Solis

by Kat Ross

  Nazafareen thought of the black storm clouds she’d seen writhing on the horizon.

  “There was something wrong with the gate. It almost trapped us inside. I think it was damaged somehow. I had to use my breaking magic to shatter the wards.”

  Again, Kallisto made the forked sign with her hand. “You were lucky to escape. But I imagine if the gate had been whole and open, the Vatras would have come through long ago. Better it’s sealed.”

  Nazafareen felt replete and sleepy again after the heavy meal. Sitting in Kallisto’s bright, good-smelling kitchen, the dangers of the Kiln seemed very far away. She listened to the distant sounds of sparring with half an ear, but she couldn’t deny a strong curiosity about this fire-working clan of daēvas no one had seen for a thousand years.

  “Why can’t the Vatras get out some other way?” she asked.

  Kallisto smiled. “You don’t know much geography, do you?” She took an olive and placed it on the table. “This is the Kiln.” Another olive, to the right. “This is the Gale.” Now a few grapes, to the top and left, forming a semicircle. “The White Sea. Do you know why they call it that, girl?”

  Nazafareen shook her head.

  “Because the wind whips it to such a froth, only the Marakai dare sail its waters. And here”—the last grape, placed carefully at the bottom—“the Austral Ocean. Full of sea monsters and smashers that turn ships to kindling.”

  Nazafareen studied the arrangement, like the bars of a cage.

  “Looks foolproof to me. But then I seem to remember you saying something about the Vatras coming back?”

  “Yes, that was right before you hit the table.” Kallisto gave her a sly grin.

  “If they’re loose, why aren’t they taking their revenge?”

  “I don’t know. I think it must be because they are not loose yet—or not all of them. But I’ve seen one.”

  Nazafareen leaned forward, eyes wide. “You have? Where?”

  “In visions sent by the god. We drink wine and perform the ecstatic dance. Sometimes Dionysius visits me, or shows me things.”

  Nazafareen scratched her ear. “Ah, okay.”

  “You don’t believe?” Kallisto asked mildly.

  Daēvas didn’t drink intoxicating beverages. Darius said they dulled the Nexus. But from what Nazafareen had seen sleeping in the alley with Javid, mortals had no such reservations, and they behaved quite oddly when they stumbled out of the warren of taverns near the docks.

  “That you see things after you drink a lot of wine? No, I can believe that.”

  Kallisto shrugged. She didn’t seem offended. “What will be, will be, whether we believe in it or not. But I wish to know, does your offer still stand?”

  “My offer?” Nazafareen struggled to remember.

  “To help me find proof of Herodotus’s innocence?”

  “Oh yes, of course,” she replied with feeling. “I will do whatever I can. And if he is to be tried with Javid, I suppose helping one will help them both.”

  “Good. It won’t be a simple matter, but I believe you were right. Our best chance is to focus on Kadmos and Serpedon. Someone placed that spell dust in Herodotus’s study and I’ll wager it was them.”

  Nazafareen frowned. Three days of sleep had left her head stuffed with wool.

  “The Stork and the Weasel?” Kallisto prompted.

  “Oh, those two.” She scowled. “I never liked them. I saw them whispering together when Herodotus was arrested. And I wouldn't be surprised if they arranged the attack on him by those street thugs too.” She thought back to her last encounter in the alley, just before Charis arrived. “Those boys as much as admitted the Oracle was behind it.”

  Kallisto made a noise of disgust. “Kadmos has been appointed the new Curator of the Great Library. Clearly a reward for his treachery. But he must have obtained the spell dust somewhere.”

  “I can sense it if I’m close enough.” Nazafareen thought for a moment. “Maybe he has more hidden away. It’s worth looking.”

  Kallisto nodded and pushed her chair back. “I’ll find out where they both live. The parthenoi will help. Would you like to meet them?”

  Nazafareen nodded. “What are…parthenoi?”

  “The word simply means virgin warriors,” Kallisto replied. Her lips twitched. “They are certainly the second, though I cannot vouch entirely for the first. But Dionysius is a forgiving father in such matters. Come, they’ve been waiting for you to wake.”

  Kallisto led her out the kitchen door and over to the yard. The women stopped sparring and silently watched them approach.

  “Charis you already know,” Kallisto said, gesturing to the slight, olive-skinned girl who had brought Nazafareen there in the wagon. “The rest of you, introduce yourselves.”

  They glanced at each other.

  “Rhea,” said a tall woman with long, blue-black hair. Her voice was velvety and cultured, and she seemed older than the others—mid-twenties, Nazafareen guessed. She had sharp cheekbones and arresting grey eyes.

  She holds herself like a warrior queen and she spoke first. The leader of this little group?

  The next two looked like twins, with square jaws and pug noses. Unlike the other Maenads, who all had dusky skin, they were fair and freckled. They spoke almost in unison.

  “Adeia.”

  “Alcippe.”

  The shortest of the bunch eyed Nazafareen up and down. She had piercing eyes and a belligerent air.

  “Megaera,” she growled.

  “And I’m Cyrene.” A heavyset, pretty girl with a multitude of braids like Kallisto, she was the only one besides Charis to smile.

  Nazafareen gave a tentative smile in return. “Nice to meet all of you.”

  She sensed nothing unusual about their staffs, which meant only Kallisto’s was a talisman. Nazafareen felt relieved. At least she wouldn’t accidentally destroy anything valuable—these women didn’t seem like the forgiving types. Yet something about them tickled her memory.

  “You were dancing at the base of the Acropolis,” she exclaimed. "And you…." She turned to the tall, elegant one named Rhea. "You winked at me!"

  Rhea smiled mischievously, but then her face grew solemn. "After you passed, we felt the chimera." There was no fear in her grey eyes, just revulsion. "They were pure darkness. I’ve never seen the like.”

  "We saw you destroy them," one of the twins put in, idly twirling her staff. "But we were across the square and by the time we pushed through the crowd, you'd vanished."

  "So we all split up and started searching," the other twin said.

  "But I'm the one who thought of the alley by the docks," Charis added with a hint of smugness.

  Cyrene's almond eyes widened. "And now the Pythia is hunting you. She's declared that any who aid or shelter you will be put to death."

  Nazafareen stiffened.

  “If you’re her enemy…well then, you’re our friend.”

  Cyrene said it so earnestly that Nazafareen relaxed. “Thank you. I saw you all fighting before. It was impressive.”

  “We’ve trained since we were children,” Charis put in. “I could show you a few things if you like.”

  Nazafareen beamed. “I would. Very much.”

  “Another time, perhaps,” Kallisto said briskly. “We have work to do. Megaera, take Rhea and watch the library. There are two scholars there. I’ll describe them for you. You’re to follow them and see where they go. Do nothing! Just follow and be discreet.” She turned to the twins. “You two, go make an offering at the Temple of Apollo. Take note of how many soldiers are posted and where. If it’s possible to free Herodotus, I won’t wait.” She looked at the girl with almond eyes. “Cyrene, go to the taverns by the river. The Polemarch’s guards drink wine there when they’re off duty. See if you can find out any news about the Persian prisoner from Samarqand.”

  “What about me?” Charis demanded.

  Kallisto sniffed. “You’ll show Nazafareen the bathhouse and find her a change of clothes.�
��

  The first five Maenads gathered around Kallisto, peppering her with questions. Charis beckoned and Nazafareen followed her toward a small, thatch-roofed building at the rear of the farmhouse. Something nagged at her and she suddenly remembered what it was.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask,” Nazafareen said. “Did you come looking for me at the library the morning I carried the message to Herodotus?”

  Charis glanced over her shoulder. “No, I didn’t dare go inside. I waited for you to come out and followed. The people who live in that manor house are benefactors of our temple. I knew it would be safe for us to speak in their garden, away from prying eyes.”

  “So you never asked the cook about me?”

  Charis shook her head. They entered the bathhouse and she winched up a bucket from a small stone well. A plain wood bench was pushed up against one wall. Shafts of sunlight poured in through a round window set high above the door.

  “Someone was looking for me,” Nazafareen admitted. “I’m afraid it might have been a Valkirin daēva. They hold a grudge against me.”

  “You have a lot of enemies,” Charis observed, setting the sloshing bucket on the ground.

  “I seem to have a talent for it,” Nazafareen agreed.

  “Well, they won’t find you here.” The Maenad grinned and handed her a block of clay mixed with sand. “Scrub with this first. Then rinse with the water.” She gestured to a small jug of oil and a flat, hook-shaped instrument. “That’s a strigil. You put the oil on your skin and scrape it off like so.” She mimed running it up and down her body.

  They have a strange way of bathing, Nazafareen thought, but she gamely peeled off her clothes and got to work. Have I ever done this before? Perhaps I bathed with a…strigil every day in my own world.

  At the library she’d used the basin of water in her room, sneaking quick ablutions when Javid wasn’t around.

  I will find the Marakai, and then I will find Darius too, she swore to herself, vigorously rubbing the clay over a week’s worth of grime.

  But first I must fix the terrible mess I’ve made.

  When the soldiers dragged him from the Polemarch’s cells, Javid had expected to be handed over to some sort of hulking leather-hooded torturer named Uthos, or possibly Nagog. So he was somewhat relieved to find himself escorted out of the prison and thrown shackled into the back of a smelly cart. It lurched around the ring road that circled Delphi, but his spirits sank once again when he realized it was ascending a narrow incline carved into the eastern side of the Acropolis.

  He whispered a prayer to the Holy Father and composed himself. Javid had dealt with all varieties of dignitaries, diplomats, aristocrats and filthy rich egomaniacs, but he had never encountered even a minor prophetess, let alone the Oracle of Delphi herself. He wondered if her reputation was exaggerated or if she really could see into the hearts of men. Hopefully the former, as he intended to call on all his considerable flair for perjury, dissembling and prevarication. In other words, he would not go down without lying through his teeth.

  The cart halted before the Temple of Apollo, where custody of the prisoner was transferred to the soldiers there. A brief discussion ensued about whether the Pythia wanted him right away, or if he should be thrown in a cell next to “the old man.” One of the soldiers hurried inside and returned to report that she did indeed want the Persian immediately.

  And so Javid found himself face-down on the carpet in a full prostration.

  “On your feet, heathen,” a feminine voice ordered softly.

  “I fear to look upon your face, O Most Holy Oracle and Mouthpiece of the Glorious Sun God!” he cried. “I am not worthy!”

  “Just get up.”

  She didn’t sound impressed. Javid clambered to his knees, keeping his gaze locked on the floor. Certain monarchs—his own king included—could be very touchy about direct eye contact from inferiors. It was always better to be cautious than cause accidental offense.

  “You were here yesterday.”

  It wasn’t a question. Javid could see the tip of a slippered foot just ahead.

  “I don’t deny it, Most Radiant One.”

  “Your companion is a witch. She used magic. There were dozens of witnesses.”

  The Pythia had a strange accent he had never heard before and Javid thought he knew them all.

  “She did, Oracle. But I had no idea she was a witch.” This much was true. “I’ve only known her a short time, I swear it on the honor of my mother and sisters, and may the Holy Father curse my offspring for twelve generations if—”

  “I know who you are, Javid of the Merchants’ Guild of Samarqand.”

  He bowed his head.

  “Why are you in Delphi?”

  He kept silent for a moment as though engaged in some internal struggle. Then he allowed his shoulders to sag—just a little bit. “I was on a secret mission to test a new type of wind ship, Holy Oracle.”

  “What sort?”

  He sensed her leaning forward.

  “A special fabric for the sack that doesn’t tear so easily. It would be worth a fortune to the Guild. But they didn’t wish anyone to know of the discovery, at least until it was proven, so they sent me into the Umbra.”

  “Go on.”

  “The ship crashed. If you look, you’ll find it. I had to walk out.” He paused. “That’s when I met the witch.”

  “Her name?”

  “She said it was Alanna, O Illustrious Seer.”

  “And where is she now?”

  “If I knew that, I would tell you so you do not punish me further. But as you must have been informed, she fled when I was arrested. I shouldn’t have run, but I was frightened.”

  “The captain of my guard says he hauled you out of the sacred fountain two weeks ago. What were you doing?”

  Javid smiled weakly at the carpet. It was worked with a pattern of orange and red sunbursts. “One cannot come to Delphi without visiting the Temple of Apollo. It is the city’s most famous shrine.”

  He felt her eyes on him but didn’t dare look up to gauge her expression. Does she know about the gate? Is she simply toying with me? He kept his mouth shut and tried not to sweat.

  “How long were you together?” she asked finally.

  “Only a few days, Oracle.”

  “What else did she tell you?”

  “In truth, I saw little of her. All I wanted was to raise money for my passage home.” He hesitated. “She did say something about returning to the darklands—”

  “But why was she here?” The Pythia’s voice hardened. “Why did she deliver a message to the heretic Herodotus?” She held up a scrap of parchment. “It says only, Take heart, beloved. The note is unsigned. Who is it from? It cannot be the girl. He is old enough to be her grandfather!”

  “I swear, I do not know, O Renowned—”

  “Be quiet.” The slipper began tapping the floor. “Shall I give you to the Polemarch? He says all Persians lie. It is their nature. But he is quite efficient at extracting the truth.”

  Javid felt the blood drain from his face. He had heard stories in the taverns about the Polemarch. “That is your choice, Oracle. But I have no reason to deceive you. If you know who I am, you know I am a respected emissary of the Guild. Our only traffic with the witches is the same as Delphi’s, for trade purposes. I come from a good family.” He knew he was babbling now, but couldn’t help it. “This has all been a series of unfortunate misunderstandings!”

  “Calm yourself. I didn’t say I would.” The Pythia abruptly stood. “Not all of us are uncivilized here. Yet I can say with certainty that you are a liar and not a very good one at that.”

  She moved closer, until she was standing directly above him. Javid felt a fingertip lift his chin. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Look at me.”

  He took a breath and opened them. The Pythia stared down at him.

  She’s so young! And pretty too.

  But a coldness lurked behind those pale eyes. A knowing d
epth beyond her years. Javid could easily imagine her reducing powerful men to stammering fools.

  “You carried a pouch of spell dust. No doubt that is where the heretic Herodotus obtained it.”

  “Spell dust is legal in Samarqand—” he whispered.

  “But not in Delphi.” She gave a chilly smile. “Not in Delphi. One last question, emissary of the Merchants’ Guild. Why were you being pursued by chimera?”

  “Chimera?” He felt himself caught by those cold eyes, a fly in a web as the spider creeps near, and Javid struggled to understand what she was saying.

  “The magical beasts,” the Pythia snapped.

  “Alanna had a sword,” he blurted. “I think she stole it from the daēvas! I mean, the witches. Perhaps they wanted it back.”

  “A sword.” The Pythia left her hand drop and gestured to the soldiers who guarded the door. “Take him back to the dungeons. He will stand trial before the Ecclesia for conspiracy.”

  Javid’s heart raced. “Wait! Conspiracy to do what? I am innocent, O Sacred Priestess!”

  But the Pythia had already left the room. He hastily got to his feet before the soldiers dragged him out on his knees. As they escorted him back to the wagon, Javid expected to feel a mild surge of relief. He hadn’t been beaten or tortured. And they would give him a trial at least. Instead, he felt a deep sense of unease.

  The Pythia’s blue eyes had flickered when she accused him of giving the spell dust to Herodotus. She knew. She knew he was innocent.

  And she didn’t care.

  3

  The Gambler

  The abbadax regarded Victor Dessarian for a long moment. Unblinking topaz eyes gleamed with malevolent intelligence. Its serpentine neck reared back, the head inches from brushing the ceiling.

  Gods, they’re big, Victor thought. He cracked frozen knuckles and kept his gaze riveted on the abbadax. I wonder if they can smell fear?

  Red-gold feathers along its back rose to a stiff razor-sharp crest. The hooked beak opened for a sibilant hiss.

  “That’s the first warning,” Mithre remarked, leaning against the wall just beside the heavy oak door leading back into the keep. “Well, the only warning really.”