Solis

by Kat Ross

  Gaius frowned. “Do you have evidence of this claim?”

  “No, my lord, but—”

  “Then do not make it,” he snapped. “They are honorable men, even if they saw fit to oppose me.” His tone softened. “Listen, old friend, I appreciate all you have done for me. I’m aware of the eloquent case you made before the Senate.”

  “My lord, I didn’t mean to overstep. But if there is any truth to the rumors”—which Farrumohr had started himself, of course—“you would be well-advised to send a strong signal that you are not such easy prey. I’ll be frank. You’ve held yourself removed from politics, spending most of your time on your family’s estates, but there are currents you know nothing of. Some of these men are honorable, perhaps most, but not all.” He shook his head sadly. “Not all. Let me guide you. You know I have only your best interests at heart, and the kingdom’s.”

  Gaius sighed. “I suppose you are better versed in these matters. A serpent crown, eh?” He placed it atop his head. It fit perfectly. “All right.” He laughed, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “At least you didn’t put black bands on the thing.”

  “Now that would be in poor taste,” Farrumohr agreed, flashing pointy teeth. “You should return now, my lord. They are waiting for you.”

  Gaius gave him a last tight smile and strolled over to the Senators. Farrumohr watched, his eyes fixed on the crown.

  They would never have elected him. He would have been laughed out of the Senate if he’d even suggested it.

  But there were other paths to power.

  Culach woke to boots ringing on stone, the dark thoughts of the Viper fading from his mind. He inhabited the man fully now. Why? His fists clenched in frustration. What link bound him to this murderous, conniving creature?

  Culach cocked his head and listened. He wanted Mina, but knew he was more likely to get Gerda. Or, judging by the stride, Victor Dessarian. He’d kept his bargain with the abbadax. Could the man not leave him alone?

  The door to the cell opened with a screech of metal.

  “Culach.”

  A thousand things could be learned from a voice. Far more than from a face, he’d discovered. Faces could be schooled to deception. And expressions—the cast of an eye, the set of a jaw—were what people focused on, far more than what they heard. Victor’s tone was his usual contempt with a dash of condescension, but beneath that lay fear. Culach could hear it in the shallowness of his breath.

  “I would speak with you.”

  Culach yawned. “Do I have a choice?”

  “No.”

  “Go ahead then.”

  “I wish to negotiate terms.”

  “For what?”

  A pause. “I need to know how the Maiden Keep was defended during the Iron Wars.”

  Culach laughed. “They’re coming for you, are they? All three holdfasts united. How uncomfortable.”

  “Name your price.” Another pause. “Besides releasing you. That’s not on the table.”

  “I think everything’s on the table,” he replied lazily.

  “Not that.” Victor ground the words through his teeth. “You tried to murder my son. Twice.”

  “I’m a blind cripple. How could I—”

  “Don’t play games. It was your hand behind it.”

  Culach didn’t bother arguing that Eirik had masterminded both attempts. He supposed he was complicit enough.

  “There is a way,” he acknowledged. “An extreme measure not used since the war. But my price is two-fold.”

  Victor waited. Culach could smell his impatience, his fury at being in this position.

  “You let me out of this cell and give me free rein to go where I will—within the walls of Val Moraine. Once you deploy the defenses, there’s no danger I’ll escape.”

  “And?”

  “You let Katrin go.”

  “What? The hellcat next door?”

  Culach smiled. “That one.”

  He heard Victor’s jaw creak. “Done.”

  “You’ll give her an abbadax and you’ll let her leave first.” He paused. “You hear that, Katrin?”

  Faint rustlings from the next cell. “Yeah, I hear it.”

  “What about Gerda?” Victor asked, a hopeful note in his voice. “Perhaps she’d like to go too.”

  “Ask her,” Culach said, turning away into the corner of the cell.

  A silence ensued, as if Victor might be hoping he’d offer to come along. When Culach said nothing else, the door slammed and he strode off.

  “You know what you’re doing?” Katrin asked. “You’ll be a traitor to every holdfast now. They’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth.”

  “And I had such a bright future.”

  She barked a laugh. “I’ll put in a good word to Halldóra. Maybe she won’t kill you when we come back, though I really can’t promise anything.”

  “You’ll have to find another way in. Possibly the tunnels, though I imagine the Dessarians have collapsed them all. They can’t be stupid enough to leave the same way open that they used themselves.”

  “You should let me go and then not tell him.”

  “And stay in this cell until I’m old and grey? To hell with that. Victor can have Val Moraine.” As long as I get Mina.

  “You’re so bloody pathetic. Thinking with your cock again.”

  “It gives me better advice than you do,” he said mildly.

  She laughed. “Well, good luck to you, Culach. It’s been memorable.”

  There wasn’t much else to say so they sat in silence until Victor returned.

  “She won’t go,” he declared. “Told me to … never mind. It doesn’t bear repeating.”

  “Ah, dear loyal Gerda.” Culach wondered what game she was playing. “Well? Do we have a deal?”

  “I want to know what these defenses are.”

  “Let’s put it this way. What’s Val Moraine’s weakness?”

  “The shields of air,” Victor replied without hesitation.

  “Precisely. When the defenses are triggered, the keep will be sealed. No getting in—or out. So I hope you’re committed, Dessarian.”

  Victor drew a breath. “I’m committed. How do I trigger it?”

  “After Katrin leaves.”

  “Then she goes right now.”

  Victor whistled and six Danai trotted down the corridor. Culach counted their number almost instantly and with little effort.

  “Get up,” Victor said. “You’re coming along.”

  Culach rose to his feet. Frozen muscles protested.

  “Don’t fucking touch me,” Katrin snarled at someone.

  He heard the clank of chains, the squeal of iron on stone. They marched single-file through the keep. No one bothered to put manacles on him this time. For a brief moment, Culach fantasized about throwing himself on an abbadax and flying off. He’d be pincushioned with Danai arrows but at least he’d die with some dignity on the back of his mount. Tumbling into a crevasse was a perfectly acceptable end for a Valkirin. But they might hurt Ragnhildur and he didn’t want that. And then there was Mina. When he was with her, he didn’t mind the rest of it so much.

  You can always die. But perhaps not just yet.

  Bitterly cold air struck his face as they stepped onto the ledge of the stables.

  “What’s happening, Katrin?” Culach demanded.

  “I’m saddling up.”

  “Which one?”

  “Berglaug.”

  Katrin had chosen well. Berglaug would fly through a blinding hailstorm without complaint.

  He heard the jingle of a harness. Dry lips brushed his cheek.

  “Thanks, Culach,” she whispered in his ear.

  A moment later, he heard the scrabble of claws on ice, felt the rush of wingbeats against his face.

  “Farewell, assholes,” Katrin yelled, her voice dwindling. “See you soon!”

  Victor let out a heavy sigh. “Talk,” he said.

  “Is she out of arrow range?”

  �
��Gods, do you really think I’d shoot her down now? But yes, she’s out of arrow range.”

  “Good.” Culach felt a strange contentment that Katrin had gotten away. Whatever her faults, they’d been friends for a very long time. “Where’s Eirik’s body? I hope you didn’t throw it over the edge.”

  “I fed him to the abbadax.”

  Culach laughed. “Well, that complicates things.”

  “What does it matter?” Victor snapped.

  “Because Eirik wore a talisman around his neck. A jewel. We need it.”

  There was a long silence.

  “But they ate him.”

  Another long silence.

  “Oh, Gods.”

  Culach stood on the ledge, too cold to even smirk properly, as the Danai went to the back of the stables. He heard squelching sounds, followed by muffled gagging. The nests would be partly thawed thanks to the heat of the abbadax’s huge bodies. It was a nasty job, but they were lucky the creatures cemented their nests with dung, Culach reflected, otherwise the talisman would be at the bottom of a crevasse somewhere. Snippets of terse conversation drifted over.

  “Is that an ear?”

  “Let me see….Part of one, anyhow.”

  “Who has a spare blade? This bit’s all frozen over….”

  The abbadax hissed and spat. They didn’t like the daēvas rooting around in their beds. Culach made soothing noises to quiet them and Ragnhildur crept over and nuzzled his neck. He stamped his feet, trying to get some feeling back. He could almost hear his father’s caustic laughter. If his ghost lingered at the keep, Culach knew he’d be delighted by the turn of events.

  Eirik’s revenge.

  It would make a good story—the kind you told after the second cask of wine was flowing but before the fighting started. The kind of story everyone remembered the next day no matter how drunk they’d been. Katrin would love it.

  “If you’re stringing me along,” Victor snarled, “you’ll soon be joining the rest of the Kafsnjórs.”

  Culach could feel Victor’s fury, rolling off him in waves of heat. For once, he was glad to be blind so they didn’t make him help.

  “I think…” One of the Danai paused to swallow hard. “I think I found it.”

  “Massive white diamond?” Culach called. “No doubt it needs a polish but still hard to miss.”

  Victor: “Show me.” He gave a long exhalation. “Clean it up. Gods, look at that thing. I’ve never seen the like.”

  “The talisman uses air and water, but it doesn’t require much of either. Even you Danai should be able to work it,” Culach said. “Once it’s used, nothing will be leaving the holdfast. So if you have messages to send, do it first.”

  “What does it do? No jests, I want to know exactly.”

  Culach told him.

  “Understood.” Victor hesitated. “You can take a chamber near Mina’s if you like. Most of them are empty.”

  Culach nodded and turned away.

  “And it better work,” Victor hollered after him. “Or you’ll wish—”

  Culach ignored the string of gruesome threats that followed. He trailed his hand along the walls, counting steps and corridors and turnings until he reached Mina’s chambers. He knocked on her door. A moment later, it swung wide.

  “We’ll be under siege soon,” he said. “Sure you don’t want to go home? Last chance.”

  “Culach!” She dragged him inside. “How did you get out? If you killed a guard, Victor will execute you for certain. Both of us, since I’ll have to defend you.” She sounded annoyed.

  “Apparently I’m allied with the Dessarians now,” he said. “As bizarre as that sounds.”

  “Allied?”

  “Victor let me out in exchange for showing him how to defend the keep.” He held up his hands. “And don’t get mad, but I made him let Katrin go. I know she was a bitch to you, but she still deserves better than life in a cold cell.”

  “I don’t care about Katrin.”

  “What do you care about?”

  “My son.” Reluctantly: “You.”

  “Well, that’s progress,” he said lightly.

  He knew where the chair was and decided to sit down. Sadly, Mina didn’t join him this time.

  “Are you still having those dreams?” she asked.

  “All the time. Gerda asked me about them too.”

  “Did she?” Mina sounded troubled. “What does that old bat care?”

  “She thinks the Vatras are coming back. And that the Valkirins ought to take their side.”

  “Gods. It’s not true, is it?”

  He shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”

  “What else did she say?”

  So Culach told her. All of it, including his own dreams. Mina was quiet for a long time.

  “These talismans are weak in the power of their clan?” she asked at last.

  Her voice sounded strange. Tense.

  “So she claimed, though it makes no sense. Why?”

  Mina knelt before him and took his hands. “I have something to tell you too. But you must keep it secret.” She hesitated. “It’s about Galen.”

  Thena hooked her fingers over the edge of the stone cistern. Slippery moss tore away beneath her hands and insects scuttled up her arms, tiny beetles with iridescent backs that shimmered in the glow of crystals embedded in the ceiling high above. She started to slide back down into the black throat of the well when a strong hand seized her wrist and hauled her out. The contact with Demetrios made her tremble even harder than the beetles. She wrenched her arm away as soon as she’d gained her feet.

  “Give me that,” she snapped, holding out her hand.

  Demetrios surrendered the disk without hesitation. His adoration both attracted and repelled her, though Thena would not admit to the first. Her mind had become a labyrinth of locked rooms and hidden pits, trapdoors that led to places even deeper and stranger than the one the Talisman of Folding bored into the fabric of the world. She hated the witches, yet a sick part of her still yearned for Andros. It made her despise him all the more.

  She pushed the treacherous witch out of her mind and replaced him with an image of golden-haired Apollo.

  I am your instrument. Your weapon. I am reborn.

  Thena moved aside as Korinna and Nikias clambered out behind her. Korinna’s white dress was streaked with muck. She kept glancing at Nikias like he was a dozing rattlesnake.

  They were in the darklands. The bracelets and collars no longer worked. Both witches had free rein of their powers.

  Thena knew Demetrios would never betray her. But Nikias? Perhaps he was fully broken, as Korinna claimed. Or perhaps only the knowledge of his sister’s screaming death was staying his hand from trying to kill them all.

  The Pythia said her plan would work. You must trust her.

  Thena stood in an enormous chamber filled with trees and plants in a thousand varieties. The air was warm and smelled of ripe fruit, of green growing things. It wasn’t what she had expected, but then she knew almost nothing about how the witches lived.

  “Wait here,” she ordered, moving away before Korinna could recover her composure.

  “Where are you going?” the blonde acolyte whispered.

  Thena ignored her. She wandered through the orchard until she found an apple tree with two knots that looked like eyes. She could remember that one. Thena used her fingers to claw a hole and bury the Talisman of Folding beneath its roots. No one would leave without her now.

  When she returned, Nikias sat on the edge of the cistern, a faraway look in his brown eyes. Korinna stood with her arms hugging her body. Thena turned to Demetrios. He was the only one who seemed composed and alert. It gave her strength.

  “Lead us into the keep,” she said. “And remember what the Pythia said. It will likely be a young witch, and weak in the power.”

  They slipped single-file through the miniature forest, passing other cisterns of still water. Once they reached a corridor leading out, the light vanished
and the air grew colder. Sweat slicked her palms nonetheless. What if they failed? She would far rather die at the hands of the witches than return to the Pythia empty-handed.

  Demetrios led them through twisting passages and finally up a long staircase. Then he stopped and ran his hands along the wall. She heard the grinding of stone. A crack appeared, gradually growing wider to reveal a doorway. Thena followed him through.

  They stood in a long corridor whose ends dwindled into shadow. One wall was mortared stone. And the other…. She drew a shallow breath. There was no wall. The floor ended at empty air for the entire length of the hall. She heard the lament of the wind only a few paces away, yet it didn’t touch her.

  But the vertiginous drop was only the beginning. Her mouth gaped in wonder.

  Thena had never seen true night. She knew the sky as blue, or grey when storm clouds threatened, not this fathomless black. The moons were too large. Too bright. And what were those tiny lights sparkling in the firmament? More than she could count in a lifetime?

  “Stars,” Demetrios whispered in her ear, and she didn’t need the bracelet to sense the fierce joy in him.

  Mountains marched into the distance, row upon row of them. For a dizzying moment, Thena could no longer tell up from down. It was as though the world had tipped on its side and a single movement would cause her to tumble into that inky abyss, tumble all the way to the moons. Demetrios took her hand and this time Thena didn’t shake him off.

  When she’d imagined the darklands, they were an ugly, forbidding place. She never expected Nocturne would be beautiful. In Solis, Selene was merely a pale silhouette, ghostly as a wisp of cloud. Thena paid the moon little attention except as a means of judging the hour. Here, she gave off the warm, mellow glow of a lantern in a window. And Hecate, whose only distinguishing feature had been her small size, now stood out against the sky like a polished silver coin. A mantle of white lay atop the peaks and seemed to shine with an inner light.

  “What is that?” she whispered.

  “Snow,” Demetrios laughed.

  He looked different here, clad in moonlight, the planes of his face both softer and more alien.