Solis

by Kat Ross

  “You’ve come,” she said with evident relief.

  “Did you ever doubt it?” he replied with a grim smile.

  “This is Adrian,” Kallisto said. “He is one of Herodotus’s students.”

  Adrian was tall and attractive despite pocked scars on his face from some old illness. He had black hair and a fierce, commanding presence. Cyrene eyed him with frank interest.

  “Charis, see to his horse,” Kallisto said. She approached the young man and kissed his cheeks. “Come inside.”

  They all crowded into the kitchen. Adrian took a chair at the end.

  “What is the mood in the Assembly?” Kallisto asked, offering him a cup of wine.

  Adrian accepted it graciously but took only a small sip before placing the cup on the table.

  “They are divided,” he said heavily. “The evidence against Herodotus appears to be iron-clad, if you believe Kadmos and Serpedon. I have spent the last weeks privately arguing in your husband’s favor, but I fear it will be a very close thing.”

  “Will the Pythia attend personally?” Nazafareen asked.

  “Likely not. She may be feared, but she isn’t popular and she’d be a fool not to know it.” Adrian paused. “And whatever else she might be, I don’t believe the Pythia is a fool. She avoids risk. Safer to stay hidden and pull the strings of others. Many in the Assembly support her. But others think she has too much power. And they dislike her meddling in civic affairs.”

  “And if he is found guilty?” Kallisto said tightly.

  Adrian clenched a fist and pounded it on the table. “There will be rioting in the streets. Others agree with me. We will not have another Tyrant! Nor some sort of divine queen! The men of Delphi are free men. We will not stand for it.”

  The passion in his voice touched Nazafareen. Adrian had the magnetism to sweep others along with him. In that moment, anything seemed possible.

  “I want to be there,” she said. “For the trial.”

  “Women are not permitted.” He cast her a knowing look. “And they will be watching for you. You might have altered your appearance to withstand casual scrutiny, but unless you have the power to don a new face entirely….” He stretched his long legs and grinned. “However, I will tell you a story and you can make of it what you will. In the days of the last Tyrant, a tunnel was made to spy on the Ecclesia. He did not trust them—rightfully so, as it turned out, since they led the revolt that overthrew him. But there is a secret chamber behind the bottom row of seats. Few remember it now. Brush has grown up to cover the entrance, which lies on the eastern side of the hill.”

  “Thank you.” Nazafareen glanced at the other Maenads, who nodded.

  “And I have a task for you, Adrian,” Kallisto said. “You do plan to speak for Herodotus?”

  His face darkened. “With all my heart.”

  “And you wish to rid the library of Kadmos?”

  “I would give anything to see him cast out! The man is a worm.” Teeth flashed in a sudden smile. “Herodotus would say I am wrongly insulting the worm. Worms do no harm and in fact, are beneficial to the soil. No, Kadmos and Serpedon are vile as only men can be.” His expression grew grave again. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

  Adrian listened closely as Kallisto spoke. “It will be as you say, Revered Mother,” he said when she had finished. He slapped a palm on the table. “By the Gods, we’ll give them a dose of their own medicine.”

  Adrian stayed for supper and they drank wine and talked late into the evening. He told many stories about Herodotus, both amusing and serious. Nazafareen had thought of him as a sweet, somewhat absent-minded man, but he was apparently a highly respected historian and beloved by his students. At last Adrian took his leave, leaping onto his horse and riding back to the city.

  Nazafareen watched him go with a lighter heart.

  She remembered what Herodotus said the last time she saw him. Something about men’s fortunes being on a wheel and how his fate was in the gods’ hands.

  I hope they fly down from Mount Olympus and toss around some lightning bolts, she thought. That would be lovely. But just in case they don’t, I will weave my own threads. Nazafareen gave a vicious smile. A noose to fit the Stork and Weasel both.

  8

  The Viper

  “Please tell me you’ve brought good news.”

  Victor sprawled on a chair, one leg hooked over the arm. It was a monstrously ugly piece of work, an amalgam of grey metals that seemed designed to be both cold and torturously uncomfortable. That should be the official Kafsnjór motto, he’d decided, after exploring the keep from top to bottom.

  Cold and torturously uncomfortable.

  Victor had taken Eirik’s study for his command post. The décor was somber to the point of masochism, like the man himself, but it contained useful things such as detailed maps of the Valkirin range and trade records with the Marakai that went back hundreds of years. It seemed Val Moraine was rich as sin. Too bad they couldn’t eat gold.

  He searched Mithre’s face for a hopeful sign. The daēva had led a search party into the tunnels beneath the mountain. He’d been gone for three long days and Victor had just begun to worry when he received word they’d returned.

  “An abundance of cobwebs and slag,” Mithre said. “Some bones, though they’d already been gnawed by something else. Sadly, we never found the something else. It might have made a decent meal.”

  Victor scowled. “The old hag must have been lying.”

  “Or we looked in the wrong places. Those tunnels go on forever. Searching them all would take weeks. How are you faring with the abbadax?”

  “They hiss and snap the moment the door cracks open,” Victor admitted.

  “Must be your winning personality.”

  Victor gave him a wan smile. “They’ll warm to me. Just give them time.”

  Mithre’s gaze turned to the window and the world of howling white outside.

  “That storm won’t last forever. When the other holdfasts realize the keep has fallen, they’ll come and we won’t be in any position to stop them.”

  “I know that,” Victor snapped.

  “So?”

  Victor unhooked his leg and sat up. “I swore I’d never speak to that woman again.”

  “A rash vow.” Mithre shook his head. “The stores were already low when we arrived, which makes no sense. The Valkirins would never rely on the mortal cities for food. It’s too risky. There has to be something we’ve missed. Maybe she’s telling the truth.”

  “I’d rather eat Eirik’s frozen body then go back to that tower.”

  “I thought you already fed him to the abbadax.”

  “There’s a few scraps left.”

  Mithre strode closer. “All right. You can stay here and anoint yourself king of the Valkirins.” He spread his arms wide. “Enjoy your new domain! I’ve no idea how long it takes a daēva to die from starvation. You might be the first.” He spun on his heel and started for the door. “I’ll tell Tethys I had a bout of temporary insanity, but it’s over now and can she please pass the strawberries?”

  “Wait.”

  The word came out as a reluctant croak.

  Mithre stopped, though he didn’t turn around.

  “I’ll go. But you have to come with me this time.” Victor tried and failed to keep the abject plea from his voice.

  Mithre laughed. “Are you so intimidated by one old woman?”

  “You haven’t met her,” Victor grumbled, rising to his feet. “She makes my mother seem a dewy-eyed, trembling fawn.”

  “That I have to see.”

  They walked in silence to Gerda’s tower. The guards—different ones this time—stepped aside.

  “Don’t ask,” Victor mumbled.

  He knocked on the door.

  “Who is it?” a plaintive voice cried from within.

  “Me,” Victor said.

  “Have you come to murder me like you did my family?”

  Victor started to say yes and Mithre
shot him a warning look.

  “I’m coming in,” he growled, wondering why he’d even knocked in the first place. It was his holdfast now, after all.

  They entered and Mithre blanched at the bone-chilling cold. Victor gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of shivering. The chamber was high-ceilinged and sparely furnished, with two standard uncomfortable-looking chairs, a heavy wrought-iron table on clawed feet, and a few dozen bottles of wine tucked into a metal honeycomb. Others littered the floor. One wall lay open to the sky, although swirling snow obscured the view. It pressed against the invisible shield of air like a white shroud. There was no bed. Victor wondered if she even slept.

  Gerda sat with her hands primly folded on her lap. A breeze from the corridor lifted strands of long, wispy hair shot with streaks of pure white that made a striking contrast to her bright green eyes. They glared at Victor with undisguised hatred.

  “Back so soon? I thought you’d last a little while longer, but then everyone knows the Danai are soft.”

  “I’m not here to bandy insults,” Victor said haughtily. “You offered a trade. Is it still on the table?”

  “Who’s your ugly friend?” Gerda demanded, staring at Mithre.

  “Enchanted to meet you, madam,” Mithre said, bowing low. “I’ve heard so many…things about you.”

  She ignored him, returning her attention to Victor. “So you didn’t find it, huh? Too bad. I heard the nitwits in the hall whispering. Dissension in the ranks!” She cackled. “Armies march on their bellies and when they’re empty, unfortunate things happen. But you probably know that already. So you put your two tiny brains together and now you’re back.” She stood, her high-necked leather gown creaking, and made a curtsy that somehow managed to be slightly obscene. “Lord Victor.”

  “I’m beginning to see what you meant,” Mithre said in a wondering tone.

  “Do you want to see your grandson or not?” Victor asked stonily.

  “Great-great-grandson. Yes, I do.” Gerda grinned. Then she adopted the childish sing-song voice he found so appalling. “But I’m afraid the price has gone up.”

  Victor drew a deep breath. “Name it.”

  “You will bring him to me, unchained, and leave us to share our grief in private.”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” She sat back down. “Bye.”

  Mithre laid a hand on his arm. “May we speak outside?”

  Victor stormed to the door without replying.

  “See you in a minute,” Gerda called.

  Victor slammed the door behind them.

  “She’s a demon wearing the flesh of a daēva,” he muttered.

  “Just give her what she wants.”

  Victor tore at his hair in frustration.

  “Culach is blind,” Mithre said in a reasonable tone. “He hasn’t lifted a finger to try to escape. The man is damaged. Badly. He’s no threat.”

  “Don’t underestimate him,” Victor said darkly.

  “I’m not. Which is why I’ll stand outside the door and listen to every word they say.” He shrugged. “It’s that or go home and admit you couldn’t hold the Maiden Keep for more than two weeks. Your choice.”

  Victor’s teeth ground audibly, but he gave a tight nod.

  “Fine.”

  They went back inside.

  “So, morons, what’s it going to be?” Gerda asked cheerfully.

  “We have a deal,” Mithre said when Victor failed to respond. “But you’ll tell us where the food is first.”

  “Pour me a glass of wine, would you?” Gerda asked. She waved a clawlike hand at the table. “Over there. My poor old joints can hardly move anymore.”

  Having witnessed the acrobatic curtsy, Mithre doubted this, but he tipped the bottles until he found one with liquid in it and poured the contents into a goblet. A whiff of it hit his nostrils and he recoiled.

  “Are you sure this is wine?”

  “Close enough. Hop to it, boy! I’m thirsty.”

  Victor watched in grim amusement as Mithre handed her the cup. She took a long slurp and sighed in pleasure.

  “First, I want your word that you’ll keep your end of the bargain. Swear it on your wife and sons.”

  “I swear,” Victor said with ill-humor.

  “Okay, listen well, because I’m not telling you girls twice. Go to the fourth hallway south of the armory and count the blocks of stone until you see one with a slight discoloration in the upper right corner. Press both the left and right sides at the same time. It can be a little sticky. You’ll find a secret corridor beyond and stairs leading down. Take them to the end.”

  “If there’s some kind of nasty booby-trap waiting, I’ll bring you your grandson’s head on a platter,” Victor said.

  “Great-great-grandson.” She took another loud slurp of wine. “Well, go on. I don’t have all day.”

  Mithre ran off to see if she’d told them the truth. Victor silently prayed it wouldn’t take too long. Gerda made his skin crawl. He looked around the room—anywhere besides her—but he could feel her eyes boring into him. No wonder the Kafsnjórs were so demented, if they all descended from this woman. It explained a lot.

  “Who else of my clan lives besides Culach, butcher?”

  “None of your business.”

  She gazed contemplatively into her goblet.

  “So you think you can hold Val Moraine? Food will only get you so far, Victor Dessarian. Do the other Danai know what you’re up to?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I thought so. You’ve overreached your meager abilities, but like a greedy child who gobbles too many sweets, you don’t know when to stop. I’d feel sorry for you if you weren’t such an insufferable prick.” She sighed and held out her cup. “More wine.”

  “Get it yourself.”

  Gerda let out a frail but piercing cry. “Abusing helpless old women! But I shouldn’t expect any better, I suppose.” She rose with an ostentatious grimace and clutched her back. “When you’ve lived as long as I have, you’ll be singing a different tune. Of course, that’s not going to happen. I give you another three days, tops, before Halldóra or Runar takes Val Moraine and tosses your defiled corpse into the ravine.” She located the bottle and poured the dregs into her glass. “So enjoy yourself, Victor Dessarian! Have a nice supper tonight. With any luck, it’ll be the last you ever eat.”

  Victor rubbed his forehead. “Here’s a question, harridan. What if Culach doesn’t want to see you? I can’t imagine anyone in his right mind voluntarily choosing your company.”

  “Oh, he’ll come.” She smiled. “He loves me.”

  Victor was spared the necessity of a response by the arrival of Mithre, who must have sprinted the whole way there and back.

  I owe him one, Victor thought.

  Mithre’s cheeks were flushed, and not just from running. “She spoke the truth. It’s wondrous. There are fields of vegetables, groves of fruit trees. Deep under the mountain!”

  “Show me,” Victor said eagerly.

  They’d reached the door when Gerda spoke.

  “Don’t forget your promise.”

  Victor was tempted to tell her to go to hell, but he’d sworn on Delilah’s life and breaking such an oath seemed an ill omen.

  “I haven’t,” he said sweetly. “You’ll have one hour together.”

  He yanked the door closed on a torrent of fresh invective.

  Galen shuffled to the window, chains clanking. They left just enough slack for him to move around in an awkward limp, made worse by the loss of four toes to frostbite. Thanks to Mina’s bullying, Victor had removed the manacles from his wrists. He pressed his palms on the stone sill. A world of white howled outside, snowflakes as fat as his thumb swirling against the invisible barrier. He wore the bleached leathers of the Valkirins now, as did everyone except Mina. The outfit stood out starkly against his raven hair.

  Galen was permitted to visit his mother for an hour each day. The rest of the time they kept him i
n a bare pantry five paces across. He could hardly complain. He knew he was lucky not to be in one of the cold cells.

  Mina’s chamber was cozy by the austere standards of Val Moraine. Thick rugs layered the floor, woven in a pattern of green and gold vines. The windowsill held a small collection of items she’d brought from home: pine cones, a row of fat brown acorns, a bundle of dried flowers. All layered in dust.

  Home.

  He had no home anymore.

  “You should eat something.” His mother bit into an apple. “It seems they finally found some food.”

  “Later.”

  She sighed. “Starving yourself to death is no answer.”

  “Then what is?” He turned to her. “I’d think you’d be glad to be rid of me.”

  Mina scowled. “Stop wallowing. You made a bad mistake, but you didn’t intend to kill anyone. Victor will see that eventually.”

  Galen gave a hollow laugh. “I doubt it. He’s not exactly the forgiving type.” He picked up an acorn, rolling it between his fingers. “You don’t know what it was like after you left.”

  She laid a gentle hand on his arm. “So tell me.”

  Galen shrugged her off. “I’m different from the others, mother. I always have been. I was never truly one of them.”

  “Why do you say—”

  “You know why.”

  She recoiled at the raw bitterness in his voice.

  “The son of the legendary Victor Dessarian and I can barely touch earth power! I think Tethys suspected, but she never spoke of it. I was just a child when you left me to fend for myself.”

  “Would you rather have grown up here?” Her eyes smoldered as she waved an arm to encompass the keep. “It’s no life for anyone, let alone a young Danai. And the whole point was to keep you safe from Eirik. I offered myself instead. He might have killed you otherwise just to get back at Victor. Can’t you see that?”

  Galen’s jaw set in a way nearly identical to his father. “I don’t care. Anything would have been better than what you did.”

  Mina stared at him for a long moment. “Perhaps you’re right. But I hoped Victor would return and claim you.”