by Kat Ross
“I don’t know,” she said at last.
“Don’t know what? Is it a way out?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Then let’s go.” Javid glanced around. “I don’t like this place. Anywhere has to be better.”
“I don’t like it either.” She sighed. “I suppose if it doesn’t go to Samarqand, we can come back through and keep looking.”
By unspoken agreement, they clasped hands, Javid’s slightly moist and calloused. Two steps and they stood before the gate. Nazafareen saw her own face in its cloudy depths and had a queer, fleeting sensation that another Nazafareen stood on the other side, looking out. She hesitated, unnerved, but then Javid gave her hand an impatient tug. Two more steps and they were inside.
Nazafareen knew immediately that she’d made a mistake.
Ahead lay a sun-blasted plain. Waves of ferocious heat blurred the horizon, but she could see tendrils of darkness reaching down from a line of anvil-shaped thunderheads in the distance. They were clouds, she realized, and they appeared to be rotating. The sound they made was unlike anything she’d heard before, a deep, powerful, grinding roar. Wherever these slender cloud-fingers touched the earth, it erupted in a haze of sand that was quickly sucked into the upper reaches of the whirlwind.
Nazafareen tried to step back, pulling Javid with her, but the gate held them fast. Panic squeezed her chest. She couldn’t move her limbs or even draw breath to scream, and Nazafareen suddenly knew they would be there for eternity, alive, hands clasped and feet poised to take a step that would never meet the ground.
The talismanic magic of the gate crackled around her like a swarm of maddened wasps. In desperation, she tried moving forward, but it was like pushing against solid stone. She should have listened to her instincts. This gate had been damaged somehow, perhaps because it led to such a forsaken place. Now they were trapped like beasts in a tar pit.
Inside her, something stirred. A dark, destructive force. Near panic, she instinctively shoved it down.
I mustn’t touch it again. Not ever!
It wasn’t weak the way it had been in the Umbra. No, this was a hungry void in her heart. Not like the elements at all. This power didn’t come from the Nexus. This power wanted to devour the Nexus. But she could feel her perception subtly shifting.
Nazafareen could see the twisted, half-shattered wards holding the gate together. A decaying, tangled mess.
Bloody stupid to have stepped through! Damn Javid for his impatience!
Sudden anger seethed in her gut. Unable to stop herself, she lashed out with the power, yanking at the frayed thread that held the gate together. The buzzing ceased. In the next instant, she found she could move again. She pulled Javid backwards and they both toppled onto the withered grass of the Dominion. The surface of the gate turned a dull black, and she wondered what would have happened if they had been inside when it did.
The thought made her retch. She felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Do you want some water?”
Nazafareen knocked the water skin from his hand.
“Get away from me!” she snarled.
He stepped back, surprise and hurt on his face. Nazafareen glared at him.
All Javid’s fault.
Her hand dropped to the hilt of her sword. I ought to run him through….
His eyes widened and Nazafareen blinked as if waking from a dream. The fury ebbed, replaced by quiet horror.
What’s wrong with me?
“I…I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean….”
Nazafareen picked up the water skin and gulped it down, then promptly threw it up again. The next time, she was careful to take only small sips. She finally managed to sit up, wiping her mouth with the hem of her tunic. Cold sweat beaded her brow, but the nausea was passing. She pushed the sleeves of her tunic up and checked her arms. No blackness crept through her veins. Nazafareen closed her eyes in relief. She’d used the power and survived it. How? Had she used only a small amount? She clenched her fist in frustration. If only she knew more. There must be others like her somewhere. If only she could find one.
When she opened her eyes, she saw Javid leaning against one of the trees, watching her warily.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes. I don’t know what happened.” She drew a trembling breath. “What was that place on the other side?”
“It must have been the Kiln.”
“Oh.”
He picked up on her blank look and sighed. “The Kiln is the region of western Solis where the sun is hottest. Permanent noon. The cities are all on the border between Solis and the Umbra, but beyond that lies a brutal desert.”
“And those black storm clouds? I’ve never seen the like.”
“They call that the Gale. A barrier of funnels that never goes away. It’s impassable.”
“I see.” She gave a shaky laugh. “I suppose we picked the wrong gate. It seemed…broken somehow.”
“Broken?” He shrugged. “All I know is that I’d taken half a step when you pulled me back. I caught a glimpse of it though. You were right to.”
“You didn’t feel anything else?”
“Like what?”
She shook her head. “Never mind.”
Nazafareen tried twice to rise before gaining her feet. Javid pushed off the tree and steadied her with an arm. “I think you need to rest.”
She started to protest but he cut her off. “You’ll be no use if I have to carry you, Ashraf. One night, that’s all. We’ll take turns keeping watch.” He gave a jaw-cracking yawn. “I’m exhausted too. And if the giants find us, I’ll push you toward them so I can get a head start.”
She laughed softly. “A mercenary to the end, eh?”
“Absolutely.”
They walked until they found a wall of thick brambles growing alongside a stream. Javid used his knife to cut out a hollow place in the center. They both drank some water, and he gave her privacy while she examined the gouges on her leg. They were nasty, but the bleeding had stopped. Nazafareen washed the wounds carefully in the stream, wincing at the sting, and bound her leg up again. Then they both crawled inside the makeshift shelter and spread their cloaks on the ground.
Javid was quiet for a while. Then he said, “I wish you’d tell me the truth, Ashraf. I know the Kiln isn’t pleasant, but we were only in it for an instant. Are you sick?”
Nazafareen’s heart raced. He wasn’t stupid. Of course he would know something was wrong with her. And she could hardly tell him the truth. Then inspiration struck—a way to explain why she sought the Marakai.
“I suffer from fits. The healer in our village said they would likely kill me eventually. That there’s no treatment. But I heard the Marakai daēvas are great healers.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize. I’m sorry, Ashraf.”
He looked stricken and she felt bad for lying, but she had no choice. “Do you think they might help?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, they keep to themselves. But perhaps if you offered payment.” He thought for a moment. “I don’t suppose you have any money?”
She shook her head.
“Well, we’ll find a way.” He gave her a comforting smile. “I’ll take first watch.”
“Really, I don’t mind. You look half dead.”
“You sure?” Javid murmured sleepily.
“It’s fine. I’m awake anyway.”
So she sat with her sword across her knees while Javid started snoring softly. When she judged two hours had passed, she woke him and rolled herself up in her own cloak.
If there is a Holy Father, watch over us, she prayed. Help us get out before the Shepherds find us.
All the food was gone and hunger gnawed at her belly as they struck out through the forest. After a few hours, Nazafareen sensed another gate. It wasn’t close and they’d left the forest behind and climbed halfway up the flank of a mountain before it came into view on a ledge high above.
Twice they spotted large winged s
hapes wheeling in the distance and ducked down to hide behind jagged outcroppings of rock. When the flyers moved on, they resumed their climb, this time with greater urgency. But the mountain was trackless and steep, and both were at the end of their strength by the time they reached the ledge.
“I don’t care if it goes straight into the Gale,” Javid moaned as they stood in the icy wind.
It had a bitter feel and smelled of salt. Nazafareen dimly remembered standing on a similar ledge with a beautiful woman in white. She had silver hair and bare arms.
The Cold Sea, she’d said. None who seek it ever return….
“Ashraf?” Javid touched her arm.
She blinked as if waking from a dream.
“I say we try it.” Javid stared at the gate, his face grim but determined. “Anything is better than this place.”
She drew a deep breath. “Right.”
Nazafareen was starting to realize they could starve to death searching for a way out of the Dominion. Water wasn’t a problem, in fact it was everywhere—lakes and streams and ponds and rushing rivers criss-crossed the land—but they had yet to find anything edible. The few animals that lived there were more likely to kill them than the other way around.
“Our luck has to change sometime,” she said, aiming for a cheerful tone but producing something closer to a whine.
Javid made the sign of the flame and this time Nazafareen joined him. It couldn’t hurt. To her relief, this gate looked like the others she’d traversed, glowing faintly, its surface bright and lively like running water. A ring of stunted, windswept bushes surrounded it, but they were living, with small violet berries she figured were probably poisonous.
“I’ll go first,” she said firmly.
And with that, Nazafareen stepped through.
She braced herself for another shock, but it felt nothing like the gate to the Kiln. Instead, the greenish-grey murk deepened. They moved forward, following a gentle upward slope. Rays of wan sunlight pierced the gloom. Up and up they went, and suddenly Nazafareen’s feet left the ground. Her next exhalation produced a delicate fizz of bubbles.
She tried to draw in air and water flooded her nose. She choked and flailed, kicking wildly. After an eternity, her head broke the surface of a marble fountain. She coughed, spewing out a mouthful of water. The bottom of the fountain felt smooth and slightly slimy beneath her hand. It was solid enough. How they had come through it she’d no idea, but that was often the way of gates.
Nazafareen pushed wet hair from her eyes. Above her, shimmering streams of water shot from the beaks of two gilded eagles whose wings spread as though about to launch into flight. Sunlight gleamed on precious stones inlaid in their feathers, producing a gorgeous kaleidoscopic effect.
A moment later, Javid emerged, pale and spluttering. He looked around in wonder. They were atop a flattened hill with sweeping vistas on all sides. Nazafareen saw olive and orange groves dotted with small farmhouses, and the glint of the sea at the edge of the horizon. She followed Javid’s gaze to a palatial building perched on the highest point of the hill a short distance away. It was rectangular and made of white marble, with a portico supported by tall, elegant columns. Carved laurels adorned the lintel, flanking the words Know Thyself.
“Oh no,” Javid said quietly.
Nazafareen tensed. Where had she brought them now? Clearly, it was a mortal city in Solis.
“What is this place?” she hissed.
Javid didn’t reply, scrambling out of the fountain and plastering an obsequious grin across his face. A man strode toward them. He had a thick, curly beard and a sword buckled around his considerable waist. Despite his girth, he moved lightly on his feet and gave the impression of having slabs of muscle beneath the fat.
“Here now! Get out of there!”
A meaty hand clamped down on Nazafareen’s arm and dragged her over the shallow rim of the fountain. Javid had already dropped to his knees and she quickly imitated him. Luckily, the cloak concealed her short sword. She’d fight if she had to, but not until she had an inkling of where they were and what was going on.
“Faithless pigs!” the man exclaimed, as three more armed men in leather skirts and stiff horsehair helmets ran over from where they’d been standing in the shade of a tree. “Are you drunk? Only a lush or a lunatic would dare pollute the sacred waters.”
“Is this Samarqand?” Nazafareen mouthed to Javid, who lay on his belly next to her, a sandal planted firmly on his back.
He gave a tight shake of his head. She saw fear in his eyes.
“Better we were in the Kiln,” he whispered. “This is Delphi.”
18
Thena and the Witches
Thena snuck a surreptitious glance through her lashes at the commotion in the plaza. From where she knelt next to the pinewood fire, she could see a slice of stone and sky through the temple’s double doors, which had been thrown wide as today was an audience day. It looked like a pair of beggars had tried to bathe in the fountain.
They must be sun-touched to risk the Pythia’s wrath, she thought. Depending on the oracle’s mood, such an insult could easily buy one a screaming death locked inside the brazen bull. But the Pythia was in her trance, concealed in the recessed inner sanctum, and the Polemarch’s soldiers had already taken care of it, dragging the offenders off. They had no idea how lucky they were.
Thena wafted the brazier of incense, thickening the curls of fragrant bay laurel smoke drifting through the chamber. Four other initiates in white robes tended the fire. It was late in the day and only a few men still waited their turn to venture down the winding stairs to the omphalos stone, the navel of the world, where the Pythia sat on her tripod to hear their questions.
They looked nervous, those men, sweating in the heat and smoke. They were the least impressive of the day’s visitors and thus had been placed at the back of the line, but they seemed determined to wait as long as it took.
The Pythia, also called the Oracle of Delphi and High Priestess of the Temple of Apollo, held audiences twice a month for supplicants who sought her wisdom from far and wide—generals, diplomats, powerful merchants, even a famous poet or two. Usually, the consultations involved practical matters of military strategy and politics, or questions about how to lift curses and which gods needed to be appeased, and in what way. She rarely predicted the future; rather, she gave them advice, which came from the mouth of the god himself.
But no one of any consequence would make an important decision without asking the Pythia first.
When the last supplicant had come and gone, looking suitably shaken, Thena made her way to the sunken space below the level of the temple floor, past the gleaming gold statue of Apollo, to the Pythia’s adyton, a chamber whose name meant “not to be entered.”
“Come, sun daughter.”
The Pythia sat on her tripod, her regal, ageless features serene as always. She wore her hair in a thick black braid that hung down her back and brushed the backs of her thighs when she stood. Kohl lined her almond eyes, making them appear larger and emphasizing their rare blue color.
Thena approached and knelt gracefully at her feet. Heady, sulfurous fumes wafted from cracks in the stone floor.
“How does it progress with the Valkirin?” the Pythia asked.
“I believe he’s reached a point in his training where he might enter your presence without shaming me,” Thena said cautiously.
It had taken her months to break him, but that was typical with the witches. The first thing had been to make him tell her his real name. It was the best way to begin, the Pythia said. Get them to tell you something they knew to be true and that would be considered a relatively harmless piece of information. It loosened their tongues.
Still, Daníel had resisted—longer than she would have thought possible. But Thena had won in the end. She always won.
After she made him tell her his true name, she gave him his new slave name. Demetrios. Oh, the hatred in his eyes when she told him. But he answered
to it now. He wanted only to please her.
“Bring him to my chambers,” the Pythia said. “I would question him about the intentions of the witches. I already know them, of course, but I wish to see if he tries to dissemble.”
“Yes, Oracle.”
Thena gathered her robes and scurried barefoot from the room.
She frowned as she ascended the stairs and left the temple through a side door, making for the quarters of the initiates. She’d been fooled before by witches who pretended to comply, only to make a desperate escape attempt later. Thena was more careful now. She knew the look on their faces, the precise moment when they surrendered to her will. And she felt certain that Daníel would behave himself.
She’d had him for over a year now.
A tough nut, Daníel was, which made it all the sweeter when he finally cracked. There had been much sobbing and then finally, the calm of acceptance. When he realized he’d never escape and it was a pleasure to serve the light instead of the darkness. He kissed the hem of her gown. The hate in his eyes turned to love.
It had been a very special moment.
Thena entered the four-story tower at the edge of the plaza. Once, it had been full of eager young girls, but the new Pythia winnowed their ranks considerably. Only the toughest and most obedient remained, the ones who didn’t shirk at carrying out Apollo’s will. As a result, only half the rooms were occupied by initiates like Thena.
The other half served a different purpose.
She climbed to the top floor, where bright sunlight poured in golden shafts through the narrow windows. She paused at the third door on the right. The slender bracelet around her wrist seemed to quiver against her skin. She felt his emotions, fearful and anxious to please. Just as it should be.
Thena opened the door. The room was small but pretty with a colorful mural of the sun god Apollo having his feet washed by lovely maidens. Thena remembered the last initiate who’d occupied it, a timid, mousy girl named Leda. When she failed the test to wear the bracelet and wept at the witches’ screams, the Pythia had sent her packing. Then stonemasons came to make a few adaptations.