Nemesis

by Kat Ross

  The tension in the room dissipated, though Nazafareen noticed that Darius’s face had gone excessively smooth.

  “Now,” Kallisto said briskly. “What’s happened? Where is the heir? You must tell us everything.”

  Nazafareen left this task to Herodotus, who did a masterful job of weaving the truth with bald-faced lies. He picked up the tale just after Kallisto’s departure, relating the encounter at the Mer and how Nazafareen—Ashraf—realized the Vatra’s knife had belonged to Sakhet. The pursuit to Tjanjin and Meb’s abduction into the emperor’s palace. When Herodotus reached the part about the wave, he made it sound it as if her power had spontaneously manifested itself.

  “And where is Meb now?” Kallisto asked softly, a dangerous glint in her eye.

  Herodotus tugged at his beard. “With the Marakai, my dear. They were rather insistent.”

  Kallisto did not seem appeased. “You were supposed to bring the girl to the Temple of the Moria Tree. She would have been safe there.”

  “Yes, well, Meb preferred to go with her own people. And she is the talisman.”

  “What about this Vatra?” Stefán interjected. “I’d say he’s our main concern at the moment. Where did he go?”

  “He fled into the shadowlands,” Nazafareen replied. “But he will be searching for the other talismans. You must be ready.”

  “We’re always ready,” Frida replied, her green eyes disdainful. “But if he works fire….” She shared a look with Runar and Stefán. “We will have to join forces and kill him quickly, before he can touch his power.”

  Runar turned to Broken Nose. “Triple the sentries. Tell them to watch the gate.” He scowled. “They should have been anyway.”

  The Valkirin nodded and hurried from the chamber.

  “Where’s Rhea?” Megaera asked.

  “She’s in Stefán’s camp,” Kallisto replied. “We arrived at Val Altair just as most of the holdfast was departing to meet Runar and the others at Val Moraine.” She glanced at Stefán. “He doubted my tale at first, but when I swore on this”—Kallisto picked up her staff—“he knew I spoke the truth. We have been his guests since.”

  Stefán grimaced, though amusement laced his voice. “I tried it out myself first. I attempted to say I was heartbroken at the loss of Eirik Kafsnjór. The damned thing wouldn’t let me. Gave me a quite a jolt when I persisted.”

  “And the Valkirin talisman?” Herodotus put in.

  “Remains unknown,” Runar said, exchanging a look with Stefán.

  “Are there no records from that time?” Herodotus persisted. “A secret library, perhaps?” His voice took on a wheedling tone. “I do read old Valkirin and I’d be more than happy to assist.”

  “I wish there were,” Runar replied. “I can tell you who the original talisman was. A woman named Freydis Sigurdadottir. The power then passed down to her daughter Ranveig and to her daughter Torhild. The lineage was guarded closely. Only the heads of holdfasts knew about it. I imagine Erik Kafsnjór did.”

  “But there was no telling which of the descendants would inherit the gift,” Stefán said, picking up Runar’s thread. “It could be the firstborn or the last. And some of those old Valkirins were quite fruitful. My mother said they tested children to determine who was weakest in air, but after a few hundred years, the practice waned.” He looked uncomfortable. “Being burned out was our greatest shame. No one wished to remember it anymore and it didn’t seem like the Vatras were coming back.”

  “Can you narrow it down to one of the four holdfasts?” Nazafareen asked.

  Runar shook his head. “There’s always been intermarrying. The bloodlines are all mingled.” He crossed his massive arms. “Stefán and I can both personally vouch for the riders we brought. They wouldn’t be here if they weren’t the strongest we had. There are a few back at the holdfasts, of course. It’s also possible the talisman died at Val Moraine.” He looked at Frida. “What about Val Tourmaline?”

  Frida shook her head. “None of mine, I already told you.” She hesitated. “There is one I don’t know well. It’s unlikely though. She’s known for her ferocity and skill in battle.”

  “Unlikely or not, I would speak with her, if you’ll permit it,” Kallisto said.

  Frida considered this. “I don’t see the harm. I’ll go find her.”

  When she was gone, Herodotus turned to Runar. “Does Frida lead Val Tourmaline? I thought Halldóra was mistress of that holdfast.”

  “You know a great deal about us, mortal,” Runar replied suspiciously.

  Herodotus spread his hands. “I’m a scholar, driven by simple curiosity about the world. I’ve studied the Danai and Marakai as well, of course, but I’ve always had a particular admiration for your people. You thrive in these harsh, inhospitable mountains, a feat no other clan could attempt. And you have tamed the abbadax, the fiercest creatures of any species.” He tugged absently at his beard. “I don’t mean to pry, but your customs and hierarchy are fascinating. I even wrote a little book about them, which was well-received among my peers.” Now he coughed in an embarrassed manner. “I wish I had a copy to make a gift to you, Runar of Val Petros, truly that would be the highlight of my career.”

  Runar preened a bit at these words, no doubt as Herodotus intended. He had a way of buttering people up while seeming perfectly sincere, even a bit hapless, like a friendly dog you can’t resist patting on the head. By the end of their sea journey with the Marakai, Nazafareen felt sure he’d extracted every bit of information worth knowing about them, all without them quite realizing what he’d done.

  “Yes, I see,” Runar grumbled. “Well, back to your original question.” His expression darkened. “Victor Dessarian, that cowardly cur, murdered Halldóra in cold blood after they’d reached agreement to unite against the Pythia.”

  Nazafareen exchanged a quick, shocked look with Darius.

  “He invoked a talisman that formed a shield of ice around Val Moraine,” Stefán said angrily. “We’re at a stalemate for the moment, but we’re not going anywhere until Halldóra is avenged and her heir restored to us.”

  “Halldóra’s grandson, Daníel, was a prisoner of the Oracle but managed to escape to Val Moraine,” Kallisto explained. “He’s still inside the keep. They fear Victor will kill him.”

  “That son of a pig,” Runar muttered. “He not only killed Halldóra, but also Eirik’s great-grandmother, Gerda. One of the oldest among us and he struck her down like she was nothing. He will not have a swift death when we get inside, that I can promise you.”

  Nazafareen listened as they ranted on about Victor. She could strangle the man. At one point, Darius opened his mouth to say something and she stepped hard on his foot. He made a small noise and shot her a slit-eyed look, but remained silent.

  As Darius had advised her, one thing at a time. It sounded as if Victor had been busy digging his own grave. Perhaps she could convince them to let her inside to talk to him….

  The door swung wide and Frida entered, trailed by another woman. She was tall and broad-shouldered, with chiseled cheekbones and eyes like green glass. She exuded arrogance and barely restrained violence.

  “This is Katrin Aigirsdottir,” Frida said to Kallisto. “The last survivor of Val Moraine, except for Culach. She found us over Mýrdalsjökull glacier and pledged herself to Val Tourmaline. She was in the hall when Halldóra and Gerda died.”

  Kallisto swept forward. “I’m pleased to meet you Katrin,” she said warmly. “Thank you for coming.”

  The woman nodded brusquely.

  “What is it you want? I was in the middle of a patrol.”

  She glanced over Kallisto’s shoulder, surveying Darius, Herodotus and Megaera with thinly veiled dislike. Then her gaze landed on Nazafareen and the blood drained from her face. Nazafareen looked back at her uncertainly. She didn’t know Katrin, she felt sure. But then she had those damn holes in her memory.

  “You,” Katrin breathed, every muscle rigid.

  The temperature in the room se
emed to drop another ten degrees.

  “What’s wrong?” Frida demanded, staring between Nazafareen and Katrin.

  “You’re supposed to be dead,” Katrin snarled, incandescent with rage. “We set chimera on you.”

  Nazafareen reached for the hilt of her sword, but of course they’d taken it.

  “You’re wrong,” she said with a calm she didn’t remotely feel. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

  Katrin’s livid gaze fixed on her stump. “It is no mistake. You killed my sister!”

  3

  Kallisto’s Staff

  Darius tensed as the Valkirin reached for her sword.

  The last survivor of Val Moraine.

  She must have been there when Culach’s soldiers poured through the gate. He didn’t remember her face, but his attention had been focused on Nazafareen and how to stop her from dying in his arms.

  Of all the bloody people….

  A tide of earth magic pulsed against his skin, begging to be used. It was strong so deep within the mountain. He could crack bones with it. Open the ground beneath their feet.

  Or he might bring the mountain down on all their heads. And then the Valkirins would know him for what he was.

  Darius drew a sharp breath. He moved to stand in front of Nazafareen, ready to unleash hell and face the consequences, but the attack never came. Katrin’s fingers gripped the hilt of her iron blade, her teeth gritted, as if she were trying to draw it but couldn’t.

  “Release me!” she yelled.

  Power crackled in the chamber—air power. Frida’s hair ruffled in a breeze that seemed to be focused exclusively on her and Katrin.

  “Calm yourself,” Frida snapped. “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know her name, but I know her face. I’ll never forget it. She’s the one who broke the wards on the gates. Then she turned on us!” Katrin could barely get the words out. “She’s an abomination. We sent Petur to kill her, but he failed.”

  “And then Eirik sent the chimera.” Stefán suddenly looked more wolf than fox. “Yet here she stands.” He turned accusing eyes on Kallisto. “This girl is no mortal.”

  “Her magic doesn’t work here,” Katrin ground out. “Let me kill her before it’s too late!”

  Three sets of icy eyes fixed on Nazafareen.

  “Well?” Stefán asked in a dangerously soft voice.

  “I’d like to see you try,” Darius snarled.

  Nazafareen drew herself up, pale but composed. How he loved her at that moment.

  “Katrin is right,” she said. “I am a Breaker. My true name is Nazafareen. I lied because I feared exactly this reaction. But I acted in self-defense that day. There was a creature from the Dominion lurking just inside the gate. It latched onto Culach somehow. It would have killed him, and then me.”

  “Lies,” Katrin growled.

  Nazafareen stared back at her, unafraid. “Hate me if you will. But you need me. I’m the only one who can fight the Vatras. I can break flows of magic. And when you find your talisman, you’ll need me to break the wards that suppress their power. I did it with the Marakai girl.”

  Kallisto raised an eyebrow. “You…?”

  “We saw it,” Herodotus put in. “Nazafareen meant to break the gate so the Vatra couldn’t escape with Meb, but her power struck the girl instead. We thought she was dead. But when she resurfaced, she called the wave.” His eyes grew distant. “I’ve never seen the like.”

  “What are they talking about?” Katrin demanded. “What is a Vatra?”

  The three leaders of the holdfasts exchanged a long look.

  “She doesn’t know,” Frida said. “I’m not surprised. Most of us don’t.”

  Runar sighed. “A thousand years ago, there was a fourth clan of daēvas. The Avas Vatras. Children of fire. They waged war against us. As you can imagine, they were unstoppable. They burned the holdfasts and the forest. They would have hunted every one of us down, but then three daēvas appeared, one from each clan, gifted with extraordinary power. They made the Gale and banished the Vatras to the other side.”

  Katrin shook her head. “Fire daēvas?” she repeated hoarsely. “How can it be?”

  “It’s true,” Frida said. “Halldóra told me the story. She said the power was passed down, but over the long years, we lost track of who had the gift. No one thought the Vatras would come back. They faded into legend.”

  “But how could such power go unnoticed?”

  “The descendants couldn’t wield it freely like the first talismans,” Stefán said. “Kallisto says the sign of the heirs is a weakness in the power.” He looked at Nazafareen. “But it seems this woman can shatter whatever magic holds it in check.”

  Herodotus cleared his throat. “There is an ancient scroll speaking of a Fourth Talisman. Without her…. We would be naked before the storm.”

  Katrin had stopped struggling, but she still looked furious.

  “Fairy stories,” she muttered.

  “Believe it or not, I don’t care,” Runar said sternly. “But her fate is ours to decide, not yours.” He managed to loom down at Katrin though they were nearly of a height. “Which brings us back to the reason you were brought here in the first place. The Marakai have their talisman. But we have yet to learn who ours is. So I ask you, Katrin Aigirsdottir, are you weak in air?”

  Katrin stared at him. Broad shoulders hunched defensively.

  “I am Valkirin,” she finally managed. “What you ask is shameful and insulting—”

  “There is no shame,” Frida interrupted. “Everyone knows your skill with a blade. It’s legendary. Your worth is not in question.”

  Katrin shuddered. Darius almost felt sorry for her. Her deepest, darkest secret was being dredged out, and in front of despised strangers no less.

  “I…. I do have trouble sometimes….” Her face went blank.

  Stefán’s eyes narrowed. “It’s how the Dessarians managed to take you alive, isn’t it?”

  Katrin didn’t respond. She seemed beyond hearing. Red blotches burned her pale cheeks and she stared miserably at a spot on the far wall.

  Frida laid a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be a fool, Katrin. This is cause for celebration, if you are indeed the heir.” She turned to Nazafareen. “How do you free her power?”

  “I have to be in Solis. The magic is tied to fire, although that is not my main talent,” she added hastily. “I’m not like the Vatras.”

  “Then she must go with Katrin to the sunlands without delay,” Runar exclaimed. “I’m happy to provide an escort.”

  Stefán frowned slightly. “I will send a delegation as well. We all have an interest in the outcome.”

  The two Valkirins eyed each other sideways, mutual distrust thickening the air.

  “Of course,” Nazafareen replied easily. “But since we’re being honest, I will confess the real reason I came here. I wish to see Culach. And perhaps I can talk some sense into Victor while I’m at it.”

  “Culach?” Katrin snarled, embarrassment vanishing as her enmity returned in full force. “Are you mad? He’ll spit in your face.”

  “That’s what I told her,” Darius muttered.

  In the tension and revelations of the last few minutes, the Valkirins seemed to have forgotten him. But now Frida’s gaze lingered on his dark hair and broad shoulders, his proud beak of a nose.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Daraya.”

  “Daraya.” She turned to Kallisto. “Give him your staff.”

  Kallisto didn’t move. “Is this really necessary?” she asked calmly.

  “You already lied to us once. And I seem to recall this girl taking refuge in the Great Forest of the Danai.” Frida’s jaw set. “I say it again. Give him your staff. If he has nothing to hide, he should not fear it.”

  Stefán and Runar watched impassively. When she still failed to comply, Stefán made a brusque gesture.

  “I’ve treated you as a guest. Don’t make me re
gret it.”

  Left with no choice, Kallisto stepped forward and offered the staff to Darius. He examined it for a moment, pretending mild curiosity, then curled his fingers around the haft. A tingle ran though him as the wood touched his palm, like sliding into a bath of cool water.

  “My trust for strangers is small,” Frida said. “These are dark times. War brews in the mortal lands. The Danai think they are cuckoos, roosting in a nest built by others.” She pointed to the staff. “There is no question that this talisman compels the truth. All of us sense its power. So I will ask you, Daraya, are you a mortal?”

  Darius opened his mouth to confirm it, but no sound came out. He cleared his throat and tried again with the same result. The tingling grew stronger, nearing the edge of pain. Stefán stared at him intently, as if he knew exactly what happening.

  Darius swallowed, his mind racing.

  “No,” he said at last, and the unpleasant sensation from the staff instantly receded.

  Broken Nose gripped his sword, but Runar shook his head.

  “Not yet,” he said. “Let us hear the rest.”

  “Your true name,” Frida demanded.

  He licked his lips. “Darius.”

  “Of the Danai, I presume?”

  “Yes.”

  “What House?”

  Darius steeled himself.

  “None.”

  The word spilled from his tongue clear as a bell. The staff seemed to accept this answer. He hadn’t been certain it would, though in fact, it was literal truth.

  “Really?” Stefán’s shrewd eyes regarded Darius. “How so?”

  “I was born in a different land. A world that lies through the Dominion.” Darius met his gaze with perfect innocence. “The same that Culach Kafsnjór sought to invade.”

  Runar nodded slowly. “I have heard of it.”

  “I come from there as well,” Nazafareen put in. She looked thrilled to divert the questioning along a different tack. “It is a mirror world to this one in many ways. Herodotus here can confirm it.”

  Runar cast her an annoyed glance at the interruption. His hard gaze returned to Darius.