by Kat Ross
She ran her hands over his face and hugged him fiercely to her breast. Galen breathed in the familiar smell of her and felt himself tremble. All the vile things he’d done, all he’d endured, were worth it just to see her again. She was the one person in the world he loved besides Ellard, and she was the one person who loved him back. The loss of her had been a wound at the core of his being. It had eaten at him for years, until he feared it might swallow him whole. But now they’d found each other again.
Galen bit back the pain in his feet and composed himself. He didn’t want her seeing the state he was in.
“How have you come here?” Mina asked in astonishment.
Galen chose his words carefully for they weren’t alone. Two Valkirins stood near the door. They all looked alike to Galen: tall and silver-haired with an air of frosty arrogance. But one of the men—the younger one—had a cruel winding scar along his face. Rather than marring his beauty, the defect enhanced it. With his elegantly planed features and full mouth, he might have been too handsome otherwise. The scar made him interesting. He wore a leather coat and trousers in shades of white designed to blend with snow and ice. His emerald eyes looked strangely distant, moving in random patterns around the room. But Galen thought he was listening closely.
The older Valkirin had long hair and wore an iron sword at his hip. His flinty gaze fixed on Galen, his expression giving nothing away.
“I came for you,” Galen said to his mother.
She gave him a tremulous smile. “Your timing couldn’t be worse. You’ll be lucky if they don’t kill you. What were you thinking?”
Galen licked his lips. Glanced at the Valkirins.
“I was afraid they might hurt you.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because of that girl. Nazafareen. And what happened to Petur.”
“No one would harm me here,” Mina said, but Galen saw the lie in her eyes as she glanced quickly at the older man.
“Who is that?” Galen asked in a low voice.
“Eirik Kafsnjór. He’s the lord of Val Moraine. The other is his son, Culach. I…I’ve been caring for him. He was blinded.”
Galen knew who Eirik Kafsnjór was. Everyone did. He was famous—or infamous, depending on who you were talking to.
Besides which, Eirik was the one Galen had intended his message for. Galen had used a kestrel, which were accustomed to riding the strong winds over the mountains. Not every daēva could commune with birds, but Galen had the talent. Of all species, birds alone were creatures of air, earth and water and their minds could be joined in the Nexus—after a fashion. They were intelligent but fickle. They refused to carry parchment so you had to give them visual images, which meant the message had to be simple and concise. And if the bird became distracted or hit rough weather, it might never deliver the message at all. Much depended on the skill and experience of the daēva, and the willingness of the bird.
In Galen’s case, he had simply given it an image of Nazafareen, the girl with one hand, standing before her home in the woods. He followed with an image of Tethys, to convey the idea of House Dessarian. Finally, he imagined the bird flying to Val Moraine, which Ellard had described for him in detail—though Galen had not told him why he needed the information.
The kestrel had studied him intently, intrigued by the mission. It was a pretty bird, with grey wings and a speckled brown back. It hopped into his hand and he gave it a beetle he’d found under a rock.
Fly, little sister. When you return, I will have more beetles, and perhaps even a mouse.
She’d cocked her head—tan with a grey brow—and hurtled upward into the wind, where she hung suspended for a long moment. Then with a flash of wings, she was gone.
The kestrel had not returned. Until the Valkirin assassin came, he’d been unsure if his message had ever arrived.
“I must speak with your son alone,” Eirik said, striding to the bedside.
“Let me stay,” Mina said quietly. “Please.”
“No.”
“Please—”
The one named Culach pushed off the wall and walked to Mina, sheltering her behind him.
“Why can’t she stay?” he demanded.
“I have business with this boy. She’ll wait in her quarters until called for.”
“He’s her son.”
Eirik’s eyes narrowed. “And he’s my informant.”
Mina looked at Galen in confusion. “What?”
“Never mind, mother,” he said hastily. “I’ll explain later. Please, just let us speak alone.”
“No, I want to know now. What do you mean, informant?”
“Your little bastard betrayed House Dessarian,” Eirik said with satisfaction.
“You’re a liar.” She turned to Galen, her face white. “He’s lying. Isn’t he?”
Galen wanted to crawl under the bed. He opened his mouth but no words came out.
“Enough,” Eirik snapped. “We have business to attend to.”
Mina looked like she wanted to slap them both but mastered herself.
“Come with me,” Culach whispered in her ear. “You can see him later.”
Galen’s mother gave him a last heartbroken look mingled with disbelieving fury, then stalked out of the room. Culach followed her. The door closed and Galen was face to face with Eirik.
“You will tell me everything, boy,” the lord of Val Moraine said coldly. “Everything.”
In the corridor, Mina shook off Culach’s hand.
“Did you know that too?”
“I didn’t, I swear to you. Eirik said he received a message, but I had no idea it came from Galen.”
Culach himself was still coming to terms with this turn of events. Damn the boy! It complicated all his plans.
“We can’t talk here,” he said. “Come to my rooms.”
“So you can tear my clothes off?”
“Bloody hell, Mina, no,” he protested, although the prospect was tempting. “Please, I’m begging.”
She gave a small sigh and took his hand. They walked in silence back to Culach’s chamber. When the door was closed, he heard her stalk over to the window.
“I’m sorry Galen came here and I’m sorry for what he did,” he said. “But you still can’t stay.”
“There’s no way out.”
“There is. I’ll take you to the stables. The abbadax know me. We’ll saddle one and send it to House Dessarian.”
“And what about my son?”
“I swear to look after him.”
“I’m not leaving him in your father’s clutches.”
“Don’t be a fool, Mina. I’m offering you a chance—”
Her voice sounded dead. “It’s over, Culach. Eirik has already won.”
He clenched his jaw. “Don’t say that. Please let me help you.”
“No.”
“You don’t understand. Eirik will kill you before he lets Victor have you.”
“I know.”
“Don’t you even care?”
He felt her eyes on him. “I wish I could have healed you, Culach. You’re a better man than I ever suspected.”
He had no idea what to say to that. If only I had my sight. If only I had my power. I’d kill my bastard of a father and then I’d be master of Val Moraine. All pointless wishes. He couldn’t even rage at her stubbornness. If Culach had a son, he wouldn’t abandon him either, even if the boy was a lying, treacherous little snake like Galen.
His hearing was sharper, so he detected the pounding of boots in the corridor a few seconds before Mina did. Culach’s pulse raced.
“They’re coming,” he said. “Damn it, seal the door.”
“What?”
“Use your earth magic. Do it now!”
She seized his arm. “Culach—”
“Seal the fucking stone, Mina!”
Her grip tightened. Once, he would have felt the flows. Now all he heard was a splintering groan as she drew on her Danai talent to meld the doorframe into the t
hick keep walls. Culach held her up as she sagged against him. A small cry of pain escaped her lips.
Fists pounded on the door.
Agnar’s voice. “Open up!”
“Go to hell,” Culach snarled.
It was quiet for a minute while the Valkirins outside absorbed what Mina had done.
Then Eirik spoke, his voice hollow and muffled through the stone. “Think hard, Culach.”
“I hope Victor guts you like a fish,” Culach yelled.
Silence.
Then: “I hereby cast you out from this clan forever, Culach No-Name. You are no longer a Kafsnjór, nor a Valkirin. You are nothing.”
Culach laughed. “That’s the worst you can do?”
“No.” His voice was eerily calm. “There will be worse. When I get inside, you’ll find out just how much worse. I won’t kill you. But your Dessarian bitch?” He gave a thin, deranged cackle. “I only regret you won’t be able to watch.”
Culach faintly heard footsteps leaving. He carried Mina to his bed and gently laid her down on the furs. How small she was.
“Where’s the damage?” he asked softly.
“No broken bones. It hurts, though. Bad.”
“You’re strong.”
She took his hand and laid it against her cheek. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?” she mumbled sleepily.
He barked a laugh that half-sounded like a sob. “I won’t, Mina.”
27
A Message
After a fitful sleep plagued by dreams of the Archon Basileus in his blood-red cloak, Nazafareen dressed in the tunic and trousers she’d been wearing when she crawled out of the fountain on the Acropolis. The night before, she’d sewn a secret pocket into the hem of her pants and safely tucked the griffin cuff inside. Her clothes were clean now, if a little threadbare. She left the servant’s cotton shift neatly folded on her bed just as she’d found it.
Nazafareen had been waiting for this day, but she felt no joy at leaving Delphi. Her stomach churned as she said goodbye to Castor. He gave her a weak smile and wished her luck.
A pall hung over the Great Library of Delphi. She could feel it in the downcast eyes of the servants, the way the scribes clumped together in little groups, whispering and neglecting their work. Herodotus had been well-liked by everyone.
For the hundredth time, Nazafareen wished she could do something to help him. When Javid returned late the previous night, he said most of the philosophers thought the charges were false but they didn’t dare challenge the Archon Basileus. The old historian’s best hope would be with the popular assembly called the Ecclesia, which still held a degree of independence from the Pythia. For while the Basileus might have made the arrest, everyone knew he was carrying out the orders of the Oracle.
Javid had left early to buy some food for the journey. Only men were permitted in the agora until the afternoon, when women and young boys could do their shopping. Nazafareen crossed the wide avenue adjacent to the library and headed for the docks. They were easy to find because everything ran downhill toward the river. The people of Solis judged time by the moons, just like the daēvas, since they were the only large celestial bodies that moved. She knew she had some hours yet before the boat sailed, but couldn’t stand being in the library another moment. If she saw those conniving scholars, Nazafareen didn’t trust herself not to confront them.
She walked along, lost in dark thoughts, when she saw a girl beckon to her from the half-open gate of one of the stately homes that lined the avenues in this part of town. Nazafareen looked to either side but saw no one else. The girl pointed at her. Nazafareen made a quizzical face and the girl nodded, then slipped into the shadows.
The girl must have mistaken her for someone else. Still, it would be rude to ignore her. Nazafareen paused, then made for the gate and followed a flagstone path to a walled garden at the rear of the house. The light in Delphi slanted low over the buildings, as if the city were perpetually an hour away from sunset, and it dusted the plantings with rose and gold.
The girl waited on a stone bench. She was small with dark olive skin, and wore a wreath of ivy around her head and a short dress made of tawny animal skin. A wooden staff leaned against the bench.
“You’re the new servant at the Library,” she said.
Nazafareen didn’t mention she’d just quit.
“Yes, so what?” she asked cautiously.
“I need you to carry a message.”
“Today is my day off.”
“A message to Herodotus.”
Nazafareen’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
“A friend. The message is from his wife and it’s urgent he gets it.”
Her skepticism mounted. “He never mentioned a wife.”
“Well, he wouldn’t, would he?” the girl replied with a touch of impatience. “No one knows about her.”
Nazafareen scowled.
I don’t know what game this girl is playing, but I’m done being used.
“Take it to him yourself,” she said, turning away. “I’m late to meet someone.”
“Wait!” The girl leapt up, graceful as a cat. “I can’t.”
Nazafareen inched the cloak back from the hilt of her sword. “Why not?”
“I just can’t.” She glanced around. “It’s too dangerous. They’re watching.”
Nazafareen felt like she was being tested by some inscrutable deity. If there was any way to help Herodotus, she’d promised herself to do it without hesitation. Now she was being offered that very chance. But she was afraid of the Pythia and even more afraid of missing the boat. Javid might wait for her, but he might not. Then she’d be stranded in Delphi again, this time alone and with no hope of escape.
“Who’s they?”
The girl merely raised a sardonic eyebrow.
Nazafareen sighed. “How would I even get in to see him?”
“It’s every condemned man’s right to have visitors. That is the law of Delphi and even the Pythia cannot defy it or she will bring down the wrath of the Ecclesia.”
They eyed each other. The girl glanced at Nazafareen’s sword. With a casual movement, she picked up the staff and leaned on it.
She’s not afraid of me. Not afraid of a blade. That’s interesting.
“Why me?” Nazafareen demanded.
“You’re new to the city. We can be sure you don’t work for her.”
There was no need to say who the girl meant.
“I don’t have much time,” Nazafareen said. “It would have to be right now.”
The girl seemed relieved. “Now is perfect. He’s permitted visitors, so I’m not asking you to take a risk.”
Nazafareen doubted this. The girl didn’t want to go herself and she might not be telling the truth about why. But Nazafareen knew she could never live with herself if she refused to do this one thing for Herodotus. She wouldn’t even be leaving at all if it weren’t for him.
“Where are they keeping him?”
“At the Temple of Apollo.”
Nazafareen almost changed her mind at this. She assumed he’d be in the Polemarch’s dungeons somewhere. She had no desire to put herself directly under the nose of the Pythia. It felt too much like tempting fate.
“Do you know where it is?”
Nazafareen sighed. “I know where it is.”
The girl didn’t wait for her answer. She thrust a scrap of paper into Nazafareen’s palm, along with a silver coin.
“You don’t have to pay me.”
Nazafareen handed the coin back. The girl raised an eyebrow but took it, tucking it into a pocket.
“Are you sure it’s nothing that could get me in trouble?” She disliked admitting she couldn’t read it herself.
“I promise you that, Ashraf,” the girl said solemnly. “I swear it by the gods, and may I be bound in blood and ashes to the deepest level of the Underworld and have my eyes torn out by the black talons of the Harpies if I speak false.”
I’m a fool. Javid would kill me if he knew.
“All right then. I’ll do it.”
Nazafareen gave the girl one last nod and walked away, and it was only later she realized she’d never given her name.
28
Bonded
The river swept Darius along in pitch darkness.
He fought to stay at the center of the current as it wound through its thundering course, for although the rock walls had been worn smooth from eons of water, they were bruising when he found himself flung against them. Now, the channel had narrowed to arm’s width. The ceiling nearly brushed his head. If it shrank any more he would surely drown.
Darius had already shed his cloak, though he still held tight to the rucksack. If he’d been a Marakai daēva, he might have had the strength to direct the flow of water, but he was a child of earth and it did him no good here. Still, he felt satisfaction that he’d deprived the beasts of their meal.
To Darius’s relief, the river began to broaden. The current slowed and he floated on his back for a while. Then it narrowed again, picking up speed. Water roared in his ears as he floundered to keep his head above the surface. It grew tighter and tighter and then he was forced underwater. His lungs began to burn. Just when he knew he would drown, he saw a dim light overhead and started swimming for it. Moments later, his head broke the surface of a wide, muddy river. Gasping, he crawled from the shallows and pulled himself onto the bank.
Darius let the sun dry his clothes. Then he set out walking for the city of Delphi.
He’d forgotten how noisy mortals were. The sizzle of roasting fish, the clatter of wheeled conveyances, snatches of music punctuated by the pounding of hammers as the city expanded. Shouting, laughing, praying, haggling, ten thousand voices mingling into a vast beehive hum. He hadn’t missed it exactly, but it didn’t bother him. It was the sound of his boyhood in Karnopolis.
If Nazafareen was here, it might take him days to find her. Then again, people might remember a girl with only one hand. So Darius began asking. He started at the edge of the market and worked his way inward, stopping at each covered stall. No one had seen such a girl.