Solis

by Kat Ross

  Galen sagged as darkness took him.

  16

  The Prodigal Son

  Javid sauntered into the Abicari wearing a confident smile and a brand new coat with flared cuffs and a stiff embroidered collar. It had cost him his last coins, but he had a reputation to uphold, even if his gut knotted with dread at the thought of facing Savah Sayuzhdri.

  The word Abicari meant field or pasture in the old tongue and that’s what it had been once, before the Guild decided to copy the design of the Greek wind ships and built its own fleet. Sensing an opportunity to fatten his own already considerable treasury, the king had granted them the use of a flat stretch of ground outside the city wall that was poor for grazing but ideal for takeoffs and landings. The first pilots had simply called it the Abicari and the name stuck.

  Now it held half a dozen large buildings with new ships in various stages of construction, piles of coiled ropes and yards of fabric for the air sacks. Stout wooden pegs sprouted from the ground at regular intervals, serving as anchor points for the ships. One was in the process of taking on passengers and light cargo. Javid paused to watch the great sacks slowly fill with air heated by small burners. The crew noticed him, greeting him with smiles and waves.

  Javid waved back and gave a snappy salute.

  “Nice coat!” one yelled with a grin.

  Javid adjusted the collar and brushed a piece of invisible lint from the shoulder.

  “This old rag? It’ll have to do for now. My old one was burned up by the Pythia.”

  The boy laughed and returned to loading the wind ship.

  Javid had stopped at home just long enough to give his startled mother a kiss on the cheek, grab the stash of silver he kept hidden under his bed, and yank on a fresh pair of boots.

  “Where’ve you been?” she’d demanded, thrusting a bowl of soup at him like a rapier. “I’ve been worried sick!”

  “I’ll tell you everything later, I promise,” Javid had said, gulping straight from the bowl and rushing out the door.

  “Yasmin,” she cried. “Where are you going now? You just got here! And what happened to your eyebrows?”

  Javid’s mother still called him by his old name. He’d given up trying to correct her. He knew it wasn’t an intentional rebuke. She had twelve kids and it was hard enough keeping them all straight without additional complications.

  “Later, ma, I promise.”

  He’d dashed to the market and bought a light blue coat with a pattern of gold starbursts, too nervous to even haggle properly. Now he called out to the captain of the wind ship.

  “Where’s the boss?”

  The captain pointed to one of the long buildings.

  “Clear skies and steady winds,” Javid replied. It was the ritual farewell among pilots of the Abicari.

  “Clear skies,” the captain called back absently, uncoiling the mooring rope.

  As Javid approached the structure, he heard the pounding of hammers and rasp of saws, smelled sawdust and pitch. Inside sat the wooden skeletons of three wind ships, like the ribcages of sea monsters dragged up from the deep. The wood was a special kind imported at great expense from the forests of the Danai, light as the hollow bones of a bird but strong and flexible. A swarm of carpenters moved around the ships, building out the hulls.

  Javid suddenly felt a bit misty-eyed. He’d never expected to see any of it again. Then he heard the booming voice of Savah Sayuzhdri and steeled himself. Savah Sayuzhdri was in charge of the whole fleet. A burly giant with hands like anchors, he’d risen through the ranks because of his rabid perfectionism and knack for striking fear into the hearts of underlings.

  As Javid walked up, Savah kicked a piece of wood, sending it spinning across the workroom floor. No one paid any attention except for the poor man who gripped a caulking mallet before him like a shield.

  “I told you, the gunwale needs to be five-eighths of an inch. Five-eighths! My bloody blind grandmother could tell the difference.”

  The man’s eyes darted around, searching vainly for salvation. “But the design said—”

  “I don’t give a bloody damn about the design.” He jabbed a finger into the man’s chest. “Someone made a mistake and you’re supposed to catch it!” His livid gaze fell on Javid. He didn’t look happy to see him, but then he never looked happy about anything. “Just fix it.”

  The man nodded jerkily and scurried away, snatching up the length of wood on the way.

  “So.” Savah tilted his head. “The prodigal son returns.”

  “Hello, boss.”

  “Come on. We’ll talk in my office.”

  He strode outside, favoring his right leg. An accident years before had left him with a rolling gait. That and his enormous size made Savah an unmistakable figure even from a distance. As soon as they appeared, everyone in the Abicari, from full captains down to bucket boys, seemed to move a little faster.

  “What took so long?” Savah demanded. “You’re almost two months overdue.” His glower deepened. “And I don’t see the Kyrenia.”

  Javid swallowed. “It’s an amazing tale, boss. I can still hardly believe it myself.”

  “Try me,” Savah growled.

  They ducked into his office, which was simply an area that had been partitioned off from the seamstresses’ quarters. It held a scarred wooden table covered with stacks of parchment and assorted random oddities that looked suited to a magpie’s nest. For all his obsession with detail, Savah himself was a slob.

  Javid pulled up a chair and Savah plopped himself behind the table, his left leg braced straight on the floor.

  “Start talking.”

  Javid quickly debated what to include in his report. Someone had tried to buy his way out of the dungeons. If that someone was Savah, the boss wouldn’t be waiting to hear his story. He’d already know.

  So Javid’s initial instinct was to lie, but what was the point? A thousand people had attended his near-execution. Word would trickle back to Samarqand eventually. Either Savah would believe the truth, or he’d throw Javid out of his office and have him expelled from the Guild. He might do that even if he did believe.

  So Javid drew a deep breath and gave a full accounting of everything that had happened from the moment he first arrived in the darklands. Savah listened to the whole thing without expression.

  “Let’s see if I have this straight. I send you to make a secret pact with the Danai and you somehow manage to get yourself not only arrested by the Greeks but accused of espionage?”

  Javid floundered for a better spin on things but came up empty. “Correct,” he said.

  Savah shook his head. “That’s impressive, even for you.”

  “Come on. At least I secured the agreement.”

  “Tentative agreement. Who knows if the Danai will keep their end of the bargain now?” He poured some wine and stared mournfully into the cup. “This is the last of the Malagousia. Soon enough we’ll be drinking that swill they brew in Susa. There’s a trade embargo on the horizon, my son, and that’s just a prelude.”

  “Because of me?” Javid squeaked.

  Savah laughed. “You’re just a little fish who got snared in the Pythia’s net. She’s been spoiling for a fight and she would have gotten it one way or another—even if you hadn’t been dumb enough to swim straight into her jaws.” He scowled. “But that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. You lost a wind ship and you’re going to pay for it.”

  “But I was downed by a storm. It was an act of Nature!”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Listen,” Javid said desperately. “I have some intelligence you’ll want to hear.” He paused for dramatic effect. “The Avas Vatras, the fire daēvas that burned our cities all those years ago…. They might still be alive.”

  Savah raised an eyebrow.

  “And you think this because…?”

  “Well, the Maenads who rescued me said they’ve had visions of the Vatras’ return.”

  “The Maenads. You mean that crazy Greek c
ult?”

  “They’re very nice ladies,” Javid said lamely.

  “I’m sure they are. How much of their cheap wine did you drink?”

  He didn’t reply. Savah heaved a long-suffering sigh.

  “Listen kid, believe it or not, I’ve always liked you. You’re cocky, but I was too at your age. So I’m going to give you a piece of advice. Drop the Vatra thing until you have more evidence than the ramblings of some tipsy Maenads.”

  This was precisely the answer Javid had expected. “Okay.”

  “We’ve got some very real problems. The Greeks are getting feisty and King Cambyses, the Holy Father praise his name, isn’t going to save us from them. Half his brain is rotted away from the pox.”

  Javid winced. “Sounds bad.”

  “Oh, it is,” Savah said matter-of-factly. “Why he couldn’t be satisfied with his harem, I’ll never know. To be honest, his malady, to put it delicately, is one of the reasons we figured we could get away with making that side deal with the Danai. But he’s gotten worse in the last month and his sons are a bunch of vultures circling the carcass. It’s going to be up to the Guild to hold our beloved city if war comes. We’ll need every able-bodied man we can get—especially the ones with more courage than brains.”

  He stood and clapped Javid on the shoulder hard enough to make him cough. Then he pulled out a bag of coins. “Here’s your bonus.” Javid reached for it and Savah flashed an evil grin and tucked it into his own pocket. “And now you’ve just paid us back for the loss of the Kyrenia. See how that works? Everyone’s happy.”

  “I’m not.”

  Savah laughed. “Sure you are. I’ll give you the Fravashi for now. Come on, there’s a job to do.”

  “What job?” he asked disconsolately. Despite its illustrious name, which meant guardian angel, the Fravashi was the oldest ship in the fleet. Her paint was peeling and her fittings rusted. The Guild only used the Fravashi when the run had zero prestige. Short flights to Susa, or a delivery of dates to some minor noble in the countryside.

  Savah eyed him closely. “It’s for Izad Asabana.”

  Javid sat up straight. “Asabana?”

  “You heard me. He needs someone with your particular skills, such as they are.”

  Javid suppressed a whoop of joy and tried his best to look both serious and suitably grateful. “Yes, boss.”

  “Good lad.”

  Savah stood up, signaling that their meeting was over. Javid blew out a breath. He’d been hoping to make a connection with Asabana for years. The smuggler turned obscenely rich merchant was the source of all the spell dust in Samarqand. That’s where the kingdom’s true wealth lay, and the black market for it among the nobility was booming.

  “Come back tomorrow morning and I’ll give you the details,” Savah said, folding his massive arms. “Just try to stay out of trouble until then.”

  “Thanks, boss. You won’t regret—”

  Savah rolled his eyes. “Don’t even say it, lad. Don’t even say it.”

  Javid grinned and darted out the door, whistling a jaunty tune. Visions of mountainous piles of gold danced in his head. Who cared if he had to fly the Fravashi? He’d get his own ship someday, a beautiful new one with gleaming lacquer and all the fancy fittings. If war was really coming, the opportunities could be boundless. Not that he hoped for such a thing, that would be terrible—Javid piously made the sign of the flame—but one had to be practical.

  Savah Sayuzhdri might be a pitiless taskmaster, but he was also one of the few men in the Guild who’d known a little girl named Yasmin who refused to wear dresses and pretended her mother’s washtub was a wind ship. Savah was his father’s third cousin. He’d not only kept Javid’s secret all these years, but he’d accepted the change with surprising equanimity. All Savah really cared about was the fleet, and he knew talent when he saw it. But he’d warned Javid to be careful. Not everyone would be so accepting.

  “What makes a man isn’t down there,” he’d said gruffly the first day Javid had reported to duty. “It’s here”—Savah thumped his chest—“and here.” He tapped his forehead. “You’ve got brains and guts, and a good nose for the wind. Just pay attention to which way it’s blowing.”

  Javid had taken the advice to heart. He was lucky to have small breasts that were easily concealed as long as he always wore a coat. With short hair and a little swagger in his walk, no one had ever been the wiser. Until the Polemarch’s dungeons.

  Javid’s grin died as he remembered Katsu. He doubted he’d be alive if the thief hadn’t chosen to aid a perfect stranger. But he knew there was nothing he could do to help. The moment Javid set foot in Delphi, he’d be back in the dungeons himself. Katsu’s words returned to him now and he felt a bittersweet tug of loss for something that never was, and never could be.

  The world is a big place, my friend. And life is too short to live as others would have us.

  Javid walked home slowly, hands stuffed in his pockets, but it wasn’t gold he thought of. It was white teeth and a warm smile.

  17

  Child of Night

  Darius slid in and out of consciousness. He didn’t know how much time had passed since Thena last came to his room, but he thought Selene had risen and set at least three times. No one else brought food or water. She'd simply left him to waste away.

  He dreamt of Nazafareen. She was in the Dominion, wandering lost and calling his name, but he was chained spread-eagled to a rock on the shore of the Cold Sea. He heard the distant howls of the Shepherds and knew they were closing in. Every time he reached for the Nexus, it slipped between his fingers. Elemental power disappeared in the Dominion, part of him knew that, yet he could sense it, tantalizingly out of reach….

  Darius woke to steel against his throat, just below the collar. Thena stood before him. She had a knife in her hand and her eyes glistened like coins. She looked at him, but her expression was opaque, empty as a doll. Even without the pressure of the knife, he understood immediately.

  “You’re here to kill me,” he whispered, his voice a dry crackle.

  She didn’t reply.

  Darius knew he should be afraid, but he felt nothing. Not fear or sorrow. Not even hatred. There was only this room, with its eternal sunlight, and his pulse throbbing against the edge of her knife.

  “Do it then.”

  She increased the pressure. He felt her hand trembling. Warmth trickled down his neck, but there was no pain.

  “Your blood is red, Andros.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “Why would it not be?” he croaked.

  She took the knife away and slashed it across her own palm. Then she pressed it to his cheek.

  “Mine is red too. Do you see?”

  Her eyes were no longer a doll’s. The fey light of madness danced in them.

  “We are both children of the gods,” he said wearily.

  “You are a child of night,” she hissed. “And yet I cannot…I cannot…”

  With startling suddenness, she fell to her knees and began to sob.

  “I do not know what the god wants from me,” Thena moaned through clenched teeth. “What does he want?”

  She stayed there, rocking back and forth, for a long time. Darius licked his lips and tasted the salt of her blood. He shuddered in revulsion, but it was coppery sweet and he was so very thirsty.

  He looked at her—the red, pinched face, the bony limbs—and he did feel something.

  Pity.

  The war was over. The story ended. She was just a woman after all. A woman who brought him honeyed milk when she wasn’t making him scream. Who screamed herself in the dark of her room afterwards, stuffing blankets into her mouth so others wouldn’t hear. Who wiped the sweat from his brow with the same tender hand that would slit his throat.

  He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. They both knew.

  Thena finally stood. She studied him for what seemed an eternity. The madness had ebbed, and what remained was something akin to his own emp
tiness. A despair beyond words. She examined her palm with detachment. Blood still oozed from the cut, thick as tree sap. He braced himself for the knife, but instead Thena reached into her pocket and withdrew a ring of keys.

  Darius was afraid to meet her eyes. Afraid he would break the spell.

  He waited, every muscle frozen, as she scattered a pinch of something on the metal. Then she whispered a word. It had the quality of command, but he was too paralyzed with sudden, dreadful hope to register it. His heart beat so loudly he thought she must hear it. Was it a final trick? A last torment before she slit his throat? With the things she had done to him, Darius put nothing past her.

  But then Thena selected a key and slid into the lock of the iron collar around his neck. It turned with a tiny click. She did the same with the chains around his ankles and wrists. As soon as his hands were free, Darius ripped the collar from his neck. In a single instant, Thena vanished from his mind. This bond was simpler than the ones the Empire had devised. It broke as soon as the collar stopped touching his skin. Darius was alone in his mind again. Damaged, but alone.

  Thena’s mouth sagged. She reached for him.

  He drew a shaky breath and used air to fling her away like a rag doll. The power cleansed some of his exhaustion, but it also sharpened his senses to a nearly overwhelming degree. Motes of dust floated in the shafts of sunlight, each a tiny world of its own. Sensation rushed into limbs that had been mostly immobilized for weeks. He could still taste her blood on his lips. His empty stomach clenched like a fist. Light and sound rushed in. Darius grabbed blindly for the chains on the wall to keep from falling.

  Don’t faint now. Holy Father, don’t faint.

  He rested his forehead on the wall, breathing hard. The world slowly righted itself.

  “I have done wrong,” Thena muttered. “My life for yours, Andros. It is the only way.”