Solis

by Kat Ross

  She’d rebounded against the far wall and lay sprawled on the floor, her hair a wild tangle around her face. He turned and stared at her for a long moment. So many emotions warred in his heart, he could hardly speak.

  “Where is the cuff you took from me?”

  Thena stared at him blankly. He crossed the room and seized her shoulders, shaking her. “The gold bracelet? Where is it?”

  Thena fumbled in her pocket and gave him the griffin cuff. Darius slid it around his wrist. The ground tilted beneath his feet again as the new bond took hold, though it was only to the cuff, not to Nazafareen. The muscles of his left arm tightened in an agonizing cramp. Darius barely felt it. The cuff’s match tugged at him, somewhere to the south.

  Thena rose to her knees. She thrust the knife into his hand.

  “Take it. Use it. My life for yours. It must be. It must!”

  Darius stared at the blade. He had killed many times in service to the Empire. Mortals, undead Druj, necromancers, even other daēvas. He had never killed an unarmed woman, but that wasn’t what stayed his hand now. It was pure stubbornness. Darius would rather die himself than carry out a single command from Thena.

  “No.”

  Shock and confusion flitted across her face. She hadn’t anticipated a refusal.

  “But—”

  He took the leather strap she’d gagged him with and wrapped it around her mouth. Then he tore the belt from her gown and tied her hands tightly behind her back.

  “I will leave you for the Pythia,” he whispered in her ear.

  Thena’s eyes bulged and she shook her head wildly. Muffled sounds came from beneath the gag. Darius ignored her. He dragged her into the corner. After a moment, she curled into a ball, eyes fixed on the wall.

  Darius snatched up the ring of keys and pressed his ear against the heavy wood door. Nothing moved in the corridor outside. He eased the door open and slipped through, sliding the bolt shut behind him. Other doors lined the hallway, all closed and secured. At the far end, stairs led down to the ground floor. Darius still felt lightheaded, his limbs aflame with adrenaline. He wanted to run and never look back. Yet his gaze fell on the ring of keys.

  Do you know how many daēvas I’ve broken, Andros?

  He stopped at the first door and slid back the bolt.

  The prisoner inside was the same who had been brought to his cell once before. She had short hair of a rich, dark chestnut color. Chains hung from the wall, but she wasn’t bound. She squatted on a pile of dirty straw. Her eyes went to his throat and widened a fraction as she registered the lack of a collar. He could smell her fear. Darius raised a finger to his lips and held up the keys. She didn’t move a muscle as he approached.

  Darius studied the ring. It held twenty keys of similar size and shape, but subtly different. He chose one at random. Their eyes met and he waited for her slight nod of assent before fitting it into the cylinder at the back of the collar. He tried to turn the key but it wouldn’t budge.

  “You’re the new Danai.” She slapped a hand over her mouth.

  Darius tried the next key. “Yes, I am Danai.” He paused. “A Dessarian.”

  “I spoke without permission. Please forgive me.”

  No luck. He tried another, only half-listening.

  “There’s nothing to forgive. What’s your name?” He’d asked the question without thought, but it instantly made him cringe inside. “Never mind. You don’t have to tell me.”

  Darius tried the third key, alert for any sounds in the hall outside. The daēva twisted her head to look at him. She looked more than half-mad. There was a zealous light in her eyes that reminded him of the religious fanatics called Purified who’d scourged themselves with fire in the name of the Holy Father.

  “Dessarian? The Pythia has been asking about Dessarians.” Her speech was rapid and breathless. “She acts as though I’m blind and deaf, but I hear them talking. Her and the one in the red cloak. Always whispering, whispering together. Plotting and planning.”

  “Just hold still.” He cursed softly when the key wouldn’t turn and tried another.

  “I know what she’s after. I know. Daēvas with special powers. She calls them talismans.” The woman’s black eyes widened. “I heard her speak a name. Sakhet-ra-katme. The Pythia hates her very much, and fears her too. She is Marakai.” She shivered. “Sakhet-ra-katme. Oldest of the old.”

  Darius glanced out the window. Eight soldiers in crested horsehair helmets guarded the fountain. Two dozen others watched the road and the twin stairways leading down from the Acropolis. He could hear the distant murmur of voices and the pleasant splash and gurgle of water. His parched throat tightened.

  “Please hold still.” He tried the fifth key, and the sixth. They all fit the lock, but none would open the collar. It was as thick as his wrist, with a hinge on one side and a metal loop through two eyelets on the other. The keyhole sat at the end of an iron cylinder securing the loop. He might have been able to wrench it open with brute force, but the bond had withered his left arm. It was useless.

  “You must listen,” the captive Danai hissed. “The Pythia means to capture these daēvas and exploit their powers, or perhaps to kill them. Either way, she must be stopped.” She seized his wrist so hard it hurt. “I will never leave this place. But you…. You must go. Tell the others.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Darius whispered. “Who wears the match of your collar? Is it the one called Thena?” He remembered her speaking a word. Some kind of spell magic?

  “I don’t know their names. There are two girls who take turns wearing the bracelet. They both make me call them mistress.”

  Darius fumbled with the keys, trying to be methodical. Which was next? The right one had to be here. It had to.

  “The Shields of Apollo caught me alone in the forest,” she murmured. “They used spell dust to render me senseless. I killed four, but they took me in the end.”

  Darius went all the way through the ring, carefully trying each key even as a voice in his head screamed that time was running out. Had already run out.

  “Go,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. “Before it’s too late.”

  Darius drew a deep breath and braced a bare foot on the collar, then gripped it with his right and pulled. He strained until black spots swam before his eyes. The collar was too thick and he was weak from starvation. He swore and began trying the keys again, starting with the first.

  It had to be here.

  Raised voices on the ground floor.

  “My name is Maria,” she said calmly. “Of House Suchy. Tell them what became of me. Tell them what the Pythia has done.”

  The resignation in her voice stabbed at his heart.

  “I won’t leave you here, Maria.”

  She shook her head impatiently. “Then we will both die. Listen, now. You must go to this woman, Sakhet. She knows about the talismans. You must help her save them from the Pythia. Swear it.”

  His hand trembled as he tried another key. “Just keep still.”

  “Swear it!”

  “Fine, I swear, but—”

  Suddenly, she screamed, the cords in her neck taut as bowstrings. Darius let go of the collar, afraid he had caused it somehow. Maria’s head whipped from side to side. She screamed and screamed. He realized with horror that someone was hurting her through the bond.

  Tears ran down his face as he threw the keys aside and reached for the power. He fumbled at the lock with flows of earth and air, but they kept slipping around it. The cursed thing had been designed to rebuff elemental magic. He tried again to simply force it open, tried until his stomach turned over and he felt on the verge of losing consciousness. He could hear boots pounding up the stairs.

  Maria gave him a pleading look, the look of a wounded animal in a trap. Even as she writhed in mortal agony, her gaze turned to the knife on the floor. He understood. She couldn’t do it herself. She needed his help.

  Sweat coated his brow, but he felt cold, so cold.

 
; Be strong for her, you coward.

  Darius picked the knife up, willing his hands to steadiness, and slid it between her second and third ribs. It was the swiftest death he knew how to give. He held her hand until the light in her eyes went out.

  Power gathered on the floor above, raising his hair like a shock of static electricity. Another daēva close by, on the verge of unleashing something nasty. Darius ran to the window and leapt through it just as the door burst open. The ground rushed to meet him and then he was running past a knot of startled soldiers, the sun in his eyes and Maria’s blood on his knife.

  18

  Watcher in the Tower

  Halldóra ran a comb through her hair, then parted it in three and began braiding the strands together. Her dressing table was an ornate piece made of iron plated with silver and gold. It had been a gift from Daníel for her two hundred and ninety-first birthday.

  He’d flown out alone a little over a year ago to visit friends at Val Petros. A few weeks passed before she started to worry. Finally, she’d flown there herself, only to be told he'd never arrived. At first Halldóra thought Runar had something to do with it. But when she questioned him, he admitted that his great-nephew, Austri, had also gone missing two months before.

  In the intervening time, three more Valkirins had vanished, two from Val Altair and another from Val Petros. The holdfasts sent search parties out. They spent weeks scouring the mountains and found not a trace.

  The obvious culprit was Eirik Kafsnjór, but it wasn’t the man’s style. Eirik was cold-blooded, yes, and vindictive. He had a certain degree of cunning, but when he was angry at you, you knew it. And the peace treaty forged at Tarne had held for more than three hundred years. What purpose was there in taking hostages, especially if no one knew they were hostages? Other than Daníel, none of the daēvas who disappeared were of high rank. That left the Avas Danai, but again, Halldóra couldn’t see a rational purpose behind it.

  She adored Daníel, but he’d always been restless, preferring the saddle to solid ground. He spent most of his time at the stables and used any excuse to fly out, preferably alone. If the others hadn’t gone missing, she might have wondered if he’d simply chosen not to return, but now she felt certain something had happened to him.

  I will not rest until his body is brought home.

  A knock came on the door, sharp and urgent.

  “Enter,” Halldóra called out, a sudden foreboding in her heart.

  The door opened and a young Valkirin woman strode in, a jeweled sword on her hip. Her silver hair was tied up in a tight bun with matching jeweled pins holding it in place.

  “What is it, Sofia?”

  “Frida has returned. She’s wounded.”

  Halldóra dropped her half-finished braid and rushed to the stables. The wind struck her face like a slap as she stepped through onto the rock shelf. Frida waited, her leathers streaked with frozen blood. Her abbadax crouched in its nest, nursing an injured leg.

  “The Danai hold Val Moraine,” Frida said without preamble. “I was the only one to escape.”

  Halldóra nodded calmly, though she was reeling inside.

  “We thought they were Valkirins,” Frida said angrily. “They waited for us on the landing stage with hoods up and we flew right into it.”

  “Dessarians?”

  “I don’t know. They all look the same to me.”

  “Whichever House it is, they will not hold Val Moraine for long,” Halldóra replied grimly. “Tell no one of this until I’ve decided on a course of action.” She stared hard at Frida and Sofia. They nodded to show they understood.

  Halldóra swept back into the keep. Eirik must be dead. He had bought his own fate and she did not feel sorry for him. But there was no way the holdfasts would tolerate Danai on their lands, as incredible as such a thing was. She wondered if the invasion had been sanctioned by all the Houses. It seemed unlikely. What did they have to gain from a war with the Valkirins? No, this smacked of a personal grudge over the chimera. Still, she would send a message to Tethys, demanding her people cede the holdfast before the situation spun out of control.

  Even if they did, the question remained of who would win the prize of the Maiden Keep. Halldóra thought hard. The moment Runar and Stefán learned Eirik was dead and Val Moraine was up for grabs, they’d be divvying her wealth up between them. And she wouldn’t lead her holdfast into another protracted, bloody siege like the Iron Wars. No, this had to be done quickly and discreetly. She should have at least three or four days before Val Petros and Val Altair started wondering why their messengers were silent. It would have to be enough.

  Could the Dessarians have learned the secret of Val Moraine? Halldóra felt certain Eirik would die before telling them. There was a good chance Val Tourmaline could take the holdfast alone. Her fighters could tear through the shields of air with ease. And they had abbadax. Her pulse quickened. If she controlled Val Moraine, she would control the entire coast, not to mention the border with the Danai. Runar and Stefán would be furious, but by the time they found out, it would be too late.

  She wondered again about Daníel. He had vanished long before Victor Dessarian returned from the shadowlands. And from the little she knew about Victor, it didn’t seem his style either. But one way or another, she was going to have answers.

  The giant Valkirin sprawled on the ice, blood darkening his beard. Galen grabbed his feet and Victor lifted his torso, both of them staggering under the weight. Grunting with effort, they swung his body over the edge of the shelf. It vanished into a league of darkness below.

  “What will happen now?” Galen asked, tucking frozen hands into his armpits.

  Victor stared out at the mountains. “The others will come. The only question is whether they’ll be united against us or if they’ll squabble over the remains.”

  “You don’t think we can hold Val Moraine?”

  Victor turned, his gaze cool. “We?”

  “I’ll fight if you’ll let me.”

  His father regarded him for a long moment. “I suppose we need everyone we can get.”

  Galen glanced at the abbadax hunkered down in their nests. Blue blood mixed with red spattered the ice, steaming in the air. At first he’d thought the abbadax had seized the chance to attack the Danai, but in fact the creatures had probably saved their lives.

  “They’re loyal to you,” he said, and instantly regretted speaking the word.

  Victor seemed not to notice. “I used to think they were ugly beasts, but they have a way of growing on you. I wouldn’t mind keeping one when—”

  He turned as Mithre emerged through the door to the corridor.

  “Well, that was nicely done,” he said. “No casualties on our side. Not yet, at least. A pity the woman got away.”

  Victor rubbed his forehead. “We need to go over the defenses again. How much time do you think we have?”

  “I don’t know which holdfast she came from. If it’s Val Altair or Val Petros, a few days perhaps. Val Tourmaline is closer. She could be there in a few hours.”

  “Double the sentries. We need to watch the sky night and day now that the weather’s cleared.”

  Mithre nodded.

  “And it’s time we sealed the tunnels. Permanently.”

  “If we seal the tunnels, we can’t retreat,” Mithre said in a level tone. “And no reinforcements can get in either.”

  “There are no reinforcements,” Victor pointed out.

  “Which begs the question of why we’re staying here. Can you remind me again?”

  Galen had wondered the same thing—not that he was anxious to leave. Oddly enough, Val Moraine seemed like the safest place in the world now. The thought of returning to face Tethys made Galen want to leap over the edge himself.

  “I don’t want to stay here forever. Obviously. But this is a chance to set things right—”

  Mithre crossed his arms. “Aha. Yes, it’s all becoming clear. It’s your honor we’re talking about, isn’t it?”
/>   “No!”

  “Gods, you’re an awful liar. The great Victor Dessarian made a fool of himself chasing glory in the shadowlands, so it only stands to reason that he can remedy the situation by making an even bigger fool of himself waging a one-man war against the Valkirins.”

  “You came too,” Victor growled.

  “And I sorely regret it.”

  “Damn you. This isn’t about me—”

  “Wait!” Mithre raised a finger. “Here’s another theory. You’re harboring a childish grudge that you won’t let go of. Eirik’s dead, but it still isn’t quite enough. You have to humiliate them further. Even if it gets us all killed.”

  “Would you just listen for a moment? Just listen.” Victor drew a heavy breath. “You may be partly right. I won’t deny it. But if we show them we can hold Val Moraine, they’ll have to negotiate. We’ll make them sign an iron-clad treaty that no Valkirin will enter Danai lands. Eirik was insane, but the others will listen to reason.”

  “And then we go home?”

  “And then we go home.”

  “You swear it?”

  Victor laid a hand on his heart. “On my honor,” he said with a grin.

  “What about Delilah and Lara? Aren’t they supposed to be coming back here?”

  “I haven’t forgotten my own wife,” Victor replied roughly. “I’ll find her by abbadax.”

  They shared a long, complicated look. Galen knew little about what had transpired while Victor was gone. Despite Mithre’s harsh words, there were clearly ties between them not easily broken. Finally, Mithre shook his head in resignation.

  “Speaking of which, that’s how the holdfasts will come. And we know nothing about mounted warfare. Air is the Valkirin element. These shields won’t last and none of us have the strength to sustain them in an assault.”

  “Val Moraine was never taken during the Iron Wars. We need to learn how Eirik managed that.”

  “Gerda again?” Mithre arched an eyebrow. “I think I’d rather take my chances.”

  “Not Gerda. She’d never tell us, not if I strung her up naked by the ankles and dangled her from the highest tower.”