by Kat Ross
“Which city?” he asked hoarsely.
“Samarqand. But she won’t try to touch her magic,” Delilah said hastily. “She swore it to me. And she wanted me to tell you she seeks the Marakai. She seems to have some idea that they can heal her mind.”
Darius stood stock still for a moment, considering the implications.
Solis. The mortal lands of scorching sun, of forges and fire temples. Darius didn’t fear fire the way the other daēvas did. He’d been raised in the empire among humans who followed the Way of the Flame. Fire would kill him if he got too close, but he was practiced at keeping his distance.
Nazafareen hadn’t waited for him. The knowledge stung, but perhaps it was no more than he deserved. How badly he had misjudged everything. If only he’d told her his own plans to leave. But he’d kept them secret, and now she was gone.
“She’ll never make it. It’s too far.” His frigid gaze swept over Delilah. “Your lack of concern for her welfare doesn’t surprise me. You never liked Nazafareen.” He turned to his father. “But you, Victor? How could you let her do this? The journey through the Umbra is a death sentence.” He felt sick. “The Valkirins will catch her long before she reaches the sun lands.”
“If she’d been on foot, we would have refused her,” Victor said, black eyes flashing like chips of obsidian. “Delilah told me Nazafareen travelled by wind ship.”
Darius glared back, keeping his rage on a tight leash.
“And where did she find a bloody wind ship?” he demanded.
“A mortal came, seeking trade concessions. She left with him.”
Darius swore and stalked over to a wooden chest. Bolts of pain shot through his leg but he wouldn’t let Victor see it. He began tossing extra clothing into a leather rucksack. At the bottom of the chest, he found the griffin cuff. With his back to Victor and Delilah, Darius quickly slipped it into the sack. It might be useless, but he wouldn’t leave it behind.
“We’re going to war,” Victor said through gritted teeth. “Does that mean nothing to you?”
“I thought that was up to the Matrium. Did they meet already?”
“Not yet, but—”
Darius buckled the bag. “Well, I’m sure you can manage it.”
“Nazafareen will be among her own kind,” Victor said. “I doubt even the Valkirins would chase her halfway across the world. But they won’t forgive the fact one of their own is dead. His corpse is lying in Tethys’s garden. Galen saved your life and now you’d abandon us in our hour of need? Have you no honor?”
Darius paused. “Do you truly dare to speak of honor, Victor?” he asked softly.
“Stop it, both of you,” Delilah snapped. “You’re behaving like children.”
But Darius couldn’t let it go, not this time.
“You’re a hypocrite,” he spat. “You helped the humans enslave your own people to save Delilah’s life. And now you expect me to let Nazafareen walk alone into the lion’s den?”
Color suffused Victor’s thick neck. “The only one going into the lion’s den will be you. The mortals hate and fear us, even if they pretend otherwise. If anyone suspects what you are—”
“They won’t,” Darius said shortly. “Now get out of my way.”
Victor glowered down at him and Darius braced himself for a fight when Galen walked in, shaking glittering flakes of snow from his dark hair.
“I see you’ve decided to rejoin us.” His smile faltered as he looked between them. “What’s happening?”
“Ah,” Victor said grimly. “My son is here.”
Galen’s eyebrow lifted. “Where are you going?” he asked Darius.
“Samarqand. I need maps.”
“Samarqand?” Galen laughed. “No really, where are you going? You look like death warmed over.”
“Maps,” Darius snarled.
Galen shrugged. “Ellard might have one. I can ask him.”
“Do it. Now, please.”
“But why—”
“Did you know Nazafareen is gone?”
His half-brother frowned. “Gone? I just saw her yesterday.” He paused as understanding dawned. “The wind ship?”
“Yes.”
Galen looked as though he might say something more, but the expression on Darius’s face discouraged further questions.
“I’ll go find Ellard,” he said, with a final quick glance at Victor.
Delilah had retreated to the bed, where she watched in silence, hands folded in her lap. Victor sighed heavily and stood aside. He’d never been adept at concealing his emotions and he clearly believed Darius’s loyalties were sorely misaligned. But then he’d always believed that.
“Go then,” Victor said.
Darius picked up his rucksack and left without another word. He didn’t trust himself to speak.
Within a matter of minutes, he’d secured a week’s worth of food and water from the kitchens. As promised, Galen found him and handed over a tattered map. Darius quickly surveyed it, committing the details to memory in case he should lose it.
“Thank you.” Darius clasped his shoulder. “And thank Ellard.”
“I will.” He paused. “I hope you find her.”
A light snow fell as Darius walked out of the Danai settlement, heading west. Selene had set and Hecate shone weakly through the veil of tattered clouds, her silver light gilding the frost-limned branches. The ground had frozen hard. His breath made little wisps of mist and the silence of the deep woods stretched out before him like a bittersweet secret in the night.
So Nazafareen thought the Marakai daēvas could repair the damage from the spell. Was it possible? And what would happen if they did?
He remembered how she had looked at him in the Dominion, after Neblis filled her with lies. She’d despised him. It had been worse than anything else Neblis had done. Darius didn’t think she would blame him for the sins of their past, but she might blame herself. That’s how she was.
I will find her. I’ll tell her the truth—my side of it, at least—and let her decide.
A bat swooped past his head, hunting insects. Darius watched its erratic, darting flight and briefly touched the Nexus so he could feel its tiny heart beating within its breast. Its wings were fragile as parchment but they kept it aloft. His chest ached for a moment at the marvels of Nature.
Nazafareen was strong and smart. He’d fought at her side for enough years to know that. Even one-handed, she was deadly with a sword. And the wind ships must be swift. She should reach Samarqand by the next day. It would take him much longer on foot, but surely even Nazafareen could manage to stay out of trouble for a week or two.
Surely.
Let Victor have his revenge until he chokes on it. Let the others call me traitor. Let my mother mourn me. Darius didn’t care what they thought of him. He’d always held to his own code, one forged in the brutal cauldron of the empire. He was no longer a Water Dog, loyal to King, satrap and Holy Father, but he was still a soldier, with a soldier’s discipline and a soldier’s honor, and that honor belonged to Nazafareen now. She was still his bonded, whether or not they wore the cuffs, and Darius would find her if it took him the rest of his life.
11
An Ill-Fated Knife
Nazafareen woke to the creaking of ropes. The ship swayed from side to side like a cradle rocked by an overly enthusiastic giant. She didn’t know how long they’d been aloft. There was no wind, but the air burned her cheeks, a damp, penetrating cold unlike anything she had ever experienced before, its needle claws finding every gap in her cloak.
She hadn’t planned to reveal herself until they reached Samarqand, and not even then if she could find a way to quietly sneak off the ship, but the pendulum-like motion and occasional sudden, brief drops made her stomach roil. Nazafareen swallowed.
I will not vomit, she told herself firmly. I will not.
She peered between the bags of sand. The captain of the wind ship had his back to her, standing with his legs braced wide on the deck. He wore a quil
ted brown coat that came down to his knees and thick fur-lined gloves. As she watched, he peeled one off and took a handful of something gritty from his pocket, tossed it into the air and muttered words under his breath. Reddish sparks danced in the air like a swarm of fireflies. The ship gave a small lurch. He nodded and put the glove back on, steadying himself on one of the ropes.
He’s using magic, she thought in astonishment. Some kind I’ve never seen before.
Forks of blue-white lightning illuminated the surrounding clouds, followed almost immediately by a shattering cymbal crash of thunder. The ship moved in tandem with the wind so she couldn’t judge its speed, but Nazafareen had the impression they were going very fast. She wondered how far away the ground was. Then the deck gave a sudden, violent lurch. Her head snapped back into one of the sandbags and a small cry of pain escaped her lips.
She shook her head to clear it, pinpoints of light dancing in her vision, when the canvas cloth she hid beneath was yanked back. The captain’s eyes widened in shock as he registered the stowaway aboard his vessel.
Now that she saw his face, Nazafareen realized he was closer to her own age, or even younger. He had fine-boned, delicate features, with a mop of chin-length black hair and smooth cheeks that looked like they’d never seen the edge of a razor.
“How in the name of the Holy Father did you get here?” he demanded.
She almost drew her short sword right then. What if he threw her overboard? She quickly sized him up. He wasn’t much bigger than she was. Nazafareen didn’t think he could manage it even if he tried. And he looked more surprised than anything else.
Delilah called me reckless and impulsive. If I put a blade to his throat, we’ll be off on the wrong foot, and he might agree to take me without blood being shed.
With this wise thought, Nazafareen crawled out from her hiding place, joints complaining from so many hours in a cramped space. She tried on a penitent smile and found her face to be as stiff from cold as the rest of her.
“I’m sorry, really, but I needed to leave and your ship was the only way out. I’ve no money to pay for passage, but perhaps I can work it off—”
The boy cut her off. “Are you human or daēva?”
“Human,” she answered quickly.
His relief was clear. “What were you doing in the darklands?”
Nazafareen had already concocted the tale she planned to tell in Samarqand, which was loosely based on a story Darius once told her about a poor shepherd girl—although his version also had talking animals and a fortune-teller and a cave full of treasure. Something told her she might want to leave out those bits for credibility’s sake.
So Nazafareen said she was from a flyspeck village in Solis, nowhere he’d ever heard of, and ran away when her father pledged her to a much older distant cousin who smelled of onions. She’d hoped to find work in a city, but got lost and went the wrong way, wandering across the Umbra until the daēvas of House Dessarian found her.
“I’d only been there a few weeks, while they decided what to do with me.” She grasped a rope and held on for dear life as the ship lurched again. “When you came, I thought I’d save them the trouble.”
He gave her a hard stare. “You could have asked first.”
“I was afraid you’d say no,” she replied, and that was the truth.
“What’s your name?”
“Ashraf.” Darius said it had been her sister’s name.
“All right, listen, Ashraf. My name is Javid and I’m sorry for your troubles, but by all rights, I ought to bring you back. What if the daēvas think I kidnapped you?”
Nazafareen paled. “They won’t think that, I swear! I did tell one of them where I went, and she agreed it was for the best. Please don’t turn around. You don’t understand—”
“I said I ought to.” He studied the clouds, heavy with moisture and churning like a vast grey whirlpool. “If I’d found you earlier, perhaps. But it’s too much of a risk now. I got lucky with fair weather on the journey over, but the hot currents from the deserts of Solis meet the cold winds of Nocturne in the Umbra. It’s notorious for storms.” He grinned, revealing crooked white teeth. “I hope you have a head for heights.”
Nazafareen pulled her cloak tighter.
“I’ll be fine. I climbed trees all the time, the biggest ones I could find.”
He chortled. “Trees, eh? And what would you say if I told you we were more than ten thousand paces up right now?”
“Ten…thousand?”
“Give or take.”
Nazafareen braced her legs the way Javid did and forced herself to let go of the rope she’d been clutching. She smiled, a portrait of confidence. “That’s not as high as I expected.”
Amusement glinted in his eyes, but he simply nodded.
“Thank you, Javid. You won’t regret it. I’ll find a way to pay you.”
He shrugged. “I’m afraid you’ll be on your own when we get there. I doubt the Guild would look kindly on an unauthorized passenger, especially since my visit was supposed to be secret.” He paused. “Did they tell you what was discussed?”
“Oh, no.” Which was also the truth, strictly speaking, since she’d been spying. “I’ve no interest in your business. I just want to get to Samarqand.”
He gave her a long look, as if trying to decide whether she was lying. Nazafareen gazed back with wide-eyed innocence.
“Good. Just don’t mention it to anyone.”
“I don’t know anyone there, and I wouldn’t even if I did.” Nazafareen took in the saucily curving prow and bright brass mooring cleats. She still felt certain she’d seen him use magic. “How do you steer the wind ship?” she asked casually. “Why doesn’t it get blown wherever the wind takes it?”
His eyes narrowed in suspicion again. “You have a strange accent. Are you sure you’re not Greek?” He studied her face. “You don’t have the look, but I’d wager you’re not Persian either.”
“I don’t know what I am.” Now Nazafareen wished she’d asked more questions about the mortal cities. Her ignorance was already causing trouble. “I’m just…just a village girl, like I said. What does it matter?”
“It matters,” he replied flatly.
Javid motioned for her to return to the relative shelter of the canvas covering, and Nazafareen complied. He was quiet so long she didn’t think he’d speak again. She watched him take readings from various instruments. Dark clouds roiled around them, lit every so often by flashes of lightning.
“The winds at high altitude blow from east to west,” he said finally. “That’s the direction we’re moving in now. A skilled pilot has to find the right current. They’re different depending on how high she flies.” Javid leaned over the edge, perfectly fearless, as Nazafareen’s stomach clenched. “All the wind ships have names. This one is called the Kyrenia.”
The Kyrenia. Nazafareen liked that. It sounded regal.
“You seem very young to have your own ship,” she said, hoping flattery would loosen his tongue.
“I am and it’s not mine. It belongs to the Merchants’ Guild. But no one else was willing to fly across the Umbra into the darklands. And if I deliver this contract, they’ve promised me my own wind ship. I’ll be a full captain. There’s a fortune to be made in smug—I mean, inter-city trade.”
Rain began to pelt down and conversation ceased. Nazafareen huddled under the canvas, where she tried to shelter from the frigid deluge. How small and fragile their little craft seemed in the turbulent sea of clouds, with untold leagues of empty space above and below. Javid scampered around the deck like a monkey, untangling lines and checking instruments. Every now and then, he reached surreptitiously into a pouch at his belt and tossed something into the air, muttering words. Each time, their course altered slightly. His evident skill reassured her, but it was also obvious that the storm was worsening. In the forks of lightning, she saw funnel-shaped clouds in the distance, not grey but a dense, ominous black.
Faster and faster they we
nt. Rotating currents batted the ship like a cat with a mouse. The ropes kept tangling. Suddenly, the ship swooped hard to the right, tilting at a precipitous angle. Nazafareen’s heart leapt to her throat. She clung to the nearest line as the sandbags shifted behind her and started sliding across the deck.
“Do you have a knife?” Javid yelled over the roar of the storm.
“Yes!”
He grappled with the webbing of ropes leading up to the sack. Several had twisted together and they’d pulled the ship off balance.
“Good. I want you to cut that line on the starboard side! The one that leads to the—”
A boom of thunder drowned out his words. Nazafareen doubted she would have understood anyway since she had only the most rudimentary grasp of how the ship worked. Letting go of the rail was the hardest thing she’d ever done. She was terrified the ship would lurch again and she’d tumble over the edge.
Nazafareen fumbled for her knife and held it up, sheets of water stinging bare skin where the hood of her cloak had blown back. Two knotted ropes quivered tautly in front of her. She tried to ascertain which one he meant but in the rainy darkness, she couldn’t tell what either were attached to.
“This one?” she cried over her shoulder.
He squinted across the deck, then grunted in pain as his own hand caught in the snarl of ropes.
“Are you all right? What’s happening?”
Javid’s face was white with strain. He dangled helplessly from the rigging.
“Just cut it!”
Taking a deep, terrified breath, Nazafareen seized one at random between her teeth and began sawing with her knife hand. She was almost through when Javid managed to free himself and stumble over. His eyes grew almost comically huge.
“Not that one!” he yelled. “Holy Father, the other!”
Nazafareen stopped cutting, staring dumbly at the rope. Time seemed to slow as it unraveled to a single thread. She blinked and it snapped. There was a terrible groaning sound. Lines slithered and whipped like a nest of angry vipers. Half the ship dropped away from the sack of air above it. She clung to the rope in her good hand, heart beating wildly, the deck tipping beneath her feet. Clouds sped past in a dizzying unchecked descent.