by Kat Ross
Victor’s love for him was a prickly, uncomfortable thing, a thorn in his heart that had eluded every attempt at extraction, burrowing itself deeper despite Darius’s maddening aloofness.
There too much of me in the boy, he thought. And it’s not his fault he was made into the satrap’s hound. We all did what we had to.
And paid the price.
Victor laid a palm on one of the slender columns supporting the high ceiling. Other than those columns, Val Moraine had no exterior walls—only leagues of empty air in all directions. At least the shields still held. They must be maintained by talismans woven into the stone. Victor wondered briefly how the Valkirins had managed it. Tethys said the making of talismans was a lost art.
Thick snow obscured the view, but he could just make out the shadowy lines of the nearest peaks. More rose beyond them, and more beyond those. The trackless range of the Valkirins ran unbroken from the White Sea to the Umbra, and north to the tip of the peninsula where Val Altair perched like a hawk’s aerie at the end of the known world. He thought he might not stop at taking Val Moraine. Why not roust the Valkirins once and for all?
“Eirik’s asking for you.”
One of the Danai, a young man about Darius’s age, stood in the doorway. Victor’s recruits were mostly young and hungry for glory, willing to take risks their elders would scoff at. He’d marked them out right away. They were just as he had been so long ago, when he thought it would be a fine idea to go adventuring in the shadowlands.
“He’s still alive, eh?”
“Just barely.”
“Shall I see what he wants?”
The young daēva shrugged.
“I suppose I could use a laugh,” Victor said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”
So they made their way to the tower where Eirik Kafsnjór lay dying. When it became clear the keep had fallen, he’d tried to stab himself in the heart with a dagger. Victor managed to deflect the blow—he wouldn’t give Eirik the satisfaction of choosing his own end—but the blade had pierced his gut. It was a lethal injury, even for a daēva.
Victor had wanted to throw him into one of the cold cells, but Mithre argued that Eirik would take longer to die if they left him in a bed. Now he lay there, wearing the same blood-soaked clothes and a belligerent expression. His wounds looked horrible, and Victor had to admit a reluctant admiration that the old bastard was clinging on for so long.
“What?” Victor demanded.
It took Eirik a few moments to produce the word.
“Culach,” he hissed through broken teeth.
Victor smiled. “He’s alive.”
Eirik stirred feebly. “You…should…”
“Kill him? Funny, he said the same thing about you. Now, if we’re done here, I’ll let you get back to the business of dying painfully.” He turned to leave, but Eirik grabbed his sleeve. The effort left him gasping. Victor shook the hand off.
“Don’t worry, your coward son will get what he deserves.”
“No…a different request.”
Speaking seemed to be costing Eirik a great deal. His skin had turned ashen.
“Why not?” Victor spread his arms expansively. “Let’s hear it.”
“My corpse,” Eirik rasped. His cloudy gaze moved to the floor, as if he could see through the stone of the keep to the catacombs beneath. “With the others.”
“Ah. And if I were in that bed, would you show me the same courtesy?”
Eirik didn’t answer, though Victor knew from the faint twist of his lips that he’d heard.
“I thought so.”
The former lord of Val Moraine glared up at him, rage and agony hardening his sharp features.
“The holdfasts will come for you, Dessarian,” he said in a surprisingly clear voice. “And when that cold hand closes around your throat, my specter will be watching.”
Victor nodded. “Fitting last words. Poetic even. Sadly, they’re wasted on me.” He strode to the door, where the young daēva waited impassively. “When he’s gone, feed him to the abbadax.”
In a remote tower far from Eirik Kafsnjór’s deathbed, Gerda sat ensconced in her favorite hard chair, mulling over the latest blow fate had dealt her family—or what was left of it. When the Danai came storming in, she’d thrown her hands up and emitted a piteous wail, pretending to be decrepit and senile. After searching her rooms, Victor had left her there with two guards outside, the idiot. For all his faults, Eirik never would have made such a stupid mistake. He would have put the whole holdfast to the sword. Babies too, not that they had any here.
She poured herself a glass of wine. Gerda had always nurtured high hopes for Culach, but he’d turned out to be as dim-witted as the rest of them. Although she’d been wondering about those dreams he spoke of. Gerda didn’t believe in fairy stories, or omens or portents. But she felt troubled nonetheless.
She hadn’t told Culach everything she knew, not by a long shot.
She took another gulp of wine and rose, her joints creaking painfully. The guards outside would know if she used too much power, but the talisman required only a thin flow of air. With luck, they wouldn’t notice. She went to a secret niche in the stone and retrieved a glass globe on an obsidian stand. Faint runes marked the base, so ancient even Gerda couldn’t read them. Inside it, little forks of lightning flickered and grey clouds swirled like smoke. Sometimes she saw clear blue sky or tiny funnels of black wind. Oddly enough, it never seemed to snow.
The talisman had been passed down through the Kafsnjór women for countless generations. No one even knew it existed anymore except for her.
Now she opened herself to air and blew gently at the runes as she asked her question. The talisman didn’t always work, or it showed her things she couldn’t decipher. If she’d been able to read the runes she might have understood better. Its unreliable nature was the reason she didn’t use it often. But she had nothing else to do and figured it was worth a try.
Do the Vatras still live?
The clouds swirled violently. The runes began to give off an eerie blue glow. Gerda kept the question focused in her mind. She prayed the globe would show her nothing, as it did when the answer was negative. Long minutes passed. She was just about to release the power when she realized something had changed. The dark slate color remained the same, but now she saw ocean rather than clouds, its surface choppy and rough. The view sped across leagues and leagues of empty water in a dizzying rush. A ship appeared. And standing at the rail, a man.
He had thick hair of a deep, burnt red. Gerda’s breath caught in her throat. He wasn’t doing anything special, just staring out to sea with a somewhat wistful expression. The view swooped down through the rigging like a gull, arrowing in on his face. Skin tanned deeply by the sun and eyes of a deep oceanic blue. Suddenly he turned and stared directly at her, his gaze widening with surprise. In the split second before she snapped the connection, Gerda thought she saw tiny flames licking at the irises.
She sat back, stunned. Never before had such a thing happened. He had seen her spyglass. And that red hair. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Gerda’s hand shook as she reached for her goblet. It toppled, spilling a crimson pool across the floor.
The hell with it. She decided to just drink from the bottle.
Read on for a sneak peek of Solis, Book #2 in the Fourth Talisman series!
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Chapter 1
Mistress
Thena woke in a cheerful mood.
It was a lovely morning, with an easterly wind carrying cooler air across the Umbra from the darklands. The storm the day before had washed the dust from the Acropolis and left crystalline blue skies in its wake. From the window of her small room, she could see f
or many leagues. Farms and orchards dotted the countryside outside the city walls. A wide, lazy river meandered among the fields, its waters gleaming like the scales of a serpent. Far beyond, almost at the edge of sight, the fertile delta gave way to a tawny line marking the start of the Kiln, a trackless wasteland that stretched all the way to the western edge of the continent.
When Thena was a child, her mother told her stories about the creatures that stalked the dunes. Scorpions the size of hunting hounds whose pincers snapped bones, and great blind wyrms with armored hides that could smell a human breath from ten leagues away. Multi-jointed monstrosities armed with venom that burned like fire. Her father’s farm was one of the most remote and the stories always ended with dire warnings about little girls who wandered too far from home.
Once, her older sister, whom Thena worshipped, had dared her to bring back a bowl of pure sand. Unable to resist the challenge, Thena squared her shoulders and started walking down the dusty road, which was really just a track worn by oxen and wagon wheels, past the neighbors’ farms until she reached the last stand of olive trees. They were sad, withered things, clinging to life in nearly barren soil. She stood, bowl in hand, looking out at that great expanse of nothing. All the stories tumbled through her head. She thought she saw a flicker of movement—probably just the waves of heat distorting the air. But her nerve had crumbled and she turned tail and ran all the way home, to the hilarious laughter of her sisters.
Thena pulled a clean woolen shift over her head and gazed down at the rooftops below. The city of Delphi was a hodgepodge of mansions and hovels, teeming markets and grand edifices such as the Akademia, the Great Library and the Philosophers’ Guild, with the Temple of Apollo perched atop the Acropolis like a crowning jewel. She always felt important looking down from this high vantage point, like a queen surveying her domain.
Foolish creature, she chided herself. You may have come a long way for a farmer’s daughter, but you’re still a humble initiate. Don’t tempt the gods with pride and vanity.
Thena burned a handful of bay laurel leaves and silently asked for Apollo’s blessing in the day’s endeavors. She hoped the fugitive girl had been caught. The Pythia was in quite a temper about it. But finding her was the Polemarch’s task. Thena had a different one.
The Oracle favors me above the others because I am steadfast in my devotion. May the light of truth shine upon us all.
Thena left her rooms and climbed the worn stone stairs to one of the formerly empty chambers. She drew a deep breath and opened the door.
“Good morning,” she said brightly. “I trust you had a good rest.”
Its new occupant stared at her. Iron manacles pinned his arms above his head. She sensed stiffness in his shoulders but nothing else. Not a shred of emotion. Thena felt confident this would soon change. Apollo had arranged for this witch to cross her path. He was a gift from the god.
“I know you’re Danai.” She smiled. “You have the look.”
The witch looked no older than twenty, though that meant nothing. The Pythia said they aged much more slowly than mortals and lived for hundreds of years. This one had short, wavy brown hair and blue eyes. They regarded her coldly.
“As I told you yesterday, your new name will be Andros.” She bustled over to the shutters, throwing them wide. He winced as the sunlight hit his face. “And we shall get to know each other very well in the coming weeks. Better than you’ve ever known anyone in your life. But first you shall tell me your old name. I need it for the records, you see.”
She studied him. He wasn’t as handsome as the exotic Valkirin witches, with their silver hair and golden skin, but he had a stern face some might find attractive. Thena cared little about such things. She was betrothed to the sun god. He even spoke to her directly sometimes, though she kept this secret. The Oracle might think Thena was lying—or worse, challenging her authority as the voice of the god on earth.
“I’m waiting,” she prompted, showing her dimples. “Tell me your name and I’ll get you a nice cool drink of water.”
“What’s yours?” he asked hoarsely.
“Mistress.”
He laughed.
Thena nodded serenely. She’d played this game before. They were still in the opening moves. The very beginning. If he’d known what was in store for him, he wouldn’t be so cavalier. But they never did. The witches all thought they were hard until Thena taught them differently.
“Do you know how many daēvas I’ve broken?” she asked calmly. “Five so far. I’m the best at it. Everyone says so.” She fingered the thin gold bracelets around her wrist.
“And yet you have doubts,” he said.
Her brow furrowed. “What?”
“I sense it in your heart.” The sun caught his eyes, turning them a blazing sapphire. “You’re scared.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she snapped.
“Is it? The bond cuts both ways, you know.”
“It’s not a bond, it’s a leash. And I’ve had enough of your impudence. First lesson: Mind your manners.”
She gave him the sensation of fire on the soles of his feet. His eyes widened, but that’s all. Absolutely nothing came through the bracelet. She held it for a count of ten, then released the flow.
“What’s your old name, Andros?”
A long moment passed before he replied. When it came, his voice was tinged with mild curiosity.
“Are you afraid of the Oracle? That she’ll punish you if you fail? I suppose I don’t blame you. Five’s not bad, but it sounds like you’re still new at this. If I were you—”
Thena stepped forward and wrapped a leather strap around his mouth. She struggled for composure, only speaking when she was certain she matched his calm.
Remember your rules.
“I’m sorry we’re getting off on such a bad foot,” she said. “Truly, I wish it were otherwise, mainly for your sake. All I needed to know today was your name, but since that’s apparently too much to ask, I’m forced to give you a proper demonstration of what your collar can do.” She paused. Her pulse thudded in her ears. “I want you to remember, you brought this about. This is your doing.”
No fear from him. No anger. Not even quiet defiance.
Nothing.
Her mouth set.
“Someday, we’ll be very good friends,” she said, reaching into the bracelet where his spirit lived. “But for now…Well, I’m sorry, Andros.”
And she was. More than he would ever know.
Darius watched her leave some hours later, only slumping in his chains after the door shut behind her. He felt so tired. It was the only thing he allowed himself to feel, but the exhaustion was too great to block out.
Darius wasn’t new at this game either.
He could sense his power, an ocean of it, tantalizingly close yet on the other side of a high, thick wall, and that wall was her.
She did feel remorse—not much, but a little. If the collar worked anything like the cuffs he’d worn as a Water Dog, she would suffer an echo of his pain. By the time she’d left, her emotions had been a furious, red-hot tangle he hadn’t cared to decipher. Darius steeled himself when it began, fleeing to hiding places in his mind he hadn’t visited in a very long time. It helped him to dull some of it. Some, but not all.
The pain isn’t real, he whispered through cracked lips. Not real.
She’d been surprised at his ability to read her and didn’t seem to fully grasp what it meant, or be able to shield herself from him. A small advantage, but Darius would use it.
He rested his head against the wall and tried to arrange his thoughts. The cult of Apollo had taken him prisoner. Somehow, the Oracle had discovered the secret of bonding a daēva. She used a collar instead of a cuff, but the mechanism must be the same. And she already had others. The woman said so and he didn’t think she was lying. He’d felt a swell of satisfaction through the bond when she said she’d broken five.
Darius shifted in his chains, muscles screaming.
&nb
sp; Your own stupidity got you into this mess. You underestimated them because they were mortals.
Delilah warned him, but he hadn’t listened.
How long did you last in Delphi before getting caught? Two hours?
Darius remembered the woman’s face when he’d caught her pitcher. Shock, quickly masked. He’d been so impatient to find Nazafareen, he let his guard down. Only for an instant, but there you had it.
She’d taken the griffin cuff away. He might never find Nazafareen now.
Darius severed that train of thought, locking it away in a dark corner of his mind. Too dangerous. He wouldn’t give his captor a single shred of emotion.
And he wouldn’t give her his name.
Chapter 2
The Maenads
Sharp knocking roused Nazafareen from a deathlike slumber. One eye cracked open. Her hair felt glued to the side of her face, probably by drool, and her mouth tasted of wet ashes. She groaned and sat up. A clay jar painted bright turquoise sat on a table next to a window. Outside, a flock of blackbirds erupted squawking from orderly rows of grapevines bound to stakes. It took several long moments to remember where she was.
“Hang on,” she mumbled, as the knocking carried on without pause. “I’m coming.”
A low sun slanted through the window, pooling on the wood floor and warming it beneath her bare feet. Nazafareen used the stump of her right arm to push open the door. Her left hand worked on unsticking the clump of hair.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” Kallisto said pleasantly, as if she hadn’t just been pounding on the door. The wife of Herodotus and leader of the cult of the Maenads looked like a plump housewife except for a hard and knowing gleam in her dark eyes. Braids streaked with grey formed a pile on top of her head. They’d been combed with oil that gave off a sweet, smoky scent.
