Solis

by Kat Ross

  “And the executions are public?”

  “The Pythia has commanded every free citizen to attend.”

  “Then they will bring Javid there too.” Nazafareen paced up and down. “There will be large crowds. It’s conceivable we could fight our way through.”

  Kallisto’s gaze flickered to her staff. “Yes. But even if we reach them, we’d never get out again. The Acropolis is impregnable. Ten thousand soldiers hold the streets.”

  Smoke and flame. The cries of the dying, as they tried to flee back to—

  “The gate!” Nazafareen exclaimed. “It lies beneath the fountain in the center of the plaza!”

  “You mean…escape into the Underworld?” Adeia whispered.

  “I won’t claim it isn’t dangerous, but there’s no other way. It’s a chance.”

  “It’s the domain of Hades!”

  Kallisto made a sharp quelling motion, her glassy eyes coming to life. “And if the soldiers follow?”

  “I can break the gate behind us.” Nazafareen felt a surge of excitement. “I’ve done it before.”

  “So we would be trapped in Hades?” Charis asked coolly.

  Not a complaint, just a question.

  “No, there are other gates, to other places. There’s one to Samarqand. Javid says it goes into the king’s gardens.”

  “And how would we find it?” Alcippe demanded.

  “Herodotus has studied the gates,” Kallisto said slowly. “He might know where it is.”

  Megaera rose to her feet. “I’m with you. I do not fear the realm of the dead.” She shared a fierce look with Nazafareen. “And I would deny the Pythia her mockery of justice.”

  The others leapt up at this.

  “Gather your staffs, Maenads,” Rhea cried. “May Dionysius watch over us all.”

  Kallisto kissed Nazafareen on both cheeks.

  “Come, Breaker,” she said softly. “There’s no time to lose.”

  They slipped through the silent streets in single file. Most shops and taverns remained shuttered since the riots, although Nazafareen saw a few curtains on the upper floors twitch as they passed. Clearly, those who’d disobeyed the Pythia’s command to attend the executions thought it prudent to hide inside their homes.

  Nazafareen raised the hood of her cloak, following Rhea’s tall, slender form. Kallisto walked ahead, with Megarea, Cyrene and Charis behind her, and the twins taking up the rear. Watchful soldiers stood guard at all the major squares and intersections. They eyed the women closely but allowed them to pass. The cult of Apollo might be ascendant in Delphi, but no one cared to risk openly offending the other gods of Olympus.

  As they neared the Acropolis, the streets began to fill with people. Nazafareen could hear the buzz of the main crowd above. She kept her face down as she took the stairs two at a time, praying to every god she could think of that they hadn’t come too late.

  Javid fought to keep his knees from buckling as two guards hauled him out of the cart. An enormous crowd filled the plaza from the steps to the far edges of the Acropolis, except for a space in front of the temple kept clear by a chain of soldiers in plumed helmets and breastplates engraved with a golden sunburst. They’d linked arms to keep the spectators at bay. Javid could see the strain on their faces as people pushed and shoved for a better position. As he was marched into view, a low, hostile murmur swept through the ranks, starting at the front and growing in volume as it reached the outer fringes, like a wind rattling dead leaves.

  Near the eagle fountain, well out of reach of the crowd, the Archon Basileus stood in his scarlet cloak next to a man who could only be the Polemarch. He was morbidly obese, with small eyes that nearly vanished amid folds of fat. The cheek guards of his helmet further contorted his fleshy face, causing a thick bulge at the neck. Combined with his leather cuirass and short fringed skirt, the head of the city’s armed forces should have looked ridiculous, yet the crowd averted their eyes when his cold gaze turned their way.

  A few paces away stood a third man: The Archon Eponymos. His heavy-lidded gaze passed over Javid with no hint of recognition. An inscrutable man, they said, preferring the comforts of his vast estates to public appearances. Had he known what the Pythia planned for the Assembly? And why did his men try to help me? Does he stand apart from the Archon and the Polemarch to show his distance from them, or is it meaningless?

  Javid registered all these things in the blink of an eye, automatically attaching names and titles to various dignitaries as he had done countless times at court, but his attention was riveted by the gleaming bronze bull that stood on a wheeled platform in the center of the open space. Its sharp-tipped horns caught the sunlight. Bundles of wood lay stacked beneath its belly.

  Herodotus knelt before it, his hands bound. He looked up as Javid appeared and there was bottomless sorrow in his eyes.

  Javid turned to the crowd and his last bit of hope died. He could feel the force of their hatred and fear. Parents held wide-eyed children up to see the spectacle. He felt curiously distant from his body, as though it was all happening to someone else. Only days before he had been part of a similar crowd, watching as the philosopher burned alive. He’d done nothing to stop it and neither would these people.

  A ripple passed through the multitude as the Pythia emerged from the temple. She paused on the steps, her pure white gown flowing gracefully over her feet. She looked stern and beautiful. A younger woman with olive skin stood a respectful distance behind.

  The Pythia raised her hands and the restless muttering of the crowd cut off as though a door had slammed shut.

  “I speak for the god Apollo,” the Pythia declared, lifting her arms. “Herald of light and champion of truth, justice and reason. He has warned me of a gathering darkness that threatens our fair city. The greedy despot of Samarqand conspires with the witches to enslave us all.” She pointed at Javid. “This man is a spy for the Persians, come here to scout our defenses.”

  Hisses and jeers erupted. Javid winced as a stone glanced off his cheek. He felt a warm trickle of blood, but no pain. Only a terrible numbness.

  “And that creature—” her accusing finger swung toward Herodotus, “is a traitor of the vilest sort. A Greek citizen who has sold his soul to the witches for gold and dark magic.”

  The crowd’s furious roar seemed to shake the very stones of the plaza. Herodotus bore it with a bowed head, making no attempt to defend himself. He understood the futility of any response. The Pythia waited for the tide of voices to ebb before she spoke again.

  “All know the penalty for treason. What say you, free men of Delphi? Shall we show them mercy?”

  The reply, naturally, was a resounding no.

  Again she waited until perfect silence reigned over the Acropolis, a pregnant hush like the moments before a thunderstorm breaks.

  “Then let the god’s will be done,” the Pythia said softly.

  She gestured to the soldiers holding Javid. His throat tightened. So he would go first. Perhaps it was for the best. If he had to watch Herodotus burn, he might faint and he did not wish to give this pack of wolves the satisfaction.

  I’ll show them how a Persian dies, he thought.

  As they dragged him forward, a few brave cries of dissent erupted somewhere in the midst of the crowd. The ones in front craned their necks to see what was happening. Soldiers waded into the ranks, cudgels swinging. Javid saw three men dragged away.

  His eyes darted to the fountain. If he could only reach it, perhaps he could find a way back through the gate. He would gladly brave the shadowlands again if it got him away from this hellish city. But his guards obviously anticipated a desperate attempt to run, for they hadn’t let go of him for an instant.

  And then he was being shoved toward the open hatch on the side of the bull. Javid instantly forgot his vows of dignity. He fought them, fought like an animal, and earned a vicious cuff on the ear that made his head ring. The soldiers stuffed him inside. They slammed the door shut with a hollow clang. In the inst
ant before the sunlight vanished, he saw a strange device in the bull’s head, a twisting contraption of metal that would take his screams and convert them into bellows.

  Javid heard crackling as the kindling caught. The bronze beneath his back grew warmer. The crowd shrieked its bloodlust.

  Holy Father, he prayed, nearly paralyzed with terror, please make it quick.

  Nazafareen reached the top of the stairs and tried to see what was going on. The other Maenads quickly fanned out on either side, working their way around the edges of the throng, except for Rhea who was trying to plow her way through. Nazafareen rose onto her tiptoes but she was too short to get a good look.

  “Out of the way,” Rhea growled at the middle-aged man ahead of her.

  He gave her an incredulous stare.

  “And go where?” he demanded.

  The crowd was packed cheek to jowl, a dense mass of humanity that might as well have been a brick wall for all the progress they were making.

  “Just move!” Rhea snapped. She turned sideways, using her shoulder like a wedge, and began forcing her way through tiny gaps, but they only made it a few paces before she stopped again and cursed under her breath.

  “The temple soldiers are holding a tight line in the front,” she whispered. “We’ll never make it. We’d better backtrack.”

  Nazafareen wanted to scream in frustration. The ranks had already closed tight behind them. Then the crowd gave a tremendous cheer, tinged with excitement.

  “What is it?” Nazafareen asked, her mouth dry with fear. “Can you see them?”

  She could smell the sea of unwashed bodies and heavy perfumes, and a hint of something else. Smoke.

  Rhea used her staff to poke a woman hard in the back. When she turned with an outraged scowl, Rhea took the chance to peer over the crowd. Her face turned grey.

  “They’ve put someone inside the bull,” she hissed. “Oh no…”

  Nazafareen didn’t wait to hear the rest. She threw a sharp elbow into the ribs of the man to her left. When he doubled over, she climbed onto his back and hurled herself toward the next row. People suddenly found themselves being used as footstools. They swore at her and someone grabbed her tunic, but she punched wildly and the hand fell away. Nazafareen struggled forward, biting and kicking. How she hated them all! She had the fleeting thought that she should call down a whirlwind, or rend the earth like Darius, but she knew she could never find the calm of the Nexus, let alone make the elements do her bidding.

  Rhea followed close behind, using her staff like a barricade to keep Nazafareen from being torn to bits, but at least a hundred people lay between them and the open space where she remembered the brazen bull being the last time. Then Nazafareen heard a sound that made the hair on her arms rise up. A deep, otherworldly cry. It rang out across the plaza, simultaneously human and bestial, the echoes gently fading within the marbled recesses of the temple. Even the frenzied crowd stilled at that sound.

  The realization that someone was being roasted alive stoked Nazafareen’s rage to a boil. She seized the nearest hank of hair and hauled herself up. The crowd swirled open for an instant and she saw a woman in white standing at the top of the temple stairs.

  “Pythia!” Nazafareen screamed with all the breath in her lungs.

  The Oracle’s head turned. Their eyes locked. Nazafareen reached for the braziers burning on either side of the stairs. She might not be able to find the Nexus, but she didn’t need it to work a little fire—not when she was this furious. She goosed the flames and they flared as though they’d been doused with oil. The crowd gasped.

  “It’s the other witch!” the Pythia cried, pointing a finger at Nazafareen. “Seize her!”

  Heads turned. Nazafareen threw back the hood of her cloak and raised her stump in the air, shaking it defiantly at the Oracle of Delphi. In an instant, the expressions of the people around her turned from irritation to abject terror. Rather predictably, instead of carrying out the Pythia’s command, they floundered to get as far away from her as possible. Now dozens of people were screaming and shoving, and the lines of the soldiers ringing the plaza finally broke. An open space appeared and Nazafareen didn’t hesitate. She ran full tilt toward the bull, Rhea on her heels. Everywhere, people were stampeding pell-mell for the exits. The soldiers seemed uncertain whether they should stop them and the momentary confusion allowed Nazafareen to break through the ragged edge of the crowd and into the space beyond.

  The Pythia’s personal guard quickly formed a ring around her and swept her inside the temple. Nazafareen caught the flash of a red cloak and thought it might be the Archon Basileus, but it too vanished into another knot of soldiers. Officers were shouting orders, regaining control. One gestured and a dozen men ran toward her with drawn swords. She pulled her knife. Rhea readied her staff as they closed in, poised lightly on her toes in a front stance. Smoke obscured the view for a moment. When it cleared, Cyrene, Charis and Megaera had leapt into the breach, cracking skulls and bones. The twins faced another group of soldiers near the temple stairs, shrieking blood-curdling war cries.

  Nazafareen sprinted the last few steps to the pyre and kicked the flaming logs out from beneath the bull. They rolled across the ground, setting two soldiers alight who were trying to drag Herodotus back to his cell. The men screamed and staggered away. She hooked her fingers beneath the edge of the hatch. It seared her palm and Nazafareen’s heart turned to stone in her chest. No, no, please, don’t let him be— She heard the whistle of a sword cutting the air behind her a moment too late, but it met wood with a resounding crack as Rhea’s staff swept it aside.

  Nazafareen yanked at the hatch but it wouldn’t give. She heard frantic pounding from inside and it gave her new hope. Smoke stung her eyes as she wrestled with the panel, the heat of it making sweat pour down her face. Two fingernails tore off but the pain was distant. She knew Rhea still fought at her back from the occasional grunt and thud of bodies hitting the ground.

  “Rhea, help me!” she cried.

  Without hesitation, the Maenad lay her hands directly on the metal and together they pulled as hard as they could. Finally, with a brutal wrench that reverberated deep into Nazafareen’s shoulder, the hatch gave way. She reached into the bull, groping blindly, and nearly wept when fingers closed feebly around her own.

  She hauled Javid out. His skin had gone an angry shade of red and his heavy coat was singed and smoking, but he must have been lying on his back, for the coat had saved him from the scalding metal. He gasped for air and looked on the verge of fainting. Nazafareen staggered under his weight as he fell into her arms. She sank to one knee, and then Herodotus was at her side, helping with bound wrists to drag Javid toward the fountain.

  For Nazafareen, it seemed an eternity that she’d struggled to open the hatch. But when she looked around, she realized it had only been a minute or two. The stampede was still in full swing. A large number of armed men moaned weakly on the ground where they’d been dropped by the Maenads; others lay motionless. The best thing about the cascade of humanity pouring down from the Acropolis was that the soldiers in the streets below had no way of getting up to bring reinforcements.

  Nazafareen heard Kallisto’s strong voice calling the Maenads to the fountain. They retreated in as orderly a fashion as possible considering that half the Pythia’s guard was trying to kill them. Blood trickled down Rhea’s right arm from a nasty slash across the shoulder and Charis moved with a limp, but the length of the Maenads’ staffs gave them an advantage over the much shorter blades of their opponents. They’d also removed the pinecones on top to reveal wickedly sharp metal spears on the ends. All bore red stains.

  The hafts must be bonewood to withstand steel, Nazafareen thought dimly, staggering onward—when a vise closed around her throat. The breath froze in her lungs as if it had turned to solid ice. Herodotus gaped at her in alarm.

  There was no one near them.

  It has to be the power.

  She scanned the crowd in mounting despera
tion, searching for the hidden enemy. Black spots shimmered in the corners of her eyes. In an instant, she was back in her little house, arms and legs pinioned by invisible bonds as she slowly suffocated. Herodotus was saying something but she couldn’t make out the words. Her vision closed to a narrow tunnel and she thought her heart would burst from panic.

  You’re not in Nocturne anymore.

  The voice was a mere whisper, but Nazafareen understood. She opened to her power and suddenly she could see the flows of air swirling around her. They were the electric blue of lightning and formed a web that held her fast. She focused on a single strand and followed it to its source, across the plaza, to the second floor of a nondescript building at the edge of the Acropolis.

  And saw him, framed in the rectangle of a small window.

  A Valkirin. He has to be, with that long silver hair.

  With a savage slash, Nazafareen snapped the cords of power that bound her. It was like tearing through rotten cloth. The daēva staggered back, shock on his face.

  She sensed talismans in that building. At least a dozen.

  I ought to break them all…

  She nearly did. But at the last moment, she realized she might break the gate too if she lost control. Then they’d be trapped on the wrong side. And what if the Valkirin wasn’t alone? There could be others….

  “Ashraf!” Herodotus tugged at her sleeve, his homely face creased with concern. “Are you all right?”

  She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

  Kallisto ran up and bent down to take Javid’s legs. She exchanged a tight but warm smile with her husband.

  “Let’s go,” she barked. “There’s archers coming up the road. They’ll be here any minute.”

  Kallisto raised her staff and slammed the butt onto the ground. A thin wall of flame swept outward in a circle. It flowed harmlessly over the Maenads, but sent the soldiers scrambling for cover.

  Nazafareen blinked in surprise.