by Kat Ross
“It sounds marvelous,” she said wistfully.
“Oh, it is!” His face fell. “I’m sorry, my dear, but for you I’m afraid it will be scullery work. Sweeping, dusting, that sort of thing.” He glanced at her missing hand. “Is that a problem?”
“I can manage.”
He smiled. “Very good. You can start right away.”
Nazafareen hesitated. “I was wondering if there might be a place for my brother as well.”
Herodotus thought for a moment. “You say he’s familiar with wind ships?”
“Oh yes, he knows everything about them.”
“I have friends in the Philosophers Guild. I’ll make inquiries. In the meantime, I think you both can sleep in the servants’ quarters. They’ll give you fresh clothing as well.”
“Thank you for everything. You won’t regret it, I swear.”
Herodotus looked embarrassed at her gratitude. “I owe you my life, Ashraf. As I said last night, I wish I could simply give you the money you need.” He winked at her. “But of all possessions, a friend is the most precious. Come, I’ll escort you to the servants’ quarters so you can get settled in.”
He chatted easily to her as they walked through the library, ignoring the curious stares of the other scholars. The servants’ quarters were in a separate building, reachable through a covered passage that crossed the plaza.
“What did you think of the lecture?” he asked as they strolled beneath the portico.
“I only heard the end.”
“I’m writing a multi-volume biography of Jamadin, perhaps you know of him?”
Nazafareen shook her head.
“He was the Persian general who founded Samarqand. Long dead now, naturally. But he came through one of the gates from the shadowlands with the remnants of his army. This was after the war.”
She looked up sharply. “So he wasn’t from this world?”
“No, he came from the lands that lie on the other side of the Dominion. There used to be more travel between them, but it’s forbidden now.” He glanced around to see if anyone was listening. It struck Nazafareen as a habitual, unconscious gesture, and she saw the long shadow of the Pythia in it.
Herodotus cleared his throat. “At least the Archon Basileus is an avid supporter of our acquisitions department,” he said heartily. “Why, he’s even issued an order that all ships making port at Delphi will be searched and any books or scrolls brought straight here for examination. He’s particularly interested in the war, although I haven’t found much yet. As I said, it was a tumultuous time and most of the records were lost.”
They came to the end of the covered walkway and entered a whitewashed building that smelled pleasantly of spices and stew. A small altar to some god held a scattering of fresh flowers.
“Ah, here we are.”
The head chamberlain of the library was a vigorous man named Castor who spoke so fast, Nazafareen could hardly keep up with him. Men and women were usually separated by sex, but since she and Javid were brother and sister and the servants’ quarters were full, he would allow them to share a single room.
She bathed and changed into a clean tunic laid out on one of the beds. By some miracle, considering the amount of time she’d spent hanging about in filthy alleyways, the scratches on her leg hadn’t been infected with evil humors. In fact, they seemed to be healing well. Feeling better than she had in ages, Nazafareen collected Javid from the park, then set about her duties. Now that she wore the garb of a servant, none of the scholars paid her the least bit of attention. She swept and dusted, mopped and polished. Castor seemed pleased with her and best of all, at the end of the day she and Javid sat down to heaping plates of food served at a long trestle table in the kitchens.
There was the fish stew she’d smelled on entering, but they also had bowls of olives and apricots, creamy goat’s milk cheese, fresh spring peas and even a cake sweetened with honey. Instead of napkins they wiped their hands on pieces of bread which were tossed to a fat old dog who sprawled under the table.
Six other servants tended to the library. Nazafareen was too tired to remember their names, but they seemed friendly. She stumbled off to bed content and full-bellied, grateful that her good deed had been so generously repaid.
Over the following days, Nazafareen came to know every part of the Great Library, from the lecture halls to the silent study rooms and main collections, which occupied a series of adjoining halls fitted with shelving and thousands of cubbyholes. She’d been ordered never to touch any of the scrolls because some were so old they might crumble to dust, but she couldn’t help eying them curiously. How long would it take to read everything in the library, and if you did, would you be the smartest person in the world? It was a question she would have asked Darius, and he might have laughed, but he wouldn’t have laughed at her, and then they might have had a serious discussion about it.
Darius could read. He could write too. But he never acted snotty about it.
Javid was smart, but he was only interested in wind ships and how to make money. They rarely saw each other since he left early in the morning and spent the evenings prowling the taverns for gossip he could relay to the Merchants’ Guild when they reached Samarqand. Nazafareen liked Javid—he had a good heart despite his mercenary tendencies—but she missed Darius more each day.
She’d known from the start that he was concealing things from her and it made her wary of him. They’d kissed once, shortly after she woke from her illness. She’d been swept away by the moment, but then things grew awkward. Darius would start to say something and stop himself, or he’d mention names she had no recollection of. When she asked, he would give only the briefest reply or change the subject entirely. In these moments a distance grew between them.
Had he done something to her? Or she to him? Both? She’d asked herself these questions a thousand times. Speculated about possible reasons, each worse than the last. But if Darius held a grudge against her, why did he save her life?
Nazafareen knew she’d go mad if she kept treading the same barren ground. There was only one thing to do. Save every coin, go to Samarqand, and beg the Marakai for help—on hands and knees, if necessary. If they could not heal her, she would try an alchemist. And if that failed…well, she would worry about that when it happened.
And so her time in Delphi passed. She learned which scholars to avoid because they would snap at her for making the slightest noise or try to make her fetch them things, and which ones were nice. Being the newest and youngest, she was given the dirtiest jobs, but Nazafareen wasn’t afraid of hard work. In fact, she preferred it to sitting around begging all day because the time passed much faster.
There were two scholars who she came to particularly dislike. She didn’t know their names, but one was thin and balding, and the other had shifty eyes that always seemed to be undressing her. She’d named them the Stork and the Weasel. They stuck together like glue and she began to get the distinct impression they were spies for the Pythia.
Nazafareen had been dusting in a corner behind a shelf of scrolls when she heard them talking. It was in one of the quiet workrooms, where twenty scribes hunched over tables painstakingly copying works with reed pens, the dusty sunlight pouring in golden shafts through windows set high in the wall.
“He has no grasp of politics,” the Stork said. “He thinks only of pure scholarship. I suppose his lack of ambition is no harm to our cause, but mark my words, the old fool won’t last long.”
“I don’t trust him,” the Weasel replied. “Always poking around in the histories. He claims it’s for that biography he’s writing, but I wonder sometimes where his loyalties lie.”
“He’s been warned. If he finds anything, he must bring it straight to Archon Basileus.”
Nazafareen saw the Archon once when he came to inspect the library. He had thick dark hair sweeping back from his forehead and a cold gaze that passed over her without pausing. She’d kept her head down, pretending to stare at the ground, but ha
d watched him from the corner of her eye. The Archon Basileus was a man who was very full of himself, she thought. Also a man who shouldn’t be underestimated.
“And if he doesn’t,” the Weasel added, “we shall report it ourselves straightaway.”
They must be talking about Herodotus. She didn’t see him often because he was usually off rooting around in the farthest, dustiest stacks, but he always had a kind word when their paths crossed. She wondered if she should tell him about the men who whispered behind his back. Nazafareen bit her lip. He might think she’d been eavesdropping on purpose. And she didn’t even know their names. Nazafareen resolved to keep her eyes and ears open, but not to get involved unless it seemed unavoidable. Like Javid said, the sooner they left Delphi, the better.
True to his word, Herodotus had found Javid work at the hangar where the wind ships were kept. Javid performed menial labor too, but he had a knack for ferreting out information and he said not everyone agreed with the Pythia. Her ban on magic was a topic of heated debate both within the Philosophers’ Guild and the Ecclesia, which was the popular assembly.
Javid told Nazafareen the Philosophers talked about the Pythia in whispers, how she had ensorceled the Polemarch to do her bidding. There were strange goings-on at the Temple, they said. Rumors that she held captive witches and planned to use them as her own personal army—though that seemed too far-fetched to be credible. How could witches be held captive? They were fearsome magic workers and as strong as ten men.
But others believed it was only a matter of time before the daēvas tried to enslave the mortal cities. And only the Pythia could save them.
Nazafareen finger-combed her hair and lay down on her bed of straw. One of the other girls had come down with a fever so instead of her usual duties, she’d been allowed to carry the shopping baskets for Castor that afternoon. He took her to the bustling marketplace called the agora. Afterwards, he bought her a sweet roll and pointed out the bowl-shaped hillside where they held the Ecclesia and the grand palaces of the Archons.
Her store of silver drachma was growing, and with Javid’s added to it, they almost had enough to book passage to Samarqand. Once she got there, Nazafareen could find the Marakai. The thought filled her with both longing and dread. If Darius had withheld so much, it meant her past wasn’t pretty. Nazafareen remembered Tethys’s warning and wondered if she’d been right.
Some people might see it as a gift. A chance to start life anew without the burden of regret.
Was she foolish to throw that chance away? What if she’d done terrible things?
Nazafareen sighed. It that was the case, she would have to live with it. But she knew she would always be tormented by wondering if she took the cowardly way out.
Either way, I will find Darius again.
A knock came at the door and Javid sauntered in, a broad smile on his face.
“I bargained the price down. We leave the day after tomorrow.”
She sat up. “That’s wonderful.”
“It’s a wallowing river barge, but we should get there within a week.” He grinned. “I’ll find work for you somewhere, don’t worry. And when I tell the Guild—” He cut off. “Well, let’s just say they should be happy with my news. I paid for half the passage in advance. We’ll give the captain the rest the morning we sail.” He sat on the edge of his bed. “Come on, get up. I think we should celebrate.”
“How?”
“There’s a performance at the amphitheater tonight,” Javid said. “It’s the opening of the festival of Dionysus. Let’s go see it.”
“I don’t know.”
His brow creased in worry. “Is it your illness?”
“No,” she said hastily. “It’s not that.”
In truth, she was on edge. And she did miss Darius—bitterly.
“Come on then.” Javid tugged at her hand. “It’s almost our last night in Delphi. Personally, I hope I never return, but I want to be able to say I took in the sights.”
She hesitated.
“I’ll buy you a sweet roll from that stall you like so much,” he said in a wheedling tone.
Nazafareen relented. “All right. I suppose it’s early yet.”
They left the library and wandered toward the open-air amphitheater, which lay near the base of the Acropolis. When the theatre was full, three actors came out in masks and began performing some drama, sweeping their arms in exaggerated gestures so even those in the furthest seats could grasp the action. Some clever trick of acoustics carried their voices clearly through the amphitheater. Nazafareen guessed it was a tragedy based on the fact that the main character ended up dying in some nasty way, although it was carried out tastefully off stage.
When the play ended and the last mournful strains of the chorus faded away, the crowd swirled out of the amphitheater. Nazafareen stretched, knuckling the small of her back. The stone benches weren’t the most comfortable.
“Something’s happening,” Javid said.
He pointed at the Acropolis. The multiple stairways leading up were all packed with people, pushing and shoving to get to the top.
“Let’s go see,” he said.
Nazafareen had an uneasy feeling. “I’m not sure—”
But Javid was already striding toward the nearest staircase. Others joined him from every direction, like streams flowing into a river, and she hurried to catch up before the throng swallowed him. Heavy clouds passed before the sun as she caught the back of his tunic.
“I thought we agreed to stay away from there,” she hissed. “What if we’re recognized?”
“In this crowd?” he laughed. “I don’t think so.” Javid registered her grim expression. “Come on, we’re leaving in two days anyway.”
By this point, they were caught in the surging mass and Nazafareen had no choice but to follow him up the worn stone steps. People packed the plaza of the Acropolis from edge to edge. They had expectant, almost eager expressions, like an audience waiting for a show to begin. Nazafareen rose up on tiptoes, straining to see over heads and shoulders, until Javid grasped her hand and plowed a path toward the front, where a black stone altar sat before the temple portico.
There was something on top of it now—a life-sized bronze bull, with curving horns and a gaping mouth. A brazier had been set beneath its belly. Two dozen of the Polemarch’s men were arrayed nearby, while others held back the crowd. A balding, middle-aged man stood amid the semicircle of soldiers. He had a distant expression on his face, as if his mind had already fled elsewhere. A drumbeat of distant thunder came from the plain. The air felt heavy and charged. Nazafareen shivered as a chill, rain-freighted breeze lifted the hair on her bare arms.
Then the Pythia emerged from the temple and the crowd instantly fell silent. She wore a deep crimson cloak with the hood up, leaving her eyes in shadow although Nazafareen could just make out her nose and mouth. A young initiate in white stood behind her, slender and stunningly beautiful with raven hair and creamy olive skin.
“This man was caught trying to practice witchcraft,” she said in a sorrowful voice. “It is an affront to the god. Apollo has made his will known to me. We must punish this heretic or in turn be punished ourselves.”
A murmuring ran through the assembled crowd, like wind rattling naked branches. Beside her, Javid’s breath hissed through his teeth.
“I’ve seen him before,” he whispered. “He’s one of the philosophers.”
The man stood straight-backed and defiant until the Polemarch’s soldiers began to drag him toward the bull. Then he let out an animal sound of despair and tried to pull away. One of the soldiers kicked his legs out and they hauled him by his arms, so that his feet dragged in the dust of the plaza. Nazafareen shared a worried look with Javid. She wanted to stop it but didn’t know how. Her control of the elements was too weak to do more than summon a light breeze. She couldn’t fight that many soldiers. She and Javid would just end up getting arrested themselves.
As the soldiers approached the bull, another
stepped forward and opened a panel in the belly. The unfortunate philosopher was bundled inside and a fire lit in the brazier. Within seconds, a terrible bellowing cry erupted from the bull’s mouth. At first she thought the creature had somehow come to life. But then Nazafareen realized there must be an acoustic apparatus inside that carried the man’s screams and converted them into the roar of a bull.
It went on and on. Nazafareen could feel the pull of the flames, their crackling hunger as they devoured flesh and bone. Against her will, her own breaking magic responded, bubbling up like a witch’s brew. Anger burned her throat.
The Pythia’s hooded face turned toward her.
“We have to get out of here,” Nazafareen gasped.
She grabbed Javid’s hand and began pulling him through the crowd, but it was packed cheek by jowl and she thought they’d never make it to the stairs leading down from the Acropolis. She glanced back once. Although the Pythia’s eyes remained hidden in the shadow of her cloak, Nazafareen had the distinct impression she was staring at them.
The shrieking bellows of the bull followed them all the way down the stairs to the street below, where Nazafareen doubled over and retched up her sweet bun.
“I’m so sorry,” Javid was saying. “I never should have brought you there. I had no idea.”
She stood and wiped her mouth. “It’s not your fault.”
“Holy Father, I’ve never seen the like.” His face was ashen too. “Come on, let’s get you back to the library.”
“What is she?” Nazafareen asked as they hurried home. “The Pythia?”
“She is the Oracle of Delphi.”
“But what’s an oracle?”
“Like a seer. You know what that is? They say she has mystical powers granted by the gods. She can see into the future.”
“Is it true?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. But what we just witnessed was evil. Our king may not be perfect, but Holy Father….” He trailed off and made the sign of the flame.
