by Kat Ross
“I’m glad Victor took Val Moraine,” he said. “It puts my heart at ease to know the Valkirins no longer hunt Nazafareen. But there is another matter that concerns all the clans. The Oracle of Delphi is holding captive daēvas at the temple of Apollo.”
“What?” Delilah frowned. “The missing daēvas Tethys spoke of—”
“Are there. The Pythia has collars similar to the cuffs of the empire.” He paused. “I know because I was a prisoner myself until recently.”
Livid white spots high on her cheeks were Delilah’s only sign of emotion at this confession, but Darius knew it affected her deeply. She had been an enslaved concubine to King Artaxeros II for many years while Victor languished in Gorgon-e Gaz. Her scars were as bad as his father’s, if more deeply buried.
“How many daēvas does this Pythia hold?” Delilah demanded.
“Not many, I don’t think, not yet. But she has larger plans.”
His mother’s gaze turned to the griffin cuff around his wrist. She seemed to notice it for the first time—and was not well pleased. “Why do you wear that?” Disbelief tinged her voice. “Have you bonded each other again?”
Darius gave her a wintry stare. “That’s none of your business and I won’t discuss it.”
She tossed her black hair. “Fine, but we must leave for Delphi immediately.” Anger twisted her mouth. “Collars, you say? And who wears their match?”
“Young girls. Initiates at the Temple of Apollo. They have the spark, enough to wear the bracelets. Though I wonder how the Pythia discovered the making of the collars.” He turned to Herodotus. “Have you ever heard of such a thing? Talismans to control a daēva?”
The scholar shook his head. “Never. I didn’t suspect it was even possible.”
“There’s much that is strange about this Oracle,” Kallisto said thoughtfully. “Her past is a mystery. She denounces magic, and yet she uses magical talismans to subdue the very daēvas she despises.”
“I know I could break the collars,” Nazafareen put in. “I sensed them just before we went through the gate.” Her face darkened. “If only I’d known what they were.”
Darius had seen Nazafareen use her breaking power in a similar fashion once before at the Empire’s summer capital of Persepolae. It was a bloodbath.
“You don’t understand,” he said. “Some of these daēvas are loyal to the Pythia.” A muscle in his jaw fluttered. “She tortures them until their minds snap. Most likely we’d find ourselves fighting those we came to rescue.” He glanced at Delilah. “No, you must tell Tethys and my father. All the other Houses as well—and the Valkirins. They might be our enemies, but they deserve to know.”
“And what of you?” Delilah demanded. “Aren’t you coming?”
Darius stretched his legs out beneath the table. He still felt stiff and bruised.
“I’d planned to carry the message myself, but you can do it now.”
Delilah shook her head. “And where will you go, Darius?”
He looked at Nazafareen. She gave him a tiny smile. As he spoke the words, he knew they felt right. Not only for Maria, though he wanted to honor his promise, but for himself. If the Pythia sought the talismans, she had to be stopped. And he wanted to learn more about these Avas Vatras.
“To the Isles of the Marakai.”
“For what reason?”
“I made a promise.”
Delilah’s lips thinned. Had she been a single degree less reserved, Darius thought she would have thrown her arms up in exasperation. “What promise? To whom?”
Darius ignored the question. “The Pythia is not simply capturing daēvas. There are three she seeks in particular. She believes they have special powers.” He looked at Kallisto. “This woman seeks the same daēvas, but to protect them from harm.”
Kallisto sipped her tea serenely, though she kept one hand on the staff, Darius noticed.
Delilah arched an eyebrow. “Special powers? What are you on about?”
So Nazafareen told the story of the war all over again, with occasional interruptions from Kallisto and Herodotus to clarify certain points. She explained about Sakhet-ra-katme and how the Marakai was old enough to remember the talismans. When she finished, Delilah stood in silence for a long moment, her brow furrowed in thought.
“If this is true, Tethys will need to tell the Matrium immediately,” she muttered. “I wonder if she already knows. Your grandmother keeps many secrets, I think.”
“Tell her there are soldiers at the temple and they use spell dust,” Darius said. “But it’s the daēvas you must be most careful of—especially if you hope to take them back alive.”
Delilah nodded tersely. “And what will you do when you find this Marakai woman? This Sakhet-ra-katme? I still say your place is with your clan. Victor is trying to hold Val Moraine with a tiny force and Tethys will never aid him now, not when she has Delphi to deal with. She didn’t approve of your father’s actions in the first place. He needs your help, Darius.”
“I made a promise,” he repeated stubbornly.
Delilah did throw her hands up at that, and Darius suppressed a grin. “Which you will not even explain. So be it.”
“Perhaps there is a reason our paths have crossed to a common purpose,” Kallisto said carefully. “I know you don’t hold with mortal gods, but it might help unite the clans to send a Danai to Sakhet as a gesture of goodwill. And then he can report what he has learned to your Matrium.”
Delilah nodded grudgingly. “As soon shift a boulder with a piece of straw as turn my son from a course of action once he has set himself to it. I suppose I have no choice in the matter.”
She opened the door and gave a sharp whistle. A daēva with short, curly hair lounged in the common room. She had her boots propped on a table and her eyes appeared heavy-lidded with boredom, but they held a watchful gleam and her chair was perfectly positioned to keep tabs on both the front door and the door to the private dining room. Elfin features lit in a smile when she saw Darius, and she gave them a wave.
“Well, Lara and I have done what we came for,” Delilah declared. “I am glad you are both alive.”
This time, the emphasis was on the word both. Darius found himself softening a little.
“Thank you for coming all this way,” he said. “And your journey wasn’t wasted.” He paused. “It’s good to see you.”
He half-expected his mother to get all weepy at being tossed this bone, but instead she eyed the last loaf of bread. “May I? If you’re done, that is. We haven’t eaten much in days.”
“By all means,” Herodotus exclaimed, fussing over the jam and cheese and pressing small plates upon Delilah until she laughed aloud. The sound startled Darius, he’d heard it so seldom, though it was actually quite pleasant, low and throaty.
Kallisto finally dragged her husband off to see about the horses, leaving Delilah, Nazafareen and Darius alone.
“Oh, and your brother Galen is a traitor,” Delilah announced, setting to work on the remains of breakfast.
“Half-brother,” he replied absently. “And what do you mean, traitor?”
“He’s the one who told Eirik Kafsnjór where Nazafareen was. He also helped them conjure the chimera.”
“That little bastard,” Darius muttered.
“Indeed. He fled to Val Moraine to avoid discovery, but we found him there when we took the keep.”
“I don’t understand,” Nazafareen said with a frown. “He saved Darius’s life.”
“Only to save himself,” Delilah growled. “But it was enough to stay Victor’s hand. Well, Galen’s in irons too now.”
“And what will Victor do?” Darius asked.
“He plans to hold the keep until he has assurances from the other Valkirin holdfasts that they won’t make mischief.” Her lips pursed in thought. “I’ll let him give them the news about Delphi.” She drained the dregs of her tea and threw the cup down. “Lara and I will stop first at House Dessarian. Then I’ll go straight to Val Moraine. We will raise
an army to shatter the walls of Delphi and free our cousins. The Pythia will be very dead, very soon—that I promise you.”
Darius made his goodbyes to both Delilah and Lara just as Kallisto returned with the horses. Within minutes they were all mounted up with baggage tied to the saddles, though the four young Maenads looked distinctly miserable to be travelling. Lara eyed the horses and a whispered conversation with Delilah ensued. In the end, they decided to stick with their own feet since Lara had no experience riding.
“Send word when you reach the Isles,” Delilah called as Darius swung his horse around.
It felt fine to be riding again, Darius thought. As a Water Dog, he and Nazafareen had shared a massive stallion strong enough to carry the weight of a double saddle. The mounts Kallisto had bought were small but glossy and with a lively step. Nazafareen went a bit wide-eyed when she first scrambled up, but she sat her horse well and Darius could see her muscles remembered how to ride even if her mind did not.
“I will,” Darius promised. “And we will return when we know more about these talismans. Be safe, mother.”
Her mouth curved in a bittersweet smile. Darius touched his mare’s flank and she sprang forward.
To Susa, he thought, the thunder of hooves in his ears. And then to the Isles of the Marakai.
24
The Serpent Crown
On the floor of his cell, Culach stirred restlessly in sleep. His breath formed a delicate lattice of ice on the stone walls. Frost rimed his leather coat and glittered in his silver hair. The cold reached so deeply into his bones he no longer felt it. In his dream, the noonday sun blazed overhead….
Farrumohr watched from the shadows of a half-built column as King Felix approached a group of dark-haired Danai stonemasons. The old monarch kept changing his mind about the design of his palace and now the Danai were demanding greater payment because the work was taking longer than expected. Farrumohr didn’t doubt Felix would give them all they asked for. The king of the Vatras was an affable, open-handed man.
The Marakai had already completed their contract, drawing water from deep underground to flow through the new capital’s marble fountains and network of canals teeming with bright fish. The Valkirins worked closely with the Danai, who shouldered the brute strength required for the construction. Together, joining earth and air, they shaped the sands into whatever fantastical shape the architects imagined. Then the Vatra casters would use fire to turn the loose, trembling walls into hard glass.
It was supposed to be finished within the year. Farrumohr watched old Felix—so humble in his simple white robes—present the Danai with a small chest carried by one of his attendants. Saw their greedy faces light up as they pawed through the talismans inside. These objects, designed to channel elemental power for a specific purpose, were the Vatras’ currency. No other clan could make them. Without the talismans, Farrumohr knew they wouldn’t lift a finger to help. But the talismans brought light and warmth to their homes. The talismans let them travel from one place to another at will and a thousand other things, some of them frivolous—others priceless. A talisman might make a fireworks display, or heal a lethal wound. It might change the shade of your eyes, or multiply the yield of an orchard ten-fold. It might bequeath eternal life, or kill in an instant, although the latter sort had been banned under King Felix.
Farrumohr himself was one of the most skilled talismanic forgers, more skilled than anyone knew because he kept what he made for himself. Now his hand closed around the object in his pocket. The Danai masons nodded as the king pointed to a topless spire that rose over the palace. Apparently, he now intended for it to look like a tree! Farrumohr’s teeth ground in disgust. It had been Felix’s idea to add the statues ringing the plaza, a tribute to the artisans from all the clans who’d answered his call to build the city.
Farrumohr looked forward to tearing them down.
Finally, the old king made his farewells and wandered off toward the gardens. They were the Danai’s crowning jewel. Earth was brutish to work when it entailed heavy lifting and the Danai charged exorbitant prices to shift the sands, but they’d lavished attention on the palace gardens. Even Farrumohr was impressed at the result. The Danai had gathered cuttings from every corner of the world and nurtured them with Marakai help into a riot of scent and color.
He trailed along unseen as the king dismissed his attendants. Farrumohr knew he often walked alone in the gardens. They lay at the very edge of the boiling sands that stretched north to the Austral Ocean and east to the small inland sea the Vatras called the Mare Salis. No one lived in the city yet; half the buildings still lacked roofs. The only sounds were the drone of bees and splashing melody of the fountains.
Farrumohr followed the king deeper along the winding paths. When Felix stopped to admire a spiky purple blossom, Farrumohn took out the talisman—a tiny serpent with ruby eyes. He breathed life into it, then cast it to the ground. With a twitch, the serpent lengthened. Thin bands of onyx appeared on its golden scales. A forked tongue emerged, tasting the air. It slithered toward the king.
Felix never saw it coming. The serpent struck, sinking its fangs into his calf. He gave a sharp cry and fell to one knee. Within seconds, his throat began to swell. He looked up as a shadow fell across his face.
Farrumohr leaned down and held out a hand. The serpent reared back to strike again—and fell to the grass, once again a harmless trinket the size of his palm. He replaced it in his pocket.
“I would have given you a less painful end, but it had to look natural,” he said. “A tragic accident. You understand, don’t you?”
The king gasped for air. His skin turned the grotesque shade of a piece of meat forgotten in a larder. Farrumohr watched him die, which did not take long but was fascinating nonetheless. He had never observed the direct effects of banded blackfang venom before. It attacked the nervous system first, paralyzing the victim. Then it began to liquefy the organs.
By the time King Felix was found some hours later he was quite unrecognizable, but the puncture marks on his leg remained. There were whispers, of course. Farrumohr expected them. There were always whispers.
But none dared speak them aloud.
The coronation of Gaius took place two weeks later in the audience chamber of the new palace. Danai workers had labored night and day to finish it on time. Fluted glass columns soared to a transparent dome far above that admitted shafts of golden sunlight. It sparkled on the crystal floor and blood-red rubies set into the walls to create the illusion of dancing flames. Tall, arched windows looked out on the gardens and the desert beyond. There was no throne yet—the old king had disdained symbols of power—but Farrumohr would remedy that.
As if the sun wasn’t dazzling enough, a hundred torches burned in silver stands. They were the reason no other clan attended the coronation. Some of the Vatras had been uncomfortable with that. It was the first time in memory ambassadors from the Danai, Marakai and Valkirins were barred from the ceremony. But Farrumohr argued forcefully that the other clans’ own fatal weakness should not prevent the Vatras from inaugurating the new throne room with their most beloved element: fire. He prevailed in the end, though it had been close.
Gaius stood chatting easily with a knot of Senators. They had narrowly confirmed him two nights before with a vote of fifty-three to forty-seven. He looked every inch a king, Farrumohr thought approvingly, in embroidered silk robes, his bright copper hair tumbling down across broad shoulders. Gaius smiled as Farrumohr approached. The Senators glanced at each other with expressions of distaste. They liked Gaius—everyone did—and it was only his close association with Farrumohr that had caused the vote to be such a close thing. But Gaius was loyal to a fault and never seemed to realize how much his childhood friend was despised.
“May I speak to you alone for a moment?” Farrumohr asked, bowing low to the Senators.
Gaius clapped him on the back. “Of course. Will you excuse me?”
They walked a short distance away to a balcony
overlooking a pond with fish darting like silver-scaled lightning in the murk.
“I have a gift for you, my lord.”
“My lord now, is it?” Gaius sounded amused. “Well, I suppose you’re right. What is it?”
“I was thinking it is time the king of the Vatras wore a crown.”
Gaius’s brows lifted. “A crown.” He seemed to taste the word on his tongue. “It would be a break with tradition.”
“Yes, but is that not the role of a monarch? To make his own traditions? Else you are simply old wine in a new cask. I do not think that is why they elected you.”
“I see what you mean.”
Farrumohr could tell he liked the idea. If Gaius had a flaw, it was vanity.
“Your people are still reeling from Felix’s tragic death. They need a symbol to rally behind.” He kept his face smooth as he took out a silken bag and presented Gaius with the crown he’d made. A simple gold circlet with a sinuous serpent on the brow. He’d worked on it for months before Felix was even dead, but Gaius would never know that.
Gaius accepted the gift, but looked uneasy.
“It seems in poor taste,” he observed, turning the circlet over in his hands. “The man’s pyre is barely cold.”
“That was not my intention,” Farrumohr said quickly. “It is simply a reminder that hidden enemies are often the most dangerous.”
“Hidden enemies?”
Farrumohr lowered his voice. “I did not wish to trouble you with it—you had to be seen as above such things—but Cato and Lucius waged a secret campaign against your ascension. They said you were too young and headstrong. Their alliance fell apart when I spread a rumor that each was seeking the throne for himself.”
Gaius laughed. “Farrumohr! You were always too cunning.”
“My lord, that pair isn’t done stirring up trouble, mark my words.”
They both glanced at the two senators, who stood talking together.
“In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a hand in Felix’s death,” Farrumohr whispered. “They are too ambitious by half.”