by Kat Ross
When she makes me Tyrant, Basileus thought as he looked at the man’s small, cruel eyes and weak chin, you will be the first to go, old friend.
The Pythia sat on her tripod, back erect. Her long braid lay over one shoulder and she wore a sky-blue gown that matched her eyes. She inclined her head slightly at Basileus, who forced himself to give her a respectful bow. Play the game to the end. You are in too deep to do otherwise.
She studied them both in silence for a long moment.
“Who was the greatest enemy we have ever faced?” she asked at last.
Basileus exchanged a quick glance with the Polemarch.
“The Persians?” the Polemarch said uncertainly.
The Pythia dismissed him with a patronizing look. “Basileus?”
She treats us like schoolboys, Basileus thought.
“The fire wielders?” he ventured.
“Indeed.” She held something in her hands. It took Basileus a moment to recognize it. One of the iron collars she used to control the witches. “I think it is time I took you fully into my confidence.”
“That would be most appreciated, Oracle,” Basileus replied tartly.
She smiled. “I would tell you a story, one very few know.”
“A story.” He stared at her. “Could it not have waited until Hecate set, Oracle? It is the middle of the night!”
The Polemarch cast him a worried glance, which Basileus ignored.
If she took offense at his tone, the Pythia concealed it well. “I would not disturb your rest, Archon, unless it were a pressing matter,” she said gently.
He gave a terse nod.
“Do you know how the war with the Vatras came to an end?” she asked.
“They were defeated by a coalition of the other witch clans,” the Polemarch replied.
“Yes, but how?”
He shrugged. “They made the Gale, yes?”
“Let me put it to you this way. If they had the ability to turn back the fire wielders, why did they wait until the forests had burned? Until the holdfasts were nothing but a heap of charred timbers? Until the Marakai had fled, with half their fleet sunk to the bottom of the ocean?”
Basileus narrowed his eyes, but didn’t respond. He supposed she had a point.
“Because they did not have the power to stop them then. They gained it somehow.” She leaned forward. “As you know, I have spent a great deal of time and effort gathering records on the war in hopes of answering this very question.”
“But what does it matter now?” Basileus demanded. “The events you speak of are a thousand years past.”
“And history has a way of repeating itself. Two years ago, Apollo sent me a vision. I did not share it because of the panic that would ensue. But you are my most trusted servants” -- Basileus bristled at this, though she didn’t seem to notice -- “and I cannot keep it from you any longer. The danger is graver than you suspect.” She paused. “The barrier of the Gale will fall and the Vatras will come again.”
The effect of these words was immediate. The Polemarch made a choking sound and clutched the hilt of his sword.
Basileus mastered himself better, though his gut still tightened with fear. He disliked the Pythia’s haughty ways, but he had no doubts about her visions.
“When will this happen?” he managed.
“Before Hecate has waxed and waned three times.” The Pythia turned to the Polemarch, whose skin had gone from pink to ashen grey. “Perhaps you should take some air.”
He loosened the clasp of his cloak. “No,” he said faintly. “Please go on.”
“When I learned this dire news, I knew it was my task to discover how they were defeated so we would be prepared this time. I pored over the histories and discovered that the Vatras were turned back by three witches, one from each clan. They were called talismans. Where their fey power came from is a mystery, but it makes no difference. All that matters is that we ourselves control these talismans so the witches cannot abandon us to the fires again.”
“Yes, I see that,” Basileus murmured. It made sense now. Her obsession with the witches. The risky bid to collar them.
“I’d planned to wait until I knew more about these talismans, but now one of the witches has managed to escape. He will tell the others. We must act swiftly before word spreads.”
“Escaped?” the Polemarch burst out, his chins wobbling in agitation. “You said the collars could not be removed. How is such a thing possible?”
The Pythia’s jaw set. “A mistake was made. It has been rectified.”
“What mistake?” His voice climbed higher. “And how has it been rectified?”
Her eyes glittered with sudden malice. The Polemarch shut his mouth with a snap.
“The witches are my concern. Unless you wish to take over their custody?”
“No,” he said hastily. “That won’t be necessary.”
Basileus tried to rein in his temper. For all his bluster, the Polemarch could be a simpleton sometimes. It might have been a disaster that a witch escaped, but it was hardly the most important thing she had just told them.
“With all due respect, Oracle,” the Archon ventured, “aren’t these talismans dead? I know the witches live for hundreds of years, but it still seems…far-fetched.”
“I have an agent in Tjanjin who managed to infiltrate the Marakai. He tells me the power has passed down through the generations. The talismans are out there, Basileus. We have only to find them.” She fingered the iron collar. “One is at the place the Valkirins call Val Moraine, I’m certain of it. If only we had a witch from that holdfast, I might have learned the name. But the Valkirins we’ve taken are from Tourmaline, Altair and Petros. None are familiar with the Val Moraine bloodlines—not that far back. The blood is the key, you see. But there are other ways to identify a talisman. So I will send two daughters of Apollo to Val Moraine. They will seek out this witch and bring him or her back.”
The fumes made it hard to think straight, but Basileus knew there was a flaw in her plan. Then it came to him.
“The Shields have managed to capture witches, but they were always alone,” he pointed out. “How can we take one from a holdfast?” He shook his head. “It’s impossible.”
“We shall see,” she replied, eyes sparkling as if at some secret joke. “I plan to send Demetrios and one other. It will require at least two witches to capture one. The collars may not work in Nocturne. They are delicate constructs.”
She’d never adequately explained where the collars had come from in the first place, claiming only that the god had led her to them. It was the chief reason she’d been named Pythia, but Basileus wondered.
“And when you find these talismans?” the Polemarch asked.
“We will tame them and use them. In defense of the city only, of course,” she added.
“Of course.” Basileus strongly suspected she had larger plans, but they could discuss that in private. “Still, it will take weeks to travel across the Umbra and into the mountains. They could be caught.”
She smiled. “Not weeks. They can be there this very night. There is no chance the escaped Danai will beat them to sound the alarm.” She sighed. “I can’t say I fully approve, but there is a Talisman of Folding in the collection of confiscated magical objects. Demetrios can make it work.”
“Talisman of Folding?”
“It opens a doorway from one place to another, provided the user has been there before. Demetrios has been to Val Moraine, although his holdfast is Val Tourmaline.” She gave them both a hard stare. “You will speak of this to no one, of course. No one!”
Basileus nodded, though he quaked inside. If what the Oracle said was true, their only chance for survival rested on a pair of half-broken witches and two teenaged girls.
The Vatras! Gods help them all.
Maia lay on her back in a white cotton shift, arms at her sides, bare feet poking out from a thin blanket. Her toenails had gotten long, Thena thought. Someone really ought to cut them. Ma
ia’s eyes were open. Her lips were dry and cracked, parted slightly as if she might speak at any moment, though she hadn’t uttered a single word since that day in the yard.
The other acolytes tried to keep her clean, but the faint aroma of urine hung in the air. It grew stronger as Thena approached the bed. They’d put Maia as far out of sight as possible, in an unused chamber at the very end of the top floor of the initiates’ quarters. That way no one but her caretakers would have to catch a glimpse of her—even accidentally. She was an embarrassment, a mistake best forgotten. No one knew how long she might live. Her limbs had grown thin and shriveled, but when a cup of water was placed to her lips, she drank, and when food was put in her mouth, she chewed. Sometimes she forgot to swallow, and then she had to be sat up and patted gently on the back until the mouthful went down.
Thena looked at her for a while. She knelt, wincing at the pain in her legs, and laid an ear against Maia’s chest. It rose and fell steadily, the strong thud of her heartbeat like waves crashing on a shore. Yes, she would live for a while yet. Years, perhaps.
Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl.
Thena supposed Maia had been her best friend. She could be catty and spoiled, but she told funny stories about her father, who was a carpet merchant, and they would wash each other’s hair in the baths. Maia was one of the few with the ability to wear the bracelets that controlled the witches. They had often whispered together about what it meant, and why the god had marked them out.
I wish you were coming with me instead of Korinna, Thena thought, as the warmth of Maia’s skin leaked into her cheek through the thin shift. I wish Demetrios had been quicker.
She stood and took a comb from the table next to the bed. Then she rolled Maia to her side—how light she was—and combed her hair. It was clean, smelling of laurel soap. Thena felt glad they hadn’t neglected her completely.
When Maia’s hair hung in a neat braid, Thena rolled her onto her back again. Then she slid the pillow out from under her head and pressed it against her face. Maia didn’t resist. She didn’t do anything. Thena held the pillow there for a good long time, her eyes pointed at the wall in front of her, as blank as Maia’s own. She pressed her ear against Maia’s chest again. The surf thunder was gone. The wave had receded, leaving a blank shore.
Thena put the pillow back under her head. She smoothed a stray lock of hair from her forehead. Much better.
Thena closed the door softly behind her and went to Demetrios’s room one floor down. She felt him through the bracelet. Anxious, waiting. He knew she stood outside. She’d stayed away since that night the prisoners escaped. A wave of twisted desire shuddered through her.
Demetrios was faithful. He loved her.
He was a witch. Witches couldn’t be trusted. Witches lied. Demetrios had tried to save Maia. Demetrios made her sick with longing and hatred both.
Thena opened the door and put on the bright, fake smile she used with new witches.
“You are hurt, Mistress,” he said, pinning her with his green gaze. “I felt it.”
“It’s nothing.” A layer of honey covered the worst of the burns on her legs. Thena embraced the pain. It was a reminder. “The Oracle has a very important task for you. For both of us.”
Demetrios waited.
“You must use a Talisman of Folding. Do you know how?”
“I think so. If it pleases you, I will.”
“Good.”
She strode past him to throw open the shutters and his fingers brushed her arm. Thena spun around. She slapped his face, hard enough to leave a red mark against his milk-white skin.
“You dare touch me without permission?” she whispered.
“Apologies, mistress,” Demetrios replied meekly, but he didn’t drop his gaze and something smoldered there, a demented excitement.
In the end, it was Thena who looked away.
“Come,” she said brusquely. “The Pythia awaits.”
Thena led him to the stone building where animals were slaughtered for festival days. The rank smell of old blood greeted her as she walked through the door. Korinna was waiting with her tall, silent witch, a Danai named Nikias. She wore a long cloak, her straw-colored hair hanging loose. How proud Korinna was of that hair. Thena and Maia had once plotted to chop it off while she slept but been thwarted by the cook, who overheard them whispering at breakfast and threatened to tell the Pythia.
“What took you so long?” Korinna demanded coolly.
For a moment, Thena couldn’t remember. Had she stopped somewhere on the way to fetch Demetrios? A final task she’d needed to perform? Events seemed to slide around in her mind, to wriggle and readjust themselves. No, she had gone straight to Demetrios’s chambers, she decided. And who was Korinna to question her anyway?
“I’m here now,” she replied. “Where is the Oracle?”
“Here, daughter.” The Pythia stepped out of the shadows. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, Oracle,” they replied in unison.
“You have been told how to find this witch. Do you have any last questions?”
“No, Oracle.”
“Good.” She produced a copper disk the size of her palm. “Thena, give this to Demetrios.”
Thena took it, glancing at it in curiosity. It had the image of a tower on one side and two faces on the other, shown in profile, one male, one female.
“Now we must make a portal. A pool.”
For a moment, Thena thought the Pythia meant to shed blood, but then she gestured to a cask of wine in the corner and ordered Korinna to tip it over. A scarlet puddle formed. Thena gave the disk to Demetrios.
“Hold an image of Val Moraine in your mind,” the Pythia instructed. “Feed power into the talisman.”
Thena opened the channel of his elemental magic. It came easily now. The puddle shimmered redly.
“I cannot say with precision where you will come out,” the Pythia said. “But it will be somewhere in the holdfast. A corresponding pool of water, wine or blood.” Her blue eyes studied Thena and Korinna. “Do not fail me, daughters. Fail me and you fail the god.”
The very thought sent a shiver of terror through Thena’s bones.
“We will not fail,” she said.
Korinna held her chin high but looked as though she might be sick. Thena pushed past her.
“Do it, Demetrios,” she said harshly. “Make the portal.”
He inclined his head in assent, eyes growing distant. Nothing happened that Thena could see, but then he took a step into the pool and sank straight into it. Within three strides, Demetrios was gone.
“The blessings of Apollo be upon you,” the Pythia intoned.
Thena steeled herself and entered the portal.
21
The Adept
The chimeras slipped through the sewers into the place of men. The stink of many scents filled their snouts, but not the one they sought. After a time, they emerged into the streets. Their lean bodies adopted the hue and texture of whatever they passed. Their paws made not a sound. They had no special interest in the inhabitants, but twice in deserted alleys an unfortunate soul blocked the path. The chimera savaged them quickly and silently. They did not pause to feed, though they were hungry. The force that summoned them was greater than instinct.
As they drew near the hill, one gave a low whimper. Yes, the quarry had been here.
They crept up the stairs. The scent ended at another blank wall like the one they had guarded in the twilight place. But that wasn’t what caused their tails to press hard between their legs. They had been summoned by an Adept. Not like the ones who made them. Those had power, but not the true power of Making. The Adept could have birthed a hundred like them with ease. This one was a she. Her mind had seized them by the scruffs of their necks and ordered them here, and they dared not disobey.
One of the chimera raised a leg and nervously released a stream of urine against the lip of the fountain. The man with a long iron tooth at his hip, standing not three paces away, p
aid it no attention.
They found the Adept at the heart of the ancient place. They crept up to her, bellies low in submission, groveling noises spilling from their bloodied snouts. She held out a palm and made fire dance there. One of the chimera—the boldest—inched forward and licked it, receiving a fond pat on the head.
Your quarry is cunning, the Adept told them. She will destroy you unless you do as I say. You must not follow her scent, but this one. She held out a thick ring of iron. It stank of the kind who had made them.
The chimeras’ hackles rose. To follow a different scent! No, they did not like it. Such a thing was antithetical to their purpose.
Then you will die and the quarry will live.
They howled and writhed. It hurt to be at such cross-purposes! No, they did not like it at all. But to defy an Adept? She could make them hurt much worse.
Follow this scent and it will lead you to the true scent. The scent of the quarry. She is your enemy, and mine as well. But you must wait until she has passed into darkness, full darkness, to kill her, or she will turn her power against you.
The chimeras did not understand the why of it, but they would do as the Adept said. They sensed her hatred, and it fed them more richly than any morsel of flesh and bone.
Come here, pets. Now she smelled pleased. I will bestow a final gift so she cannot sense your coming. A mark of protection.
The Adept gave them each another pat on the head. They shivered as subtle alterations took place.
Go now. Fulfill your oaths.
The scent they’d taken from the iron ring arrowed off in a nearly straight line for many leagues. Haunches bunched and they sprang from the chamber, streaking for the place by the sea.
They were glad to be hunting again, and gladder still to put the Adept at their backs.
