by Kat Ross
She studied the swirling pattern on its surface, like water rushing over mossy stones. Had it been dark or unmoving, Nazafareen would have passed it by. She’d learned some hard lessons about gates. But this one appeared to be intact.
“How do we know where it goes?” Javid asked, an edge to his voice. “The last two occasions I passed through a gate didn’t end happily.”
“There is a way,” Herodotus said, stroking his matted beard. “In his famous—or infamous—Journeys Beyond the Veil, Nabu-bal-idinna claimed they were marked.” He walked slowly around the gate. It had no physical doorframe or lintel; it was simply a hole to another place. “Perhaps the signpost was buried?”
“Then we shall dig,” Megaera said, removing the pinecone from her staff and sinking the sharp point into the grassy earth. The other Maenads did the same. Dirt began to fly, piling up in gopher mounds to either side of the gate. Some minutes later, Cyrene gave a shout.
“I’ve struck something!”
Nazafareen crouched next to her and they used their hands to pry away clods of thick clay and rock.
“It looks like the edge of a stone marker,” she said with excitement.
The others pitched in with their spears and they soon had it unearthed—a weathered tablet a pace across covered with markings.
“Can you read it?” Nazafareen asked.
Herodotus wiped the dirt away and squinted at the tablet. “It seems to be written in six languages. Five I have never seen before, but one is the old tongue of the Persians.” A grin split his face. “I believe it leads to the Rock of Ariamazes, just as Jamadin described.”
Javid let out a whoop that cut off abruptly when Megaera poked him with her spear butt.
“Not so loud, wind pilot.” She glanced around uneasily. “You’ll wake the harpies and we’ll all end up in an iron cookpot!”
Nazafareen went first to make sure nothing awful waited on the other side, but it seemed their luck had turned. The passage through the watery limbo around the gate was quick and they emerged from a shallow pond into a lush garden with no one in sight. When Javid stepped out, he stood stock still for a moment and took a deep breath.
“Holy Father, it’s good to be home,” he murmured.
The Rock of Ariamazes loomed a short distance away, casting a deep shadow on the eastern side of the gardens. It was a massive, hulking thing, with slits for windows and not a joint or crevice, as though hewn from a single block of stone.
“They say Danai masons were hired to build the Rock some fifteen hundred years ago,” Javid said. “It stood even against the Vatras. The stone was pure white once, but their scorching fires turned it black.”
Wind and weather had caused the Rock to fade to a nearly uniform grey, but Nazafareen fancied she could see darker patches where the flames had burned hottest. To think of an entire city reduced to ashes…. A chill trickled up her spine.
“We’d better go.” Javid waded through the reeds to the pond’s edge, the others trailing like ducklings. “The gardens are lightly guarded, but it would be better if we don’t have to explain our presence here.” He eyed the Maenad’s staffs. “The royal defenders aren’t fond of armed intruders, especially if they’re from Delphi.”
He knew the gardens well and led them through quiet pathways to a place where the branches of a fig tree grew over the outer wall. They clambered up and dropped to the cobbled street below. Charis rode on Cyrene’s back, teeth gritted as she gingerly swung her legs over the wall and was helped down by Megaera.
“I used to steal figs from that tree when I was a boy,” Javid said with a low laugh. “For some reason, they always tasted sweeter than the ones my mother bought at the market.”
Samarqand was indeed a grand old city, Nazafareen thought as they headed down a curving hillside into a bustling commercial district. In appearance, the Persians were not so different from the Greeks, despite their enmity for each other. But she smelled different spices in the air and noticed that instead of a multitude of temples to various gods and goddesses, a single symbol appeared—on carvings, tapestries and jewelry. A man with eagle wings.
“The faravahar,” Javid explained, in answer to her question. “The sacred symbol of the Prophet.” He pointed to a group of men with long, flowing robes and beards to match. “And those are the magi. Representatives of the Holy Father on earth.”
Nazafareen smiled and nodded politely, but after the Pythia, she’d had enough of people doing whatever they wanted in the name of some almighty deity. If that made her a heretic, so be it. She’d seen the afterlife. The only thing in charge there seemed to be a pack of large dogs.
“Marakai,” Javid murmured as they passed a group of dark-skinned women wearing wide, loose trousers cinched at the ankles and sleeveless vests. Nazafareen tried not to stare. She’d never seen the sea clan before. They moved with the lithe, prowling gait of all daēvas, but shells were braided into their curly hair and vivid tattoos covered their arms. “And that’s the civil guard.”
Instead of the leather skirts and helmets of the Polemarch’s legions, these men wore jaunty felt caps and knee-length belted tunics. They kept a watchful eye on the crowds, who paid them little attention. Nazafareen detected none of the fear she’d seen in Delphi.
Javid took them to an inn called the Four Dervishes near the Artisans’ District, famous for its silk embroidery, copper engraving and delicate ceramics. The inn seemed like one of the more respectable establishments, with a clientele of well-to-do merchants drinking wine at long tables in the common room. A long-haired cat with a sulky face perched on a sun-drenched windowsill.
Kallisto produced a purse filled with gold and rented them rooms on the top two floors. Once they were settled, Javid took Nazafareen aside and explained that he needed to report to the Merchants’ Guild, promising to return within a few days.
Serving girls brought up buckets of hot water and Nazafareen soaked in a tub until her fingers and toes turned to prunes. Javid had seemed a little nervous. She hoped the Guild wouldn’t blame him for the loss of the wind ship—or any of the rest of it. She slid deeper into the water. After what he’d had been through, he deserved a whole fleet.
That evening, they all gathered in the private dining room except for Charis, who had broken with a fever. The innkeeper herself brought in a roast fowl with a saffron-citrus glaze, steaming bowls of rice, pistachios soaked in rosewater, and a fragrant vegetable stew with dollops of yoghurt. There were other dishes besides, all exotic and delicious, and the group ate in contented silence until the last grain of rice was gone.
“So,” Kallisto said. “The time has come to speak of what we know, and what we have yet to learn. Husband?”
Herodotus cleared his throat. “I burned the scroll after memorizing the contents, but I will tell you what I know. Nabu-bal-idinna lived about five hundred years ago. He was alchemist to the Persian King Teispes. Samarqand had already begun rebuilding after the war, but there was still fear the Vatras could return if the Gale ever failed. So Nabu-bal-idinna began to explore the gates, as a means of escape should they ever need one. The magi frowned on his activities as sacrilegious, but the king supported him. And so he began to map the gates. But his trips into the shadowlands grew longer and longer. In his absence, the magi’s influence with the king increased.”
Herodotus paused to take a sip of wine. Nazafareen had listened in fascination along with the others, and the dining room stayed perfectly silent until he resumed his tale.
“When Nabu-bal-idinna returned for the last time, he claimed to have met a deity in the Dominion. He called her the Drowned Lady. Outraged at this bit of heresy, the magi cast him out and burned his laboratory. But at least some of the scrolls must have been smuggled out because fragments have turned up here and there over the years, including some of the maps he made. The one I discovered was a few lines only.”
Nazafareen leaned forward eagerly, drawn into his tale. “What did it say?”
“It spoke of a
fourth talisman. Nabu-bal-idinna said the Drowned Lady told him it would be needed to stop the Vatras if they ever returned. Lest the power corrupt their hearts, they shall not know it nor touch it until the fourth talisman brings it forth. I imagine she was referring to the three clans and the descendants of the original talismans. That was the cost of the gift, it seems.”
Kallisto didn’t react. She must have already known. But the other Maenads glanced at each other.
“Is this fourth talisman a daēva, like the others?” Megaera asked.
“Or an object?” Rhea wondered.
“He didn’t specify,” Herodotus replied regretfully. “It might have been on the next part of the scroll. If I had to guess, I would say it’s a daēva. Possibly even one of the Vatras.”
Chaos erupted at this, with all of the Maenads talking at once. Herodotus held up a hand.
“I don’t know what this talisman must do, parthenoi. I think we can only bring the question to Sakhet.”
Kallisto nodded. “If this is true, it will make our task even more difficult. But there is a reason for everything, and we will discover it in time.”
“When do we leave for Susa?” Nazafareen asked.
Megaera scowled. “She’s coming with us?”
Of all their group, Megaera seemed to bear the deepest grudge for Nazafareen’s fit of temper after breaking the gate.
“Only if you’ll have me,” Nazafareen replied. “All of you. I don’t wish to use my magic again if it can be avoided. If it cannot…. Well, I give you permission to truss me up like a chicken afterwards until I settle down.”
Megaera hesitated, her dark eyes weighing and measuring Nazafareen down to the last ounce. “I’ll hold you to that.”
“You are both too much alike,” Rhea said with an arched brow. “But I welcome you, Nazafareen. We would not be here but for your strange power.”
Cyrene and Charis murmured their assent as well.
“Then it’s settled,” Kallisto said. “I’ll find us horses. We ride for Susa as soon as Charis has recovered. And I must send a bird to Sakhet right away.” She pushed back from the table and stood. A shadow crossed her face. “I’d hoped we would have more time. Perhaps we still do. Dionysius grant that it be enough.”
15
Njala
“You’re up to something,” Victor said. “There’s no point in denying it. Mithre heard you talking.”
Culach shook his head wearily. “I’m not up to anything. But my dear great-great-grandmother appears to be under the delusion that….” He trailed off. “You won’t believe me anyway.”
“Let’s give it a try,” said the other Danai—the one called Mithre, who had taken him from Gerda’s chamber.
Culach was silent for a long moment. He could smell the ghost of his father in this room. Stale sweat and the sharp tang of iron. No one had told him Eirik was dead. He just knew.
Petur claimed you were a different man before Ygraine died, but I wouldn’t know about that. You were a cold bastard to me and Neblis and I won’t mourn you now.
Culach said, “Have you ever heard of the Avas Vatras?”
“The what?”
“They were a fourth clan of daēvas.”
Victor laughed.
“They lived a thousand years ago and they could work fire.”
“Do go on.”
Culach decided to leave his own dreams out of it. Victor already found him ridiculous enough. “They got into a feud with the Danai and burned the Great Forest, but they didn’t stop there. The Vatras destroyed the human cities too, and then they came for us. The holdfasts were made of timber then. We lost everything. Finally, the three clans came together against them. They sent emissaries to the Vatras’ capital, seeking peace. The Vatra king tried to murder them. But three daēvas had powers the Vatras didn’t know about. Gerda calls them talismans. They obliterated the Vatra city and drove them into the desert of Solis. I’ve heard there’s a line of storms west of the mortal cities that never goes away. They call it the Gale. But it’s not natural. The daēvas made it so the Vatras could never return.”
“That’s quite a story,” Victor said, a smirk in his voice.
“I’m not done yet. Gerda seems to think they aren’t dead. Not all of them anyway.”
“And?”
“That’s it. She could be right, or she could be out of her mind. In my opinion, it’s probably the second.”
“I did hear them say the word Vatras,” Mithre said thoughtfully. “He might be telling the truth. Perhaps we should send word to Tethys.”
Victor made a sound of disgust. “Children’s tales. I’ve never heard of these creatures. And I trust those two about as much as I trust the abbadax. Less even.”
“Are the mounts still here?” Culach asked. Gerda’s bargain had given him an idea.
“Why?”
“Because I would offer you a trade. If you let me visit Mina, I’ll show you how to tame them.”
Culach sensed Victor’s ears perking up.
“That would be useful,” he said grudgingly.
“I’ve raised most of them from hatchlings. They know my scent.”
“Do you care for her so much?” Victor asked in a wondering tone.
“I don’t make the offer lightly. The thought of Danai touching our mounts….” Culach’s jaw tightened. “But I’m willing if you give me assurances that she’s being treated well.”
“The day I fly out from the stables is the day you’ll visit Mina,” Victor said.
“Then we may as well start now.”
“Why not?” Victor chuckled. “Shall we tie a string to you so you don’t wander off?”
“I know the way,” Culach said shortly, turning on his heel and marching out the door. After a moment’s hesitation, both Victor and Mithre followed.
In fact, Culach’s sense of space had become so acute, he could judge by the echo of their footsteps how far away the walls were. He counted the intersecting corridors and stone bridges, relying on a mental map of the keep to find his way. It gave him a grim satisfaction to remind these trespassers who knew Val Moraine best. When they reached the stables, Culach turned to his escort.
“Wait here until I call for you,” he said coldly.
He groped for the brass handle and pulled the heavy door open. A northerly wind flayed his face. Culach took three steps onto the ledge, keeping well back from the edge. He heard the scrape of talons on ice.
“Ragnhildur?” he whispered.
A faint cry came from one of the pens. Culach stood still as she approached, letting her nuzzle him with her beak. The familiar musky smell of her gladdened his heart. He ran a hand along one leathery wing, avoiding the sharp feathers at the tip. She gave a purring chirp.
“Are you well, old friend?” he murmured. “I’m afraid I have an odious task for you. But you mustn’t complain, nor make a meal of these swine. They’re all skin and bones anyway.”
“Get on with it,” Victor snapped from the doorway.
Culach beckoned him forward with a brusque gesture, keeping one hand on Ragnhildur’s serpentine neck. She trembled slightly as Victor approached, whether in fear, hatred or both, Culach couldn’t say. But she would not attack unless he commanded it.
“Scent is everything,” he said. “Their eyesight rivals an eagle at long distances, but up close they are nearly blind.”
“How do I make them trust me?”
“You must give them a taste of your blood. Once they’ve taken it, they will know you forever.”
“This one?” Victor asked.
“No! She’s mine,” Culach said fiercely. “But I’ll call one of the others. Do you have a blade?”
“Of course.” Metal rasped against leather.
Culach gave a low, trilling whistle. He sensed large bodies creeping forward.
“Do you see a small one with blue spine feathers?” he asked.
“I…yes.”
“Her name is Njala. That means mercy in the old t
ongue—Eirik’s private joke. Njala is as vicious as they come. She’s a nimble flier, though, and smart. Lead me to her.”
After a few ear-splitting shrieks and much coaxing, the abbadax condescended to lick a shallow cut across Victor’s palm. Once imprinted, she settled down and allowed them both to examine her. Culach explained how to fasten the harness and signal directions with the reins and a series of whistles. Every moment of it pained him. It was clear Victor felt the same. But they each had something the other wanted badly enough to overcome their mutual revulsion.
Culach ran his hand along the tough hide of Njala’s wing. “The wings of birds are rigid,” he said. “They’re more efficient at providing lift. But the abbadax wing is flexible. Touch it. Do you feel?”
Victor grunted. “Yes.”
“It provides superior maneuverability. She can fold her wings into different shapes, allowing her to rapidly dive or weave. That’s why the abbadax are unrivaled in aerial combat. But it means that you’d better be strapped in tight or you’ll find yourself sailing into the black. Alone. It’s a glorious way to die, though exceedingly brief.” He grinned. “In any event, it never hurts to double-check your buckles.”
Victor chuffed out a breath. “Show me how to mount her.”
“Ah, yes. That’s the tricky part. You can use her scales for purchase, but the ridge feathers will sever a finger—or worse—if you’re careless. I hope you’re limber, Dessarian.”
“Demonstrate.”
“I suppose I could. It’s been a while.” And I used to be able to see what I was doing. “The main thing to remember is that you must clear the back and tail.” He whistled for Ragnhildur and after a little fumbling, managed to get one foot in the stirrups. His scars stretched at the movement but they’re weren’t as painful as they used to be. “Hold the reins in your hand like so. Best to keep the left knee bent a little….”
The cold finally drove them back into the keep. Mithre escorted Culach back to his cell. For a wonder, it actually seemed tolerable compared to the stables. He rested his head on his forearms, sleep quickly overtaking him. And for the first time in weeks, Culach dreamt not of the Viper or the mad king, but of Ragnhildur and a moonlit ride across the sea.
