessel, rather than Beroe herself.

But for all her flaws, Beroe had never been one to quail under pressure. She gathered herself. Straightened her robes, then dipped in obeisance. “Holy One, we beg your aid. The old enemy seeks to return.”

Sephre staggered to her feet, every movement leaden.

The Phoenix tugged at the fabric of the world, at the flow of time.

Not unlike the awe she had felt in the presence of the Serpent.

Though not, she realized with an uncomfortable lurch, when he took human form.

When he was Nilos. Maybe that was what he meant, when he warned that a god reforged would not be the same.

The Phoenix was still wholly a god, even if she had claimed Sinoe’s voice.

Yes, said the Phoenix incarnate, her eyes shimmering. My eldest brother stirs, deep within the abyss. And he has found one of you to serve him.

Beroe jabbed an accusing finger at Sephre. “Her! She’s his creature. She’s given herself to the Serpent! His poison is in her skin. She can’t deny it.”

Sephre stood taller. “I don’t want to deny it! The Serpent is the god of death. The spirits in the labyrinth need him. The world needs him. Unless you’d rather let the First One rise up from the abyss and destroy us all.”

Beroe blanched. Shook her head. “That’s not—”

Yes . The Phoenix spoke, her flaming eyes shifting away. To Hierax. You carry his weapon.

“No. That’s the Ember King,” protested Beroe. “Your champion. Please, grant him your blessing, so he can cast down the Serpent and prevent a second cataclysm.”

It is there. In his grasp.

Hierax set his hand on the hilt of the dagger.

An evil thing. Crafted by a power that would unmake this w orld.

“Letheko is my holy weapon,” said Hierax. “I’m going to use it to save the world. I am the Ember King reborn!”

He spoke strongly, defiantly, but he was a lion roaring thistledown. The words had no power beyond his lips. They floated, wisps of false glory, then blew away to seed themselves elsewhere.

Slowly, terribly, the Phoenix began to advance upon him. It does not belong in this world. It must be cast back into the abyss. And all marked by its taint shall be burned away. Her arms began to rise, crackling with white-blue flames.

The king took a step back, skin flushed bright as his mantle. His heavy eyes were wide, on the edge of panic. “Lacheron! Tell her who I am!”

Sephre had lost track of the Heron, her brain full to brimming with the Phoenix’s presence.

It was a mistake. He was the true enemy.

Beroe was only his tool. The agia had played her part, despite all Sephre’s efforts to stop her.

Her only hope now was to prevent Lacheron from carrying out the rest of his plan.

But he was already moving, pulling something from his belt.

She could not make out what it was. A bit of clay?

Lacheron touched the thing, and the Phoenix suddenly howled, her voice mortal and immortal all at once, both of them agonized.

Ribbons of darkness clawed up beneath her feet, clutching at her, prisoning her.

Furies take the man. What had he done?

Wails and protests spiraled up from the crowd. They must feel it too. A queasy lurch, as if the world had tipped just slightly askew. The terrible certainty that those ribbons of gleaming darkness were something else: the sharp talons of a vast and perilous beast, reaching up from the abyss.

Only Lacheron seemed unmoved, unaffected. “Of course, my king.” He regarded the Phoenix, trapped within the cage of dark claws. She made no effort to escape. Only stood, blazing and defiant.

“This man,” said Lacheron, sweeping a grand gesture to the king, “is no one.”

Sephre wished she could take pleasure in the look on Hierax’s face. The slow crumbling of those arrogant walls, the ones he’d held so fast around him all this time. But she did not dare take her eyes off the Heron, as he stalked closer and closer to the sputtering king.