Solis

by Kat Ross

  Victor held his ground as the creature flexed a taloned claw and took a step forward.

  “Easy, girl,” he said soothingly, holding his palms out.

  “It’s a male, actually.”

  “You’re not helping,” Victor growled under his breath, which curled upward like smoke in the frigid air.

  He could barely feel his limbs and he’d been in the stables for less than a minute. Cut into the side of the mountain, the row of five pens lay open to the sky on one side so the abbadax could hunt for food and take off without hindrance. If necessary, the stables could be secured by an iron portcullis, which was raised and lowered by means of a winch. The entrance had filled with drifting snow from the blizzard that engulfed the keep, but the far reaches of the cavern remained dry. The bones of animals, small and large, lay scattered about the floor. Others had been used to build nests, held together by some kind of greenish goop. The arctic temperatures dampened the smell, but he could still guess what that was. Each pen had a stout door leading into the holdfast.

  The good news was that despite the fact that the portcullis had been left open, the abbadax had stayed. Victor assumed they’d been raised by the Valkirins as hatchlings and considered the stables home. The bad news was that no one could get near them.

  “The males seem somewhat less aggressive than the females,” Mithre said with a crooked grin. “That’s not saying much though.”

  The abbadax turned its head and regarded him with reptilian inscrutability. The black-haired daēva tightened the grip on his sword hilt.

  “Too bad you don’t have a treat for it. A nice fat hare might—”

  The abbadax shrieked in fury and flared its sharp-edged wings, slashing at the air where Victor had stood a moment before. Mithre slammed the door shut and helped the new lord of Val Moraine to his feet. A moment later, it shook on its hinges as something large struck the wood.

  “I told you there was only one warning.”

  Victor glared at him, shivering violently. “You talk too much.”

  “Maybe you’d have better luck with one of the hatchlings—if you can get past mommy, that is.” Pointy white teeth flashed in a wolfish grin.

  “Laugh if you will, but we have serious problems.”

  It pained Victor to admit it, but his grand dream of taking Val Moraine was rapidly becoming a nightmare. Seizing the Maiden Keep from its handful of defenders had turned out to be the easy part. Holding it was another thing entirely. Victor had originally planned to kill Eirik and Culach and leave, but now he found he didn’t want to relinquish Val Moraine. It was too great a prize.

  “Then let’s go home,” Mithre said, as though reading his thoughts.

  “No.”

  “The others are getting restless. Hungry too.”

  “They’ll live.”

  Mithre shrugged. “Yes, but for how much longer? Your reputation as a dashing adventurer is keeping them in line for now, but you may find yourself facing a mutiny if we don’t replenish the supplies. Last I heard, the kitchens were down to a few grotty onions.” He paused. “Then there’s the matter of the Matrium.”

  The ruling council of the seven Avas Danai houses, the Matrium had no great fondness for Victor Dessarian—even before he snuck off to invade Val Moraine without waiting for their sanction. He briefly remembered the day so long ago he’d left for the shadowlands, what the Danai called the Ael sa’Vrach. Raisa and Tethys and the others waited at the gate, faces set in stark disapproval, to give him one last warning.

  Any who pass through it will be cursed to forget where they came from. The doorway will be sealed. There is no returning.

  It was this ward Nazafareen had broken more than two hundred years later.

  Well, Victor had returned. He had his memories back, though Nazafareen had lost hers. But he would not forget what they had done.

  Victor shook snow from his dark hair and peeled off his gloves, tucking them into the belt of his leather coat. “I’ll handle those women.”

  Mithre looked at him skeptically, a glance down his long aquiline nose Victor always found irritating. Mithre had been one of the daēvas who followed Victor through the gate. Against all odds, they were still friends.

  “How? You cut them out and they’re not going to help you now. Not even Tethys. Especially not Tethys.”

  Victor rubbed his forehead. It ached all the time, probably from the altitude.

  “You learned about the message?” he asked wearily.

  It had arrived that morning via a bright-eyed snow bunting. Victor didn’t know how the bird found its way inside—through the stables perhaps. It swooped into Eirik’s study, shat on the table, and disgorged a torrent of wordless rage. If Victor had harbored any doubts about the sender, the bunting shared a memory of his mother strapping him as a young boy for some long-forgotten offense.

  “No, but I can imagine. You’re screwed, Victor. And I am too.”

  They looked at each other and barked a laugh. Mithre had been imprisoned with Victor at Gorgon-e Gaz. Val Moraine was still heaven compared to that infamous fortress by the sea. They wandered together down the corridor, boots echoing on the stone. Lumen crystals set at intervals of twenty paces cast pools of alternating light and darkness. It was marginally warmer inside, but Victor had still suffered until he relented and followed Mithre’s lead, donning the fur-lined leathers of the Valkirins.

  “If you’re talking a lengthy occupation, we need a plan,” Mithre said.

  “I’ll tame the abbadax,” Victor insisted stubbornly. “We can use them to resupply.”

  “Or your frozen corpse will resupply the abbadax. My gold’s on the latter.”

  Victor shot him a wounded look. “You’re a font of helpful advice.”

  Mithre’s hand jerked him to a sudden stop. “Go see the old woman.”

  Victor rolled his eyes. That was the final thorn in his side—the troublesome prisoners he’d been saddled with. Much simpler to just kill them, but he hadn’t gotten around to actually doing it. Maybe he was growing soft, but he didn’t care for summary executions—even of Valkirins. He still hadn’t decided what to do with Culach so he’d left him to rot in the cold cells.

  Victor wished Delilah were there. Gods, he missed his wife. It had been over two weeks since she and Lara left to find Darius. He managed all right during the day, but at night, alone in his cold chamber, Victor would toss and turn, beset by dark visions.

  And then there was the matter of Gerda Kafsnjór.

  “She’s been kicking up a fuss for days,” Mithre said. “Says she has an offer for you.”

  Victor snorted. “She’d say anything to lure me into that grubby crypt she calls home. I’d rather kiss a wight.” He pretended to consider the matter. “Or even a revenant. They couldn’t smell any worse.”

  Mithre didn’t smile. “We’re out of options. What if she knows something useful?”

  “She doesn’t.”

  Victor started walking again and Mithre fell into step beside him. They were of a height, both raven-haired and in the prime of life, but Mithre was built like a rapier while Victor had the brawn and heft of a broadsword. Victor knew his friend’s wit was equally nimble, though he could be blunt as a rusty axe when he deemed it necessary.

  “You’re a coward, plain and simple, Dessarian. Did you know the others are drawing lots for who has to guard her room? One of the losers offered to trade his bow yesterday—”

  They passed through one of the dark patches. Victor’s eyes gathered the dim light like a cat. “Fine. Will you at least come with me?”

  Mithre grimaced with patently insincere remorse. “I’m not sure our friendship extends that far….”

  “Bloody hell!”

  Victor stormed off, taking the stairs to the tower two at a time and muttering under his breath all the way. When he reached Gerda’s frost-rimed aerie in the northeastern corner of the keep, the two young Danai outside looked relieved to see him.

  “She’s quiet now,”
one whispered. “But earlier she threatened to throw herself from the edge of the barrier if you didn’t come.”

  Threat? More like a blessing.

  “Do you find that such a disagreeable prospect?” Victor asked softly. “Maybe I should come back later—”

  But Gerda must have had hearing like a bat, for now he heard her shrill voice through the door.

  “Dessarian? Are you out there?”

  “Gods.” He sighed and rubbed his hands together briskly to warm them up. “Go ahead. Open the door.”

  The Danai looked at each other, then at Victor with something close to pity. They threw the newly installed bolt and stood aside.

  Gerda saw the door swing wide and hurried back to her chair. She squinted so the idiot would think her eyesight was poor.

  “Who’s there?” she cried. “Is it the butcher who murdered my family?”

  Victor Dessarian entered the room, an annoyed expression on his face. He was a piece of work, Gerda could tell right away. Big and cocky.

  “Eirik butchered himself,” he snapped. “And your blind grandson is still alive. He didn’t seem worth the effort of killing.”

  “Great-great-grandson,” Gerda corrected tartly.

  Victor crossed his arms and tried to suppress a shiver. “What do you want?”

  “I want to see him.”

  “No.”

  She beat her breast and wailed, to no discernible effect. Ever the pragmatist, Gerda decided to change tack.

  “Getting hungry?” she asked slyly.

  “Why?”

  “I know where the food is,” she replied in a sing-song cadence.

  Victor snorted. “Don’t waste my time.”

  “There’s plenty. Fields of it! How do you think we live here, nitwit? Oh, I’m sorry, Lord Victor of Val Moraine.” She lurched from her chair and started bowing and scraping.

  “Stop that.” Victor stepped back, alarm on his face.

  Gerda hobbled back to her chair. She grinned.

  “Still got all my teeth,” she declared. “But you won’t, once the scurvy sets in.”

  Victor’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about, old woman?”

  “You’ll never find it. Not in a million years.” She took her time pouring a cup of wine while Victor waited with obvious impatience. “Not unless I tell you.”

  “Let me guess. I permit you to see Culach first, and then you reveal this secret bounty.”

  “Maybe you’re not such a nitwit after all.” She took a sip and smacked her lips.

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “I’m just a decrepit old widow lady,” she croaked. “Husband dead! Children dead! The Dessarian wolves baying at the door. All I have left is my darling Culach.” She stretched a trembling hand out. “Already, the room grows dim. The frayed thread of life grows thin—”

  “Once more,” Victor interrupted coldly. “Why should I trust you?”

  Gerda dropped her hand. “Why not? What do you have to lose?”

  “My self-respect, for one thing.”

  She sniffed. “Only a Danai would rather starve than give an inch.”

  “And only a Valkirin would attempt such a childish ruse,” he shot back.

  They stared at each with mutual loathing for a long moment.

  “Go ahead, Lord Victor. Feast on ice and stone. There might be a few spiders lying around too. I hear boot leather isn’t too bad if you soak it for a couple of days.”

  Victor laughed. “I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, madam.” He gave her an ironic bow. “But I can honestly say I would indeed rather eat my own boots than repeat the experience.”

  “Oh, you’ll be back.” She smiled. “And don’t forget to shut the door on your way out.” She fanned herself. “You’re letting the hot air in.”

  As soon as the idiot left, Gerda leapt spryly from her chair and retrieved her globe from its hiding place. The guards outside seemed none the wiser that she was using small amounts of power. For all his preening and posturing, the idiot didn’t run a very tight invasion.

  She blew on the runes, feeding them a weave of air. They began to glow. Right away, the image of blue skies shifted, as if the talisman had been waiting for her call. It sped across the sea and swooped into the window of a ramshackle building too quickly for her to make out any details about the place. As usual, the globe sought out the same red-haired man. Gerda couldn’t be sure he was a Vatra, but she intended to spy on him until she found out.

  The moment he appeared, she eased the flow of the power so she wouldn’t get too close and alert him to her presence. She could see the back of his head as he crouched down and threw a set of dice in a corner crowded with scruffy men. Mortals, by the looks of them, with the glossy black hair and tilted eyes of Tjanjin.

  Gerda watched him for a while. Judging by the scowls on the other men’s faces and the growing pile of coins in front of him, he seemed to be on a winning streak. Finally, after much gesticulating, another player produced a fresh set of dice. It didn’t do any good. If he was a cheat, he was a clever cheat. This wasn’t the first time she’d seen him fleecing mortals and Gerda had decided to name him the Gambler.

  She was starting to grow bored when a Marakai entered and sat down at a table. Gerda recognized him as the sea clan not only by his ebony skin and curly hair, but the graceful way he moved, like a cat slinking through a kennel of slobbery dogs. She could tell from a subtle shift of the Gambler’s shoulders that he noticed the newcomer out of the corner of his eye, but he continued to dice for a few minutes more. Finally, he rose and sat down at the Marakai’s table.

  Interesting.

  Gerda didn’t know much about the sea clan. She figured they were dim-witted, mentally unstable, or both. Who else would choose to sail the White Sea, with rogue waves a hundred paces high and denizens of the briny deep that could smash a ship to splinters with a single tentacle? Of course, as the only clan to deal with both daēvas and humans, they got rich off everyone else. That made sense. But Gerda couldn’t imagine living on the pitching deck of a ship any more than she could imagine living in the sunlit mortal cities, or the dank, mossy forests of the Danai.

  Give me stone and snow and sky, and I’m content, she thought. Preferably with the idiot’s corpse on a spike to improve the view.

  The Marakai conferred with the red-haired man over mugs of wine that neither of them touched. The Marakai looked around the tavern in a shifty-eyed manner, but his attitude toward the Gambler was deferential. How Gerda wished she could hear what they were saying! She gripped the globe with gnarled fingers, conscious that the man might become aware of her presence at any moment. He had only caught her the one time, but the look in his eyes had been enough to take care it didn’t happen again.

  At last the Gambler rose and left without a backward glance, though a small smile played on his lips. The globe followed him—at a safe distance—to a moonlit harbor where a few small fishing vessels floated at anchor. Gerda frowned. He must be on the twilight side of Tjanjin. The island straddled the Umbra and its eastern half had a reputation for bawdy houses, dust lairs and other dens of iniquity. It was where you went when you didn’t want people seeing your face too clearly.

  The Gambler stood on a sandy crescent of beach, looking out at the sea. He nodded to himself and muttered something. Hecate sat low on the horizon, casting a glimmering silver net across the bay. Then Gerda saw movement in the shadows. It was four of the men he’d been dicing with. The biggest, a stocky fellow in a sleeveless shirt and baggy breeches, stabbed a meaty finger into the Gambler’s chest. She couldn’t hear what was said, but it seemed fairly obvious they were accusing him of cheating. The Gambler looked amused.

  Gerda drew a sharp breath as one of the others, a rat-faced creature who’d been sidling around behind, suddenly produced a knife and darted in like a striking snake. Without turning his head, the Gambler’s hand shot out, seizing his attacker’s knife arm. He did nothing el
se, but the man’s mouth gaped in a silent scream. Gerda squinted. Was his flesh...smoking? The others stood there dumbfounded until flames started licking at the crotches of their trousers. The Gambler laughed as they dropped and rolled around flailing on the sand. Then he strolled off down the beach, lazy and lithe as a sun-warmed tiger.

  Gerda let the weaving go and sat back, sucking her teeth.

  No wonder he won all the time. He was probably using air to tip the dice.

  She poured herself a cup of wine and took a thoughtful sip. So they were loose. But why was a Vatra wasting his time in dingy taverns on the other side of the world? And where were the rest of them? Could he be the last of his kind?

  Perhaps further observations with the globe would clarify matters. Either way, no one else knew the truth and she intended to keep it that way until she saw how to turn it to her own advantage.

  Gerda smiled. The Vatras’ revenge might be a thousand years in the making, but she’d make sure Victor Dessarian got his fair share of it.

  Culach woke to someone banging on the bars of the next cell. It could have been a shoe, or maybe a piece of rock she’d worked loose. He’d been dreaming again, of the burning city and the desert and the last agonizing moments of the king’s councilor.

  “Shut up!” a woman’s voice yelled. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

  “You shut up,” he growled, groping for the wall and leaning against it.

  For a moment, blessed silence reigned.

  “I thought Victor came to kill you. So why is the job unfinished?”

  “He talked himself out of it.”

  “Felt sorry for you, huh?”

  “I thought you wanted me to shut up.”

  He heard a soft exhalation and guessed she was standing at the bars. Each cell had a grill set into the door at eye level so the jailers could inspect the prisoner inside.

  “Well, if I have to listen to you muttering and moaning for another night, I’ll come over there and do it myself.”