Nemesis

by Kat Ross

  “Wasn’t so bad. Bit chilly,” Kelyn replied, flashing her broken front tooth in a grin.

  “Well, it’ll be hot in Delphi.” They laughed, though there was an edge to it.

  The other holdfasts poured into Val Moraine, crossing in waves until the encampments were nearly empty. Runar and Stefán grudgingly provided three abbadax, which accepted the blood scents of their new masters with only a few subdued hisses. Frida demonstrated how to safely mount the creatures and fasten the waist harnesses, as well as a few basic commands.

  Over time, the clans had adopted a common tongue, but tradition dictated that Old Valkirin be used to communicate with the abbadax. Fluga meant take off, elda meant land, and aras meant attack. There were many subtler commands to signal deep or shallow dives and other evasive maneuvers, but there was no time for Frida to teach them.

  “The mounts know what they’re about,” she said briskly. “Give them free rein and they’ll see you through safely.”

  Kallisto would ride with Herodotus, Rhea with Megaera, and Nazafareen with Darius. Daníel had offered him a broadsword, but Darius politely declined, instead arming himself with a variety of wicked-looking knives. Saddlebags were hastily packed with three days of supplies. At last all was ready.

  Daníel called for volunteers. Only five stepped forward. Each would carry a Danai. Neither side looked thrilled, but their hatred of the Pythia seemed to trump their hatred of each other.

  Selene and Artemis shone side by side, buttery yellow and pale blue, as Nazafareen mounted with Darius. She took the reins and her mount spread its wings, lumbering to the edge of the ravine and diving over the side.

  Nazafareen burned with impatience to leave the darklands. She wanted her huo mofa back, wanted it badly. When the power surged inside her, she felt invincible, though she knew this was a dangerous belief. She would need to be careful. But she was tired of submitting to the whims of others. To being weak.

  Nazafareen skidded to an abrupt halt in the stables, her gaze searching for Victor. Mithre waited alone.

  “Where is he?” she demanded.

  “I can’t find him,” Mithre growled. Nazafareen could see he was furious.

  “We can’t stay and search,” she said. “If he knew what Delilah faced, he wouldn’t want us to.”

  Mithre tore his gaze from the group that circled the ravine behind them. “I can’t leave him, even if he deserves it. The man’s here somewhere. We’ll catch up with you.”

  She sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s his fault.” Mithre spun on his heel without another word and stomped back inside, pushing through the Valkirins clustered around the door.

  “I feel bad,” Nazafareen said.

  “For Victor or Mithre?”

  “Both.”

  “Yeah,” Darius said. “But I feel worse for Mithre.”

  Nazafareen leaned forward. “Fluga,” she whispered.

  With a mighty flap, the abbadax soared into the darkness, heading west toward Solis.

  11

  Déjà Vu All Over Again

  Culach hurried through the keep, calling Mina’s name. She wasn’t in her chambers and she wasn’t in his either. He bit back an oath. He’d never begrudged her restlessness before. Trapped within the ice, everyone was claustrophobic, the Danai most of all. Added to her preoccupation with Galen, he knew Mina needed to walk the corridors. It kept her from falling apart.

  But the ice was gone. Culach could hear the wind again, as well as distant shouts in the stables. So why hadn’t she come looking for him?

  He was starting to panic when he remembered the last time he’d sought her out with dry mouth and racing pulse. His father Eirik had announced that he intended to kill her if Victor and his Danai overran the keep.

  That is the ultimate point of a hostage, Culach.

  He shook off the memory of his father’s rasping voice and hastened down to the vast hollowed-out caverns where Val Moraine’s supply of grain, fruits and vegetables grew under special lumen crystals that mimicked sunlight. They sat on the level above the crypts, life and death nestled side by side.

  “Mina,” he cried, wandering through the rows, branches slapping his face and hands. “Are you down here?”

  The air was much warmer and sweat trickled down his back. He tripped over a root, arms flailing, and then a hand steadied his arm.

  “You big oaf,” she muttered. “I’m right here. Are you blind?”

  Culach barked a breathless laugh, so relieved to hear her voice he could have danced a jig. He swept her up and kissed her hair.

  “What are you doing down here?”

  “I wanted to find the cistern that unholy bitch from Delphi used to escape. I thought there might be some sign.” She sighed.

  He set her on her feet and began pulling her back to the staircase. “It’s over, Mina. Nazafareen came and took the diamond from Victor. She gave it to the holdfasts. The ice is gone!”

  “Oh, thank the gods. Who’s Nazafareen? Is she the one Eirik wanted to kill?”

  “I’ll tell you everything once we’re gone. But we have to hurry. She said she’d make sure we were permitted to leave, but I don’t trust them.”

  They reached the stairs. Culach forced himself to slow his pace to match hers. He wanted to throw her over one shoulder and take them three at a time, but he doubted Mina would go along with that.

  “How do we get out?” she demanded.

  “I’ll take Ragnhildur.”

  “Where’s Victor and Mithre?”

  “No idea.” He drew a deep breath as they reached the concealed door leading into the keep proper. “Just pray Nazafareen remembered to put in a word.”

  He pressed the hidden stone and the wall swung wide. The corridor beyond was silent. Culach was about to step through when Mina seized his hand.

  “Shouldn’t we wait until the stables are empty? Sneak out?”

  He shook his head. “Better to do it while they’re still flush with victory. And the memory of their oath is fresh. They’ll leave guards anyway.” He squared his shoulders. “By all rights, I should be the master of Val Moraine now. I have no interest in pressing the matter, but it ought to count for something.”

  “It ought to, but it won’t,” she objected. “I don’t wish to stay here another moment, but it seems rash to go marching in there.”

  Culach thought of Ragnhildur, waiting for him. “My abbadax is dying, Mina. She’s half-starved. I don’t know how much longer she can hold out.”

  Another woman might have berated him for placing an animal’s welfare over their own.

  “You’re an oaf,” she said. “But you have a big heart. Let’s go.”

  Culach smiled. They hurried to the stables. He heard hostile mutters as he strode to Ragnhildur’s pen, but no one approached them.

  “Do you see a saddle?” he asked Mina quietly. “And harness? They should be hanging on the wall.”

  Without a word, she slipped away, returning with both items. Culach was buckling the saddle to Ragnhildur’s back when he heard three sets of boots crackling on the ice.

  “Look who’s joined us.”

  Culach sighed and turned around. He knew that deep, gravelly voice. “Runar.”

  “Who’s the Danai wench?”

  “Don’t.” Mina moved to his side. “It’s not worth it, Culach.”

  His fists unclenched. She was right. He turned back and continued buckling the leather straps.

  A new voice, softer but equally deadly—more so, perhaps. “Where’s Victor?”

  “I don’t know, Stefán,” he replied wearily. “But he’s your problem now.”

  “Is he?” The boots moved closer. “I’m afraid he’s yours as well.”

  “And why is that?”

  “We had a deal. Victor Dessarian would vacate the Maiden Keep. In exchange, he and his Danai wouldn’t face retaliation. Most of them are gone, yet Victor is nowhere to be found.”

  “I’m sure he’s in there
somewhere,” Culach snapped, losing patience.

  “And when we find him, we’ll uphold our end of the bargain.”

  Culach knew it was pointless to argue. He dropped the straps. “Fine. We’ll rout him out for you.” He started to move to the door and found himself frozen mid-step in bonds of air.

  “Runar, do you think it’s advisable to have a traitor running around the keep?”

  “Not just a traitor, but Eirik’s whelp. No, Stefán, I can’t see my way to allowing that.”

  “Better to keep him in the cold cells, don’t you think?”

  Culach couldn’t help it. He laughed. It was all so familiar. If he ever infested someone’s dreams, they’d be bored to death. “Fuck you.” Hardly original, but they’d expect it. And now the usual refrain: “If any harm comes to Mina—”

  “I’ll see to her.” A woman. That must be the third set of boots, though her voice didn’t sound familiar.

  “Like hell you will,” Mina spat.

  Cue the stone trembling. Cue her shouts of fury as they bundled her off.

  Cue the mournful cries of Ragnhildur. Poor darling, she’d almost had the saddle on.

  Flurries of snow pattered against his face. Nazafareen will murder them when she returns, he thought.

  If she returns.

  “Would somebody please feed my abbadax?” Culach shouted as they dragged him back inside.

  12

  Ashes to Ashes

  The harsh light of a hundred pitch-soaked torches banished any scrap of shadow from the chamber at the heart of the Rock. Perched like a faithful hound at the foot of the throne, Javid wished for the gentler candlelight that had illuminated the bier of old King Cambyses. True, it smelled better since his body had been whisked away to its tomb. But Javid had come to dread the daily ritual that was about to unfold, and there would be no looking away.

  A discreet snuffling behind him indicated the presence of King Shahak. He slouched in the throne, red eyes fixed on the terrified courtiers assembled before him. The sound had become so familiar, Javid barely registered it. The King was either snorting spell dust or stanching a nosebleed with his handkerchief. He’d grown alarmingly emaciated and the purple robes hung on his bones like a deflated air sack.

  Or like the horrors decorating the far wall.

  “Where are our pets?” he asked.

  Shahak’s voice was the only thing that hadn’t changed. It was pleasant, mellifluous. If you didn’t look at him, you might think he was still sane.

  A whey-faced chamberlain bowed low and scampered to the door, gesticulating frantically at the guards there. The King did not like to be kept waiting. It was a fine line between disobedience and disloyalty, and finer still between disloyalty and treason.

  Shortly after his ascension, there had been the usual slew of assassination attempts orchestrated by factions loyal to the Queen. The skins of these traitors had been nailed up for display, which, while perhaps stretching the bounds of good taste, wouldn’t be unheard of except for the fact that they were whole, without a single mark.

  Corporeal division was the technical term for it, Shahak had confided to him later.

  All Javid remembered were the screams as the unfortunate assassin found himself standing there with his skin in a pile next to the platter of poisoned dates.

  After the last one, three days prior, things grew quiet. Subdued, one might say.

  The chamberlain hurried back inside the throne room and made the prostration.

  “They are here, your Royal Highness,” he informed the floor. “A small matter with the leashes caused the delay.”

  Snuffling. “We understand. But see it doesn’t happen again.”

  The courtiers shrank against the walls as three handlers entered, each wearing leather gloves and holding a thin gold chain. Creeping along next to them were creatures unique in the annals of natural science. Feathers mingled with scales and fur. Two had beaks, one a hairy snout. The smallest licked its chops and Javid felt a stab of pity.

  It was feeding time at Shahak’s private zoo.

  Two cooks trailed the handlers, bearing platters of raw meat, minced and bloody.

  Javid rose to his feet as the King descended the throne and selected a morsel.

  “Come.” He patted his leg and the little one waddled over, sniffing at the treat. “Yes, this is for you, Dadash.” Shahak fed the creature, patting its head fondly. Dadash, which meant little brother, was his favorite, being the most compliant.

  But the handlers had to yank on the leashes to get the others to come. The biggest emitted a low growl, its gaze fixed on the king. Shahak gave a rattling laugh that sounded like pebbles tossed into a well.

  “Now, now. You will eat from my hand or not at all.”

  With a temperamental lash of its tail, the thing opened its beak and snapped the scrap of meat from Shahak’s palm, swallowing it whole. She—Javid still thought of it as she—had fierce yellow eyes and he feared she might peck the king, but she thought better of it and gobbled the rest.

  The middle one still hung back, as far away as its lead would permit. Shahak strode over and seized the leash, dragging the thing to heel. Javid could never tell if it was fear or defiance that made the middle son recalcitrant, but Shahak was having none of it. He whispered a few words, too low to hear, and gave it back to the handler.

  “Return them to their cages.”

  The nobles watched silently as the royal family trotted to the door, the smallest one waddling a bit from its repast.

  Shahak stood frozen for a moment as if he’d forgotten where he was. Then he made a brusque gesture and the audience withdrew, velvet slippers whispering against stone. Javid sensed their relief at being dismissed and tried not to feel envious.

  After all, he’d gotten what he wanted. He was a wealthy man in his own right now. Asabana had paid him a handsome bonus for that first delivery of spell dust, enough to settle Javid’s debt. And the King had grown so insatiable, he was making the runs to Pompeii with Leila and her father twice a week, with a bonus each time.

  Javid didn’t mind crossing the Gale so much, although it was still stomach-churning, but he hated desecrating the burned bodies of the Vatras. Such an act went against everything he’d been taught by the magi and by his own father. He still asked for forgiveness each time, but he’d stopped making the sign of the flame. It felt heretical.

  Now Shahak turned to him with hollow eyes. A tiny smear of blood darkened his upper lip.

  “Let us have a cup of wine in my chambers. I wish to show you something.”

  Javid bowed and fell into step behind the King and six of his guards as they strode to the enormous double doors leading to the corridor. The Hazara-patis, Master of a Thousand, waited just outside. His calculating gaze flicked to Javid as they passed. King Shahak might make the nobles tremble, but the Hazara-patis was still the eminence-gris, running things in Samarqand and Susa while their monarch dabbled in dust. He had sealed the gates to the city that morning, which Javid thought entirely prudent.

  A thousand rumors circulated about the Pythia of Delphi, but they all had a common thread. Her army was marching and it was only a matter of time before she showed up here.

  Once inside his personal chamber, Shahak gave a tremulous sigh and collapsed in his favorite chair. Javid poured him some wine. The King waved it away and Javid set the cup on the table. Shahak often grew melancholy after the feedings.

  “Fetch me the box,” he said, an edge of hunger in his voice.

  Javid did so, averting his eyes as the King scooped out a heaping spoonful of dust. Shahak coughed—a violent, clotted hacking—and inhaled sharply, then coughed again, spitting into a silver bucket at the foot of the chair.

  “Do you see that blue pot? The one with a bit of earth in the bottom? Bring it here.”

  Shahak sniffled into his handkerchief as Javid located the clay pot. It had a beautiful indigo glaze. The King’s eyes shone like polished coins as he reached into the pocket of h
is robe and took out a seed, then poked it into the soil. With his left hand, he tossed a pinch of spell dust into the air.

  “Annitu,” he whispered, too-dark blood tracing a slow path to his upper lip.

  A green sprout poked through the soil. Two tiny leaves unfurled, then four, then eight.

  “Shi,” Shahak urged in a reverent, gentle tone. “Gishtil.”

  Breath of life. Vehicle of life.

  The seedling twined upwards, thickening and putting out secondary branches, and with the first spiky yellow blossom, Javid realized it was a tomato plant. Seconds later, the roots cracked the pot, scattering dirt over Shahak’s silk slippers. Fuzzy stems hung heavy with fruit that turned from green to red before Javid’s eyes. The King laughed in delight. In that moment, he seemed happy and guileless as a child.

  “Try one.” Shahak plucked a tomato and offered it to Javid with a hand that trembled only slightly.

  Javid swallowed. “I had a late breakfast, Your Highness.” Shahak’s eyes hardened and Javid hastily accepted the tomato. “But this looks too delicious to resist, O King of Kings.”

  He took a cautious bite and found it every bit as good as the ones from his mother’s own garden.

  “Imagine the drylands beyond the river turned to productive farms,” Shahak said, staring at the opposite wall as if he saw straight through the labyrinth of stone to his kingdom beyond. “The potential of dust to benefit my people is limitless. My mother used to call me selfish. She never understood. But you do, Javid. Only you.”

  He succumbed to another coughing fit, this one worse than the last. Javid sank down and held the wine cup at his knee until he gathered the breath to take a sip. It seemed to calm him.

  “I understand the price. Of course I do, I’m not a fool. But I must carry on. There is great work to be done and none with the courage to see it through but you and I, eh?”