by Kat Ross
Basileus lifted Domitia in his arms, staggering to the wagon bed. Nicodemus wiped his face on his coat sleeve and turned back to the Shields. They were built like battering rams yet now they looked more akin to frightened children, flinching beneath his gaze. One made the sign to ward off evil.
“You there!” He pointed to the commander, a hatchet-faced man with a short beard named Leonidas, who was the only one to meet Nico’s eyes. He hurried over, his expression wary.
“I don’t doubt that you are a man of honor with only the best interests of the people of Delphi at heart,” Nicodemus said gravely. “The Pythia did not share your loyalty. In the end, she would have seen the city burn.” He paused. “You’re not stupid. You know what I am now. She was the same.”
Leonidas said nothing, though the blood drained from his face.
“I am a Vatra, but I have no hatred for mortals. If you follow my orders, Delphi will remain a free city—with a few changes.” He turned to Basileus. “The Archon acts for me, and you will obey him as you would myself. If you do not….” He gave a chilly smile. “I will know when I return with more of my kin. Is that clear?”
Leonidas drew a slow breath and nodded. “Aye, it’s clear enough.”
“All the men will return to barracks. This campaign is concluded. You will instruct the Shields accordingly. Intercept the infantry and horse and bring them back with you.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You’re dismissed, general.”
The man gave a brisk salute and went off to relay the orders to his men. Domitia had chosen her leaders well, Nico reflected. Leonidas might be appalled at the turn of events, but he’d mastered his fear and carried on. It was possible to adapt to almost anything with sufficient motivation.
He watched as the soldiers broke the camp down in record time. They seemed eager to be gone. Few spared Domitia a second glance, though he noticed they gave the wagon a wide berth. She would not be mourned.
Nico strode over to Galen and unwrapped the gag from his mouth. The Danai stared at him with wide eyes.
“There’s a good lad,” Nico muttered. “It will all be over soon.”
Basileus emerged from Domitia’s tent, looking pale.
“Thena is dead,” he said.
Nico glanced at Galen. “I can’t imagine you’re sorry to hear that.”
“I…I felt it happen,” he mumbled, stunned relief on his face. “The connection broke.”
“You will personally escort both bodies back to Delphi,” Nico told Basileus. He eyed Galen’s collar with distaste. “But first I need the keys to unlock that thing.”
“It will be done, my lord,” Basileus said. His lips pursed. “Thena was badly charred. I rolled her up in one of the rugs.”
“Good. You can remove the body. Put it in the wagon with Domitia.” He glanced at Galen. “Come with me.”
The Danai shuffled along next to him as they entered the tent. It was in disarray, the table toppled over. A pair of bare feet stuck out from the end of a rolled-up carpet. Basileus dragged it to the opening, where he bade two of the Shields to carry it to the wagon.
“I took her keys, my lord,” Basileus said, panting a little. He handed Nicodemus a heavy ring.
“Good.” Nico found the globe of seeking in one of the boxes, along with Domitia’s shadowtongue cloak. The feel of the rough, papery hide in his hands brought back a wave of memories, most of them ones he preferred to forget. It even smelled like the Kiln—dry and barren. But he might need it.
Nico shook it open and draped it across his shoulders. She was slightly shorter so it only reached his shins, but the fit wasn’t bad. Basileus looked away, discomfited by this reminder of his master’s past.
“I’m counting on you to keep Delphi under control until other matters are sorted out,” Nico said. “You have the army now. The nobles you must convince yourself.”
The Archon licked his lips. “I will handle them, my lord. Most of them feared the Pythia’s growing influence. They will not be sorry she is gone.”
Nico looked at him sharply. “If you turn the people against you with cruelty, I will not save you from the mob.”
Basileus gave him an offended look. “I am not Domitia, my lord. I never approved of the brazen bull in the first place. Do not fear, I will hold the reins of power with a just but firm hand.”
“Will you?” Nico murmured.
“What, my lord?”
“Nothing. You have my thanks for that bit of diversion, but do not cross me. I will return.”
Basileus gave a quick bow and swept off in a swirl of his crimson cloak. Nicodemus sighed and led Galen outside, watching as the wagons and horses disappeared into the rain. The solution was far from perfect, but the Archon could hardly be worse than Domitia.
He jangled the ring of keys.
“I’m willing to unlock that collar, but if you attempt to run, or to strike at me in any way, I will not hesitate to use fire. Is that understood?”
Galen stared at the keys. “Perfectly.”
“Turn around.”
Nico slipped the key into the lock and twisted. He lifted the hasp and the collar fell to the ground. Galen kicked it away and rubbed his throat.
“Thank you,” he said hoarsely.
Nico shrugged. “Save your thanks. I have my own reasons and they’re nothing to do with you.”
“Well, I don’t care what they are. I’m still grateful.” He paused. “What now?”
“We wait for a woman named Nazafareen. She’s a breaker of magic.”
“Nazafareen?” Galen swallowed. He looked ill.
Nico shot him a sidelong glance. “You know her.”
“She hates me. And she has every right to.”
He laughed feebly. “That’s two of us then.”
17
Death Becomes Her
The whitewashed buildings of Delphi flashed by beneath Berglaug’s wings. From high above, flattened and shrunk to miniature, the Temple of Delphi no longer looked so impressive. Like the Pythia, Nazafareen thought. She was no mystical seer. No mouthpiece of a god. Strip away her false authority and she was just a vengeful creature with a bone to pick.
Berglaug swooped lower as they followed the beaten trail of horses, boots and wagons from the edge of the Umbra to a wide, shallow place where the Pythia’s men had forded the river and continued toward the Gale. The sky grew darker and a light rain began to fall. Within minutes, the line of storms came into view. Grey anvil-shaped clouds stretched from north to south, lightning forking in their depths. A construct of magic so vast and awe-inspiring even her huo mofa shrank back from it.
The gates to the Vatras’ prison.
Nazafareen leaned into Berglaug’s neck, blinking water from her eyes, and then she saw two figures. They both wore cloaks with the hoods raised.
Some sixth sense made the taller one turn and look up. The face was a pale smudge, but she recognized Nicodemus.
Darius did too.
One moment he was tightly controlled calm. In the next, an explosion swept through their bond as the grief and anger he’d held in check burst its dam. Before Nazafareen could react, Darius tore free from his harness and dropped twenty paces to the ground, landing with feline grace. Nicodemus raised empty hands in surrender and was bowled over as Darius landed on top of him, his right fist lashing out in a blind rage.
Berglaug skidded to a stop. Nazafareen heard the harsh screams of the other abbadax as Katrin and Daníel alit on either side, leaping from their saddles with bared swords. Herodotus and the three Maenads circled around as she fumbled with her own buckles, clamping down on Darius’s elemental power. Breaking magic crackled at her fingertips, ready to quench any flames the Vatra might summon.
But he didn’t even try to fight back. He’d curled into a ball, trying to protect himself from the hail of blows. She had never seen Darius so utterly out of control. Mud splattered his face as he straddled Nicodemus, slamming him against the ground again and again.
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The second figure stood frozen, its back to her. Nazafareen grabbed the dark cloak, spinning it to face her. She expected the Pythia, but to her surprise it was Galen, looking eerily like a younger version of Victor. He was pale and sodden, much thinner than she remembered. A scraggly beard failed to conceal the hollowness of his cheeks. Overall, he looked as terrible as one would expect. Yet something struck her as off. Then his hood fell back, exposing his throat, and she realized what it was. No iron collar encircled his neck.
Galen shook her off and took a half step toward Darius, who pinned the limp, bloodied Vatra with his bad arm. The other hand fumbled for his belt knife, but the scabbard had twisted around.
“Stop!” Galen screamed. “He freed me!”
Nazafareen scanned the empty landscape. The flat plain offered no cover for leagues in any direction. They were alone.
“Where’s the Pythia?” Nazafareen shouted through a gust of rain.
“Dead. She’s dead.” Galen pointed to Nicodemus. “He killed her.”
Nazafareen shared an uncertain look with the others. She walked up to Darius and seized his wrist just as he found the knife. The look in his eyes could have frozen the sun.
“Let go,” he grated.
“We might need the Vatra alive,” she said firmly. “You’ve beaten him badly. It’s enough.”
“He was there—”
“And he tried to stop it. You saw that.” She paused. It was a strange reversal of their usual roles. Darius was usually the sane one. The ice to her fire. “Galen says he killed the Pythia. If it’s true, I want to know why.”
Darius’s jaw clenched. He stood and turned his back on Nicodemus, who stirred weakly.
Nazafareen looked at Galen. She had a few choice things to say to him, but not just yet.
“What exactly happened here?”
He drew a deep breath. “The Pythia planned to take me to the Gale, but then she accused Nicodemus of betraying her. They had words and he stabbed her with that knife.” He pointed to the Vatra’s boot. The hilt of a dagger protruded from his trouser leg.
Nazafareen yanked it free and examined it. Traces of red caked the eel coiled around the hilt. Sakhet-ra-katme’s knife.
“He threatened to burn the soldiers if they did anything.” Galen’s mouth twisted. “I don’t think they cared. They were probably glad she was dead. Gods know I am.”
“Where’s the body?” she demanded.
“They took it back to Delphi.”
A sickening feeling stole over her. This was all wrong. The Pythia belonged to her.
“Search the Vatra,” she snapped at the Maenads.
The two women rolled Nicodemus over, turning out his pockets. He had a second knife in his belt, with a hilt of finely wrought silver. A few paces away lay a mud-spattered bundle. Rhea retrieved it, unfurling a cloak made of some kind of pale reptilian skin.
“There something inside,” she muttered, unwrapping the folds. “Looks like another one of those globes.”
Nazafareen took the glass orb, weaving the flows without thought.
“Show me the Oracle of Delphi.”
The runes ignited and men on horseback appeared, Shields of Apollo by their crested helmets. Her gaze narrowed as she saw the Archon Basileus riding next to a wagon. His dark hair swept back from patrician features, crimson cloak pooling around him. The walls of Delphi loomed in the distance. The view arrowed in on the wagon and Nazafareen’s breath hitched. A woman in a blood-soaked white gown lay atop a pile of carpets, her sternly handsome features softened in death. It was the Pythia.
“What about Thena?” she demanded.
“Dead as well,” Galen said with satisfaction. “Killed by the Pythia. I felt her die through the collar.” He winced. “They don’t simply let the mortals control us. I sensed her emotions as well. The woman was mad.”
Nazafareen glanced at Darius, who listened with a grim face.
“Thena went into the Pythia’s tent,” Galen continued. “A few minutes later, the connection between us broke. They say she was burned up. After Nicodemus stabbed the Pythia, he sent the soldiers away. Then he unlocked the collar. He said we were to wait for you to come.” Galen still seemed astounded at this piece of good fortune.
Kallisto smiled. “It’s a great relief to know you are free, Galen Dessarian. I fear the Pythia hoped you would break the Gale for her, but that won’t happen now.”
Nazafareen knew she should be rejoicing—and yet she felt a deep bitterness.
“What do we do with him?” she muttered, glancing at Nicodemus. His face was a bloody pulp.
Katrin put the point of her sword to his neck. “I say we cut him into pieces and feed him to the abbadax.”
Megeara gave a grim nod. “The Valkirin speaks sense. You saw what he did in Tjanjin. He’s a snake.”
“And our only source of information on the Vatras,” Kallisto reminded them. “What if others are loose in the world?”
“He did kill the Pythia,” Galen muttered. “He doesn’t deserve—”
“Shut up,” Darius snapped. He stared at Nicodemus with loathing. “Kallisto is right. We need to question him first.”
Katrin seemed to interpret that “first” as a minor delay to the inevitable bloodletting and sheathed her sword.
The rain pelted down, soaking them to the bone. It showed no sign of letting up.
“We passed a farmhouse a few minutes ago,” Daníel ventured. “I say we take shelter there. The mounts need rest, and so do we.”
No one objected to this plan. The ferocity that had filled Nazafareen was seeping away, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
Rhea and Megaera took charge of the Vatra without being asked. If he did wake up, his fire magic would do little good against either of them. They trussed Nicodemus in a rope from Rhea’s pack and tossed him in front of their saddle.
“I expected a little more,” Katrin sniffed, eyeing his limp body. “The Vatras aren’t so fearsome after all.”
“He chose not to fight,” Nazafareen replied. “But don’t underestimate him. He’s still dangerous.”
Kallisto led Galen to her own mount. He didn’t seem afraid of it and Nazafareen realized he must have seen abbadax at Val Moraine. The little rat.
“You’ve broken your harness,” she said to Darius as they reached Berglaug.
His blue eyes caught hers. Most of that wild, savage rage had ebbed, though she still sensed echoes of it in the bond. Perhaps it was callous, but she was glad he took it out on the Vatra. His pain needed an outlet and it might have turned inwards if left too long to simmer. Pain like that could eat you alive.
“I’ll hold onto you,” he said. “We won’t be going far.”
“I don’t blame you for wanting to kill him. I still might myself. But we’ll see what he knows first.”
Darius swung himself into the saddle and offered her a hand.
“This isn’t over,” he said softly.
The farmhouse had a stone foundation and walls of sundried brick painted white with blue shutters. Sheep grazed in a pasture enclosed by a rock wall. They bleated in alarm when the abbadax swooped down, huddling together in a far corner of the pen. The five mounts studied them with hungry yellow eyes as Daníel and Katrin led them to a second fallow pasture, tossing strips of dried meat that they snapped out of the air with curved beaks.
The others approached the front portico, Rhea and Megaera carrying a limp Nicodemus. Kallisto called out, but no one seemed to be home.
“Those wagon tracks are fresh,” Darius observed, pointing to a parallel set of ruts in the muddy road leading toward Delphi.
“The family must have fled when they saw the Pythia’s army coming,” Kallisto said. “The Shields of Apollo used to be viewed as protectors of the people, but that was a long time ago. Now they only inspire fear.”
Nazafareen saw sadness in her eyes and wondered if she was thinking of the vineyards she’d left behind. Back on the Chione, Megaera said the temples to D
ionysius had been razed to the ground. Most likely the Maenads’ farm had suffered a similar fate.
“Will they mind if we take shelter inside?” Nazafareen asked.
“I have coin to leave for whatever we take,” Kallisto said briskly, pushing the door open. “Come. I am weary of this rain.”
The house formed a hollow square around an interior courtyard. Potted plants and herbs provided a kitchen garden, and a long wooden table sat beneath overhanging eaves that offered shade on hot days. The floor was hard-packed dirt except for a sitting room, which had patterned tiles. It was all very tidy and domestic, although whoever lived there had left in a hurry. Plates of half-eaten food sat on the table, too fresh to have attracted flies.
A basket of sewing was positioned between three chairs and Nazafareen imagined the women of the house sitting together, sharing idle gossip as they mended clothing. For a moment, she envied their simple life. Had she ever known such a peaceful existence? Perhaps as a child, but she had no recollection of it. A part of her had given up hope of restoring those holes in her memory. It was easier that way. Wishing for the impossible only brought bitterness.
Kallisto found the larder and dug out some bread and olives and smooth white cheese. They passed a quick meal in the courtyard, the rain dripping from eaves and hissing on the roof. Galen ate silently, apart from the others, his shoulders hunched. Afterwards, they each drifted away to separate rooms. One side seemed to be the men’s quarters, the other the women’s. Nazafareen and Darius chose a corner room, depositing their saddlebags inside.
“I’m taking a bath,” Nazafareen declared. “I saw a copper tub. Will you help me drag it in here?”
Darius smiled, a real smile, and her heart lightened. “Of course. I wasn’t going to say anything, but you smell….”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Very much like yourself,” he finished hastily.
She laughed. “That I do.”
She pointed out the tub and he lifted it with ease, carrying it to their chamber and filling it from the well. There was a brazier in the courtyard, but it would be in poor taste to light a fire with the daēvas present so she didn’t bother heating the water. It was a bit chilly, but the air was warm.