Solis

by Kat Ross

  “What about my friend, Javid?” Nazafareen asked.

  “I shared a few cups of wine with one of the dungeon guards,” Cyrene replied. “He was happy to flirt with a girl before heading home to his wife, and to brag about the very important prisoner he escorted to the Pythia for questioning. A young Persian.”

  “Oh no.” Nazafareen’s heart sank. “Will she harm him?”

  “I cannot say for certain. The Pythia is capable of anything,” Kallisto replied with a worried frown. “And the Polemarch…. He is notorious. But as Cyrene said, Javid is an important prisoner. The Oracle wishes to put him on display and it would undermine her claims if it seemed he’d been tortured.”

  Nazafareen found this small comfort. She remembered that shadowy face inside the hood. But there was nothing she could do at the moment except hope Kallisto was right.

  Rhea took a small sip of wine. “We followed the two scholars you described,” she said in her low, rich voice. “I took the tall one, Megaera the other.”

  “The Stork and the Weasel,” Nazafareen said.

  Rhea laughed. “Apt names. But we discovered where they live.”

  “One piece of good news,” Kallisto said. “We have an order to fill for the Philosophers. You can take it into the city tomorrow.” She glanced at Nazafareen. “So you think we may find proof of their treachery?”

  “They framed Herodotus, I’m sure of it. It was all planned out in advance. The soldiers went straight to the spell dust in his study. So the Archon Basileus had to know.” She thought for a moment. “If there is evidence, I don’t think they’d dare to keep it at the library. There are too many people about. Servants dust and mop every room. They’re more likely to have hidden it in their homes.”

  “That makes sense,” Megaera said, propping muscled forearms on the table. “What do you propose?”

  “We go and watch the houses. Look for an opportunity to sneak inside and search.”

  “But what exactly do you hope to find?” Cyrene asked.

  “I’m not sure. But one of them might have saved some spell dust. Maybe to frame someone else. It’s an effective way to get rid of enemies. And if they have, I can find it right away.”

  “Many ifs and mights, but it’s all we’ve got for now,” Kallisto agreed. “The trial is in little more than a week. You can leave first thing tomorrow. Nazafareen, you’ll wait at the Temple of Dionysius while they watch the houses and determine the routines.”

  Nazafareen frowned. “Wait? I want to go along.”

  “It’s too dangerous. You could be recognized.”

  She thought briefly of the snake that lived under the altar. But far worse was the prospect of sitting around while others took all the risk. She’d spent three days sleeping while Javid sat in a dungeon and Herodotus languished in some filthy animal stall.

  “Then help me create a disguise,” she said. “Please.”

  Kallisto pursed her lips.

  “Let her come,” Cyrene urged. “We could use another set of eyes.”

  “We could darken her hair,” Rhea said thoughtfully. “I know a method. My nursemaid used it. Rather a foul concoction, but it worked. As I recall, it requires ashes, boiled walnut shells and earthworms.”

  Nazafareen laughed. “Earthworms?”

  “Are you so squeamish?” Rhea asked coolly.

  “No,” she said quickly. “Not at all.”

  “Leave her in my hands,” Rhea told Kallisto. “I’ll transform her. If you’re not satisfied with the result, she can wait at the temple.”

  Kallisto gave them all a long look. “Agreed.”

  After supper, Rhea and Cyrene went off and gathered the ingredients, boiling them into a thick, smelly paste that they smeared on Nazafareen’s light brown hair. Two hours later, they went to the bathhouse and rinsed it out. Then Rhea wove her hair into a multitude of thin braids, held back by a silver circlet. She produced a small hand mirror and offered it to Nazafareen.

  The image looked a bit cloudy, but the results were still remarkable. Nazafareen hardly recognized herself.

  “Thank you,” she said, clasping Rhea’s hand. The tall girl flashed one of her rare smiles. She was quite lovely when she smiled, Nazafareen thought.

  That night before bed, she lit a candle and prayed for the Holy Father to keep Javid safe from the Pythia, and Herodotus too. Then she sipped from a small cup of watered wine dedicated to Dionysius and respectfully asked him to do the same.

  If I’ve left anyone out, she thought sleepily, the fault is mine. Just watch over my friends, please. They’ve done no wrong. And if you want to punish the Pythia and Polemarch, and those Archons too, you have my blessing.

  Nazafareen rose early and dressed in a flowing roughspun gown with long, pointed sleeves that hid her stump. With a shopping basket dangling from her good arm, she looked like any other servant out to do the household shopping. Kallisto scrutinized her for an uncomfortably long time, but finally gave Rhea an approving nod.

  In the yard outside the farmhouse, the Maenads loaded casks of wine into the cart.

  “Once we’re in Delphi, you should manage to blend in,” Charis said. “But we still have to get through the city gate.”

  “So what’s the plan?” Nazafareen asked.

  Charis glanced at an empty cask.

  “Oh no.”

  “Yes,” she said with an evil grin.

  Nazafareen eyed it dubiously. “Can I breathe in there?”

  “I made small holes in the bottom. It might not be comfortable, but you’ll survive.”

  At least the heat felt bearable today, with a cooling breeze from the east. Nazafareen eyed the dirt road leading to the city. She could just make out the walls several leagues distant. Other wagons moved toward them from the farms and estates surrounding Delphi. An hour or two, that’s all. She thought of Javid and felt ashamed. What’s a little discomfort compared to what he’s going through? And if she managed to expose the Stork and the Weasel, it would be worth any price.

  Kallisto leaned on her staff. “It’s best if you all stay at the temple until both houses have been searched. Then you’ll come back here until the trial. No need to tempt fate.”

  Nazafareen took a last look at the gently rolling vineyards, the whitewashed farmhouse and row of cypress trees jutting like spear points towards the sky. Then she climbed into the empty cask. It smelled strongly of oak and resin. When Megaera pounded the lid closed with a heavy mallet, she squeezed her eyes shut.

  I trust the Maenads. I do, though I hardly know them. And it’s the only way.

  The cart lurched off, its wheels finding every bump and rut in the road. Nazafareen’s elbows pressed tight against her ribcage and her nose brushed her knees.

  It’s like being a cork in a bottle. And to think I disdained the itchy hay cart, she thought. That was the lap of luxury!

  An interminable amount of time passed in darkness. Nazafareen’s thoughts darted about like a colony of riled-up bats. Javid. Herodotus. Darius. The Pythia. The Avas Vatras.

  Are they real? If anything could survive in the Kiln, she supposed it would be fire-working daēvas. She wondered what had driven them to turn on the mortals and other clans. Were they truly evil, or had they been mistreated in some way? Herodotus might know. Now she wished she had asked him more questions.

  Nazafareen tensed as the cart slowed. They must be at the city gates. She heard the guards inspecting the casks and Rhea’s calm, cultured voice showing them the order from the Philosophers’ Guild. Finally, the cart moved on again and she released a pent-up breath. After a lengthy trip over cobblestones that left her feeling like the sole of an old boot, the cart jolted to a stop. Her cask jostled as the others were unloaded. She hoped they might release her, but then the cart started off yet again. Nazafareen was just getting a nasty cramp in her calf when it halted and the lid mercifully popped open. Cyrene’s almond-shaped eyes peered down at her.

  “Hurry,” she whispered, helping Nazafareen out of the cask
.

  The walls of a narrow alley loomed on either side. Nazafareen hopped down from the cart, legs tingling. Rhea stood watch at the entrance, braid tucked over one shoulder. Both she and Cyrene had switched their short fawnskin dresses for plain roughspun. Rhea signaled that the coast was clear and Nazafareen hurried to the mouth of the alley.

  “Where are the others?”

  “They went to watch the Weasel,” Cyrene said with a grin. “We’ll meet up at the temple of Dionysius later.”

  “The Stork’s house is nearby,” Rhea added. “Cyrene will stay with the cart. Come.”

  Nazafareen followed Rhea down a street lined with potters’ shops displaying delicately painted urns in all shapes and sizes. To her relief, the neighborhood was a busy one, filled with shoppers and hawkers peddling their wares. They turned a corner and Rhea tipped her chin at a two-story whitewashed building with green shutters closed against the heat.

  “That’s the one,” she said in a low voice, pretending to admire the contents of a shop. “Do you sense anything?”

  Nazafareen drew a breath and let her breaking magic quest outward for talismans or wards. It came much easier now—a fact she had mixed feelings about. She waited for the tingle of magic but came up empty.

  “Nothing,” she said in disappointment. “But I’m not really sure how close I need to be. I’ve never done this before. It’s still worth a look inside.”

  “The Stork should be at the library by now, but his wife is probably home. You wait in that park over there. I’ll browse around. If you see anyone leave, come get me. I’ll do the same.”

  Nazafareen nodded and drifted toward a grove of plane trees. A skinny man stood on a flat-topped rock in the shade, lecturing a sparse crowd. He looked like a beggar, with tattered robes and a long, tangled grey bread that reached his hollow chest. But his voice was strong and resonant.

  “Dogs and philosophers do the greatest good and get the fewest rewards,” he exclaimed, as the audience roared with laughter.

  “I am called a dog because I fawn on those who give me anything, I yelp at those who refuse, and I set my teeth in rascals!”

  Nazafareen suppressed a grin. She listened with half an ear, keeping her gaze discreetly fixed on the house.

  “And what I like to drink most”—he paused and raised a finger for effect—“is wine that belongs to others!”

  More laughter greeted this statement.

  “Who is that?” she heard a man ask.

  “One of those fool Cynics,” his companion replied. “His name is Diogenes. Hangs about the park haranguing honest citizens. They say he was kicked out of Sinope for smashing coins with a chisel.” The man snorted. “Claims poverty is the greatest virtue. He sleeps in a wine cask, if you can imagine!”

  Nazafareen gave a start at this and covered it by looking for Rhea, who mingled among the shoppers down the street. She hoped it was a larger wine cask than the one she’d traveled in, though that might account for the state of Diogenes’s attire.

  The philosopher carried on for another hour or two, only pausing to accept donations of food and wine, which he consumed with no break in his lecture. The topics ranged from the foolishness of other philosophers, particularly someone named Plato, to his contempt for priests and social institutions in general.

  Nazafareen pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to smother a yawn. People mostly seemed to stop and listen for the entertainment value, but none stayed long and she began to worry they might wonder why a servant girl had camped out in the park to listen to the eccentric philosopher when the door to the Stork’s house opened and a woman emerged.

  Nazafareen caught Rhea’s eye. The woman glanced furtively in both directions, then set off down the street. She looked quite young, with dark hair swept up into pins that emphasized her slender neck.

  “The Stork’s daughter?” Nazafareen asked as Rhea smoothly came into step beside her.

  Rhea shook her head. “His wife. I saw her yesterday when she greeted him at the door.” She made a disgusted face. “He kissed her on the lips. Do you want to go inside now?”

  Nazafareen hesitated. She felt fairly certain there was no spell dust in the Stork’s house. “Let’s follow and see where she goes first.”

  They hurried to keep the woman in sight as she wove through the throngs. The Stork’s wife left the potter’s district behind. The houses grew larger and more elegant. At last, the woman entered a stately villa surrounded by lush gardens. Two servants tended the flowerbeds with hoes.

  “She came here yesterday around the same time,” Rhea said thoughtfully, as they spied from the shelter of a stone wall several houses down.

  “Do you know whose house this is?”

  “Not either of the Archons. They live in palaces.”

  They quieted as a stout woman in servant’s garb hurried past, giving them a curious glance over her shoulder.

  “We should pretend we met each other on the street and stopped to talk,” Rhea said in a low voice. “Better to hide in plain sight than to lurk about.”

  That made sense. But Nazafareen hardly knew Rhea. She’d barely spoken the night before when she colored Nazafareen’s hair. There was a natural reserve about her that seemed different than the other Maenads.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  Rhea tilted her head. “Tell me about the Persian. How did you meet him?”

  “His name is Javid,” Nazafareen replied. “I stowed away on his wind ship to escape the Valkirins.”

  “Was he angry?”

  “At first. The ship crashed in a storm.” She paused. “Partly—mostly—because I cut the wrong rope when they got tangled. But he stood by me when we got to Delphi. We were supposed to catch a ship together to Samarqand.”

  “What’s in Samarqand?”

  “I’m looking for the Marakai daēvas,” Nazafareen replied. “I have a problem I’m hoping they can help with.”

  Rhea gave her a curious look but didn’t press.

  “So where are your families?” Nazafareen asked. “Do you all come from Delphi?”

  “Our mothers live at the Temple of the Moria Tree on the Cimmerian Sea.”

  “And your fathers?”

  “Dionysius is our father.”

  Nazafareen tilted her head. “How does that work? I mean, does he come down from the clouds and…?”

  Rhea laughed. “I see. You mean the mortal men our mothers had relations with.” She shrugged. “When a Maenad decides to have a daughter, she chooses a man to give her a child. But he’s simply a vessel for the god. Once the child is seven years old, she’s given to Kallisto.”

  “What if it’s a boy?”

  “It’s never a boy,” Rhea said, as if Nazafareen had asked what would happen if a dog had kittens. “Then the mothers give up the staff and go to the temple.”

  “So how come Kallisto is married?”

  Rhea smiled. “Kallisto does as she pleases. Marriage is not forbidden, merely unusual. It’s rare for a mortal man to win a Maenad’s heart, but Herodotus managed it. They keep their union a secret.” She sighed. “I think Kallisto misses him very much, though she doesn’t speak of it.”

  Nazafareen glanced at the villa. She longed to go peek through a window, but the gardeners made sneaking up impossible. “How long have you had this system?”

  “Since the Vatra Wars. The first Maenads were among the few survivors. They were impervious to fire. It’s a gift from the god.”

  “Kallisto told me that. Is it really true?”

  “Would you like to see?” Rhea asked.

  Nazafareen blinked. “Um, yeah.”

  “Can you summon fire?”

  “I might be able to.”

  Nazafareen looked around. The street was deserted. She concentrated and a tiny flame flickered from her fingertip. It was the most she could manage. Rhea pushed up her sleeve and held her arm out so the fire licked at her flesh. She kept it there while Nazafareen watched, amazed. After a minute or so
, Rhea displayed her arm before pulling the sleeve down. The skin was unblemished.

  Nazafareen raised her eyebrows. “That’s a neat trick.”

  Rhea’s grey eyes sparkled. “So is summoning the elements.”

  “I wish I was better at that,” Nazafareen admitted. “But only my breaking magic is strong.” She paused. “How did the Maenads come by this gift?”

  Rhea’s voice took on a lecturing tone. “Apollo and Dionysius are both sons of Zeus. They’re brothers but very different. Apollo stands for rational thinking and order, prudence and purity. Dionysius is the god of chaos, emotion and instinct.”

  “How about magic?”

  Rhea smiled. “Definitely Dionysius.”

  “I like him better then.” In fact, Nazafareen thought privately, it described her own temperament to a tee. “So they’re enemies?”

  “Not exactly. The Pythia would have people believe that, but it isn’t true. The world needs all those aspects to stay in balance. The philosophers say it is the fundamental conflict of human nature.”

  “I can see that.”

  “The Vatras were the children of Apollo. We are the children of Dionysius. The god gave us the power to withstand flame to keep his brother in check.” Rhea’s face darkened. “But ever since the Pythia came, the cult of Apollo has grown in power and our temples have fallen into poverty.”

  Nazafareen thought about this. “You say the Vatras are children of Apollo, but from what I hear, the Pythia hates daēvas.”

  “Not all those who follow the sun god are allies. I agree, it is confusing, and I do not think even Kallisto understands what the Pythia really wants.”

  “She says the Vatras are coming back. Do you think it’s true?”

  “If Kallisto believes so, I fear the answer is yes.” Rhea gave a wolfish grin. “But we stand ready for them this time.”

  “There’s only seven of you,” Nazafareen couldn’t help pointing out. “I know you’re impervious to fire and all, but you seem rather outnumbered.”

  “True, but our job is not to stop the Vatras. It’s to find the talismans and protect them from harm. They will turn back the fireworkers like they did last time.”