Nemesis

by Kat Ross

  Sweat rolled down her brow. She stared at Katrin, waiting for the familiar tug of magic to draw the baleful eye of her power. It didn’t come. The huo mofa just roiled in her belly. Saliva filled her mouth. She spat on the ground and it sizzled for a moment before sputtering out.

  She couldn’t feel the ward.

  Had she felt Meb’s? Nazafareen didn’t think so. She’d only broken it because the girl stood in the path of a talisman. This magic was different somehow. Wards upon wards, to hide them even from a Breaker’s sight.

  Nazafareen took the globe from her pocket. She hated to lose it, but she already knew where the Pythia was.

  “Hold this,” she said, walking up to Katrin.

  The Valkirin shrugged and took the glass orb.

  When her magic returned, Nazafareen had forced the talisman from her mind, just as she’d learned to ignore her own cuff.

  Not those, she’d whispered to her power. Those are not for you.

  But now she let herself see the fine threads of air and water that bound the globe together, just as she had with the chimera and the gates. Her magic leapt in its traces and she barely managed to raise her hand before black lightning shot from her palm. The globe exploded in a cloud of pulverized glass that glittered in the sunlight. And then the huo mofa passed straight through into the woman beyond.

  Katrin went rigid. Her head lolled back, fingers splaying wide as every muscle seized. Even having seen it before with Meb and knowing Katrin was not truly injured, Nazafareen winced. She hurried forward, catching Katrin in her arms just as she collapsed to the ground.

  Daníel ran over, his face stricken. “What’s happened? Is she dead?”

  Nazafareen shook her head, easing Katrin down into the soft wheat. “Just wait.”

  Long minutes ticked past. The others gathered close, holding a silent vigil. Katrin did not stir. In truth, she looked dead. But when Herodotus laid an ear to her lips, he reported faint breathing. Nazafareen was just starting to worry when Katrin rolled to her side with a groan.

  “The Drowned Lady,” she murmured. “She kissed me.”

  Katrin looked up at the sky and began to laugh. It was a sound full of wonder and joy, the carefree laughter of a child. After the unrelenting horrors of the last day, Nazafareen barely recognized it.

  “The Drowned Lady,” Herodotus exclaimed. “She is real then. Nabu-bal-idinna spoke of her, but I never thought…” He cut off abruptly as Katrin floated a few feet off the ground and hovered there, little whirlwinds making the wheat around her dance and sway.

  “She kissed me!”

  “Come down,” Nazafareen snapped, in no mood for games. “This instant.”

  “Yes, I will,” Katrin said dreamily. Her face darkened. “But first, the mortals will know my presence.”

  Nazafareen shared an uneasy look with Darius. Kallisto hurried forward, leaping up to catch the edge of Katrin’s shirt, but she’d already floated out of reach. Rhea was grinning foolishly, but Megaera, who’d seen the wave Meb summoned, wore a deep scowl.

  The clouds began to thicken and roil, racing west from the darklands. Within moments, the sun had vanished. Megaera shook her head in disgust.

  “Must they all show off?” she muttered.

  “Katrin!” Kallisto yelled.

  The Valkirin paid her no attention. She had a faraway look on her face and her short silver hair whipped in the wind. The temperature dropped until Nazafareen’s breath plumed white. Herodotus let out a surprised laugh. Fat flakes dusted his beard.

  “Do you know, this is the first time in a thousand years it’s snowed in Solis,” he said.

  Katrin grinned down at him. The abbadax, which had been drooping in the heat, made burbling sounds that Nazafareen interpreted as happiness. It never became a full-blown blizzard, but by the time they persuaded Katrin to come down and behave herself, two inches of snow covered the field.

  “I could have summoned more,” Katrin said happily, her feet planted on the ground again, as the rest of them shivered. “Much more.”

  “Well, your restraint is appreciated, Katrin Aigirsdottir,” Kallisto said dryly.

  “Tell us about this Lady,” Herodotus said. “Did you speak with her?”

  Katrin frowned. “It’s like a half-remembered dream now. But she came to me, fearsome and pale.” Her gaze turned to Nazafareen. “I asked what I should do. She said it was my decision.” Katrin’s face hardened. “So I will go with you to fight the Pythia. She and her army will be swept away like pebbles in an avalanche.” She touched her sword in an oddly formal gesture. “This I swear.”

  Something loosened in Nazafareen’s chest. She nodded.

  “Thank you.”

  Katrin flushed and turned away. But some of the old bitterness seemed to have left her. Nazafareen watched her walk over to Rhea, their heads together, one dark, one light, laughing over something, and thought she understood Katrin a little better now. The Valkirin woman was a warrior above all things, and the burden of shame she’d carried her whole life was lifted.

  Nazafareen turned to Darius. “The Pythia doesn’t know we have Katrin,” she said quietly. “Unless she’s been spying on us with the globe this whole time. But I don’t think she has. I sensed it, when I was in Culach’s chambers and Nico found me. A feeling of being watched.” She took his right hand. The left was a withered husk again. “We have her now. She won’t escape.”

  He nodded. The thought seemed to cheer him a little.

  “How far to the Gale?” she asked.

  “An hour, perhaps.”

  “Then let us waste no more time.” She glanced at the snow-covered saddle. “I’ll be going into battle with a frozen bum, but you can’t have everything.”

  16

  Cat and Mouse

  Thena propped her elbows on the gunwale of the wind ship, the world rolling itself out like a carpet beneath her feet. They were well past Delphi and entering the last of the fertile lands irrigated by the river. To the north lay the barren, uninhabited peninsula that sheltered the western shore of the Cimmerian Sea.

  Korinna used to claim it was infested with bandits—dangerous, cruel men who had fled the Polemarch’s justice. She said they ambushed travelers and sold them to the witches for meat. Thena had always doubted this since no one ever went that way in the first place, and the southern roads were well guarded.

  Poor, foolish Korinna. She had a vivid imagination. The other girls lapped up her tales of star-crossed lovers and hair-raising rescues, of monsters and heroes and babies switched at birth. Thena sighed. If only her constitution hadn’t been so frail. But the girl had succumbed to a terrible fever at Val Moraine. She vaguely remembered the rattling cough that came from her throat. The thrashing and gasping at the end.

  It wasn’t a pleasant memory and Thena decided not to dwell on it.

  The wind ship entered the final reaches where the sunbaked mudflats west of the river gave way to sand—and there it was, just as she’d left it all those years ago. Her father’s farm.

  The thatched roof of the main house was now tiled, but otherwise it looked the same. There were the goats, grazing in their fenced enclosure, and the shed where she and her sisters did the milking. The old gnarled oak she climbed as a girl. Thena would hide in its spreading limbs and dream of Apollo, chained in his chariot, his beautiful face tight with suffering. Sometimes she imagined finding a magical talisman that would shatter his chains. He would place her above other mortals, perhaps even make her one of his brides….

  On the morning of her thirteenth birthday, she’d set out for the Temple to pledge herself as an initiate. Her father drove her through the gates of Delphi in his wagon, up the long winding road to the Acropolis. When she saw the temple, tears of joy ran down her face, though in the months to come, she suffered bouts of homesickness so severe she could hardly leave her bed. The old Pythia said she suffered from melancholia. A darkness of the soul. She was not unkind, but Thena could tell the Pythia thought she was unfit to be
an acolyte. There were many girls waiting to take her place and if she could not perform her duties, perhaps it was best if she returned to the farm.

  Thena begged not to be sent away. She only missed her mother’s cooking and her sisters’ good-natured ribbing, that was all. Everything seemed new and strange. So she learned to hide the strange, disconnected feeling that stole over her sometimes, to fix a smile on her face and pretend she was perfectly content even when her limbs were heavy with torpor and queer things capered at the edges of her vision.

  Then one day, while she was pulling weeds in the kitchen garden, Apollo spoke to her. A sudden voice in her head that froze her with terror. But his words filled her with exhilaration. He told her how special she was. That one day, she would be the salvation of humanity.

  After that, Thena adjusted quickly to her new life. The melancholia retreated. She never told anyone of her visions. Only the Pythia was supposed to commune directly with the god. Her talents would be called blasphemous or worse. But she always knew the call would come one day, and she would be ready when it did.

  Now she looked down at her father’s farm and felt nothing. It was as if a stranger had lived there. The girl she had once been was long dead and a new Thena had risen in her place, like a phoenix from the ashes. The Archon confirmed this. He too was an instrument of the god. Thena knew it was not Basileus who had quietly spoken to her minutes before the wind whips departed. It was Apollo.

  His plan was clear to her now. Such a complex weaving, but her thread had found its proper place in the loom again. And men would fall to their knees in wonder when they saw the final tapestry.

  She glanced at the witch, huddled in the stern. His shock and grief saturated the leash between them. So much hatred in his heart! But Thena understood it. She looked at him with something approximating sympathy.

  “You despise her for what she did. And you were right when you called her a witch. I shouldn’t have punished you for it. Violence is her nature.”

  He was gagged and thus didn’t answer, but his black eyes stared murder. Thena sighed. They were like wild animals.

  “That is why we must civilize you. It is our burden. One day I will find your brother again and civilize him properly. I was too gentle last time. It did neither of us credit.”

  She glanced at Galen. No, Calix. That was his new name.

  “If you don’t survive the next hour or so, please know I bear you no personal malice. It would be like hating the rats that infest the granaries.” She flashed her dimples. “They are a plague, yes, but that is why we have cats to catch and eat them.” Fingers curled into mock paws. “I am like a cat, little witch. I earn my keep.”

  Calix was still staring defiantly at her and Thena administered a jolt of pain, like a needle in the soft part of his armpit. He flinched and looked down. She laughed.

  “I have claws too, don’t forget.”

  The farm fell away behind them. It was the very last. And then the sands began. She gazed down at the dunes. “I grew up out here, you know. On the edge of the world. But I was never afraid. We had the Gale to protect us. The Pythia means to destroy it, but we shall see, little witch. We shall see.”

  She ran her hands down her braid, tucking the loose wisps of hair back into place. The talisman Basileus gave her burned in her pocket. Magic was wicked, but it could still be used for the greater good.

  The sun rose higher…and then vanished like a snuffed candle. The hair rose on her arms as the Gale appeared as a dark line on the horizon. As it grew closer, she could see the clouds stretched right down to the earth, black as a starless night in Nocturne. The wind gained strength, bringing gusts of rain. Thena drew up the hood of her cloak.

  The pilot began dumping heavy sacks of ballast over the side. The ship descended toward a stand of scrubby trees, where a small camp had already been set up. Three other ships carried Shields of Apollo, the Pythia, the red-haired witch named Nicodemus and the Archon Basileus. The rest of the army was following on foot and by horse, but it would be some time before they caught up.

  When the ship landed, Thena descended a rope ladder, followed by Galen. Soldiers scrambled to erect the Pythia’s tent, blazoned with a dancing red flame. Thena went to her side.

  “The time is upon us, daughter,” the Pythia said, her eyes fixed on the Gale. “We must take courage. The Breaker is coming, but we stand in Apollo’s light. It is his will that guides my hand.”

  Thena absorbed this blasphemy with a bland smile. Blasphemy because it was spoken by a lying, treacherous witch, but the words were true enough.

  “I am ready, Mother,” Thena said.

  The Pythia gave her a hard look and Thena wondered if she suspected something. “Are you? If you harbor doubts, you would do well to remember the last time you stood before the god in judgment. He granted you a second chance, but I would not count on a third.”

  Rage simmered at this reminder of her torture in the brazen bull, and Thena cast her eyes down before the Pythia saw it.

  “I know that, Mother. I wish only to serve the light.”

  “See that you do. There can be no mistakes.” The Pythia seized Thena’s chin in a rough grip, forcing her to meet her cold eyes. “We must take the heir closer to the Gale. As close as we can get without being devoured by the storms. You will hold his leash.”

  Thena’s heart pounded. As much as she hated the witch, she feared her, too.

  She could burn me up in an instant.

  “And what will happen then, Mother?”

  The Pythia released her grip, a faint smile touching the corners of her lips.

  “A new age will dawn, Sun Daughter.”

  Thena felt a prickling sensation and turned her head. Nicodemus was looking at her. Their eyes met for an instant and he dropped his gaze, striding over. A muscle flickered in his jaw, but his voice was relaxed.

  “Do you have the globe?” he asked. “We should find the Breaker.”

  The Pythia signaled to the soldiers who were unloading the wind ships. Two of them brought over a small chest. She opened it and took out the glass orb. Black storm clouds boiled in its depths, as though it contained a tiny version of the Gale. She blew gently and the carved runes on its base glowed blue. Three abbadax appeared, each carrying two riders. A river unfurled below them.

  “She’s still an hour away,” the Pythia said briskly. “I need a few minutes to prepare. Then we ride for the Gale.”

  She strode toward her tent. Basileus nodded at Thena, who slipped inside after her.

  Nicodemus watched them go, his heart thudding against his ribs. A dozen Shields of Apollo formed an honor guard around the tent. Others ringed Galen, who looked half-dead with exhaustion. A league distant, the Gale ground its teeth, chewing up the landscape and spitting it skyward.

  Basileus stood very still beside him. Neither man spoke. They were past the point of words. But a thousand thoughts raced through Nico’s mind. A thousand ways this day could end in disaster. Suddenly, it all seemed like madness, but it was too late to stop Thena now.

  A single piercing shriek came from inside the tent. The Shields drew their swords just as the flap twitched aside.

  His breath caught as Domitia emerged, still in the white gown with its serpent brooch. Basileus made a strangled noise. Her face twisted with fury as she pointed at Nicodemus.

  “That little chit Thena attacked me,” she growled. “She would never have had the courage to do it on her own. Your hand is behind this!”

  The Shields surged forward, but Domitia made a sharp gesture and they halted.

  “No,” she said. “He’s mine.”

  She strode forward, her pale gaze fixed on Nicodemus. Ice trickled down his spine. He didn’t dare look away from her, but he heard the soft scrape of Basileus’s boots retreating.

  An opportunist to the last.

  Domitia regarded him without speaking for a long moment. The camp was so quiet, he could hear

  “You sought to betray me,” she sai
d at last, a touch sadly. “Why?”

  Nico shook his head, the hilt of Sakhet’s knife sliding toward his palm from where he’d concealed within his coat sleeve. “Whatever the girl did, I had nothing to do with it—”

  “I burned her to ash. A waste, but you left me no choice.” Rage flared. “I needed her! You’ve ruined everything. And now you will burn too.” Her eyes flared with a mad light. “The god has proclaimed it!”

  She raised a hand. His fingers closed around the sweat-slicked knife.

  “Abbadax!” Basileus cried in a high, cracked voice, sharp with terror.

  She turned, just for an instant, and he brought the knife down with the speed of a striking serpent. Domitia screamed as red spurted from her chest, splattering his face. The flames building inside him erupted outward, surrounding them in a fiercely blazing circle. He yanked the blade free and she tumbled into the mud. A crimson pool spread beneath her as she stared at him, her mouth opening and closing, back arching. The Shields of Apollo ringing the tent took a few uncertain steps forward, but the circle of fire kept them at bay.

  She bared her teeth at him and gave a twitch. Her eyes fixed on a point over his shoulder.

  Nico drew a sharp breath, waves of heat sweeping across his skin, followed by the fatigue that always accompanied working fire.

  “Raise a hand against me and you all die!” he shouted.

  The Shields froze. They were an elite unit, trained to capture daevas, but they’d seen what happened to the Danai. One of the men turned away and quietly vomited.

  Nicodemus dropped to his knees and placed a finger to her neck, then bowed his head, shaking with relief.

  It was done.

  He rose and looked at the tent, at the flame blazoned on the side.

  I’m sorry, but you left me no choice, he thought. Or none that I could live with.

  “Bring her back to Delphi,” he said to Basileus. “She will be buried with all the honor afforded to the Oracles.” The Archon stared at the body. “Move! She can’t harm you now. Put her in the wagon.”