The sun rose in the distance, painting the desolation red if only for a time, and it brought heat.

  Warmth where there should be none.

  It had been a few days of comfort. Of gentle rest, casual conversation, sustenance.

  Socia lay on a cushion, white canvas above and behind her, a bronze tray with dates and grapes beside her, and she eagerly partook of them.

  On the other side another also lay, strewn on a cushion of her own; she too sampled the tray. Though with less appetite and less hurry.

  A cup was filled, wine poured by unseen hands.

  But Socia could feel their presence — how they moved about.

  Phantoms, minds bereft of bodies, the dead.

  Here in her Lady’s sanctuary, the dead still served.

  She tasted the wine, savored it, and found it paired nicely with the dates.

  Dressed in thin silk robes, feet bare, she was attended by the dead.

  Wasn’t death the end of all things?

  “All things end when it’s their time,” her Lady said.

  Socia put her cup down.

  “But till then they must serve, for that is my father’s will,” her Lady said.

  She took a date, ate it, licked her lips and turned her gaze toward her Socia.

  “None may cease until my father decrees so,” she said.

  Socia knew. No, she didn’t know. She had been told, ever since she was a child. Upon death, all are returned to the Ambition, to be judged, to be reborn.

  These phantoms should not exist, but they did.

  The tray had vanished, removed by those she thought about.

  “There was once an underworld where the dead rested and waited to be reborn.”

  “My father found it unnecessary, inefficient.”

  “So, he removed it.”

  Her Lady no longer lay stretched on the cushion. She had pushed herself up with her arms to better face the sun.

  “He allows this indulgence of mine.”

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  Socia too now faced the sun, legs pulled close, arms around them.

  Even in death, service did not end.

  Such was the will of the Ambition.

  The pool was warm; her Lady made it so. Socia swam in the warmth and soaked in the heat. There were no servants, only them, and the sun.

  High in the sky above them, the sun could see them; bare, only covered by water.

  Her Lady rested, her back turned to her, only her shoulders above the water.

  “Do you find me cruel?” she said.

  Socia paused. Pushed her wet hair back, swept it over one shoulder as she rose from the pool.

  Cruel?

  Had she not chosen her?

  Did she not rule wisely?

  Socia looked at her. Saw her. Her beating heart, a silver fire. Her skin, so supple. Her hair, so fine. Her body — unmarked by blemishes or imperfections.

  “No,” she said.

  She moved close to her Lady. Her warmth.

  Her fingers touched her shoulders, traced her back, her cheek against her neck.

  A kiss. Then another. Lips against her neck.

  “No,” her Lady said.

  She moved away from Socia, ever so slightly.

  Turned around, her cheek against Socia’s.

  “I do not demand this of you,” her Lady said.

  She stroked her cheek and spoke one more time.

  “You are my servant, my Socia.”

  “I do not demand this of you.”

  She ascended from the waters, onto the dry land, and the tent that awaited her.

  Socia remained in the pool, soaked in its warmth.

  Her warmth.

  Socia sat and saw herself in the mirror. Reflected on its perfect surface.

  Her hair was a mess still, and there were no servants at hand.

  The dead seemed to be at rest for the moment.

  What was she thinking?

  Why?

  She had dared to touch her Lady without asking.

  Her finger stroked her visage, traced its shape, felt her skin.

  Her gaze fell on her reflection; it was still her own face — but changed.

  Different.

  She hadn’t really thought about it. Too much had happened. She had never been the fairest, nor plain either; but now the small flaws here and there were gone.

  Flawless.

  She had been struck many times, wounded, hurt, during her training. And then healed, but there were no scars, only smooth supple skin.

  Perfect.

  She buried her face in her hands, closed her eyes, as she sought to hide from the world. From her own countenance in the mirror.

  Who?

  Who was that person? What was she?

  As she freed her face from her hands, opened her eyes, she was there.

  “My Lady,” she said.

  Her Lady touched her hair, a frown on her face.

  “Let me help, my Socia, this will not do,” she said.

  Socia did not object as her Lady’s hands began to work. Fingers combed through her hair. Moved steadily. Weaved her hair into a single thick braid.

  Finished with her hair, she took her hand.

  “Come with me, my Socia,” she said.

  She led her out, into the dusk, the sun already below the horizon, the moon now the ruler of the sky.

  They walked a while and then she stopped and bade her to sit.

  And she did, eyes on her Lady, who remained standing.

  “Do you see them?” her Lady said.

  She did not.

  “Do not look for flesh. Or even mind.”

  “See their hearts.”

  But Socia could not see.

  Her Lady looked at the moon and began to sing.

  Of a land that never was, where under the moon’s light, the dead waited.

  To tell words left unsaid.

  Words of forgiveness.

  Of truths not told.

  Confessions.

  Of love.

  Of regret.

  To meet those taken too soon.

  Or unjustly.

  And as she listened to her song, she saw them all.

  Still phantoms and specters, lingering memories of lives lived.

  A child in a mother’s arms.

  A father, taken young; his son, his elder now.

  The song continued, the tune carried on. A haunting song, tender and fragile.

  Here they rested, the dead, until they could move on.

  Their lives lived, their deeds done.

  Their words said.

  Their hearts laid bare.

  Done.

  Then to be judged by her father.

  This place under the moon — an oasis amidst desolation.

  It was her sanctuary.

  For them.