by Kat Ross
Before everything went so very wrong.
Darius bowed his head, heavy shoulders slumping, and she almost reached out and smoothed the hair from his brow, but she was still angry with him.
“I know,” he muttered.
“Then tell me now.”
So he did. All of it. When he was done, Nazafareen sat in stunned silence.
“You were a slave. And I was your master,” she said flatly. “That is who I was.”
“Yes. I will not soften it. You wanted the truth. But you were so much more—”
“Did I ever use the bond against you? Did I mistreat you in any way?”
“Never,” he replied firmly. And for the first time, a genuine smile touched his lips. “You were pig-headed and irritating, and you liked to point out my faults, and you rarely listened to my advice. But you never harmed me. Not in a way I didn’t deserve,” he added.
“And I gave my hand for you?”
He nodded. “You defied them all, Nazafareen. You broke them. And I—” He cut off abruptly. “It meant a great deal to me,” Darius finished stiffly.
She rubbed the smooth skin of her stump, which always soothed her. Everything before they’d met was still a blank. Her childhood. Her family. But it was more than she’d had before. And it explained many things. In a strange way, the truth was both better and worse than she’d expected.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said simply.
His voice was rough. “I should have done it before.”
“Yes, you should have.” She took his withered hand and held it in her whole one. “But perhaps we are a good match.”
He looked down at their entwined fingers. “That’s what you used to say.”
“Tell me something else. And be truthful. Why do you wish to bond me again, if it gives me control over your power? If it maims you?”
He swallowed. “Because then I’ll never lose you again.”
Nazafareen’s chest tightened another notch. She suspected he’d always managed to crawl under her skin in this way. To pry open her defenses without even trying. Hearing their story hadn’t shaken loose any actual memories. It was all still second-hand to her. But she knew why she had loved him once. And why she loved him now.
“What happened to you in Delphi, Darius? Don’t lie to me.”
His blue eyes flashed. “Do you want to know? All right, since there are no secrets between us. I was captured by the Pythia. She has other daēvas as well. She uses iron collars that work in a similar way to the cuffs.”
Iron collars. Tears sprang to Nazafareen’s eyes and she swiped them away. “You were at the temple when….”
“When you came, yes. I saw everything.”
“And I left you there.”
He shrugged as if it was nothing. “You didn’t know.”
She looked up at him. “If I had been wearing the cuff, would I have known?”
“Yes. You would feel me wherever I go, as long as it’s in Solis. You could walk straight to me blindfolded.”
“Then I will bond you,” she said decisively, even though she still had no real grasp of what it meant.
Darius closed his eyes. A weight seemed to have lifted from him.
“How did you escape the temple?”
“There was a woman who kept me. A priestess.” A muscle in his jaw twitched, but then he barked a harsh laugh. “She let me go. I think I drove her mad.”
Nazafareen couldn’t suppress a grin. “You have a talent for that, Darius.”
But he didn’t smile back and she felt suddenly afraid.
“What did she do to you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
“Don’t push, Nazafareen,” he growled. “I won’t speak of it now, or ever.”
“But—”
“Holy Father, woman, let it go!” he roared, and he sounded so much like Victor that Nazafareen shut her mouth in surprise.
“We shall see,” she murmured, but she thought perhaps she would let the matter drop for now. “Tell me one last thing. Why doesn’t the cuff work in Nocturne?”
And just like that, Darius was icily calm again. “Because the cuffs are different from all other talismans. They require fire to work. The Empire called it the fourth element. It’s what prisons the daēva.”
Doubts crowded her mind. “But I don’t wish to imprison you.”
“Please.” He leaned forward and cupped her face in his good hand. The desperation in his voice nearly broke her heart. “If you don’t bond me, if you don’t let me trust you with everything, with all that I am….” He trailed off, searching for words. “I’ll be lost. I may never trust again. Do you understand?”
She didn’t, not really, but she could see that he needed her to do this thing.
Nazafareen opened the pouch and peeked inside at the cuff. The winged griffin seemed to snarl at her. An evil thing.
“Do you wish to put it on me?” she asked, trying to keep the quaver from her voice.
He shook his head. “I cannot touch it.”
Nazafareen steadied herself. Never to lose him again. Whatever the cost she paid, it would be worth it.
“Where were we…the first time?”
“Kneeling before Satrap Jaagos. The magus at Tel Khalujah did it.” He gave a small smile. “He had to wear gloves so he wouldn’t bond me himself. You were quaking like a leaf.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not physically.”
Somehow, this answer did not reassure her.
“You don’t have to, Nazafareen,” Darius said quickly. “I’m sorry. I’ve forced you, haven’t I?” He ran a hand through his hair. “You don’t have to,” he said again.
“No, I want to.” And she did. But she was also afraid. “I simply touch it?”
“Yes.” He glanced at her stump. “You always wore it on the left.”
She could feel the spark of fire inside the talisman, calling to her. Not to break it. To surrender to it.
Nazafareen reached into the bag and as her naked palm touched the cuff, Darius leaned forward and pressed his mouth against hers. She tasted the heat and salt of his lips. A split second later, all the parts of him poured into her mind—passion and pride, discipline, stubbornness, loyalty, exhaustion, a dozen half-healed cuts and bruises—and beneath that, a wave of darkness that threatened to sweep her away like a grain of sand facing the incoming tide. She drew a ragged breath against his mouth, heart racing in terror.
“Here with me now,” he whispered. “You are here, Nazafareen. This moment only.”
He held her, murmuring words she barely heard, as she wept helplessly against his chest. Wept for what had been done to him. For his strength and his weakness. And—she couldn’t help it—Nazafareen wept for herself.
20
Purified
“The Danai is gone. His chains were unlocked. Your keys were found in Beryl’s cell. The witch murdered her on his way out.” The Pythia’s voice was dangerously soft. “What have you done, daughter?”
Thena knelt before the tripod, staring at the stone floor of the adyton. She felt oddly at peace. The agony of indecision she’d suffered for so long was lifted. She’d made her choice. There was no taking it back now.
“I cannot explain, Oracle,” she replied.
“What do you mean, you cannot?”
Thena swallowed hysterical laughter.
“I let him go. I opened the collar and let him go.”
“That much is clear. The question is why.”
Because I could not bear to see him dead, and I knew that if he stayed, I would kill him. Perhaps not today or tomorrow, but eventually I would have. And the god did not wish for that to happen. He told me so.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t play games, girl. I offered to give him to another. If you couldn’t manage the strain, you should have said it!”
Thena gave the Pythia a serene smile. “Apollo spoke to me. My life for the witch’
s.”
A slow flush crept up the Pythia’s face. She turned to the soldiers flanking the door. “Leave us,” she said flatly.
They glanced at each other and backed away. The Pythia strode up to Thena and gripped her face, fingers digging into her cheeks. “The Shields will bring him back, make no mistake. But you will never speak to me of Apollo’s will again.”
She seized a fistful of hair and dragged Thena into the corridor. The guards hastily stepped out of the way.
“It seems I can trust no one,” the Pythia muttered. “The Archons have failed me. The Polemarch is a worthless pig. The people riot in the streets. And now you.”
Thena wasn’t listening. She was thinking of her father’s farm, and how she wished she had never left it. I only wanted to serve the god. To do good. That’s all I ever wanted.
“You were like a daughter to me. I raised you up and I can cast you down.”
The rant went on in this way as the Pythia stormed through the temple, Thena stumbling along beside her. They passed a statue of Apollo and Thena reached out, fingertips brushing his stone feet.
The tale of his capture by the moon goddesses had lit her imagination aflame as a child. She pictured the sun god, beautiful and golden-haired, bound helplessly in his chariot, and daydreamed about freeing him. Her, a mortal girl! But Thena had always known she was destined for greatness.
“If you only knew the things I have seen, the things I have endured,” the Pythia grated. “You think you have known hardship? You think you have known pain?”
Thena understood that magic was evil. The witches practiced magic, therefore they must be evil. But Andros had not seemed evil to her. She had been the evil one.
Or had she simply lost her mind?
“To struggle each day, never knowing if it will be your last. To watch those you love die around you like flies.” The Pythia’s voice filled with contempt. “You know nothing.”
The Pythia dragged her into an empty chamber. Empty, save for the brazen bull. It sat on its wheeled platform, metal gleaming dully in the torchlight. She let Thena go, her features composed again. Thena backed to the wall. Her scalp burned.
“Sun daughter,” the Pythia said, folding her hands. “I would hear from you once again why you set Andros free.”
Thena avoided looking at the bull. The curling horns and gaping mouth made her more than a little uneasy. At least there was no wood heaped beneath.
“I prayed to the god for deliverance. I…I had strange feelings for Andros. He confused me. I did not wish to hurt him anymore. He would have died before breaking. I know this for certain.”
The Pythia gave a sympathetic nod. “Your life for his? Is that what you said?”
“Yes.” It all seemed a muddle now. “Yes, I am certain that is what the god told me.” She paused and squared her shoulders. “Will you kill me? If so, I am ready.”
The Pythia shook her head. “I do not pass such judgments, child. I am merely Apollo’s instrument.”
“So why have we come here?”
“To let the god himself judge you.”
Thena filled with relief. He knew her heart. He knew what he had commanded. The Pythia would see.
“Well, go on.”
Thena hesitated. “I don’t understand.”
“Get inside.” She gestured to the bull. “If you are truly innocent, he will spare you.” The Pythia frowned. “Do you fear his judgment?”
“No,” Thena said quickly. “I…I will do as you say.”
She walked to the bull and opened the hatch. It was dark inside. And close. She didn’t like that.
“How long do I have to stay inside?”
“I’m sure a few minutes would suffice,” the Pythia said reassuringly. “I sense Apollo’s divine presence. He watches us at this very moment.”
Thena nodded, gooseflesh rising on her arms. Yes, she could feel it too. A sense of power and grace. A presence. She hoisted herself into the bull before her nerve gave out. No wood was piled beneath—Thena had seen it. The bull had been wheeled away for storage.
There was no space to sit up so she settled herself on her side and adjusted her skirts. The Pythia’s face loomed in the hatch.
“May you be purified, child,” she said softly, and closed the hatch.
Thena squeezed her eyes closed. Just a few minutes. She could hear the echo of her own breathing. Her gown clung damply to her thighs. It was very close inside the bull. Very warm. Her chest hitched. But was it warmer than when she’d gotten in? She couldn’t tell. Possibly, but that was just her own body heat.
She heard the Pythia muttering something, too indistinct to make out.
Teaching me a lesson, that’s all. But it is she who will be taught a lesson. I have been true. I did only what the god commanded…
Thena shifted. The metal beneath her had grown quite warm. Hot, actually. Sweat burst from every pore, drenching her gown. She gasped and pushed on the hatch. It was sealed from the outside. No wood beneath.
No wood beneath.
The vision was a lie, she realized in sudden terror. Andros had tricked her. Had made her betray the sun god. Thena felt her mind snap like a piece of rotten kindling.
“Please,” she screamed. “Please let me out!”
Her cries echoed in her ears, distorted and brutish, the howls of demons. Her skin prickled from the heat. How many times had she seen the soldiers scrape greasy, charred remains from the bull’s belly? How many times had she ignored the cries of the damned, smug with self-righteousness and thankful it was someone else? The smell would stick in her nostrils for days afterward, meaty and sweet like roasted lamb.
“Please, I’m sorry! Forgive me, forgive me!”
She pounded on the hatch, howling like a wild beast. There would be no crossing the River Styx. No going to Asphodel Meadows. For her crimes, Thena would be cast into Tartarus, the lightless abyss where Zeus had banished the Titans.
Her beloved Apollo had renounced her and his anger was far worse than death.
Sudden flames erupted on the hem of her gown. Thena beat at them with her hands, choking on the curls of smoke. She could smell herself cooking. The flames licked higher. In another instant, her hair would catch.
“I was bewitched!” Thena screeched. “Bewitched! I hate them, I hate them all!”
Metal clanked. The hatch fell open. Thena gulped air and scrambled out. The pain was so terrible she thought her whole body must be aflame, but as she sobbed and beat at her dress, she realized the fires had vanished, though the cloth was a charred ruin. Thena laid a trembling hand on the bull to steady herself, then instinctively yanked it away—but the metal was cool beneath her fingers.
“The god spoke to me,” the Pythia said, her eyes glittering in the shadowed hollows of her face. “He said there is a way you can redeem yourself, daughter.”
“Anything.” Thena fell to her knees, clutching the Pythia’s skirts. Purified. I have been purified in scouring flame. “Only tell me what it is.”
“I need you to carry out a very important task. You will take Demetrios. His loyalty to you is absolute. And yours will be the same to me from now on. Do you agree?”
Thena nodded, shoulders still heaving with repressed sobs.
“The fate of the world is a heavy burden.” How sad the Pythia looked. “I can’t do this alone, daughter.”
“Then let me aid you!”
She hesitated. “You must travel to the darklands.”
“Yes, mother.” Thena wiped her face on her sleeve. “Whatever you say.”
“There is a very dangerous witch at a place called Val Moraine in the range of the Valkirins.”
“The…mountains?”
“The journey will be swifter than you think,” the Pythia reassured her. “But I cannot send the Shields of Apollo.”
“Yes, Oracle.”
She studied Thena closely. “Do you still have sympathy for the witches?”
“No, Oracle.”
And Thena
didn’t. She despised them with every fiber of her being.
“Then heed me closely, daughter.” The Pythia kissed her sweetly on the lips. Thena felt faint with relief. “This is what you must do.”
The Archon Basileus strode into the adyton with as much dignity as he could muster after being roughly hauled out of bed by two Shields and ordered to the Acropolis without delay. They wouldn’t tell him why he was wanted, but judging by recent encounters with the Oracle, it couldn’t be good. Not for the first time, he wondered how she had managed to amass so much power in two short years. Oracles were always accorded great respect, but this one inspired genuine fear, and not simply among the populace. Basileus himself—much as he disliked admitting it—found her difficult to resist. He was supposed to be in charge of religious matters, yet his authority had been steadily eroded.
You put yourself into her hands, he thought glumly, and with a touch of anger. She makes you promises and you chase them like a child skipping after a cloud of butterflies. Perhaps it is time to remind her that Delphi no longer has divine monarchs.
Still, entering the adyton always lifted the hair on his neck. It was the holiest of chambers, recessed deep beneath the temple, older than old, the place where Apollo made his will known. Unlike the polished marble of the upper levels, the walls were rough stone as though chiseled from the belly of the Acropolis. Odd-smelling vapors drifted from cracks in the floor, wreathing the chamber in a miasma that made him light-headed.
The Polemarch was already waiting there, his brow beaded with sweat. He’d borne the brunt of the Pythia’s fury when both prisoners were snatched out from under their very noses three days before. That the fountain turned out to be a gate to the shadowlands meant Herodotus and the girl could be anywhere by now and there was no means of finding them—not when the gate itself had become impassable. None of this was really the Polemarch’s fault, which he’d tried to tell the Pythia. Basileus had heard him stammering and blustering until he ran out of steam. Then her tirade had begun and the general had finally emerged with his ears bright red as though they’d been blistered.
The Polemarch’s guards might have quelled the rioters, but many homes and shops burned to the ground before it was over. In all, Delphi balanced on a knife-edge. Basileus wondered what the Polemarch had been promised for his loyalty. He almost pitied the man, but while Basileus held a firm belief in law and order, the Polemarch was a rank sadist.
