[fan] fourth talisman 01 - nocturne

by Kat Ross

  “How long have I been sleeping?” Nazafareen asked with a jaw-cracking yawn.

  “Three days.”

  “Three days?”

  “I tried to wake you.” Kallisto shrugged. “You clearly weren’t dead so I decided you needed the rest. But time grows short. We must speak of certain matters involving the Oracle and other things as well.”

  Nazafareen’s temples started to pound.

  “Have you heard any news from the city? Has the Pythia…burned anyone?”

  “No, child.” Kallisto gave her a reassuring smile. “I won’t claim your friend is safe, nor my husband, but she’s keeping them alive to stand trial. I don’t think she’ll harm either of them until judgment is passed. Why don’t you come down and meet me in the kitchen? And try not to fall asleep face-down on the table this time.” She strode off, her ankle-length wool gown billowing behind her.

  Nazafareen nodded distractedly. Alive was better than dead, but Javid languished in the Polemarch’s dungeon while she’d been dozing away in a soft bed. It was all her fault, though she didn’t know what she could have done differently. They’d been trapped on the stairs between the Temple soldiers and the chimera. She remembered killing the beasts—or perhaps unmaking was a better word. Then Javid had slipped in the resulting mess and the soldiers carried him off.

  Nazafareen picked up the jug and was grateful to find it filled with clean water. She downed the entire thing in one long draught and immediately discovered other pressing needs, which another, larger pot in the corner took care of. She wanted to wash but the water was gone, so she made her way down to the kitchen, feeling vaguely grimy but somewhat more alert.

  Kallisto had already laid out a breakfast of grilled fish, golden apricots soaked in honey, and a loaf of yeasty brown bread on the scarred wooden table. She added bowls of olives and grapes, and a soft slab of goat’s cheese. Nazafareen tore into the food like a starving dog, eating until her pants felt uncomfortably tight. She washed it down with a cup of heavily watered wine.

  “Thank you, that was excellent,” she said, stifling a small burp. “I’ll clean up.”

  She felt Kallisto’s gaze on her back as she rinsed the plates and stacked them on the counter. Through the kitchen windows, she could see several mudbrick outbuildings nestled in groves of trees. Movement near one of them caught her eye. Four young women stood at the edge of a dirt yard watching as two others sparred with staffs. They wore short fawn-colored dresses that exposed muscled thighs and calves. The combatants fought with a controlled ferocity that impressed her. Faint cracks carried across the yard as they parried each other’s blows. The staffs whirled in deadly, blurring arcs that must have been eight or nine hands in length. One of the women lunged, sweeping the staff at her opponent’s feet. The second leapt over it, nimble as a cat. Another flurry of strikes and counterstrikes ensued and Nazafareen, utterly enthralled, forgot all about the dirty dishes. She feared they’d take each other’s heads off, or at least shatter some bones.

  “I’d like to learn how to do that,” she murmured as the two finally broke apart and clapped each other amiably on the back.

  “Why would you need a weapon?” Kallisto sounded puzzled. “You can work magic.”

  “Not very well.” She returned to the plates, rinsing them from a clay pitcher. “And it carries a price.”

  “You killed the chimera.”

  Nazafareen gave her a sharp look. “What were they?”

  “Old darklands magic. Very nasty.” Kallisto tilted her head. “Someone sent them for you?”

  “I think so, yes. Javid and I escaped them in the Umbra, but they must have found me again.” Nazafareen sank into a chair. “I suppose I ought to tell you everything.”

  “That would be a great deal indeed,” Kallisto laughed. “Let’s start with how you came to Delphi.”

  Nazafareen did so. The story wasn’t a very long one, since her memories only began a few months before.

  “Ashraf isn’t my real name,” she admitted. “I think it was my sister’s. You can call me Nazafareen.”

  Kallisto had listened in silence while she dried the plates with a cloth and replaced them in a cupboard.

  “So, Nazafareen, you’ve angered the Valkirins. They’re a touchy bunch, from what I know of daēvas. And you traveled through the Underworld?” Kallisto made a sign with her hand, extending the pinky and forefinger like a pitchfork. “Herodotus would pester you for hours if he knew. He has all sorts of theories about the gates.”

  “We had no choice,” Nazafareen said simply. “It wasn’t so bad really, except that the first gate we found opened into the Kiln.”

  “You saw the Kiln?”

  “I think so. It’s rightly named. The place felt like an oven.” She shifted in her chair at the memory. “Javid said it was the hottest part of Solis, where the sun sits at high noon all day.”

  “It is that,” Kallisto replied thoughtfully, sipping from her wine cup. “But it’s something else too. The prison of the Vatras.”

  “Prison?”

  “The other clans sealed them away. That’s what ended the war. Few remember anymore, but we Maenads do. The Gale pens them in from the east. An impassable line of storms.”

  Nazafareen thought of the black storm clouds she’d seen writhing on the horizon.

  “There was something wrong with the gate. It almost trapped us inside. I think it was damaged somehow. I had to use my breaking magic to shatter the wards.”

  Again, Kallisto made the forked sign with her hand. “You were lucky to escape. But I imagine if the gate had been whole and open, the Vatras would have come through long ago. Better it’s sealed.”

  Nazafareen felt replete and sleepy again after the heavy meal. Sitting in Kallisto’s bright, good-smelling kitchen, the dangers of the Kiln seemed very far away. She listened to the distant sounds of sparring with half an ear, but she couldn’t deny a strong curiosity about this fire-working clan of daēvas no one had seen for a thousand years.

  “Why can’t the Vatras get out some other way?” she asked.

  Kallisto smiled. “You don’t know much geography, do you?” She took an olive and placed it on the table. “This is the Kiln.” Another olive, to the right. “This is the Gale.” Now a few grapes, to the top and left, forming a semicircle. “The White Sea. Do you know why they call it that, girl?”

  Nazafareen shook her head.

  “Because the wind whips it to such a froth, only the Marakai dare sail its waters. And here”—the last grape, placed carefully at the bottom—“the Austral Ocean. Full of sea monsters and smashers that turn ships to kindling.”

  Nazafareen studied the arrangement, like the bars of a cage.

  “Looks foolproof to me. But then I seem to remember you saying something about the Vatras coming back?”

  “Yes, that was right before you hit the table.” Kallisto gave her a sly grin.

  “If they’re loose, why aren’t they taking their revenge?”

  “I don’t know. I think it must be because they are not loose yet—or not all of them. But I’ve seen one.”

  Nazafareen leaned forward, eyes wide. “You have? Where?”

  “In visions sent by the god. We drink wine and perform the ecstatic dance. Sometimes Dionysius visits me, or shows me things.”

  Nazafareen scratched her ear. “Ah, okay.”

  “You don’t believe?” Kallisto asked mildly.

  Daēvas didn’t drink intoxicating beverages. Darius said they dulled the Nexus. But from what Nazafareen had seen sleeping in the alley with Javid, mortals had no such reservations, and they behaved quite oddly when they stumbled out of the warren of taverns near the docks.

  “That you see things after you drink a lot of wine? No, I can believe that.”

  Kallisto shrugged. She didn’t seem offended. “What will be, will be, whether we believe in it or not. But I wish to know, does your offer still stand?”

  “My offer?” Nazafareen struggled to remember.

/>   “To help me find proof of Herodotus’s innocence?”

  “Oh yes, of course,” she replied with feeling. “I will do whatever I can. And if he is to be tried with Javid, I suppose helping one will help them both.”

  “Good. It won’t be a simple matter, but I believe you were right. Our best chance is to focus on Kadmos and Serpedon. Someone placed that spell dust in Herodotus’s study and I’ll wager it was them.”

  Nazafareen frowned. Three days of sleep had left her head stuffed with wool.

  “The Stork and the Weasel?” Kallisto prompted.

  “Oh, those two.” She scowled. “I never liked them. And I saw them whispering together when Herodotus was arrested.”

  Kallisto made a noise of disgust. “Kadmos has been appointed the new Curator of the Great Library. Clearly a reward for his treachery. But he must have obtained the spell dust somewhere.”

  “I can sense it if I’m close enough.” Nazafareen thought for a moment. “Maybe he has more hidden away. It’s worth looking.”

  Kallisto nodded and pushed her chair back. “I’ll find out where they both live. The parthenoi will help. Would you like to meet them?”

  Nazafareen nodded. “What are…parthenoi?”

  “The word simply means virgin warriors,” Kallisto replied. Her lips twitched. “They are certainly the second, though I cannot vouch entirely for the first. But Dionysius is a forgiving father in such matters. Come, they’ve been waiting for you to wake.”

  Kallisto led her out the kitchen door and over to the yard. The women stopped sparring and silently watched them approach.

  “Charis you already know,” Kallisto said, gesturing to the slight, olive-skinned girl who had brought Nazafareen there in the wagon. “The rest of you, introduce yourselves.”

  They glanced at each other.

  “Rhea,” said a tall woman with long, blue-black hair. Her voice was velvety and cultured, and she seemed older than the others—mid-twenties, Nazafareen guessed. She had sharp cheekbones and arresting grey eyes.

  She holds herself like a warrior queen and she spoke first. The leader of this little group?

  The next two looked like twins, with square jaws and pug noses. Unlike the other Maenads, who all had dusky skin, they were fair and freckled. They spoke almost in unison.

  “Adeia.”

  “Alcippe.”

  The shortest of the bunch eyed Nazafareen up and down. She had piercing eyes and a belligerent air.

  “Megaera,” she growled.

  “And I’m Cyrene.” A heavyset, pretty girl with a multitude of braids like Kallisto, she was the only one besides Charis to smile.

  Nazafareen gave a tentative smile in return. “Nice to meet all of you.”

  She sensed nothing unusual about their staffs, which meant only Kallisto’s was a talisman. Nazafareen felt relieved. At least she wouldn’t accidentally destroy anything valuable—these women didn’t seem like the forgiving types. Yet something about them tickled her memory.

  “You were dancing at the base of the Acropolis,” she exclaimed. "And you…." She turned to the tall, elegant one named Rhea. "You winked at me!"

  Rhea smiled mischievously, but then her face grew solemn. "After you passed, we felt the chimera." There was no fear in her grey eyes, just revulsion. "They were pure darkness. I’ve never seen the like.”

  "We saw you destroy them," one of the twins put in, idly twirling her staff. "But we were across the square and by the time we pushed through the crowd, you'd vanished."

  "So we all split up and started searching," the other twin said.

  "But I'm the one who thought of the alley by the docks," Charis added with a hint of smugness.

  Cyrene's almond eyes widened. "And now the Pythia is hunting you. She's declared that any who aid or shelter you will be put to death."

  Nazafareen stiffened.

  “If you’re her enemy…well then, you’re our friend.”

  Cyrene said it so earnestly that Nazafareen relaxed. “Thank you. I saw you all fighting before. It was impressive.”

  “We’ve trained since we were children,” Charis put in. “I could show you a few things if you like.”

  Nazafareen beamed. “I would. Very much.”

  “Another time, perhaps,” Kallisto said briskly. “We have work to do. Megaera, take Rhea and watch the library. There are two scholars there. I’ll describe them for you. You’re to follow them and see where they go. Do nothing! Just follow and be discreet.” She turned to the twins. “You two, go make an offering at the Temple of Apollo. Take note of how many soldiers are posted and where. If it’s possible to free Herodotus, I won’t wait.” She looked at the girl with almond eyes. “Cyrene, go to the taverns by the river. The Polemarch’s guards drink wine there when they’re off duty. See if you can find out any news about the Persian prisoner from Samarqand.”

  “What about me?” Charis demanded.

  Kallisto sniffed. “You’ll show Nazafareen the bathhouse and find her a change of clothes.”

  The first five Maenads gathered around Kallisto, peppering her with questions. Charis beckoned and Nazafareen followed her toward a small, thatch-roofed building at the rear of the farmhouse. Something nagged at her and she suddenly remembered what it was.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask,” Nazafareen said. “Did you come looking for me at the library the morning I carried the message to Herodotus?”

  Charis glanced over her shoulder. “No, I didn’t dare go inside. I waited for you to come out and followed. The people who live in that manor house are benefactors of our temple. I knew it would be safe for us to speak in their garden, away from prying eyes.”

  “So you never asked the cook about me?”

  Charis shook her head. They entered the bathhouse and she winched up a bucket from a small stone well. A plain wood bench was pushed up against one wall. Shafts of sunlight poured in through a round window set high above the door.

  “Someone was looking for me,” Nazafareen admitted. “I’m afraid it might have been a Valkirin daēva. They hold a grudge against me.”

  “You have a lot of enemies,” Charis observed, setting the sloshing bucket on the ground.

  “I seem to have a talent for it,” Nazafareen agreed.

  “Well, they won’t find you here.” The Maenad grinned and handed her a block of clay mixed with sand. “Scrub with this first. Then rinse with the water.” She gestured to a small jug of oil and a flat, hook-shaped instrument. “That’s a strigil. You put the oil on your skin and scrape it off like so.” She mimed running it up and down her body.

  They have a strange way of bathing, Nazafareen thought, but she gamely peeled off her clothes and got to work. Have I ever done this before? Perhaps I bathed with a…strigil every day in my own world.

  At the library she’d used the basin of water in her room, sneaking quick ablutions when Javid wasn’t around.

  I will find the Marakai, and then I will find Darius too, she swore to herself, vigorously rubbing the clay over a week’s worth of grime.

  But first I must fix the terrible mess I’ve made.

  When the soldiers dragged him from the Polemarch’s cells, Javid had expected to be handed over to some sort of hulking leather-hooded torturer named Uthos, or possibly Nagog. So he was somewhat relieved to find himself escorted out of the prison and thrown shackled into the back of a smelly cart. It lurched around the ring road that circled Delphi, but his spirits sank once again when he realized it was ascending a narrow incline carved into the eastern side of the Acropolis.

  He whispered a prayer to the Holy Father and composed himself. Javid had dealt with all varieties of dignitaries, diplomats, aristocrats and filthy rich egomaniacs, but he had never encountered even a minor prophetess, let alone the Oracle of Delphi herself. He wondered if her reputation was exaggerated or if she really could see into the hearts of men. Hopefully the former, as he intended to call on all his considerable flair for perjury, dissembling and prevarication. In other
words, he would not go down without lying through his teeth.

  The cart halted before the Temple of Apollo, where custody of the prisoner was transferred to the soldiers there. A brief discussion ensued about whether the Pythia wanted him right away, or if he should be thrown in a cell next to “the old man.” One of the soldiers hurried inside and returned to report that she did indeed want the Persian immediately.

  And so Javid found himself face-down on the carpet in a full prostration.

  “On your feet, heathen,” a feminine voice ordered softly.

  “I fear to look upon your face, O Most Holy Oracle and Mouthpiece of the Glorious Sun God!” he cried. “I am not worthy!”

  “Just get up.”

  She didn’t sound impressed. Javid clambered to his knees, keeping his gaze locked on the floor. Certain monarchs—his own king included—could be very touchy about direct eye contact from inferiors. It was always better to be cautious than cause accidental offense.

  “You were here yesterday.”

  It wasn’t a question. Javid could see the tip of a slippered foot just ahead.

  “I don’t deny it, Most Radiant One.”

  “Your companion is a witch. She used magic. There were dozens of witnesses.”

  The Pythia had a strange accent he had never heard before and Javid thought he knew them all.

  “She did, Oracle. But I had no idea she was a witch.” This much was true. “I’ve only known her a short time, I swear it on the honor of my mother and sisters, and may the Holy Father curse my offspring for twelve generations if—”

  “I know who you are, Javid of the Merchants’ Guild of Samarqand.”

  He bowed his head.

  “Why are you in Delphi?”

  He kept silent for a moment as though engaged in some internal struggle. Then he allowed his shoulders to sag—just a little bit. “I was on a secret mission to test a new type of wind ship, Holy Oracle.”

  “What sort?”

  He sensed her leaning forward.

  “A special fabric for the sack that doesn’t tear so easily. It would be worth a fortune to the Guild. But they didn’t wish anyone to know of the discovery, at least until it was proven, so they sent me into the Umbra.”