by Kat Ross
Nemesis
Kat Ross
Nemesis
First Edition
Copyright © 2018 by Kat Ross
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This story is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Cover design by Damonza
Map design by Robert Altbauer at fantasy-map.net
To Thing #1 and Thing #2, for letting me warm my feet on your bellies when I write
Contents
Prologue
1. The Lost Prince of Val Tourmaline
2. Reunions
3. Kallisto’s Staff
4. A Bargain
5. The Ones We’ve Been Waiting For
6. Apollo’s Arrow
7. Victor’s Folly
8. A Visitor from Beyond
9. The Mask Falls Away
10. To the Umbra
11. Déjà Vu All Over Again
12. Ashes to Ashes
13. Mirrors
14. The Battle of Delphi
15. Caligula
16. Cat and Mouse
17. Death Becomes Her
18. An Uneasy Alliance
19. Thief of Hearts
20. Weddings and Wind Ships
21. A Gilded Cage
22. The Horn of Helheim
23. A Drop to Drink
24. The Red Hills
25. Spawn of the Kiln
26. There Will Be Blood
27. Collar Them All
28. A Test of Faith
29. The Beast at the Door
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Kat Ross
Characters in the Series
Glossary
Acknowledgments
Fragment from the lost diaries of Nabu-bal-idinna, alchemist to the Persian King Teispes in the years 506-513 A.S.*
* * *
And so it came to pass that on the ninth day of my wanderings, I spied a tower in the wilderness, hexagonal and made of dark stone resembling obsidian. From a distance, it appeared to have no means of entry, but as I approached, an archway appeared in the gloaming. A woman stood just within the threshold. Her skin was pale as alabaster, her hair the black of a raven’s wing. I would not call her beautiful, but she had a force of will that arrested the eye.
Never before had I encountered another living soul in the Dominion. I made her a courteous bow, though my heart beat with apprehension.
“What is thy name?” she asked sweetly.
I told her, and explained my purpose: To map the shadowlands for my king.
She listened with polite interest, never moving from her place just within the archway. I had the strong impression she could not pass beyond the confines of the tower.
“Have a cup of wine with me,” she said with an enticing smile. “Few visitors come this way, and fewer still who are young and handsome.”
I suspected she was flattering me and my instincts warned me that she was dangerous, but I have always been burdened with an insatiable curiosity.
I bowed again and entered the tower.
* * *
*After Sundering
1
The Lost Prince of Val Tourmaline
Flying.
The smell of the stables—dry dung and saddle oil and the pungent musk of the abbadax—triggered a physical ache, like an essential part of him had been ripped away. Mina spent half her time prowling the distant corners of the keep, searching for some sign of her son Galen, and during these periods of solitude, Culach had lain in bed and fantasized about long flights over the mountains and sea, each breath a communion with the elements. He remembered the way the moonlight burnished the waves to a cold gleam. The sweep of powerful wingbeats and stinging frost on his eyelashes. Sometimes he’d taken jaunts over the great forest, though he took care to keep out of arrow range in case the Danai sentries spotted him.
In his darker moments, Culach thought he’d forgotten the taste of freedom, but coming to this place always reminded him.
“Ragnhildur?” he whispered.
There was no cry of greeting this time. No scrape of claws on stone. He moved forward, fingers trailing the wall of ice.
“It’s me,” he said, his voice too loud in the claustrophobic hush. Once, the stables had been wide open to the sky, scoured by wind and with an inch of fresh snow underfoot. Now they were a tomb.
“Where are you, my darling?”
Silence stretched out and a bone-deep fear gripped him. Culach had grown accustomed to losing things.
His kin.
The ability to wield elemental power.
His sight.
Even his name. All that was gone and he’d finished mourning it. But the thought that Ragnhildur had died alone drove a spear of ice into his heart.
“I meant to come yesterday,” he whispered brokenly. “I was just so tired.”
Dreams of the Viper still hounded him. Fire and torment and virulent hatred for the other clans—and even the Viper’s own. Seeing through the man’s eyes exhausted him. Culach knew he’d been sleeping too much, but he couldn’t help it. If not for Mina, he might have ended the dreams the coward’s way with a cut to the wrists. He carried a knife, though he hadn’t used it yet. It made him feel safer. Val Moraine was full of ghosts. He thought he heard them sometimes, creeping about….
Culach nearly jumped out of his skin at a soft, rasping sound.
“Ragnhildur?”
Another faint sound, like a sigh. Culach dropped to hands and knees, crawling forward. He reached out and touched a beak. She lay on her side against the ice wall. He pressed his cheek to her foreleg. And now she did chirp, though it was weak. The bonds around his chest loosened a notch.
“Don’t worry, my love, I have something for you.” Culach felt along her wing until he reached the razor-sharp feathers at the tip. He slashed his palm along the edge and pressed the wound to her beak. “Drink,” he urged.
Her rough tongue lapped at the cut. Culach let her feed until his head spun. Then he took his hand away and stanched the bleeding with a corner of his coat. A bitter laugh spilled from his throat. His blood wouldn’t go to waste after all.
“I’ll give you some each day,” he whispered. “You won’t starve, my dear.”
He heard other pathetically eager sounds as the rest of the mounts smelled his offering. Culach’s jaw tightened. He could hardly feed them all. Victor had to free the poor creatures.
He wondered what his father had done about the mounts during the long siege of the Iron Wars. Eirik must have had access to fresh meat. Perhaps he’d kept animals in the food caverns. Whatever his other faults, Eirik understood strategy and planned ahead. Victor Dessarian was obviously flying by the seat of his trousers. But Culach wouldn’t stand by and watch the abbadax waste away. He resolved to find Victor and tell him this in no uncertain terms.
His head turned as hisses erupted from the far pens, followed by a shriek from closer by. Katrin had returned to the keep with Halldóra, along with two others from Val Tourmaline. They’d struck an alliance—until the disaster with Gerda. But in their haste to flee, the abbadax had been behind and now a fight was breaking out.
He stood, dizzy from the blood loss. If they attacked each other, Ragnhildur would die for sure. She was stirring, but in no shape for a brawl. And he knew what the mounts could do to each other when
they got their hackles up.
More hisses, followed by the sharp snapping of beaks.
“Hey!” he shouted to the opposite end, where a group of Danai watched the tunnel.
“What?” a distant voice responded.
“I could use some help over here.”
Laughter.
“Are your birds pecking each other again?”
“It’ll be worse than that if we don’t stop it!”
“Victor said we’re to stay here. Can’t you handle it?”
Culach swore under his breath and inched forward. He cleared his throat. It seemed ages since he’d been a general, barking orders in a tone that demanded instant compliance. He drew himself up to his formidable height and glared in what he hoped was the right direction.
“Stand down,” he growled. “You are mine now.”
Air buffeted his face as one of the Val Tourmaline mounts flapped its wings and screeched a challenge.
No fear. That was the trick with abbadax.
He strode forward, closing the distance to the far pens. He sensed the coiled tension of their bodies, the burning intensity of six yellow eyes.
I must be mad.
“Stand down, or I’ll pluck you naked—” His feet caught on something and Culach tumbled forward, palms slamming into the stone. He cursed again and groped behind him. His hand closed on a muscular thigh.
What in Nine Hells?
Whoever it was, they were still warm. His hand crept cautiously higher. Definitely male. And in Valkirin leathers, though that didn’t mean much since all the Danai wore them now. He felt the hard planes of the face, the stubbled jaw, some sort of iron collar—and a strong hand clamped down on his wrist. One of the abbadax burbled angrily, hot breath blasting his cheek.
“Where am I?” The voice was hoarse and confused, but Culach knew it. Daníel of Val Tourmaline.
“At Val Moraine,” Culach whispered. “Get your mounts under control. They’re about to attack.”
To his credit, Daníel obeyed without question. Culach assumed he’d gone with Katrin and the others, but he must have been left behind. He spoke soothing words and the mounts settled back on their nests.
“Fetch Mithre,” Culach bellowed at the Danai. “Right now!”
There must have been some of the general in him yet, for this time they didn’t argue. And so a short while later, Culach, Mithre and Mina gathered in Eirik’s study with Halldóra’s grandson, the heir to Val Tourmaline. Mina managed to find one of Gerda’s bottles of foul but potent brew. She poured some into Daníel, who had apparently been sleeping in the pens for the last three days and smelled like it.
“Halldóra,” he croaked. “I saw her…. Is she dead?”
“Yes,” Mina replied gently. “We put her in the crypts.”
“Did you see what happened?” Culach asked.
Daníel stayed silent for a long moment. The chair creaked as his weight shifted. When he spoke, his voice sounded stronger. “We were out in the hall. I heard yelling. It sounded like my grandmother. There was a powerful surge of air. Katrin kicked the door open.” He swallowed. “I saw Victor Dessarian with a bloody sword. Are you sure Gerda did it?”
“I despise Victor, but he had no reason to harm your grandmother,” Culach said. “Quite the opposite. No, I fear Gerda had her own motives.”
“Victor told me she believed the Vatras were coming back,” Mithre put in. “She wanted Halldóra to ally with them. Hallora refused and Gerda lashed out.”
“Where is Victor now?” Daníel demanded with some of his old spirit. “I would hear the story from him.”
“He’s around somewhere,” Mithre replied with a touch of irritation. “But first you’ll tell us why you were out there bedding down with the abbadax. We thought you’d left with Katrin and the others.”
Daníel didn’t answer this and Culach wished he could see the man’s face.
“Where are the others I came with?”
“Run off,” Mina said tightly. “With my son, Galen. Do you know anything about that?”
Daníel gave a heavy sigh. More creaking from the chair. “I’m afraid I might.”
Skirts rustled as Mina leapt to her feet. “What? Speak it!”
“I am a traitor,” Daníel said hollowly. “The mortals never helped me to escape from Delphi. Coming here was part of the Pythia’a plan.”
“And you said nothing? What kind of cowardly—”
Culach’s hand shot out, seizing Mina’s arm before she could do violence.
“Let him finish,” he said mildly. “If you wish to kill him after, I’ll help you.”
“No one’s killing anyone,” Mithre said, weariness in his voice. “Gods, I knew those women couldn’t be trusted. Go ahead. Tell us all of it.”
“I don’t blame you for despising me,” Daníel said once Mina had reluctantly sat down again. “I have no excuse, other than to say I was not myself. They did things to us....” He trailed off and Culach heard him drain the cup of wine.
“I know how the collars work,” Mithre said with a note of pity. “I wore something similar myself once. Don’t judge him, Mina.”
“Where is my son?” she snapped. “That’s all I wish to know.”
“Was he weak in earth?” Daníel asked.
“Oh gods. She took him, didn’t she? The one called Thena?”
“She may have, yes. It’s what the Pythia sent her here for.”
“And how did she get out of her locked chamber?” Mithre asked.
There was a long pause. Daníel sounded remorseful. “I let her go.”
Mina’s chair scraped back and Culach heard a resounding slap.
“You bastard,” she hissed. “How could you? How could you do this?”
“I tried to kill her but I…. I couldn’t do it.”
“Well, you could have just left and locked the bloody door again!”
Daníel said nothing.
“How did they leave Val Moraine?” Culach asked.
“There was a Talisman of Folding. Thena hid it near the cistern.”
“So you’re telling me my son is in Delphi, a prisoner of the Pythia, and wearing one of those vile collars right now?” Mina drew a deep breath. “We have to get out of here. Immediately.” She rose and began pacing the chamber. “You’re Halldóra’s heir, aren’t you? Make a bargain with your kin! Tell them you saw Gerda kill Halldóra. They’ll believe you.”
“If I can help break this siege, I will,” Daníel said. “And I’ll go with you to Delphi.” His voice hardened. “I would see the Pythia pay as well. It is her hand behind it.”
“It won’t work,” Culach said. “He was with Katrin and the others from Val Tourmaline. They know Daníel stayed out in the hall. And they’re convinced Victor did it.”
“And what of Runar and Stefán?” Mithre asked. “They arrived yesterday and they want our heads on a sharpened stick. Eventually, they’ll get tired of waiting. They’ll try to storm the keep. We’ll have to collapse the tunnel. And no one gets what they want.”
“I’ll go out there and talk to them,” Daníel said.
Mithre laughed. “No, you won’t. I’m not giving up our only leverage.”
“So I’m a prisoner?”
“Hell yes, you are,” Mina snapped.
“Where is Victor, anyway?” Culach asked. “Not that I miss him, but I’d expect him to be here.”
“No idea.” Mithre sounded annoyed. “I’ve barely seen him in days.”
Culach felt a twinge of unease. Victor Dessarian had grown strange of late. He didn’t smell right, for one thing. His scent was cold. Metallic. And Culach had heard him muttering to himself when they passed each other in the corridors. In another man, Culach wouldn’t be surprised. Victor was under a tremendous amount of pressure. His wife and son were missing, the latter almost certainly dead. His own mother had left him to twist in the wind.
Except that Victor wasn’t the sort to snap. He’d rage and bully and brood, but he lacked the
imagination to lose his mind.
“So what we do?” Mina demanded. “I’m not sitting here while that woman tortures my son to death.”
“She won’t kill him,” Daníel said. “He has value. She believes he is the talisman. That he has some extraordinary power.”
“And what exactly does she intend to use him for?”
“I don’t know.” Daníel blew out a breath. “I don’t know.”
No one spoke. Culach rubbed his forehead and groped across the table.
“Any of that wine left?” he asked hopefully.
2
Reunions
Artemis climbed above the western peaks, a pale blue disc next to the warm yellow of Selene and the silver of Hecate. It was strange to see three moons, Nazafareen thought. When she’d first arrived in Nocturne, the Wanderer had been a tiny dot, hardly distinguishable from the surrounding stars.
But over the last months Artemis had drawn closer and now it dwarfed Selene, the second-biggest moon. When it reached its full glory in a few weeks’ time, Artemis would summon tides to cover the land for leagues.
A portent of the war to come? Or simply a celestial coincidence?
Nazafareen gripped the next outcropping of icy rock and hauled herself up. Even in a fur-lined glove, her fingers had gone numb. The thin air of the high passes made the moons look close enough to touch, but it also left her fighting for each breath.
At least the night was clear and calm. Despite her exhaustion, Nazafareen felt at peace in the mountains. She liked the clean smell of snow and the way it crunched beneath her boots. The sky spread out above, inky black and dense with stars. The Valkirin range had its own unforgiving beauty that seemed to suit the daēvas who lived there. Nazafareen had come to know both the Danai and the Marakai fairly well, but the Valkirins remained a mystery. The other clans considered them aggressive and bigoted. They’d tried to kill her several times, so she couldn’t really argue with this assessment. Still, she had to convince them to join forces against the Vatras—a task that Victor had made exceedingly difficult.