Page 9 of House of Dusk

SEPHRE

I n her old life, Sephre might have drowned her riled spirits at the taverna.

Zander had always known where to find the best brews.

Even during the worst privations of the siege, he’d managed—via bribes or threats or quite possibly sorcery—to obtain several bottles of Scarthian milk wine.

To celebrate our victories , he’d told her, grinning.

But the toasts she remembered were all in memory of the fallen.

There were no tavernas in Stara Bron, of course. But Sephre did keep a small supply of wine in her workshop, purely for medicinal application. After such a day as this, surely she might stretch the definition of “medicinal” and take a cup.

If only Brother Timeus hadn’t taken her request to clean up the kitchen garden quite so literally.

In his zeal he had weeded the herbs so carefully there was not a single errant sprout or fallen twig, then fallen upon the basket of neglected glassware she’d been meaning to wash and had left out hoping the rains would do the work for her.

She’d returned from the agia’s office to find the boy with his sleeves turned up, elbow-deep in a soapy pail, whistling cheerfully as he scrubbed his way through the mess.

She hadn’t had the heart to ask him to stop, even if it meant the loss of her usual refuge.

She could have gone to the dining hall instead, to join her fellow ashdancers in an hour of quiet companionship and spice tea before the evening meal.

They were pleasant times, listening to Brother Dolon expound on some new scroll he’d discovered in the depths of the archives, or watching Brother Orrin try yet again to beat Brother Petros—who cheated with more flair and aplomb than any of the professional dicers Sephre had known—at hopstones.

But the interview with Halimede had left Sephre too uneasy for that. And so she sought a more solitary relief. A different sort of drowning.

Sighing, she let her head tip back against the edge of the bathing pool, breathing in the hot steam as the warm waters did their best to unlock the tension from her limbs.

The baths had been an unexpected joy at Stara Bron. Fed by the hot blood of the earth itself, they were warmer than the finest steam rooms of Helissa. So old that the steps to enter the pool had been worn into curves by generations of ashdancers come to wash away the grime of a long and trying day.

If only she could so easily wash away Halimede’s words. I need you, Sister Sephre. All of you. Who you were, and who you are. I need you to help me fight it.

Fight what, though? Rumors and speculation?

The deaths were troubling, yes. But as yet there were no skotoi clawing their way out of the netherworld.

No signs of imminent cataclysm, of the return of a long-dead god.

The only devastation Sephre knew had been caused by a mortal man, in his quest for power, to prove himself the Ember King reborn.

Maybe it was simply an excuse to justify denying Sephre the Embrace.

Oh, yes, she chided herself. Because everything is all about you. Never mind the apocalypse . The agia needed no justification for her decision. Even if it was the wrong one.

Sephre sighed, turning her attention to the more practical task of scrubbing herself clean.

She had doused her hands in vinegar after tending to the corpse, but she could still smell the reek of death on her skin.

She scoured the suds away, leaving bare a swath of clear olive skin, scattered with freckles.

Gingerly, she traced a circle of seven. Then dug in her fingernail, a pinch of pain. No, it was ridiculous. Coincidence.

“Sister Sephre?”

She startled, sliding deeper, so that the foam covered her. Foolish, letting someone sneak up on her. Especially Beroe.

“You don’t mind if I join you?” the woman asked, not waiting for Sephre’s uncertain nod before sliding off her robe.

She stood at the edge of the pool just long enough for Sephre to suspect it was for her benefit.

Not an invitation, but a show of strength.

A brandishing of supple limbs and creamy unmarked skin.

A body in its prime, in comparison to one that had been harder used.

Sephre huffed, hunting for the soap. When she turned back, Beroe was safely submerged, but giving her a shrewd, calculating look. “I expected you to support me this morning,” she said. “You’re a woman of the world. Surely you see what we stand to lose in denying Hierax.”

Sephre lavished her attention on soaping one callused foot. She did not want to have this conversation.

“Stara Bron is dying ,” persisted Beroe. “Two-thirds of the ashdancers are above fifty years. If the Serpent waits long enough, no one will be left to stop him.”

The words itched with uncomfortable truth.

Every night, Sephre climbed past a dozen empty rooms on the way to her own bedchamber.

And on the weeks she couldn’t wheedle her way out of the tedious summations meetings, she faced the rows of empty benches, enough to seat over a hundred, twice their current number.

It disturbed her more than it should. The thought of this place she loved diminishing.

Of her garden untended, falling to weeds when she was gone.

Of the gentle murmur of prayer falling silent.

But surely it wasn’t so dire as Beroe made it.

“Brother Timeus is a promising lad,” she countered.

“The stripling with the big ears?” Beroe scoffed. “His parents are weavers.”

“And mine were shepherds. Do you think me lesser for it?”

It was not an uncommon view, especially among those born to power and wealth.

To believe that they had earned such blessings through the deeds of past lives.

That their current bounty was a sign of intrinsic worth.

But Sephre had known plenty of powerful folk who were just as flawed as their so-called lessers.

Beroe met her challenging gaze without flinching.

“I wouldn’t be here if I did. I’m sure the boy will make a perfectly suitable ashdancer.

But he came here with three baskets and a bag of lentils.

That’s hardly the sort of offering that will allow us to prepare for what’s to come.

We need postulants with coin. Patrons with resources. ”

Sephre dug determinedly at the dirt crusting one of her toenails.

“But so long as Halimede refuses the Ember King, we’ll see none of that. No one will dare risk his ire.”

She let her foot fall back into the water. “What do you want, Beroe?”

“I want Stara Bron to survive. I want us to be strong. I want us to do our duty and guard this world against whatever evil comes to claim it.”

Yellow flames flickered in Beroe’s eyes as she spoke, waking an answering heat in Sephre. She sounded sincere. She probably was sincere, curse it. But that didn’t mean she was right. And she hadn’t answered Sephre’s real question.

“What do you want from me ?”

Beroe hesitated. Probably searching for the perfect twist of words. Sephre had no patience for subtlety. “Just say it.”

“Very well. What did you and the agia discuss?” Beroe’s lips pinched. “This is no time for secrets. And my flames are as yellow as yours.”

Sephre scoffed. “You’re jealous? Afraid I’ll try to claim the white mantle when she’s gone?”

Something sparked in Beroe’s hazel eyes. A glint that was more than the holy flame. Oh, yes, she wanted it. No doubt about that.

Sephre shook her head, abruptly weary of it all. “Don’t worry. That’s the last thing I want. I’m not even sure—” She caught herself before she betrayed too much. “What I discussed with the agia was personal.”

Beroe tilted her head, studying Sephre. When she spoke, her voice was softer. Almost gentle. “It must have been a trying day for you, sister. To be reminded that there is such evil in the world.”

“I don’t need reminders. Some things you can’t forget.”

“No,” said Beroe, carefully. “Some things can only be burned away, in the embrace of the holy flame.”

The woman was too clever by far. Or maybe she’d heard something. It wasn’t only the novices of Stara Bron who loved gossip. Sephre tried to recall if there had been anyone else in the cloister when she was pleading with Halimede. She ought to have been more cautious.

Though if she was so sure she wanted—deserved—the Embrace, why did it matter if Beroe knew?

“But the Embrace is a blessing only the agia can bestow. Or deny.” Beroe watched Sephre closely.

That was why. Because knowing gave Beroe another tool to manipulate her.

“I’ve seen it, you know,” said Beroe.

Sephre looked up from the milky waters, unable to help herself. She knew nothing of the specifics of the rite. “That little boy a few years ago?”

“No. Brother Dolon.”

“Brother Dolon was Embraced?” That was a surprise.

She had thought the man as much an institution at Stara Bron as Halimede.

It was impossible to imagine the archives without his broad smile, his bushy brows arching with enthusiasm over even the smallest and humblest research request. A dozen questions crowded her tongue.

“It was well before the war,” said Beroe. “You know I came very early to the temple, of course. I may be the youngest of the yellows, but I’ve carried the holy flame for nearly twenty years. I served my novitiate under the agia herself,” she added, with a proprietary smirk.

Sephre considered privately that Halimede was fortunate that Beroe was a woman and not a hound, or she might well find herself pissed on. Claimed as territory.

“So what, then?” Sephre demanded. “You’ll give me the Embrace if I help you become agia?”

A tinge of crimson colored Beroe’s cheeks. “It’s not about wanting to be agia. It’s about what’s best for Stara Bron. Can you honestly tell me you don’t see the signs? That something terrible is coming? I’m asking you to help me stop it. To be the hero you say you are.”