by Kat Ross
Nazafareen shivered despite the heat. She didn’t tell him that the Pythia had looked right at them. At her.
Does she know what I am?
24
The Storm
From his perch on the rock five leagues east of Delphi, Darius watched a smudge of smoke rise from the Acropolis. He licked cracked lips and wondered what it meant. Some of the cults worshipped fire. Maybe they were burning an animal as an offering to their gods. When the breeze shifted, he could smell the faint aroma of roasting meat. It made his mouth water.
Wind ships with brightly colored air sacks drifted in the skies above the city, but none came his way. They seemed to avoid the Umbra, moving mainly from north to south.
At the base of the outcropping, three sets of eyes regarded him with maddening patience.
They would wait until he died of thirst or fell asleep. Maybe they hoped he’d finally choose to end his suffering and go willingly to their waiting jaws.
“Sorry to disappoint,” Darius rasped with a grim smile.
The beasts simply stared.
It was Darius’s sixth day on the rock. He’d retreated to the Nexus, not filled with the power, simply letting it swirl around him. It was the only way to stay sane, to shield himself from their poisonous magic. But he couldn’t hide in the Nexus forever—that itself would be a trap. He’d slowly perish without caring or even realizing it was happening.
The constant sunlight helped him stay awake—that and the knowledge that an abrupt end waited a few paces below. Now, after six days of clear weather, a storm was gathering.
It came from the east, from Nocturne. The sky in that direction grew gradually darker anyway so it had taken him a while to notice the black clouds forming. They crept across the plain, achingly slow at first, then with shocking swiftness. Darius watched curtains of rain sweep closer. Knowing his thirst would soon be quenched made it temporarily worse and he swallowed convulsively. The beasts below rose up from their languid haunches and began to circle the pillar of rock, transparent tails swishing.
Finally, the skies above mercifully opened. Darius tipped his head back, savoring the cool, sweet moisture on his lips. It slicked back his hair, washed the dust from his eyes. He drank and drank, scrubbing hands across a week’s worth of beard. Swished it around his mouth and spat.
Wind and rain battered his little perch and he let out a howl of savage delight.
The beasts eyed him uncertainly.
He felt alive again.
Darius let his awareness merge with the storm. He could sense the opposing forces of massive warm and cool air currents, see the droplets of water from their birth at the dew point miles above as they plunged through the downdraft, merging with other droplets and growing fatter, until they dashed themselves on the barren earth of the plain.
If he had more talent with air and water, he could push it, feed it, although he didn’t know what that would accomplish. The beasts seemed riled up by the storm but not in any way harmed. But Darius’s strength was in earth. He clung to his rock, soaked to the bone. Water rushed everywhere. The plain had been so dry, the ground packed so hard, it couldn’t absorb the sudden deluge. Arid gullies rapidly became roaring streams. He eyed the fertile green fields outside the city walls. They must irrigate using the river.
Rivers….
Darius felt a faint resonance far beneath the earth. Like calling to like.
He probed with the power, deeper, deeper.
The beasts circled and whined.
There….
Water rushing through darkness.
Darius took a deep breath.
This is going to hurt. A lot.
He filled with earth power, more than he’d ever held before. Enough to do himself some serious damage.
No way around it. I have to go deep.
His senses sharpened to an exquisite, almost excruciating degree. Each raindrop seemed an ocean, each mote of dust a continent. Still he drew power into himself, until he thought his veins would burst with it. He felt a flock of birds winging south, felt the air rushing under his wings, and the blind delving of worms in the earth, and the groves of olive trees drinking the rain through their ancient roots. He was everything and nothing at all, and it left him naked and nearly weeping.
When he could hold no more, Darius unleashed it all in a single blast. Small, delicate bones cracked in his right foot and hand. His third, fourth and seventh ribs gave way a moment later. A rent in the earth opened at the base of the outcropping. The beasts edged back, snarling.
Too shallow.
Darius ruthlessly walled off the pain and drew more. The chasm widened.
So close.
Oh Holy Father, I have to jump down now.
He never knew what would break when he used earth magic. At least it wasn’t both legs this time. Before he could think too hard about it, Darius shoved off his perch. He tried to land catlike on the pad of his left foot, but his limbs were numb and tingling from disuse and the right still took some weight. He hit the ground just to the left of the crevice he’d made. A white-hot lance of pain shot straight to his hip socket.
The beasts had been caught by surprise, but they recovered quickly. Darius leapt aside, teeth snapping inches from his cheek, and dove into the crevice. He landed on his back. Sharp rocks dug into his skin. Three heads peered down from above.
This will be your grave if you don’t do something.
He opened himself to earth one last time, throwing it back out in a destructive force so vicious and desperate that it vaporized the last layer of rock between him and the cavern below. The ground gave way in a shower of dirt. More bones snapped.
Falling….
Water closed over his head. He fought to the surface and used his last strength to seal the opening he’d made before the beasts could follow.
Rock ground together like a mouth snapping shut. Perfect blackness descended.
He lost the Nexus and full sensation roared back into limbs that hadn’t been used in nearly a week. Darius didn’t fear pain. He was familiar with it—if not exactly an old friend, a long acquaintance. But this was no ordinary pain. The muscles of his calves tightened into agonizing cramps. His toes curled into tight knots inside his boots. Water filled his mouth. He spat it out with a gasp. Kicking and flailing, Darius struggled to stay afloat as the river carried him away.
25
A Pit of Vipers
Nazafareen stayed in bed the next day.
She told Castor she’d eaten some bad oysters at the market, but that wasn’t the real reason for her queasiness. She knew the Pythia had sensed her. What if she could see Nazafareen’s magic?
They would burn her in the brazen bull.
Castor laid a hand on her forehead. He always had a faintly worried look, like a dog with a fickle master. He was afraid of something too. The Pythia? The Archons? It couldn't be Herodotus. Everyone seemed to like him, except for the Stork and the Weasel.
“A bit of a fever, perhaps.” Castor’s thin lips pursed. “You may rest today.”
Javid had offered to stay with her before he left for work that morning, but Nazafareen preferred to be alone. He clearly felt guilty for having dragged her to the execution. She’d given him a wan smile and insisted she’d be fine with a little sleep. But those terrible bellows still rang in her ears. The more she thought about it, the more she loathed the Pythia and the Polemarch and all of them. They deserved to die—horribly.
Just like that day at the lake with the Valkirins.
Nazafareen raised a shaking hand to her eyes. It was wrong to think this way. Delilah had warned her against stoking her temper. But oh, how she would enjoy stuffing that woman into her own torture device and setting it alight!
To her surprise, Herodotus appeared later that afternoon with a pot of mint tea.
“Castor says you’re ill,” he said, pouring her a cup.
“A bit.” Nazafareen sat up. “You didn’t have to come.”
He pressed
a handful of silver drachmas into her palm. “Here’s your pay. I added a little extra from my own purse.”
Nazafareen was touched by his kindness. “Thank you. My brother found a boat. We leave tomorrow.”
“I’m glad. I know you’re anxious to get home.”
A somewhat awkward silence descended.
“How’s your research coming?” she asked to be polite.
His homely face lit up. “Very well! I made a fascinating discovery yesterday in the stacks. A rather colorful memoir by the alchemist Nabu-bal-idinna, who claims he went into the shadowlands and met someone called the Drowned Lady. He had a theory about the gates, you see, that worlds come in linked pairs. Rather like twins, though not identical in every way. Of course, the man was notoriously unreliable, but he said—” Herodotus broke off, a flush creeping up his cheeks. “Well, I won’t bore you with the details. But it contradicted other accounts I’ve read.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, tell me how your brother fares with the philosophers.”
Nazafareen wanted to ask more about the Drowned Lady—what an intriguingly dreadful name!—but she could see Herodotus regretted saying as much as he had. Perhaps he didn’t want the others to know about it. Scholars were odd, prickly creatures, she had discovered. They cared about the dead far more than the living, and sometimes got into passionate fights over some dusty old scroll that looked like it had been nibbled by mice. Nazafareen wouldn’t mind learning to read, but it did seem awfully hard. Most of the scholars had bent backs and bloodshot, watery eyes from peering at squiggly lines all day. Herodotus didn’t have their dry, pinched look—like a piece of fruit left too long in the sun—nor was he stern or boring. But it still seemed a high price to pay for knowledge.
They chatted for a while more and Herodotus left. She carefully counted out her money. It came to more than enough to pay the balance of their passage and have some left over for when she arrived in Samarqand. Feeling better, Nazafareen decided to get up and occupy herself with work until suppertime. The hours would creep if she stayed in bed. And this time tomorrow, she’d be outside the city walls and beyond the Pythia’s reach.
She found a broom and was crossing the covered passageway when she saw the crimson cloak of the Archon Basileus sweeping toward the front entrance of the library, a contingent of soldiers in tow. Nazafareen froze, then hurried to one of the side entrances.
He was probably there on a routine inspection, like before. Nothing to worry about. But her pulse beat faster as she slipped inside. Over the familiar reverent hush of the library, she heard the drumming of footsteps on stone. Nazafareen trailed unseen behind. A few scholars poked their heads out of doorways to see what the commotion was about, then hastily withdrew like frightened turtles when they saw the Archon. When he reached Herodotus’s study, he gave a silent signal. Two soldiers flanked the doorway. Nazafareen hid behind a rack of shelving and peeked through the honeycomb of square holes.
“Herodotus of Delphi!” the Archon said loudly. “Present yourself.”
A moment later the old scholar appeared, blinking owlishly. He held a reed pen in his hand and ink stains speckled his white robes. “Archon Basileus. What an unexpected pleasure—”
The Archon cut him off.
“You stand accused of practicing witchcraft. These men witnessed it.”
The two scholars Nazafareen had always disliked stepped forward.
“I saw him using spell dust, Archon,” the Stork said in an oily, obsequious tone. "It was in the lecture hall, after the students left. We happened to be passing by. He cast a handful of dust into the air and began muttering an incantation."
"A darkness descended," the Weasel added, waving his arms dramatically. "I think he was trying to conjure some kind of devil!"
"This is ridiculous," Herodotus snapped, frowning at them.
“Search his study,” the Archon Basileus ordered.
Two soldiers pushed past Herodotus. A moment later, they returned with a drawstring bag and gave it to the Archon. He examined the contents and his face grew smug.
“What do you say now, Curator?” Basileus made the last word a sneer.
Herodotus stood up straighter. “I’ve never seen that before in my life. These charges are outrageous.”
Basileus gave a small, cold smile.
“I hereby charge you with treason and conspiracy in the name of the free citizens of this city.” He gestured to the soldiers. “Take him.”
The Archon’s men seized Herodotus by the arms and began dragging him from the Library. Suddenly, a hand clamped over Nazafareen’s mouth. She struggled, heart hammering against her ribs, and heard Javid’s voice in her ear.
“What’s happening?”
He let go of her.
“They’ve arrested Herodotus,” she whispered. “They accused him of witchcraft.”
“Holy Father.”
“They framed him,” she said bitterly. “Those soldiers barely searched his study at all. They knew exactly where to look.”
“Why would they do that?”
Nazafareen felt sick. She pointed through one of the holes to the Stork and the Weasel, who stood whispering to each other.
“You see those two? They’ve never liked him. I heard them talking about him before and I didn’t say anything. I should have.” Her hand clenched into a fist. “I should have, Javid, and now it’s too late.” She drew a deep breath. “I have to tell the Archon.”
“Did you actually hear them plotting against him?”
“Well, no. Not exactly. But I know they’re behind it!”
“Lower your voice,” he hissed. “Think, Ashraf. Who will believe you? You’re just a servant. They’re respected scholars. And if you come forward, the Archon will start asking questions about you. About both of us.”
“But—”
“The ship leaves tomorrow and I intend to be on it.” His face softened. “If there was any way to help, you know I’d be for it. But unless you have proof.... My advice is to keep your head down and don’t talk to anybody. This place is a pit of vipers.” He gave her a warning look. “And don’t go around saying you think he’s innocent. You’ll just get us in trouble.”
She scowled. “He is innocent.”
“Then he can prove it at his trial. They do have laws here.”
“But—”
“Please.” He closed his eyes. “I’m begging you. Just go back to work. I know you like him. I do too. But it’s none of our concern.”
None of her concern. Perhaps Javid was right, but it still angered her.
“Fine.” She grabbed her broom in a white-knuckled grip. “I hate this place.”
“So do I. Listen, I have to get back to work. I just came to tell you the boat sails in the late morning tomorrow, so be ready. The captain won’t wait around.”
“I’ll be ready.”
He slipped away as the two scholars walked past. They glanced at her with narrowed eyes but didn’t pause.
A pit of vipers.
Nazafareen sighed and started sweeping.
26
The High Holdfast
Galen had never known such pain.
He curled into a tight ball, his feet throbbing as they defrosted beneath a heavy layer of furs. The skin had gone from greyish-white to an angry red covered with suppurating black blisters. How he wished for the wooden numbness he’d felt when they carried him in. First had come a prickling sensation, followed by intense burning that left him gasping and gritting his teeth.
Everything had gone fine until he reached the mountains. The border with the Valkirin lands was only fifty leagues or so from House Dessarian and there were no other Danai settlements in between except for House Baradel, which lay to the east near the wind-whipped White Sea. When the trees thinned and he saw the smoky blue foothills rising up in the distance, Galen’s heart beat faster.
He’d never been so far from home before. Somewhere amid the jagged peaks ahead sat the high holdfast of Val Moraine where his mother
Mina lived as a captive. The thought of her gave him courage and he forded the River Arnor with a lighter heart, imagining their reunion and confident he was beyond the reach of Victor and the other Danai.
But Galen had fled wearing only the clothes on his back and soon realized he was hopelessly ill-prepared. He climbed and trekked and climbed some more, the land rising ever higher, the air growing thinner and colder. The Valkirin range seemed to pierce the heavens, a zone of perpetual snow riven by deep, treacherous crevasses. Had he been mortal, he would have died the first day. Galen used delicate probes of water and air to determine whether his next step would land on solid ground or only a thin veneer of ice. It worked but slowed his progress to a crawl.
In the forest, he survived on forage. But in this arctic wasteland, there was nothing but rock and infinite varieties of frozen water. Sometimes the clouds would part for a brief instant and the icy slopes would be dusted with silver-gold moonlight, and Galen found tears freezing on his cheeks for the splendor and majesty of it, even as he felt the life slowly leaching out of him.
He’d naively expected Val Moraine to be visible, clinging like an aerie to one of the peaks, but the range was much vaster than he’d imagined. And when the storms blew through, which they did more often than not, he could scarcely see his own hand in front of his face, let alone pick out a single holdfast across the endless leagues of knife-blade ridges.
At last Galen had sat down to rest and been unable to rise again. In his delirium, when the Valkirin scout found him, he’d thought it was Ellard come back from the dead, and wept and said he was sorry for murdering him. The scout thought he was mad.
And so Galen came to Val Moraine, where his frozen limbs defrosted, first with a tingle, then with roaring agony. He’d screamed for Mina. And now the door to his small chamber had just been thrown open and his mother was rushing toward him, laughing and crying.
