Solis

by Kat Ross

  Not with Andros.

  You have been sent to test my faith, she told him afterwards when he hung panting against the wall. Just like Psyche and Eros. Do you know the story?

  He managed to shake his head ever so slightly, so Thena settled down cross-legged on the floor of the room and told him of the two lovers and Psyche’s terrible betrayal.

  How she was the most beautiful girl in the whole world, even more beautiful than the Goddess Aphrodite. Her father was a king and suitors came from every corner of the world just to gaze upon her face. Soon, the temples of Aphrodite were abandoned, her altars coated with cold ashes, and sculptors wished only to carve the image of Psyche.

  In a jealous rage, Aphrodite asked her son Eros to poison men’s hearts against the mortal girl and to curse her to fall in love with the lowest creature on earth. Of course, the moment Eros set eyes on Psyche, he fell madly in love himself.

  Meanwhile, it was a terrible scandal that her two sisters found husbands, yet for all her beauty and charm, Psyche remained an unwed maiden. So her distraught parents consulted the Oracle of Delphi.

  Clever Eros arranged things so that Apollo told the oracle Psyche would marry a hideous beast whose face she would never be able to see, and he would wait for her at the top of the mountain.

  Well, this was terrible news. But it came from the mouth of the Oracle so poor Psyche had no choice but to comply. She waited, alone and terrified, on the desolate mountain peak. But instead of the ravening beast she expected, a gentle wind came and spirited her off to a splendid castle.

  She did not see a single servant, but she found a delicious supper laid out for her, and a luxurious bedchamber with silver walls and floors of precious stones. That night, her new husband came to her, with soft whispers and sweet caresses. He promised her a life of adoration and sensuous comforts, but she must promise never to look upon his face or terrible tragedy would befall them both. Psyche shivered in fear at these words, but then he kissed her in the darkness and her heart swelled with joy. She knew she had found her true love at last.

  And so she lived for some time at the castle. It was lonely during the day in the secluded valley, but every night, her husband came to her. Still, she yearned for the family she had left behind and begged her husband to allow her sisters to visit. He hesitated, knowing their venal natures, but finally relented for he loved Psyche to distraction.

  Of course, when her wicked sisters saw the magnificent castle, they grew envious of Psyche’s happiness. They encouraged her to break her vow, to make sure he was not indeed some hideous beast. The next night, when her husband came to her chamber, Psyche waited until she was certain he was asleep. Then she lit an oil lamp and approached the bed, her heart thundering in her chest.

  The light fell upon his face and she gasped in wonder. Her husband was not only a man, but the most beautiful she had ever laid eyes on, with hair of spun gold and the face of a god. Psyche felt ashamed for doubting him. She was about to blow out the lamp when a drop of hot oil struck his shoulder. He awoke and realized what she had done.

  Eros had asked her to do one thing, and one thing only, but she betrayed him.

  Well, Eros left in a huff, and Psyche had to perform three impossible tasks to get him back—including a journey to the Underworld to beg a favor from Persephone, Queen of the Dead.

  But that is a tale for another night, Thena had told him.

  For once, the witch listened without interrupting her. He seemed strangely moved by the story. Despite his stony exterior, Andros was a romantic at heart, Thena thought, and then wondered how she could imagine such a thing about a witch.

  Later, back in her room, she prayed to Apollo for guidance, but he too remained silent.

  Once she had believed she was favored by the god. That she was his special servant, chosen to carry out his will on earth. In her secret heart, she even dreamed of being named the next Pythia. Then he sent Andros to her. Thena was starting to believe it was some kind of punishment, though she didn’t know what for. Every day, she dutifully spoke her prayers and burned the laurel leaves. But the god was not appeased.

  What does he want of me? What must I do?

  Whenever she encountered Korinna, the girl gave her a smug smile.

  You have one week, daughter.

  Thena rose and picked up the cup she’d thrown. She placed it carefully on the windowsill and cleaned up the spilled water. Then she went to see the witch again. He looked the worse for wear. Shadows lurked like bruises beneath his eyes, making them even more vividly blue. She stood still for a long time, just looking at him, not speaking.

  The faint sounds of the city below drifted in through the open window. People going about their day, oblivious to the threat from the darklands. Thena both pitied and envied them. Her sisters would be grown women now with families of their own. She probably had nieces and nephews she’d never met. But service to the god required sacrifice. And sometimes that sacrifice was very great indeed.

  “Do you want some water?” she said at last.

  “Yes.”

  Sometimes he said Yes, please. Not today.

  Thena fetched a cup of water and helped him drink. She watched the muscles in his neck move as he swallowed.

  “Not too much or you’ll be sick,” she said, setting the cup aside and gently wiping his mouth with her sleeve. “I saw Maia today. Her eyes are open, but she doesn’t speak or move. When they feed her mashed vegetables, she swallows. But she soils herself like an infant. She reminds me of a doll. A living doll.”

  He looked at her in that way he had, like he was seeing straight into her soul. Other witches she’d disciplined would flinch away from her gaze for weeks afterward, but Andros never did.

  “You worry the same could happen to you.”

  It wasn’t a question. He knew.

  “Demetrios wouldn’t hurt me. But can I ever be truly sure about the others?” She shook her head. “The Pythia said Maia could have severed the witch from his power if she’d been quicker. But I was there. It all happened in a matter of seconds.”

  “If I were that daēva, I would have done the same.”

  She could tell from the way his jaw tensed that he expected some kind of retaliation for this remark, but Thena found she wasn’t in the mood. She fingered the gold cuff she’d taken from him. She kept it in her pocket as a reminder of her duty to the god. If she ever saw her sisters again, she might make one of them a gift of it. It was a pretty piece of jewelry, unique in its design, although perhaps too masculine for a woman to wear.

  “Why are you this way, Andros? Why are you different from the others?”

  “I’m not different. We all suffer the same.”

  “No. You are different. You speak to me as though we are equals.”

  “I know we’re not equals.”

  “You deliberately misunderstand me.” She idly coiled her braid around her wrist, twining it through the bracelet. “Why are you not afraid of me?”

  He gave a hollow laugh. “I’m very afraid of you.”

  “Then why do you continue to fight?”

  He thought for a moment before answering. “You’re not the first to chain me. In the place where I come from, humans did the same to my kind, but they called it a bond.”

  She frowned. “In the place you come from? But you are Danai.”

  “No. My father was.”

  He had never spoken to her so frankly. The pain and exhaustion must be chipping away at his reserve. She leaned forward eagerly.

  “Where do you come from then?”

  “Another world. They called us Druj there. Impure.” His blue eyes grew distant. “Why do humans hate magic so?”

  Another world? Thena wondered if he was becoming delusional. “Because it’s sinful and destructive,” she explained patiently.

  “It is a gift. Water, air, earth. They are simply part of the world.”

  “You see, that is where you are wrong. It’s the witches who helped the moon goddesses en
snare the chariot of the sun god and even now hold him prisoner. Balance must be restored. The Oracle will see that Apollo’s will is done.” Her tone softened. “I don’t wish to be cruel. It’s not my true nature, surely you can sense that.”

  He said nothing. It rankled that he didn’t seem to believe her.

  “I treat my other witches very well. I wish you could see how well. They are glad to have come to the light.” She sighed. “The Pythia says I am to have a Marakai soon. I’ve never seen one, though I hear they are fearsome. But the collar will hold them as well it does the others, I’m sure.”

  Demetrios had been her first. Thena lacked experience and it had been a terrible ordeal to break him. She’d covered her ears against his cries and squeezed her eyes shut. When it was over, she’d barely made it to the yard to empty her stomach. As they progressed, she learned to distance herself from the process. What she did to him left no visible mark, and all knew the Pythia did not condone torture, therefore her actions were both justifiable and correct.

  And when she felt a twinge of doubt—those came less frequently now—she reminded herself that it was like a drama at the amphitheater. The play might seem real, but she was only an actor playing a role. Or better yet, part of the audience.

  “Why do you do this?” the witch asked.

  Thena smiled, showing her dimples. “You will not trick me into telling you anything of importance, Andros.”

  “Don’t call me that,” he growled.

  It pleased her to see a spark of emotion, even if it was simple annoyance. She leaned closer.

  “Why not, Andros?” she whispered.

  “Because it’s not my name.”

  She could feel his breath on her cheek. Something reckless stirred inside her.

  “Then what is it?”

  “What’s yours?”

  She took in the proud lines of his nose, his dark brows and soft lips. The smell of him, dirty and musky yet somehow tantalizing.

  “Thena,” she said before she could stop herself.

  The flash of triumph in his eyes came like a slap. Her hand flew to her mouth, covering it an instant too late.

  “Thena,” he repeated lazily. “Thank you.”

  Her fingers curled into fists. She wanted to punch him, to beat him bloody. But that would be an admission of defeat. She struggled for calm. The war was not lost, only the latest skirmish. Thena spun on her heel and slammed the door so hard dust rained down from the ceiling.

  Thena attended the Pythia that evening when they brought the heretic from his cell. Unlike the witch, he hadn’t borne his imprisonment well. His beard was filthy and unkempt. The skin of his jowls sagged like an old man. It was hard to believe he’d been the curator of the Great Library just a few weeks before. He looked like one of the beggars who lined the streets to the agora, but as he knelt before the Pythia, Thena noticed that his spine was straight and his hands were steady.

  The Pythia left him there for a long minute before she spoke. The kohl lining her eyes made them seem even larger and full of shining malice.

  “I offer you a final chance,” the Pythia said softly. She held up a piece of parchment. “Who sent you this message? The witch girl carried it, but it is unsigned.”

  “A friend.”

  “Give me a name.”

  The old man stayed silent.

  “I see that you don’t care about your own fate. Your soul is damned anyway and it is not my wrath you should fear but Apollo’s. But what of the Persian boy? You helped him, gave him shelter.”

  “Is that a crime now?” Herodotus demanded. “He has done nothing wrong. We barely know each other.”

  “Perhaps. But I have him. And if you do not tell me the contents of the scroll you found, he will burn alongside you when you are found guilty of treason and witchcraft.”

  Pain contorted the old man’s features, but he didn’t speak.

  “So be it.” She paused. “I might just burn him tonight. He is not a free citizen of this city. I don’t think the Archons would argue the point too strenuously.”

  “No!”

  The Pythia waited. Steam drifted from cracks in the floor, wreathing her sharp features in mist.

  “I will tell you,” Herodotus said in a low, reluctant voice. “It was written by a Persian noble named Gilgamesh. He described the city of the Avas Vatras, the fireworkers, before they were penned by the Gale.”

  The Pythia hunched forward on her tripod, bare toes brushing the stone floor. “And?”

  “He traveled across the desert bearing gifts for the new Vatra king. He claims there was a secret treasure room beneath the palace—”

  “That’s a lie, and a feeble one.” She sighed. “I know it referred to a fourth talisman. Why do you not simply tell me what it said? We aren’t enemies. I have only the best interests of Delphi at heart.”

  “That’s a lie,” Herodotus replied. “And a feeble one.”

  She laughed. “Is it? What do you believe I want, scholar?”

  “I don’t know. And that is the truth.” His face hardened. “But I will discover it.”

  “Indeed.” The Pythia bared her teeth. “You are very confident for one who will soon be howling to the gods for mercy.”

  “It is not you who will judge me, but the Ecclesia.”

  She inclined her head. “Of course. But are you certain you wish to gamble on the Assembly? It’s not too late. Ally yourself with me, tell me what the scroll said, and you walk out of here a free man.”

  Thena glanced at the old scholar with scant interest. Her thoughts raced and tumbled like pebbles bouncing down a mountainside.

  She’d told Andros her name. Heard it on his tongue as he repeated it. Savoring each syllable. He’d thanked her, as if it was a gift.

  Thena shuddered and breathed deeply of the fragrant smoke. The room swam before her eyes. She heard words of defiance from the scholar, the heavy footsteps of soldiers and the Pythia issuing commands, but it was all a distant buzz.

  The god’s voice thundered in her head.

  Like Eros and Psyche.

  You cannot break him with hatred.

  Destined for greatness.

  My will….

  Thena came to with a start.

  The Oracle stared at her with narrowed gaze. “Are you well, daughter?”

  Thena bobbed her head and drew a deep breath. “Yes, Pythia.”

  She looked around and realized the adyton was empty.

  “You are dismissed, for now.” The Pythia gave her a final long, measuring look. “Has your stomach recovered?”

  “Yes, Pythia.”

  “That is well.” She gave a gentle smile. “I do hate to see you suffer. And I know you don’t wish me to give Andros to Korinna.” She hunched forward on the tripod and for just an instant, the Pythia looked like some monstrous, twisted creature with too many legs. “Do we understand each other, daughter?”

  Thena blinked. The Pythia looked as she always did. A slender-limbed, regal woman.

  All is well. All is good and well in the light of the sun.

  She nodded and scurried off.

  10

  A Handful of Dust

  The Ecclesia convened at an amphitheater atop Delphi’s second-tallest hill, called the Pnyx, reached by five streets arranged like the spokes of a wheel. With open sky above and a dirt oval surrounded by tiered stone benches, it had none of the grandeur of the Akademia or Lyceum, nor the imposing bulk of the Temple of Apollo. Still, Nazafareen sensed power here—the humble, earthly sort. It was a place built for men, not gods, but these men had toppled the Tyrants. They’d demanded a say in the passage of laws and administration of justice. Now they would decide the fate of her friends.

  Nazafareen peeked through a round spy-hole that gave a clear view of the action on the floor, although little was happening yet. Men still streamed into the amphitheater in twos and threes. It was hard to gauge the mood beyond an air of subdued excitement.

  “Do you see Herodotus?”
Alcippe demanded, her mouth two inches from Nazafareen’s ear.

  “Quit breathing on me,” Nazafareen grumbled. “And no, not yet.”

  They knelt in a hidden chamber behind the lowest tier of seats. Just as Adrian had promised, an old overgrown tunnel led from the base of the Pnyx to this secret hollow. Nazafareen, the twins and Megaera had been here for hours now and they were all getting testy.

  Alcippe elbowed her in the ribs. “Give me a turn.”

  Nazafareen sighed and moved over. She still felt stiff from the ghastly trip back into the city by wine cask.

  “What does your Persian friend look like?” Alcippe asked, squinting through the peephole.

  “A bit taller than me. Rhea’s height, I’d say. Dark hair, about chin-length.”

  “I think prisoners are held in that little stone building over there until the trial starts. Oooooh.”

  “What?” Nazafareen angled to catch a glimpse through the hole, earning a mouthful of blonde hair.

  “The Archon Eponymos is here and he looks impatient.”

  “Let me see.”

  Alcippe rolled her eyes but scooted over. The Ecclesia was full to bursting now. Spectators occupied every seat, and those who came late were forced to hover around the entrances. But the main floor was no longer empty. A man stood in the center, tall and stooped, with heavy-lidded eyes and a sallow complexion. He wore light blue robes that bared one bony shoulder and a thick silver chain of office around his neck, which he fiddled with as he scanned the tiers of seats.

  Nazafareen’s chest tightened as the Weasel pushed his way through the crowd and strode into the Ecclesia. Even at a distance, Nazafareen detected a glint of anticipation in his beady eyes. He wore white robes like the others but with elaborate embroidery at the hem and sleeves. That was new. In the Library, he’d always struck her as a little down-at-the-heel. Not poor, but not rich either. It seemed the Weasel’s fortunes had taken a turn for the better.

  What a coincidence, she thought sourly. And bold of him to flaunt it before the Assembly.

  The crowd quieted as the Archon Eponymos raised a hand. He waited until absolute silence descended to speak.