by Kat Ross
Until he reached a vendor of sweet rolls.
Yes, he knew a girl with one hand, she worked as a servant for the scholars at the library. Darius wanted to kiss the man. He got directions and hurried over. Would she be angry to see him? Glad? If he could just get her alone somewhere to talk. That’s the thing to do, he thought nervously. And if she wished to find the Marakai, he would help her. In truth, he missed having a normal conversation. It hadn’t all been bad—not all of it. There was the time at Karon Komai, when he’d argued with Victor and thrown a plate at him with the power, and then Nazafareen came to Darius’s room to yell at him…. Well, he supposed that had ended rather badly. But not until the next day. The night before had been glorious.
He grinned. And then there was the time he’d been forced to dress as a woman, and Nazafareen as his betrothed. Tijah thought he was very pretty. And Myrri….
His smile died. It will hurt Nazafareen to remember, but without pain, perhaps there is no joy either. Just as there is no good without evil.
Darius hurried on. When he saw the stately marble library, he was impressed that Nazafareen had managed to get a job there. Inquiries in the kitchen revealed the disappointing news that she had quit that very morning.
“She said she was returning with her brother to Samarqand,” the cook said.
Darius sighed. “Samarqand?”
“Why are you looking for Ashraf?” the man asked suspiciously.
So she was going by her dead sister’s name.
“I’m just a friend.”
“Well, you should have come earlier. The poor thing was starving by the time Herodotus brought her to us,” he grumbled.
“Do you know how she planned to travel?”
“Dunno.”
“Thank you for your time then.”
“She’s a nice girl. I hope you find her.”
Darius went outside, thoroughly demoralized. To have come so close and miss her by hours! He sat down at the base of a statue of some naked god with a laurel wreath adorning his brow and thought. At least he knew she was alive and well. He rummaged in his rucksack for the map so he could estimate the distance to Samarqand, when his hand brushed the gold griffin cuff. Darius felt a tingling sensation in his left arm, followed by bone-deep pain. He cried out and a woman passing by looked at him sharply. Darius hunched over, turning his back to her, and clutched his arm. The hand emerging from the sleeve of his tunic had gone withered and grey.
He felt the bond flare to life inside him, but it was a cold, dead thing. Nazafareen wasn’t there.
He breathed hard, mastering himself with a monumental effort.
What did it mean?
Darius’s mind raced. The cuffs worked again in the sunlands. He couldn’t believe she was dead when the cook had just seen her that morning. Could it be that she had her cuff but wasn’t wearing it?
His head snapped toward the Acropolis like iron filings drawn to a magnet. The match of his cuff was up there somewhere. And maybe Nazafareen was too.
Darius started running again.
29
Daníel/Demetrios
Thena was thinking about the witches.
She wasn’t supposed to ask what the Pythia wanted them for, but she couldn’t help speculating. They had seven at the temple now—five males and two females. Thena held the leashes of three. Very few initiates could wear the bracelet that controlled the collar. The Pythia said it required a special gift from the god.
She had simply appeared one day hours after the old Pythia died sweating and convulsing from a sudden fever. By centuries-old tradition, any woman—rich or poor, young or old—could be named the Oracle if she showed the ability to speak for Apollo. But the moment Thena had laid eyes on the commanding woman who walked barefoot into the temple, the smoke from the brazier wreathing her proud, exotic features, she’d known this would be the new Pythia.
And sure enough, the Archon Basileus had raised her the very next day.
“Go and fetch Demetrios,” the Pythia said.
Thena, who had been kneeling at her feet, leapt up.
“Who is Demetrios?” the Polemarch asked.
He was a very fat man, as soft-seeming as the Archon Basileus was hard, but Thena knew that in fact he was not soft at all. He had wanted to do things to the witches that shocked even Thena. The Pythia had forbidden it. She wanted them whole.
“My latest acquisition,” she said lazily. “A Valkirin.”
“We already have several Valkirins,” he grumbled. “And Danai. What we need is a Marakai.”
“Yes, but they’re hard to catch. They’re never alone and they stick to their ships, as you well know. But I have an agent working on it. He is most diligent and I’m confident he will handle the matter.”
The Pythia sat atop her tripod, a reminder of her status and power. She’d made the Polemarch stand. He looked uncomfortable but Thena knew he’d never dare complain about it.
“I’ve heard reports of troubles between the clans,” he said. “Over a mortal girl.”
At the door, Thena paused, curious.
“Troubles?” the Pythia prompted.
“They claim she can work fire.”
The Pythia didn’t react, but Thena, who knew her better than anyone, saw the sudden tension in her spine.
“That’s impossible,” she said calmly.
“Of course it is. I’m merely conveying the rumors. Supposedly she was living with the Danai, but no one knows where she is now.”
“Who are your sources?”
“Traders in Tjanjin who heard it from a Marakai ship captain, who in turn heard it from a witch at Val Moraine.” Rings flashed on his chubby fingers as he made a dismissive gesture. “Like I said, it’s just a rumor. Some wild exaggeration no doubt.”
The Pythia noticed Thena hovering by the door. She said nothing, but one look from those blue eyes and Thena hurried from the chamber.
A mortal who could work fire? Thena had never heard of such a thing. She knew they used spell dust in Samarqand, but the Persians were heathens. Magic was a filthy thing. Only the gods had the right to manipulate the elements.
Thena strode across the plaza, her belted cotton shift swishing around her strong legs. From the top of the Acropolis, she could see for leagues, past the distant edges of the farms to the rocky plain. A few fluffy white clouds drifted in the blue sky just before it deepened to the bruised color of the Umbra. Thena had been born on one of those farms. She supposed her family lived there still, but she hadn’t seen them in years. She’d known from an early age that she was meant to have a life of devotion to the gods.
She still remembered being a wide-eyed girl on her father’s knee and hearing the tale of how the three sisters, Artemis, Hecate and Selene, had conspired to ensorcel the sun god Apollo, halting his chariot in its path across the sky because they were greedy and it wasn’t enough for them to rule for only half the day. So they lured him to a rendezvous and cast a spell on him. Thus the sisters came to rule the darklands unchallenged.
But someday, when the witches were defeated (for naturally, they were the chief allies of the moon goddesses), Apollo would wake from his trance and the normal passage of days and seasons would be restored.
From the moment she’d learned the truth of how the world came to be riven between Nocturne and Solis, Thena had decided she would serve the poor enchanted sun god and do everything she could to free him. And if that required her to traffic with the witches themselves, she wouldn’t shirk at her duty.
When Thena opened the door to Demetrios’s room, she found him dressed and waiting. He’d known she was coming, just as she’d known he was awake and still sore in his left shoulder from the shackles. Thena had removed them two days ago and covered the windows with shutters as a reward for good behavior. His grass-green eyes absorbed the faint sunlight trickling through the cracks, reflecting it like a cat. Never had he looked so feral. Demetrios would obey her, Thena was certain of it, and yet there was still somethin
g dangerous about him, something that made her uneasy. She felt his sinful magic pulsing at the edge of her awareness.
He couldn’t use it against her, not with the iron collar circling his throat. He could only touch the elements if she gave him permission and the Pythia had forbidden it.
They stared at each other for a moment.
“The Oracle wishes to see you,” Thena said.
He bowed his head. “As you command.”
Thena gave a curt nod. They walked in silence to the audience chamber. The Polemarch blanched when he saw Demetrios—witches had that effect even on generals—but he knew about the bracelet and collar and understood their purpose. To Thena’s surprise, the Pythia signaled that she should stay. So she knelt at the Oracle’s feet next to Demetrios.
Thena expected her to ask about the mortal who could work fire, but her next words came as a surprise.
“The god tells me there’s a witch in the city,” the Pythia said.
The Polemarch gave her a sharp look. Demetrios kept his eyes on the floor. It was not a question, therefore he would not speak. Thena had trained him well.
“Come closer,” the Pythia ordered.
Demetrios stood in a lithe movement and walked forward until he was within a foot of the tripod. The Pythia reached out and stroked his cheek. His face registered not a whit of emotion.
“Is he here to rescue you?” she asked gently.
“I don’t know.”
The Pythia made a small gesture to Thena. A second later, Demetrios writhed on the ground, his jaw locked against a scream. The witch’s body would show no mark afterward. But through the collar, Thena could make him feel anything she chose. The Pythia allowed it to go on for a while, then made another small gesture. Demetrios sobbed as Thena halted the pain. His pale skin had turned grey.
“I’ll ask again. Are you certain you don’t know?”
“Please, I don’t, Oracle.” He reached for the hem of her gown and the Pythia’s mouth pursed in distaste.
“Never has a witch come willingly to Delphi,” she mused. “There must be a compelling reason for it.”
Thena put her arm around Demetrios’s broad shoulders and helped him to his feet. He leaned his head against her. She felt the wetness of his tears and stroked his hair. It was good to have a firm hand, but one must also know when to show kindness. She didn’t think he knew anything. She’d had him for more than a year. If his brethren had somehow figured out where the missing witches were being taken, it wasn’t because he had communicated with them. So he was blameless.
“This witch, he’s alone?” the Polemarch demanded. Sweat glistened in the folds of fat around his eyes.
“Yes. He just arrived.” The Pythia gave him an icy look. “I want him found.”
“Do you know what he looks like?”
She shook her head.
The Polemarch licked his lips, a darting, serpentine movement Thena found revolting. “That makes the task more difficult.”
“He’ll give himself away. Tell your soldiers to watch for anything unusual.”
“What if he’s here to harm you, Oracle? I’ll order an extra contingent of men to guard the temple.” He paused. “Now what of the scholar?”
“We’re keeping him in one of the empty animal stalls. I want you to search the library, and his house as well. Bring me anything related to the witches—anything at all, but especially if it pertains to the early history of the clans just after the war.”
“I have some of it, although he seems to have hidden the most recent find.”
“What does Basileus say?”
“Herodotus was chattering about a scroll he’d found only yesterday. But it wasn’t in his office and he’s refusing to speak to us.”
The Pythia smiled. “Perhaps he’ll talk to me.”
30
The Maiden Keep
Victor came within inches of missing the secret way into Val Moraine.
The company of Danai was on their fifth day in the mountains. They’d followed a rough map Victor had drawn from memory based on the description he’d been given by Culach’s sister, Neblis. He wondered if it would still be there after all this time. The Valkirins might have blocked it off. The mountain might have shifted.
Victor shared a look with Delilah. Her sapphire eyes were the only visible part of her. Everything else was wrapped in multiple layers of cloth with a heavy cloak thrown on top. Frost rimed the aperture around her mouth, glittering in the starlight like diamond dust. She hadn’t spoken in hours but he knew what she was thinking. If he was wrong, they’d all freeze to death and it wouldn’t be long in coming. The same earth magic that nurtured the Danai forest also kept the brutal cold out. But the Valkirin lands had no such protection. Here in the high passes, the frigid darkness cut like a blade. Victor didn’t know how anything managed to survive, although he’d heard the thin howling of wolves when Selene rose above the peaks.
They stood in a saddle between two ridges. Victor blew on his numb fingers. He found the Nexus and gently probed the snow ahead, checking for crevasses and weakness in the shelf that could trigger an avalanche. He’d learned the necessity of this the hard way after Ronan had tumbled to his death.
By his calculations, the old mine entrance was in the valley on the other side of the next ridge. But then he sensed a small cavity in the mountainside. The beginning of it was blocked by a rockfall, but a gentle probe with air revealed that it opened into a tunnel. It was dumb luck he’d sensed it. If he’d stopped twenty paces further on, he might never have noticed.
He raised a fist and the other daēvas hurried over. Victor used his hand to clear away the crust of snow covering the entrance. It was only about a foot thick, although it camouflaged the tunnel perfectly. Behind it, darkness yawned. Victor pulled the scarf from his mouth.
“There’s a cave-in. I’ll try to clear it.”
He drew deeply on earth power, felt it resonate in his bones. Too much and he’d be reduced to a bloody lump of flesh. But Victor was very strong and could tolerate a good deal of pain. Only one daēva was stronger and that was his son, Darius. Even so, he struggled to budge the weight of the rock. The injuries he’d taken from the chimera were only half-healed, including a nasty bite on his arm that festered until Tethys gave him a poultice of herbs from her garden.
Delilah’s lithe form stepped up next to him. She drew power and helped him pulverize the tightly packed rock. So did a few others. Working together, they cleared the way in a matter of minutes. Victor stepped inside first. The tunnel was tight, with a low ceiling and narrow walls. Since his long imprisonment at Gorgon-e Gaz, Victor hated enclosed spaces. His cell had been much like this: dark and chill. The guards had never broken him, although they’d tried their best. He’d been starved and chained. He’d seen others die and be driven mad. They’d punished him with the cuff again and again. He’d spat in their faces.
They’d never broken him, but he wasn’t the same. He had a deep, abiding claustrophobia now. His heart hammered in his chest as he stood in the entrance, looking at the downward-sloping passage. He’d known this was coming, but the oppressive atmosphere nearly unmanned him. Then he sensed the presence of Mithre beside him.
Of all the daēvas Victor had gathered for this unsanctioned mission, only Mithre truly understood. He too had been held at Gorgon-e Gaz. His wolfish gaze took in the tight, dark tunnel.
“Well, they do call her the Maiden Keep,” he said finally. “I suppose we should have expected a close fit.”
Victor gave a shaky laugh and forced himself to start walking.
The Danai wound their way into the mountain, moving from long-disused tunnels to others that were wider and had smoothly sculpted walls. They encountered no one. Victor held out a lumen crystal to light the way. After a few hours, they reached the catacombs where the Valkirins kept their dead in stone niches carved from the rock, jade eyes open and covered in frost. Victor passed them without interest. Soon enough, Eirik and his son would join
their eternal slumber.
The Valkirins would be expecting retaliation—but they didn’t even know about the passage he’d found. Neblis had made it herself to sneak out and meet him in the forest so long ago. And Val Moraine had suffered heavy casualties at the lake. The holdfast was already dying. Victor would simply deliver the final blow.
At each junction, he used a little earth magic to orient himself. The tunnel entrance lay several leagues from the holdfast and the intervening distance contained a maze of passages branching out in all directions. A few times, he heard the scurrying of small animals in the darkness, the rasp of claws on stone. Rusted scraps of mining equipment sat abandoned near chutes a man would have to wriggle to pass through. The thought of it made his skin crawl.
Victor focused on the dark passage on front of him. It couldn’t be much farther now. The tunnels were frigid, but cold sweat coated his skin beneath the woolen layers. He would face Culach at last. Victor knew the Valkirin was an expert swordsman and very strong in air. He smiled grimly. It would be an interesting match.
Darius should be at my side, but perhaps I was too hard on him. I did terrible things for love too.
Victor glanced back at Delilah. She’d pushed her hood off and her hair fell in a wild black mane down her back.
The Valkirins would regret ever raising a hand against House Dessarian. They’d be living in caves by the time he finished with them. Victor prayed that both his sons still lived, but if he’d learned one thing from the empire, it was that if you wanted justice, you’d better take it yourself.
31
The Prisoner Herodotus
Nazafareen hurried through the streets, the message tucked into her sleeve. It was a festival day and a high-spirited procession of young girls passed by carrying loaves of bread and jars of wine. They were cheered on by crowds of cheerfully drunk bystanders. Nazafareen slipped through the press of bodies and cut across a public park where people had gathered to watch a play—this one a comedy, judging by the gales of laughter—despite the dark clouds mounding in the sky toward the Umbra.