by Alane Adams
Sam tensed. “What are you saying?”
“The Tarkana fortress is not hidden. And yet, who comes for you?” She spread her hands wide. “Do you see your heroic friends breaking down my gates?”
Sam struggled for an answer. “No, but—”
“But . . . but . . . but . . . face it, witch-boy, Odin didn’t bring your friends back to save you.”
“Then why?”
“Why indeed. Why would a god send children to certain death?” She snapped her fingers, and a set of chairs appeared. She sat herself down and waved him into the other. He sat because, truthfully, his legs felt weak.
“What are you talking about? Odin wouldn’t hurt my friends.”
“Wouldn’t he? Do you know what he’s done? Odin named that scrawny one as Protector of Orkney.”
Sam flinched. Why would Odin choose Howie to protect his realm? That was like asking a mouse to guard the lion’s den.
“So. He must have had a good reason.”
Catriona snorted softly. “Please, Samuel, even you can see how ludicrous that is. When I ride into Skara Brae with my army, he will be crushed under my boot heel. But if that doesn’t convince you, then hear this: Odin sent your Keely to Rakim to face the Vanir. Did you know the Vanir can tear a man in half with their bare arms? If the freezing cold doesn’t kill her, those ruthless frost giants surely will.”
Sam wanted to tell her to stop, but his tongue felt nailed to the roof of his mouth. Every word she spoke carved into his skin. Why would Odin put his friends in such danger, instead of sending them to rescue him?
Catriona fanned herself, as if she was getting overheated. “And don’t get me started about poor Leo. I hear he is destined to return to Sinmara’s underworld, where he will surely perish.” She shook her head, as if she couldn’t comprehend the truth of her words. “Dear boy, Odin has sentenced your friends to certain death.”
Sam bit his lip. It didn’t make any sense. “No, he wouldn’t do that. Odin will help them.”
Catriona leaned forward in her chair, resting her chin on her hand. “Did he help you save your poor father when he could have?”
Ouch. The knife of guilt twisted in Sam’s gut. He gaped like a fish on a hook, then stuttered out, “N-no. But that . . . that was my fault.”
Catriona’s eyes widened. “Was it? I mean, Odin is a god. An all-powerful god. Why did he care so little for you that he let your father die?”
Splinters of pain made him dizzy. “I don’t know.”
“Perhaps you should ask him. Because it seems to me he let you take the blame.”
Had he? Had Odin done that? No. His brain was scrambled. But something, maybe all that scorpion venom, fueled a sudden rush of anger. Why hadn’t Odin done more to help? Robert was Odin’s kin.
“You see it, don’t you,” Catriona crooned. “Odin has abandoned you, and now he has sent your friends to their death.”
Sam dug his nails into his palms, clenching his fists so tight he winced with the pain. “No. I don’t believe you.”
“Fine. I will prove it to you.”
She withdrew a satchel from the folds of her skirt and poured a pile of green glass onto the ground. “You have magic. Use it. See for yourself I am not lying.”
Sam stared at the pile of glass. He didn’t know what it was, but he felt a connection to it. For the first time in days, magic flowed under his fingertips. He closed his eyes, holding both hands over it, willing it to reform. When he opened them, glass swirled up in a long trail, spinning faster and faster as the pieces knitted together to form a ball. Light illuminated the interior of the globe, casting a green shadow over Sam’s hands.
Catriona looked excited. She held a hand out underneath the glowing ball, holding it in place. “Excellent. Now ask to see what you desire.”
Sam didn’t hesitate. “Show me Keely,” he said.
The glass swirled and grew cloudy.
He stared hard as an image of Keely came into focus. She was surrounded by hulking giants. Those must be the Vanir. One held a knife to her neck. Next to her was the little witchling Mavery, looking terrified. Sam couldn’t bear to watch. Sweat broke out on his brow.
“Show me Leo.”
He leaned closer, holding his hands around the swirling glass as if he could reach inside and touch his friends. He jerked as Leo came into view. His friend swam in a dark pool surrounded by dead souls that had not yet crossed over. Leo looked terrified and alone.
Sam wiped his brow. “Show me Howie.”
Howie stood in the middle of a battle wearing armor two sizes too big. An apelike creature bore down on him with a sword, about to take his head off.
Sam drew his hands back with a gasp, shaking with horror. The globe went dark in Catriona’s hands, then turned into a pile of shattered glass that trickled through her fingers.
She grabbed Sam’s hand, clasping it between her leathery palms. “These are Odin’s plans for your friends. They came to save you, but who will save them?”
Sam hesitated, wanting to draw his hand back but unable to escape her grasp. “How do I know these aren’t lies?”
Catriona shook her head slowly, then thankfully released him. “You know they are not. But these things have not yet happened. Their fate is not etched in stone. You have but to say the word, and they will all be saved.”
His eyes locked on hers, searching for deceit. “How?”
“Join us, and we will show you how to end Odin’s rule on this land.”
Sam felt the knife twist harder in his gut. He couldn’t betray Odin. But Odin had surely betrayed him by bringing his friends back and sending them to face dangers beyond what they could handle. Sam had heard stories about the Vanir. Stories soldiers like Rifkin shared around the table at night. The Vanir were bloodthirsty and ruthless. How would Keely ever survive that? And Leo. Sam ran his hand through his hair, seeing Leo’s lifeless eyes. He had looked lost. Like he had given up all hope.
Anguished, Sam leapt to his feet and paced the cell as Howie’s face swam before his eyes. Howie was Sam’s best friend, but he was weak. He couldn’t even lift a sword, let alone swing it to defend himself. If Sam didn’t stand by him, who would?
He turned to face Catriona. She perched on the edge of her chair, like a cat waiting to lap up a bowl of rich cream.
“And if I don’t?” he asked, knowing the answer but hoping, praying there was another way.
She smiled, a satisfied grin that revealed blackened teeth. “Then your wretched friends will get what they deserve. And you will spend eternity in this hole knowing you stood by and did nothing.”
There was silence after she spoke.
Drip. Drip.
Sam’s head hung as he wrestled with his thoughts. “And you swear on your life that if I . . . if I join with you,” he struggled to say the words, hating every one of them, “that they will be safe. You promise.”
“I cannot promise anything, Samuel. If you change paths, the future will be rewritten—that much I can promise. The choice is yours.”
Sam digested her words, but he knew there was only one choice.
Vor had said that to win, he had to surrender to the darkness inside him. Well, he was about to throw himself headlong into the deep end. He lifted his chin to face her squarely. “What do I have to do?”
A look of triumph passed over Catriona’s face. “Accept a push in the right direction. Let me open your eyes to what real power feels like.” She stood. With a wave of her hand, the chairs disappeared. She clapped her hands, and the door to the dungeon swung open as a whole passel of witches filed in. They formed a circle around Sam, holding hands, singing a shrill refrain. Their voices rose higher and higher, echoing off the walls of the small cell until they became painful to hear.
Sam put his hands over his ears, needing to escape the wretched noise. His eardrums felt on the verge of exploding.
Catriona began chanting, moving in a circle around him, her hands waving, eyes closed as she concentrat
ed. “Mordera, mordera invidiam. Mordera, mordera invidiam,” she repeated, her hands moving over her head.
Sam could only watch in dread to see what fate awaited him. The old one, Bronte, uncorked her vial, and a malevolent purpled fog billowed forth. The witches kept up their caterwauling. The fog passed over their heads, forming a thin trail that snaked toward Sam. Instinctively, he turned his head away to avoid it as it teased his nostrils, but Catriona grabbed his head and held it.
“Mordera invidiam, Samuel Barconian, Son of Odin, Son of Rubicus, and now, Son of Catriona.”
The purplish fog slipped into Sam’s nostrils. He shuddered, but she held a hand over his mouth so he had no choice but to keep breathing it in. His throat burned. His eyes watered with the harsh acidic smell.
Sam struggled to get away, but Catriona’s grip was like an iron manacle. He kept inhaling until his head grew light and dizzy. His muscles turned to rubber as his strength slipped away. After endless moments, he gave up the fight, letting the noxious fog flood in through his nostrils.
Catriona ceased her chanting, and the hags stopped their singing. For a moment, the cell was blessedly quiet.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Sam could hear his heart beating like a bass drum. He wondered if anyone else could hear it. He opened his eyes, but there were three of everything. Three Catrionas. Three sets of Volgrim witches. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and then found it better if he only opened one eye.
“What did you do to me?” he said, but his voice sounded muffled, like he had a mouthful of peanut butter. He felt detached, as if his spirit had left his body.
Was he dead? Was this what it felt like?
My heart’s beating, he reasoned. I can’t be dead.
But he couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t move. The witches raised their arms into Vs, like they were victorious.
What had they won?
And then it began. Visions clawed at Sam’s mind. Phantoms probing with long black fingers driving needles into his brain. Voices came in his head. Who are you? Who are you? they asked.
His eyes were open, but a thick mist clouded his vision. Sam took a step forward. Cold gray fog pressed in on him. He waved a hand to clear it away.
“I’m Sam. Sam Baron,” he said out loud.
The chilly mist didn’t clear. He took another step. Hands grabbed at him, cold fingers trailing along his skin. He jerked away. He couldn’t make them out. But they were there. Faceless bodies reaching for him.
Liar, came the voices, whispers and accusations echoing in the dark. Liar. Liar. Liar.
“I am Samuel Barconian,” he shouted, spinning around to find the speaker. “Is that better? I am the last Son of Odin.”
Liar, liar, liar.
He spun back, taking three steps forward, and stumbled over his own feet. He covered his ears, muffling the hateful voices. “Who am I then?” he shouted. “Huh? Who am I?” The rage flowed easily. Like old times.
A witch, came the whispers. One of us.
“No,” he argued, gripped with a desperate need to be heard. “I am not one of you.”
Of them, came the mocking whisper. Of them, among them, one of them.
“I am a Son of Odin,” Sam shouted, but the words tripped on his lips. Who was he again?
Odin is dead, came the whispers. You killed him.
“Me?” A flood of guilt nearly drowned Sam where he stood. What had he done? “No, I would never. He is a god. He cannot be killed.” Sam dropped to his knees. He put his hands on the floor. It was real. Cold and hard. Substantial. He pressed his face to it, letting the tears run down onto the surface.
Dead. Odin is dead. Dead is dead. Of us, among us.
“I did not kill Odin,” Sam persisted, feeling the tears burn a trail on the stone like acid.
But you will, came the voices. You will kill him. You will, you will.
“My name is Samuel Barconian, son of Robert Barconian,” he whispered.
Your name is Kalifus. Son of Rubicus, Son of Catriona, came the voices.
Kalifus, Kalifus, Kalifus, echoed the voices. One of us.
Sam hesitated. Was he? Was he who they said he was? He put the letters together in his head. Let it pass his lips.
“Kalifus,” he whispered. And in that moment, like a lock tumbling into place, he knew it to be true.
Mercifully, a deep and powerful sleep took him away.
Chapter Twenty-Two
My name is Kalifus. I have no family, no loyalty other than to my coven. I have one purpose, one mission: Serve the witches.
The words played over and over in Sam’s head, as if they had been planted there like evil seeds. He couldn’t shake them off, nor could he tell if they were his thoughts or someone else’s. He was too tired to fight it. Countless hours had passed, maybe days since Catriona had delivered her potion and left Sam alone in his cell.
His brain was glitching, flashing between the old Sam and the new one. Kalifus.
Keely. Leo. Howie. That’s why he was doing this, he remembered, but he couldn’t hold onto the thought. Instead he just kept getting bombarded with images of his friends carrying on without him.
Laughing. Playing. Living life while he was locked away in this dungeon. He hated the old familiar anger that rose up in him, but if he didn’t let it out, it festered inside like a poison.
The Deathstalkers brought him food, but he had no patience for their ministrations.
“Get out!” he shouted, kicking at two that offered him crusts of bread. Hunger gnawed at him. Thirst drove him mad. But Catriona did not return. Why? he wondered. Was she going to starve him to death? She could have killed him long ago if that was her desire.
It’s like she was testing him. A slow smile came over his face. That was it. Catriona was testing to see if her little experiment had worked. If he had chosen his path. Sam’s brain hummed as he stitched together a plan. He would play the part of Kalifus. Act the role. Just enough to convince her he was on her side. Then he would be Sam again.
Gathering his strength, he channeled everything he had into a lungful of air. “I am Kalifus,” he roared to the empty space of his cell. “I demand that you release me so that I may serve you!”
His words echoed off the walls.
At first, nothing happened. And then, a tingle reached his fingers. A burst of energy like static electricity ran through him, sending fine tremors over his skin. Something inside of him rose up, as if his magic was being supercharged.
This is cool.
As his veins zinged with the potency of the magic, Kalifus closed his eyes and concentrated, willing the cell door that held him prisoner to swing open. Energy crackled the air, snapping like flags flapping in the wind. Then with a bright green flash, the door flew off its hinges, clanging against the far wall.
Surprise made him gape for just an instant, then a rush of exhilaration moved him forward.
Freedom. After weeks of banishment, Sam was leaving his cell. Unused muscles strained in protest as he stepped into the deserted dungeon corridor. He thrust his hand out, lighting the wall torches one after another to guide him toward his destiny. He followed the lights to the surface, climbing carved stone steps until he pushed open a heavy door.
Faint recognition flickered in his mind. The dimly lit courtyard with its slender trees and iron-rod benches.
Tarkana fortress. Following his instincts, Sam shuffled along the corridor leading to the grand hall, where Endera had once tied his friends up as bait for her ravenous spider.
The corridor was deserted. The moon shone half-full over the courtyard. There were no guards posted outside the towering set of doors that barred entrance. Sam waved his hand and pushed with his newly amped-up magic. The doors swung open on well-oiled hinges. Inside, the hall was alive with swaying shadows as the incoming surge of air flickered the torches lining the walls.
He staggered forward past alabaster columns, feeling stronger with every step. The floor was made of white marble, swirled
with clouds of red, as if it had absorbed the blood spilled on its surface. Giant tapestries lined the walls, depicting long-ago scenes of battles won. His eyes passed over one of Rubicus, kneeling before a glowing red sun. At the far end of the hall, the witches were assembled on the raised dais, silently waiting while Sam made his way toward them. The giant spider perched in her web behind them, spinning thread with her long hairy legs, waiting for a victim that he was confident would not be him on this day.
A large throne occupied the dais, made of black marble and intricately carved with the twisting shapes of Omeras in flight. From this place of honor, Catriona held court. She dominated the room with her electrifying power.
To her right sat one of the Volgrim witches, Bronte, eagerly looking their new pet up and down. To her left, the old Tarkana hag, Hestera, glared at him, unimpressed. He recognized other witches flanking them: young Lemeria, the one who had made his feet dance long ago. Agathea. Vena. Beatrixe. But no Endera.
Maybe she’s been banished, Sam fervently hoped. Or better yet, executed.
He came to a stop in front of the dais and waited.
“Who are you?” Catriona asked. Her voice echoed in the recesses of the hall.
“I am Kalifus,” he answered loudly.
“Kalifus.” The witches repeated his name, murmuring to each other.
“Kal-i-fus,” Catriona said, crooning his name. Her eyes were green slits, studying him warily. In her fingers she grasped a small leather object. Recognition hit him. It was his father’s pouch. The one that held Odin’s Stone. A sudden longing to hold it gripped him, but he fought it. Catriona studied him, watching his face closely.
“You desire this?” She swung it from the string that held it. His eyes followed it. He did, but he shook his head.
“I have no use for it,” he said.
“He lies,” Hestera accused. “I can see it in his eyes. You’ve not turned him; he’s simply playacting.”
Catriona’s fist clenched tighter around the pouch. “Are you pretending, Kalifus?”
“No.”
“Good. Then you won’t mind destroying what’s inside.” She dumped out the small shard of stone and placed it in his hand. She sat back on her throne and waited. Every witch seemed to hold her breath.
