by Kat Ross
“Be my guest,” Culach replied wearily.
Of all the cold cells, they had to put him next to Katrin.
She’d never once asked what his nightmares were about. Empathy wasn’t Katrin’s strong suit. Instead, she just yelled and pounded on things until he woke up. It had become an almost farcical routine.
“Those Danai bastards,” she muttered. “How did they get in? How?”
Culach assumed she was talking to herself, but he answered anyway.
“Neblis. She told Victor about some secret passage.”
Katrin made a noise of disgust.
“I wish you’d found her. So I could kill the bitch.”
Culach stretched his arms over his head and winced. His ribs still ached from Victor’s vigorous kicking.
“We’ve established why I’m here,” he said. “Blindness has its advantages. But I never figured you for the type to get taken prisoner.”
In fact, Katrin was the best they had. She trained for hours on end against anyone willing to spar with her, man or woman. The knowledge of her superiority with a blade—and even unarmed—had never bothered him. Katrin was better than everyone.
“The fuckers knocked me out with a chunk of stone,” she said. “I still have a lump on my head the size of…. Hey, do you remember that hailstorm we had a couple years ago? With those balls of ice that smashed right through the hull of the Marakai ship?”
They’d gone to the shore to trade with the sea daēvas. The coastline west of the Isles was wild and barren, but there were coves where the Marakai could drop anchor. That particular day, a nasty storm had blown in from the White Sea. They’d been stupid enough to try flying the abbadax through it. Culach gave a slight smile. He’d been black and blue for days, but it still made a good story.
“I remember.”
“Like that.”
“Ouch.”
Culach stood and walked to the cell door, curling his fingers through the grill. The corridor was quiet. No other voices, not even a cough or a whisper.
“Who else is alive?” he asked.
“No idea.”
“Do you think the other holdfasts will come to our aid?”
“What do you care?” she asked bitterly. “I heard you protected our only hostage.”
“Eirik was going to slaughter her in cold blood,” Culach snarled. “And it would have done nothing to stop the Dessarians. You’re just…” He trailed off.
“Jealous?” Katrin’s anger turned to genuine amusement. “Oh, Culach. I think we have bigger problems, don’t you?” She chuckled. “Men have astoundingly high opinions of themselves. I hate to say it, but your cock has nothing on your ego in terms of size.”
“Point taken.”
“You were a pleasant diversion, but Agnes, for example, was far better at—”
“I get it.”
Katrin went on for a while, dissecting his manly prowess in excruciating detail and comparing it to various other lovers she’d acquired over the years. Culach mostly stopped listening. She was doing it out of boredom and frustration, and simply because she was Katrin.
He scrubbed a hand across his mouth. His beard itched maddeningly but he doubted the Dessarians would be giving him a razor anytime soon. They came through every quarter hour, pausing before the cells to do a head count before continuing on. No one wanted to linger amid the thick sheets of ice and vicious little drafts that crept through fine cracks in the stone walls. The cold cells faced east, toward the White Sea. When the wind hit the mountains, it picked up speed. By the time it crossed leagues of barren peaks, that wind felt like a knife to the throat. And there were no shields on this side of the holdfast, which also held the stables.
In a strange way, Culach’s dreams—bad as they often were—had become an escape from his dire reality. Even the recurrent nightmare of being buried alive had grown familiar, though it still jolted him awake with a pounding heart. But that one came less frequently now. He still dreamt of the king’s councilor and had learned the man’s name: Farrumohr.
Culach suspected he was reliving Farrumohr’s memories in reverse order from the moment of his death. In the dreams he rode along like a passive observer, but he felt Farrumohr’s emotions and even absorbed some of his knowledge. He was beginning to understand what had occurred so long ago that led to the sundering of Nocturne and Solis, and the downfall of the once powerful Vatras.
As so often happens, it began with a beautiful woman.
A dry desert wind whipped the brightly colored pennants streaming from hundreds of tents. Daēvas from every clan milled around the plaza, laughing and exchanging news and gifts with old friends. They were celebrating the annual return of Artemis. Twice as large and luminous as the other moons, she sailed high as the sun set, bathing the surrounding city in soft light that shimmered on the rooftops and spires. Some of the buildings looked like colossal, ancient trees, others like breaking waves, and still others resembled jagged mountains. Together, they created a metropolis like none the world had ever seen, a tribute to the wild and the tame, to both Nature and civilization.
Once a year, all the clans came together in the glass capital of the Vatras, power-forged from the desert sands. The Vatras were the only clan to have built a city—clear evidence of their superiority over the other races. As he looked out through Farrumohr’s eyes, Culach felt the man’s malice. They were all parasites who exploited the Vatras’ generosity. But things were about to change.
Farrumohr sat on a raised pavilion on the western side of the plaza, an untouched cup of wine in his hand. Culach sensed his bitterness as he watched the merrymaking, though the man maintained a frozen smile that made Culach’s cheeks ache. His gaze wandered to the area where the Danai had erected their camp. Both the ebony-skinned Marakai and the fair Valkirins mingled with their cousins, as well as a number of flame-haired Vatras. But Farrumohr’s attention rested on one woman. She stood with a knot of people, smiling at some joke. She was small, like Mina, and darkly beautiful.
Farrumohr leaned closer to the king, who sat at his left watching the proceedings with an indulgent air. Gaius was a striking man, with sharp cheekbones and almost feline eyes. His hair spilled down his back like a river of flame. He wore no jewelry except for the serpent crown. Farrumohr had ordered it specially made when he took the throne. A reminder that even the mighty could be felled by a careless step.
“There she is, my lord.”
Gaius turned. “What?”
“The girl I told you about. Caecelia.”
Farrumohr’s thoughts were a tangle of envy, hatred and bitter longing, but Culach understood in a flash of insight what undercurrents swirled around the king and his advisor. The king needed an heir. Farrumohr had managed to find fault with every potential Vatra courtier, urging an alliance with one of the other clans through marriage. It would be a first step toward bringing the four together under a single ruler.
“Where?” the king asked languidly.
“Near the third tent. She’s wearing green.”
Farrumohr watched the king search her out. Much work had gone into this particular selection. It was unusual for the clans to intermarry, though not unheard of. If she was rejected, Farrumohr would have to start his search from scratch again, a prospect he didn’t relish.
Then Gaius paused and his features stilled. Farrumohr heard the faintest hitch in his breath.
“She is…intriguing,” Gaius murmured, his pale blue eyes locked on Caecelia.
Farrumohr smiled. “I’m sure she would be honored to dine with you, my lord. In fact, I’ve heard she admires you greatly.”
This was a lie. In fact, the woman was in love with another Danai. It was partly for this reason that Farrumohr had chosen her.
“Does she?” Reddish lashes blinked rapidly.
“Oh, yes. You shall have your pick, of course, but I cannot imagine any woman refusing you.”
Except for Caecilia.
Farrumohr knew Gaius had a weakness for dark-
haired women. Caecilia of House Martinec would be irresistible. She was young and lithe, charming and intelligent. Her home lay on the White Sea, near the Valkirin border. He’d heard she loved to walk the sandy shoreline in the mornings and swim in the tepid water. Even if she hadn’t already given her heart to another, she was not the sort of woman who would be happy living in the desert. And she was strong-willed. Stubborn to a fault. She wouldn’t accept a marriage for political reasons, no matter how much her family pressured her. In other words, Caecilia was ideal for Farrumohr’s purposes.
He rose and crossed the plaza, the crowds parting like he was some kind of diseased beggar. The group turned at his approach, smiles dying on their faces—even those of his own clan. His lips tightened. He had never given them cause to dislike him, but they did anyway. Instinctively.
Farrumohr’s grin stretched wider and he made a flowery bow.
“The king extends his personal welcome,” he said to Caecilia.
She stared at him, then glanced at the others uncertainly. A handsome Danai with fiery black eyes took a step closer to her. That one would be trouble, Farrumohr thought. He wanted trouble but not right away. Not until the hook was set.
“Please thank Lord Gaius for me,” she said graciously, turning away.
Farrumohr laid a hand on her arm, enjoying her slight flinch. “Oh, I will. But he wishes you to dine with him. He would like to hear news of House Martinec.”
Caecilia hesitated.
“You would not insult our king in his own city, would you?” Farrumohr asked softly. “It is simply a meal. He wishes to get to know all of his…” Farrumohr nearly said subjects but caught himself. “Cousins. That is the purpose of the gathering of Artemis, is it not?”
Her dark brows drew down. “Oh, very well,” she said carelessly.
The black-eyed daēva opened his mouth to say something but she quelled him with a hard look.
“Tell Gaius I would be honored. We leave tomorrow anyway.”
Farrumohr bared his teeth. “So soon? But the gathering lasts another three days.”
“Yes.” She made an apologetic face, the little liar. “There are…matters I must attend to. They cannot wait.”
“How unfortunate. Still, he will be pleased to meet you. Come to the pavilion within the hour. I assure you, Lord Gaius is delightful company.”
She nodded, clearly eager for him to be gone.
This would not do.
Farrumohr leaned closer, pulling her aside so the others wouldn’t hear.
“Between us, the poor king has been ill lately. I fear…well, I shan’t say it, but I fear the worst. Your kindness would mean the world to him.”
“Oh!” Her pretty eyes widened. “I am sorry,” she said in a softer tone. “Please tell him it would be my great pleasure to sit at his table.”
Farrumohr sighed. “You are as big-hearted as they say. This could be his last…Never mind. But you have my personal thanks. And please, don’t mention it, especially to the king. He doesn’t wish anyone to know. He can’t stand the thought of being pitied.”
“Of course not,” she replied sympathetically.
He felt their eyes on his back as he walked away. The other daēvas avoided him, but he heard their whispers. Viper. For once, it didn’t bother him. Soon enough, they would learn their place.
Later, at dinner, Caecilia played her part perfectly. She listened when Gaius spoke, laughed at his jests and filled his cup when it grew empty. The king basked in her attention as the black-eyed daēva smoldered at a table in the very rear of the pavilion.
Lumen crystals in every color cast the tables in rainbow hues. The porcelain was from Tjanjin, the gold-chased goblets from Samarqand. At Farrumohr’s urging, Gaius had spared no expense for the occasion. Each clan was served delicacies that would appeal to their particular palate. The Marakai dined on freshly grilled fish, the Valkirins on cold soups and stews, while the Danai devoured platters of fruit and poached bird’s eggs. Wine flowed from talismanic casks that never grew empty. Laughter and snatches of song—battle dirges from the Valkirins, lighter fare from the others—rang through the tent as the feast went on through the night.
Farrumohr observed the proceedings with his frozen smile, though it never touched his eyes. As attendants in livery cleared the last plates, he leaned over to King Gaius.
“Perhaps my lord should tell Caecilia he wishes to take the night air,” he hissed.
Too much wine had flushed Gaius’s face a rosy pink. His eyes were slightly unfocused.
“A fine idea,” he said loudly. He extended his arm. “My lady? Would you allow me to escort you to the gardens? There are flowers that only bloom in darkness.”
She bit her lip. “I am growing tired—”
“Just a brief stroll. You would not refuse me that? They are very close.”
“I suppose a quick walk would be all right,” she muttered.
Gaius grinned. His serpent crown sat slightly askew and a sheen of sweat coated his brow, but his legs were steady enough as he rose and offered Caecilia his arm. She took it with obvious reluctance, though Gaius didn’t seem to notice.
“I know you Danai love your forests,” he said, “but you’ll find the desert has its own stark beauty.” His gaze lingered on her for a moment. “I look forward to showing you.”
Caecilia tensed but allowed herself to be led from the tent. Farrumohr grinned as they disappeared. It faded when he saw the black-eyed daēva rise from his table, a glower on his face. Farrumohr glanced around. The food and wine had worked their magic. Unused to such rich fare, half the daēvas sat with chins propped on hands, eyes drooping. The others still laughed and jested, toasting each other with the last of the wine. In short, no one was paying the slightest bit of attention. He followed the man, catching up to him when he reached a fountain at the entrance to the gardens.
“Danai,” Farrumohr called softly.
The daēva turned and his scowl deepened. “What do you want, Viper?”
“Let the girl make up her own mind.” He held his hands up. “That’s all.”
The Danai laughed. “Caecilia knows her mind already. That is not what troubles me. But I’ve heard things about your king—”
A faint scream rent the darkness. The Danai turned to run and Farrumohr held out a hand. Flames burst from the man’s back. From his mouth and eyes. He flailed soundlessly, the flesh melting from his bones. Farrumohr sagged to his knees. Fire drained the wielder’s own life force. It was all he could do to haul the smoking corpse into the trees. Then he used the last of his energy to char it to greasy ash. The wind would do the rest.
4
A Scarlet Thread
Thena stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. She hadn’t slept well. The new witch remained stubbornly silent—except when he asked questions of a personal nature. He had a knack for ferreting out her deepest anxieties and then offering unsolicited advice.
She sensed the Pythia’s mounting impatience with the lack of progress. Thena had expected the Pythia to question Andros herself given that he knew the girl she hunted, but the Oracle shunned unbroken witches and didn’t make an exception for this one, leaving the task entirely to Thena. And her initial confidence was starting to fracture.
Why did you come here, Andros? Who is this girl to you? What were you seeking?
He couldn’t have known about the other captive witches or he never would have come alone. He’d walked straight into the temple without hesitation.
If I could only make him talk.
But it was like beating a dead horse. Worse, a horse that mocked you for it. Just that morning, he’d given her a lecture on some heathen nonsense called the Way of the Flame. Spouting platitudes like one good deed is worth a thousand prayers, or seek your happiness in the happiness of all. As Thena’s frustration neared the boiling point, he’d had the temerity to suggest that she search her own heart.
You’ll tear yourself apart, he said in that maddeningly calm voice. Evil wou
nds the doer most deeply. Your soul is sick.
She hated the fact that he could read her so easily and she couldn’t read him at all. So she punished him again and again, more severely each time. It got her nowhere.
“How can you be bored?” Maia whispered. “I’m so nervous, I couldn’t hold my breakfast.”
The sun slanted over the walled yard behind the acolytes’ chambers. A dozen of the Polemarch’s soldiers stood in the only scrap of shade to be found, an overhang with neatly stacked piles of wood for the braziers. Despite the heat, the men looked fully alert. Hands rested on weapons and their attention had a single focus: the two witches waiting in the center of the yard.
“I’m not bored,” Thena muttered. “Just tired.”
With her widely-spaced brown eyes and high voice, Maia gave off an air of gentle innocence, but Thena knew better.
“It’s Andros, isn’t it?”
Thena gave her a sharp look. “Why do you think so?”
Maia arched an eyebrow and smoothed her dress. “It’s obvious. You look like death warmed over every time you come out of his chamber.”
Thena scowled. Before the new Danai, she’d had an unblemished reputation.
“He’s difficult,” she admitted. “His capacity to absorb pain is…disturbing.”
Maia gave a sympathetic nod, but Thena knew from the twinkle in her eye that she relished the situation. Under the old Pythia, the initiates had gotten on well. Then she died and the new Pythia came. Within weeks, the first captive witches arrived and things changed. The girls all sought to curry the Oracle’s favor. It became a competition to see who could break the most witches, who could train them the swiftest. The others hated Thena because she was so good at it. She knew they were waiting eagerly to see her fall.
“Are you sure you’re not being soft on him?” Maia asked.
Thena briefly thought of their last session together. Her stomach knotted at the memory. “I’m sure.”
“Then you must take him to the very edge,” Maia advised. “It’s kinder that way. Delivering punishment in dribs and drabs merely prolongs the agony.”