“The truth is a hard thing to come by, here,” I said. “Mother claimed he was four hundred. Our histories say much the same thing yours do.”
“What about you?” Aethra asked. “The story you told me—you said it was only ten years ago. But that’s not true, is it?”
“No. It was twenty years ago,” I said, spinning the dagger. “I’m probably around fifty. I don’t really keep count.”
Eyes flaring, Aethra rubbed her head. “But if you people never die, wouldn’t there be . . .”
“Thousands upon thousands of people?” Eleos finished. “More than any country could hope to house within its walls?”
Seraphim shook her head. “No. Only the nobles are allowed to live forever. The people are not.” She traced her hand to the shrine south of the capital. “If you survive to sixty, you are brought to the Morai, where the three nameless fates decide your destiny.” Lifting her finger, her face broke. “Death, and release to the afterlife. Or punishment for your sins.”
Phaedrus chimed in. “Where you live another lifetime in repentance. A lowly beggar. The Duat. Labor camps.” He shrugged. “A convenient way to gather chattel.”
“And that’s one cycle,” Eleos guessed. “That shopkeeper—she said she was on her fourth.”
“Four visits to the Morai,” I said. “Two hundred and forty years of punishment.”
“The dread,” Eleos breathed, touching his forehead. “The psyches . . .” He stammered. “How long have they lived, hearing that song of dread?”
“Who knows?” Phaedrus shrugged. “The Morai doubtless keep punishing them. The suffering of thousands of people forhundreds of years . . . small wonder they’ve lost their minds.”
Aethra’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “So the nobles here are even worse than back home? They prance about, pretending to be gods, and force their people to live in absolute terror?”
“Yes,” Seraphim said. “It makes them easy to control.”
“Why doesn’t anyone do anything about it?”
Seraphim stood. “They do. Often.” She looked down. “My wife was born in this city. She was one of the rare few who kept their fire. We met while she ran with a small cell, harrying the nobles where they could.”
Curious, I quit fussing with my dagger. The last insurgency had been underway when I was exiled, but I had never learned its outcome.
I could fathom a guess.
Sniffing, Seraphim raised her head. “We had the most successful run of any uprising. For a moment, we believed we could reach the next step—forming a proper rebellion. But, we failed.”
“What happened?” Eleos asked.
“We were betrayed. The nobles cracked down and made an example of the captives. They killed innocents who had no part in us. My wife and I were captured, and the Morai condemned us to eternal torment in a labor camp.” She looked at me. “Duath Nun has been quiet ever since.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” I said. “There have been more attempted rebellions than I can count. They never work. It’s hard enough to get the damn people on your side—they’re terrified of the punishment they’ll receive if they’re caught.”
“I know,” Seraphim said softly.
Running a hand through his hair, Eleos paced the cramped loft before whirling around. “Duath Nun protects the Acheron because it grants them eternal life.”
“At the cost of all of you, yes,” I confirmed.
Rage ticked across Eleos’ face, and he returned to pacing.
Aethra watched him, and I could see the gears turning in her head. “The Acheron . . .” She breathed. “If we sealed it, they would lose their immortality.”
“. . . Most likely.” I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to fight against them, then?”
A smile flickered across Seraphim’s face.
“Aethra,” I said firmly. “You are not running off to join the insurgency. You’ll just get yourself killed. Or worse—caught.”
