Nemesis

by Kat Ross

  “What have you done to the boy?” the Valkirin demanded.

  “I won’t say he’s well, but there’s been no permanent damage. Yet.” He leaned forward, his mind racing. “I don’t wish Galen harm. And we don’t have to be enemies. I want the Gale down, but it’s for my own reasons. Personal reasons. If you just—”

  Nico tensed as the door to the Archon’s bedroom flew open. Domitia strode inside, Basileus at her heels, looking terrified. Livid spots of color burned her cheeks.

  “Negotiating behind my back?” she said tightly.

  His own temper rose up in a red tide. He cast a furious look at the Archon, who quavered. “How dare you come bursting in here?”

  “That’s my globe,” she grated.

  Nico felt the heat building and dove from the bed an instant before it erupted in flames. The silk sheets went up like parchment, curling and blackening. Basileus uttered an incoherent sound of distress. Domitia made a sharp slashing gesture and the flames subsided, leaving a heap of charred wood and the lingering smell of smoke.

  In three strides, she was at his side, wrenching the globe away. She peered into its depths.

  “Nazafareen?” she whispered, her face taut and pale.

  Nico almost felt sorry for the Breaker. She’d clearly had no idea. Not a bleeding clue. But to her credit, she recovered quickly.

  “So you know my name,” she said. “What shall I call you? Not the Pythia. Not the Oracle of Delphi. Those are false titles. Masks of convenience.”

  Domitia devoured her image in the globe, her lips slightly parted, eyes soft, like a woman pining after an absent lover. There was something greedy and disturbing in it.

  “How I’ve wished to speak with you.”

  “Your name, Vatra.”

  “Is it important to you?”

  “I like to know who it is I’m going to kill.”

  Domitia smiled indulgently. It was obvious she liked this girl despite everything. Perhaps because of everything.

  “I’ll tell you when I see you.”

  The Breaker didn’t say anything. Nico could tell she was examining this new piece of the puzzle, turning it this way and that, to see how it fit with the rest. It didn’t take her long to grasp the new picture. Her amber eyes widened, very slightly. She began to rub the stump of her right wrist in a distracted manner.

  “You see now,” Domitia said, with the bright tone of a teacher bestowing praise. “Very good. Yes, the Danai are coming. They expect to face a mortal army. Perhaps two or three captive daēvas.” She studied Nazafareen. “And now you intend to save them. How could you do otherwise? They sheltered you when the Valkirins wanted your head. Well, you can certainly try, though I don’t think you’ll make it in time.”

  Nico expected threats or curses, but the Breaker surprised him.

  “What is it you want?” she asked calmly.

  “Meet me at the Gale. If you do, I’ll spare the Danai. And once Galen has unraveled the line of storms, you may have him back. He’s of no further use to me anyway.”

  Nazafareen nodded thoughtfully. “I’m not in Solis. You must give me three days to get there.”

  “One,” Domitia countered with a chill smile. “You have one.”

  She released the flows on the globe and turned to Nicodemus. Her anger had vanished, replaced by wry amusement.

  “If stupidity was a crime, you’d pass the rest of your days in the Polemarch’s dungeons.” She slipped the globe into a fold of her white gown. “Did it never occur to you that the girl you defiled this afternoon might be one of my spies? Oh, of course not. I’m sure you thought she couldn’t resist your masculine charms.”

  She reached out to pat his cheek and Nico jerked his head back. As often happened in his dealings with Domitia, he felt helplessly outmatched.

  “Poor Basileus had nothing to do with it, so don’t go and burn him up in a snit.” She drew a deep breath and gazed at them both. “The army will march for the Umbra when Hecate rises. We’ll intercept the Danai there and inform them of the situation. They will accompany us to the Gale as hostages. If needed, we’ll make an example of one or two. That ought to settle them down.” Her gaze grew distant. “I told you, Nico. I told you she would come to us.”

  He didn’t respond as she strode to the door, where two Shields of Apollo waited to escort her back to the temple. Before it had closed, Basileus was on his knees, ashen and trembling.

  “My lord, please, I swear I didn’t know. It’s as she said, the girl—”

  “Hush.” Nico stared at the charred bed. “I believe you.”

  “Thank the gods.” He rose and staggered over to a half-empty decanter left over from the night before. Basileus drank straight from the jug and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

  “My lord, when the Gale comes down….” His Adam’s apple worked convulsively for a moment. “You’ll tell them, won’t you? Tell them how I cooperated. I can still be of use.”

  Nico rubbed his forehead.

  Nazafareen.

  The name sounded exotic and foreign to Nico’s ears, not Greek or Persian, definitely not Tjanjinese. When had Domitia learned it? And what else did she know that she wasn’t sharing?

  “You can be of use right now,” he said. “Dismiss the servants. All of them, down to the last stable boy. If I am betrayed again, we’ll both know who did it.”

  “Immediately, my lord.”

  Nico didn’t bother correcting the man. The title seemed to reassure Basileus. It was something he understood.

  “And open the shutters. Let’s have some fresh air.”

  Basileus scurried to the windows and threw them wide. The last vestiges of smoke blew away on a fresh breeze.

  “Shall I carry out your order now?” Basileus wondered. “The first one, I mean, about the servants.” Each word was enunciated with weary precision, like a man on his deathbed dispensing his final wishes.

  “Not just yet.”

  A quick check of the hall confirmed that no one was out there, ear pressed to the door. Nico closed it again. He sat down and propped his feet on the desk, carelessly easing a pile of parchment to the floor. He looked at Basileus for a long moment.

  “Despite this lapse, I’m going to take you into my confidence,” he said. “First, what did Domitia promise you to make you her creature?”

  The Archon blinked. “Domitia, my lord?”

  “The Oracle. That’s her name. The one she didn’t want to give up just now.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “Well? What was the carrot she dangled before your nose?”

  Basileus fingered his chain of office. “She said she would make me Tyrant of Delphi.”

  “Of course. That would be a tempting incentive. And do you still expect her to actually fulfill this promise?”

  The Archon was corrupt and ambitious, but not, apparently, brainless. “No, my lord.”

  “I don’t either. Which leaves you in a difficult position, don’t you think?”

  Basileus said nothing. He was waiting for the point.

  “I’ve known Domitia a long time. She’s not a person either of us would be wise to cross. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that.” Nico paused. “But nor am I willing to hand her the keys to the kingdom, so to speak. You’ve never met her father. Just as you were Domitia’s creature, she is his. He’s not like me.” Nico let these words sink in. “He’s not even like Domitia. Gaius is….” He searched for a way to explain that Basileus could grasp. “A man beyond right or wrong entirely. These things have no meaning for him. Your own darkest deeds wouldn’t even scratch the surface of what Gaius is capable of. So I’ll ask plainly, which side will you choose?”

  The Archon studied him for a moment. He seemed to gather the shreds of his courage. “The one that wins, my lord,” he replied dryly.

  Nico laughed. “Good for you. An honest answer. I think we understand each other now. But if Gaius escapes the Kiln, there will be no side to choose. You will die. That is simple fac
t. What I offer you is a chance, a slim chance, to live. I make no promises. But if we fail, I will likely die too. Do you accept?”

  “Accept what?”

  “You mean, what is my devious plan? How will I stop her from giving her father free rein over heaven and earth?”

  “Yes.” Belatedly, “My lord.”

  Nico leapt to his feet, causing the Archon to rear back in alarm. He kicked a piece of charred wood, sending it spinning across the floor. It might have been a head, or perhaps a breast, as they’d been approximately the same size.

  “I don’t know yet. But she must have a weakness we can exploit.”

  “There is none I have ever discovered,” Basileus replied in funereal tones.

  “No, she does have one. The collars. She cannot control them herself. She must rely on others to manage her captives.” Nico thought for a moment. “Tell me more about this acolyte named Thena.”

  Basileus shrugged. “She’s a fanatic.”

  “Yes, but what sort of fanatic?”

  “She is a devotee of the sun god—”

  “Precisely!” Nico exclaimed. “Of the sun god. And she gobbled up that nonsense about the witches. Now she knows what Domitia truly is. A witch. And not just any witch—a Vatra. Would the mind of a fanatic be turned to a new path so easily?”

  “I suppose not. But she has remained loyal.”

  “Just as you have, Basileus?”

  “I see your point. But what good can she do us?”

  “That remains to be seen. But she must have a secret desire in her heart. Not to be Tyrant, of course, but something else. We all have secret desires, don’t we?”

  Basileus took the question as rhetorical and ignored it. Still, Nico could tell he was chewing over the possibilities. He was a man who relished a juicy intrigue.

  “Find out what you can about her. Where she comes from, how long she’s been at the temple. I wish to know everything.”

  “As you say. But the Pythia—”

  “Domitia, Basileus. Let us call her what she is.”

  “Domitia said we’re marching for the Umbra.” He glanced out the window, where Selene was sinking below the rooftops. “Within the hour.”

  “Then you’ll arrange to ride on the same wagon with Thena. Let her know your loyalty is to Apollo. Be sympathetic. Like a kind old uncle.”

  He nodded glumly. “I suppose I’ll have to pack my own bags. If I’m dismissing the servants.”

  “A terrible burden, but you’ll manage somehow.” Nico paused. “When you speak to them, don’t be hard on that poor girl. I’m sure Domitia threatened her.” He glanced at the bed. “It’s a shame. That was a nice mattress.”

  Basileus pursed thin lips in distaste.

  10

  To the Umbra

  Nazafareen watched as the globe returned to a scene of wispy fast-moving clouds driven by some ethereal wind. Her fingers relaxed their death grip on the glass, although she wanted nothing more than to slam it into something hard.

  I’m a goat-brained fool, she thought, the fury she’d repressed nearly boiling over.

  How they must be laughing at her right now.

  Nazafareen drew a deep breath, exhaling it in a white mist. She should have guessed the truth—she’d always sensed something strange about the woman—but she’d blindly accepted the facade of a fanatic, just as the Pythia intended.

  “All this time,” she muttered. “The same enemy. They were always the same.”

  Culach rubbed his chin. “Let me get this straight. The Oracle of Delphi is a Vatra. The same Oracle who calls us witches and says magic is a sin.”

  A bitter laugh spilled from Nazafareen’s lips. “Don’t you see? It’s perfect. Who would ever suspect her?”

  He shook his head in wonder. “What a twisted creature.”

  “No, she’s very clever. She has the mortals bowing and scraping to her, and by the time they realize they’ve been used, it will be too late.”

  Nazafareen palmed the globe, mastering her emotions with a great effort. She could rant and rave later, once Darius was free and they were on their way. “May I keep this globe? I intend to find the Danai first, if I can. For some reason, I don’t trust the Pythia’s promises.”

  “Of course,” he replied without hesitation. “But if you go to war, I would give you another gift before you leave.”

  “That’s kind, but there’s no time—”

  “I expect Runar and Stefán took your sword.”

  Nazafareen grunted in assent. She pocketed the globe. “I’m pretty sure they threw it into the ravine.”

  “I would give you another.”

  He looked so earnest, she could hardly refuse. And she felt naked without a sword, even if iron had little effect on the foes she faced. “Thank you, Culach. I accept.”

  She expected him to offer his own, but he rose and pulled a coat on, then strode confidently to the door. Mithre waited outside. Victor’s second pushed off the wall and walked over, a guarded expression on his face. He scrutinized Culach, then Nazafareen, as if searching for injuries.

  “Prepare whoever’s left to depart the keep the moment the ice defenses are lifted,” Nazafareen said briskly, peering up at him. “I’ll have the Valkirins fly you out by abbadax. And find Victor. The siege of Val Moraine is officially over. No plunder, they might search you on the way out and I don’t need another headache.” She paused. “Oh, by the way, the Pythia is a Vatra. I intend to meet her at the Gale. And crush her.”

  Mithre’s eyebrows rose, but little seemed to faze him at this point.

  “We’re bloody well going with you then.”

  Nazafareen gave him a tight grin. “I imagined you would. Best get moving. I plan to be gone from these mountains within the hour.”

  Mithre gave her an ironic salute, but his steps quickened as he moved away, shouting for the other Danai.

  “You handled him neatly,” Culach observed, guiding her the opposite way.

  “I think I’m getting better at diplomacy.”

  He laughed. “That’s one way to put it.”

  Culach led her down a series of staircases deep into the mountain. He didn’t seem hindered by his lack of sight and she found herself hurrying to keep up with his long strides. The vast bulk of Val Moraine lay buried within the mountain and she was only just realizing how enormous it was.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked finally, trying not to show her impatience.

  “The catacombs. Don’t worry, we’re nearly there.”

  “You mean where you keep the dead?”

  “Yes. Does that bother you?”

  She thought about it. “No. Not really.”

  They passed into a series of twisty tunnels. The ceiling grew lower, the air even more chill. Culach pulled a lumen crystal from his pocket and thrust it at her.

  “Can you use these?”

  “I…yes.” Nazafareen ignited the talisman with ease. She hadn’t held a lumen crystal since that fateful night the Valkirin assassin came to her house. How she had struggled with the simplest flows then. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  “I don’t need it, but you’ll want some light,” Culach said. He seemed uncomfortable, though she had a feeling it wasn’t because of his blindness.

  “Thanks.”

  Culach rounded a corner and the first bodies appeared. They lay on rock shelves, a patina of frost glittering on hair and eyes. Nazafareen looked at them with frank interest. She knew so little about the Valkirins. They had proud, haughty faces, but they certainly liked shiny things. She saw rubies and sapphires, diamonds and emeralds, and other precious stones in unusual hues—violet, lilac and rose.

  “It’s just ahead.”

  Culach halted at a niche containing a woman with short silver hair and eyes precisely the same green as his own, like new grass. Her face was youthful, but marked with lines of pain.

  “This is my mother, Ygraine Grimsdottir.”

  Nazafareen didn’t speak. She felt indecent gawki
ng at the body and averted her gaze. Culach reached out, tentatively, his fingertips brushing Ygraine’s cheek. She sensed some powerful emotion churning within him.

  “I never knew her. She died in childbirth. But Gerda told me stories about her. She was a fierce warrior, but she also had a sense of humor.” His fingers wandered to his mother’s breast and the sword that lay there. “This was forged in Delphi. Normally, we don’t name our swords. They are not children or pets. If a blade is sharp, one is as good as another. But the smith who forged this sword decided to give it a name. It’s called Nemesis, after the Greek goddess of revenge.”

  “Nemesis,” Nazafareen repeated softly.

  “My mother found it appropriate.” He touched the hilt. “Pick it up.”

  Nazafareen reverently slid the iron blade from Ygraine’s frozen hands. It was not a broadsword, but a shorter, more nimble weapon, double-edged and with a leaf-shaped design.

  “It’s called a xiphos. They’re one-handed. You see the curve? That gives momentum to the point of impact. It’s a nasty little weapon.” Culach’s mouth curved in a smile. “Of course, she added her own motto.”

  Nazafareen traced the silver lettering engraved on the blade.

  “I can’t read it,” she admitted, the familiar flush of embarrassment and wistful longing creeping up her neck. “I never learned how.”

  He laughed. “Very few mortals could read these runes. It’s in Old Valkirin.”

  “What does it say?”

  “No battle is won in bed,” Culach replied, amusement in his voice.

  Nazafareen smiled. “I like that.” She paused. “Are you sure—”

  “Ygraine would want it to be wielded again. Not by anyone, mind you. But against the Vatras? She would love that.” He paused. “And after this, our debt is cleared.”

  “There was never a debt, Culach.”

  He waved a hand, his face growing serious again. “You must stop them, Nazafareen. I’ve seen things….” Culach trailed off, his gaze haunted. He cleared his throat. “You must stop them. No other can.”

  “I will.”