The raven circled the mountaintop keep of Val Moraine, a coal-black shadow against the lofty snowbound heights. It had flown hard from the forests of the Danai bearing a thought-message from Tethys Dessarian to her son, Victor. Unlike her first four missives, which were lengthy rants about his unsanctioned invasion of Valkirin lands, this one was short and dire. The raven brought word of dark goings-on in Delphi. Of an assault on the Acropolis to be led by Victor’s wife, Delilah. Chill gusts battered the bird, ruffling glossy feathers as it swept along the carapace of ice. Thrice it circled the holdfast, but there was not a single crack or crevice in the glacier, and the raven finally flew off, the message already fading from its mind. These were killing mountains and it had no intention of lingering.
In a darkened room on the other side of the ice, Victor Dessarian sat in the chair once occupied by his old enemy, Eirik Kafsnjór. He wore the same white leathers the previous master of Val Moraine had worn, and around his neck hung the massive white diamond that had triggered the keep’s defenses. Victor clutched it in his fist, the facets digging into his palm nearly to the point of drawing blood, although he was unaware of this.
He stared moodily at the exterior wall, where not even a hint of moonlight trickled through. The keep struck him as grim before, but in fact it had been downright cheerful compared to how oppressive it was now. Victor couldn’t shake the weight of claustrophobia, the feeling of being trapped in the belly of a stone beast.
The wall opposite was once open to the sky, protected from the flaying winds by a shield of air, but that had been transformed to solid ice twenty paces thick. The other three walls were naked granite. Maps of the Valkirin range lay unfurled on a large table in the center of the room. Mithre, his closest companion, sprawled in another metal chair, somewhat smaller than Victor’s if equally grotesque. He too wore fur-lined Valkirin leathers and carried a sword at his hip. Coarse waist-length black hair hung loose down his back. Mithre usually affected an attitude of mordant wit, but his wolfish features were settled into serious lines today.
“Rafel is the only one I trust,” Mithre was saying. “He’s a Dessarian. And the man is clearly anguished that his sister is still held captive by this Oracle in Delphi. But the others?” He shook his head. “Let’s start with the big Valkirin. Halldóra’s grandson. There’s something off about him. He’s too calm, for one thing. He hardly seems angry about his ordeal.”
“Maybe he’s the stoic type,” Victor said.
“Valkirin pride? Perhaps,” Mithre conceded. “And he arrived to find Val Moraine in Danai hands. We’re hardly his friends.” He tapped blunt fingers on the armrest. “I’ve tried speaking to him, but he’s vague about how many daēvas are being held hostage. Says he was kept isolated from the others, which could be true. But just before I came here, I found him in the armory looking over the weapons. We need to do something.”
Victor gazed at the diamond in his fist, turning it this way and that to catch the dim light.
“Are you even listening?” Mithre demanded with some asperity.
“I’m listening.” Victor’s jaw hardened. “Put him with Gerda.”
Mithre arched an eyebrow. “That seems a bit vicious even for you,” he said mildly. “I don’t think he should be running loose but—”
“Better to keep our enemies in one place. We’ll give him back to Halldóra if she agrees to our terms.”
Mithre shrugged. “What about Culach?”
Victor gave a mirthless laugh. “I trust Culach more than I do the others, Gods help me. He’s blind and incapable of doing much harm. And he helped us. I made a deal and I mean to keep it.” Victor glanced at the pair of slender gold bracelets sitting in the center of the map. They were unadorned except for elaborate clasps in the image of Sol Invictus, the Conquering Sun. “What do you make of those?”
Mithre eyed them with deep revulsion. “They appear identical to the ones forged by the magi, in purpose if not form. A talisman to leash daēvas, though they don’t appear to cause a deformity.”
“But where did they come from? How did the mortals discover their making?”
It was obviously a rhetorical question and Mithre remained silent.
“And those collars,” Victor muttered. “They’re even more barbaric than the cuffs we wore.”
All efforts to open the iron collars had failed. Whatever magic warded them, it had survived the passage from the sunlands to Nocturne, even if the bond itself had broken.
“I want to talk to those women again,” Victor said, tucking the diamond into his coat.
“You’ve already questioned them,” Mithre pointed out. “Repeatedly. Their story hasn’t changed.”
“Do you believe it?”
Mithre blew out a breath. “I don’t know. Rafel and Daníel back them up. Why would they lie?”
“Why indeed?” Victor murmured.
“It’s not unheard of for mortals to show compassion for our kind. Look at Nazafareen.”
A flash of pain crossed Victor’s face. Neither of them knew if she or Darius were still alive and the odds seemed slim.
“We need to get word to the other clans,” Victor said. “That includes the Valkirins. I won’t see the rise of another Empire. If that means distasteful alliances, so be it.”
“Agreed. But digging a tunnel out is proving more difficult than I expected.” Mithre looked at the wall of ice, gleaming softly in the faint moonlight. “It’s compressed and hard as stone. If we use earth power, we risk shattering the whole face. But hacking through by hand will be a grueling task.”
“I have an idea about that,” Victor growled. “But first bring those women in.” He stared moodily at the map. “Do you remember when the Numerators would visit Gorgon e-Gaz?”
Mithre was quiet for a long moment. They rarely discussed the Empire beyond the gates and what had been done to them there, though Mithre still thought of it often. When they’d been bonded to the king’s cuffs, Victor’s infirmity was relatively minor—a few missing fingers. Unlike every other daēva there, Mithre’s damage hadn’t even been visible. But the bond did something to his brain that caused debilitating headaches. He would see a shimmering corona out of the corner of his eye that would grow brighter and larger, blurring his vision. The corona was the first sign. Within hours, or sometimes minutes, a blinding pain would follow.
Then an old magus had shown him a pressure point in the webbing between the left thumb and forefinger that helped eased the pain. When his bond had broken, the headaches went away, but he’d retained the habit of massaging the spot in times of stress, as he did now.
“I remember,” he said.
“They were masters at extracting information. Dig down until you find a crack and then pry it open.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting physical torture.”
“Gods, no. There are other ways of discovering the truth.”
“Perhaps. But I lied to the Numerators repeatedly. So did you. Keep asking and eventually people just tell you what you want to hear.”
Victor caressed his thumb along the diamond’s sharp outer facet. “Always assume the worst,” he said darkly. “You’ll rarely be disappointed.”
Thena leapt to her feet as the bolt shot open and the iron door swung wide. It was the witch with topaz eyes and long dark hair who brought them food and water. His gaze raked the small room she shared with Korinna, who visibly flinched—as she did each time he came. For all her bluster when they were initiates together at the Temple of Apollo, Korinna had turned out to be spineless. She spent most of her time either crying in bed or carping about what a terrible mistake they’d made in coming to Val Moraine.
“Come with me,” the witch commanded.
Dusky skin accentuated his eerie catlike eyes and Thena suppressed a shiver of revulsion, smoothing her dress and standing obediently. When Korinna didn’t move, Thena shot her a murderous look behind the witch’s back. The other girl rose with a grim expression and they followed him into the corridor.
Thena still didn’t know any of the witches’ names. Sometimes they interrogated her and Korinna together, sometimes separately. They asked the same questions over and over, with subtle changes in the phrasing, clearly hoping to catch her in a contradiction. She’d seen little beyond her room, which was really a cell, and the place where they questioned her. The keep was gloomy, illuminated by crystals in the walls every twenty paces or so, which gave off a chill blue light and only sprang to life when someone came near. As Thena followed the witch down endless, echoing passages, a fragile pocket of light enveloped them, leaving the space ahead and behind in perfect darkness.
All those empty rooms! She thought Val Moraine must once have housed hundreds of witches. They seemed to be gone now, but the thought of so many in one place still made her skin crawl. Sometimes she fancied she heard things in the darkness, just beyond the edge of the light. Whispers and dry rasping sounds. Her imagination conjured up images of mortally wounded soldiers dragging themselves along the floor, hands out in supplication, trails of blood and gore staining the stone in their wake….
Thena hurried to catch up with their escort, whose long strides had led him ahead. The blisters on her thighs still stung, but at least they no longer wept pus. Thena silently thanked Apollo for the second chance she’d been given.
May the light shine on us all. Even Korinna.
They reached the usual room and her escort threw the door wide.
The big black-eyed witch sprawled in a huge metal chair like it was some kind of throne, his bulky frame taking up every inch. As usual, Thena and Korinna were left to stand. He believed their story to the extent he hadn’t killed them, but she could tell he had serious doubts.
“You claim you lost this Talisman of Folding.” His gaze picked her apart, piece by piece, like a hungry vulture. “We’ve searched the well and found nothing. Where is it?”
“I told you. I must have dropped it in the between-place,” she said, daring a quick glance at him through her lashes.
“Tell me again,” the witch said harshly. “Different words this time.”
“It looks like a disc. Daníel said the talisman cuts a hole into some plane of the shadowlands.” She pressed her fingertips together. “Like a shortcut. You can travel from one spot to another if you’ve been there before.” She gave a shiver that was only partly for theatrics. The passage from Delphi to Val Moraine had been like swimming through blood. Some substance thicker than water and warm. She’d held tight to Daníel, terrified that if she let go, if she lost him in the murk, she might never find the way out. “I thought I had it in my hand, but I must have dropped it then.”
Of course, Thena knew exactly where it was. She’d buried it beneath the roots of an apple tree not far from the well they’d emerged from. But she wouldn’t use it until she had something useful to bring the Pythia.
“This talisman would be priceless if we could find it.” He scowled. “Tell me about the Oracle.”
“She despises daēvas,” Thena replied promptly. “She calls them witches.”
The witch gave her a grim smile. “How many does she hold captive?”
“Only three now, since we helped Daníel and Rafel escape.” She paused and assumed a stricken expression. “Five died in her custody.”
His face darkened. “Where does she keep them?”
“At the Temple of Apollo.”
“For what purpose?”
“She hopes to build an army against the Persians.”
The two witches exchanged a look. Her inquisitor leaned over and whispered a few words she couldn’t make out. She studied his profile. Again, something about him seemed maddeningly familiar. The bold line of his nose and weight of his shoulders. The curve of his mouth.
And just like that, she was back in a room with golden sunlight pouring through the window and heavy manacles dangling from the stone wall.
What’s your name?
Thena, she had whispered…
The black-eyed witch turned back to her and she realized what it was.
He reminded her of Andros.
Just the name sent a flash of rage coursing through her. Those weeks with him seemed a nightmare now. He shouldn’t have been able to touch his magic yet he’d somehow bewitched her. Clouded her mind. She set him free believing it was what the god commanded, but then everything had fallen apart. She couldn’t remember precisely what happened next, but she knew Apollo had punished her betrayal. The blisters on her legs were proof of that.
Now she knew the truth. The witches were demons. Thena wouldn’t rest until they were all wiped out or collared, and she had Andros on his leash again.
“Who does this Oracle hold prisoner?” he demanded.
Thena told him, naming Rafel’s sister, Ysabel, and two Valkirins, one from Val Petros and one from Val Altair. She did not mention Andros.
“Where did the collars come from?” the other witch demanded. “Who made them?”
“The Pythia. She said the god led her to them.”
And that was the truth.
“Who is she? Where does she come from?”
Thena opened her mouth to reply, but Victor held up a hand. He stared at Korinna. “No. I would hear it from her.”
Korinna squirmed and Thena resisted an impulse to pinch her.
“I…I don’t know,” she stammered. “No one knows. She just appeared one day.”
“When?”
Thena and Korinna exchanged a look.
“About two years ago,” Thena said.
“And why was she appointed Oracle?”
“I don’t know. The Archons decide that.”
“Who else knows what she’s done?”
“The Archons, of course. And the Polemarch. The Shields of Apollo. And a few of the initiates.”
“How has she managed to keep this secret?”
“We—they—are all afraid of her. Her word is law.”
And that too was the truth.
The witch stared at them both for an interminable moment. Then he made a motion of dismissal. Korinna practically ran to the door. The other escorted them back to their room and locked the door.
“That went well,” Thena said, sitting down on the bed.
“Well?” Korinna hissed. “We are inches from being discovered and executed.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic. There’s no proof we did anything wrong. We’re heroes. He will accept it in time.”
“The proof is Daníel and Rafel,” Korinna spat back.
At least she was remembering to call them by their real names and not their slave names. Thena sensed the witches, especially the big one, would be enraged if they knew. There had been some near fatal slips until Thena took matters in hand. Now Korinna sported bruises beneath her acolyte’s gown and Thena felt certain she would never make that mistake again.
“They’ve both played their parts,” Thena replied with a frown.
“For now, yes. I trust Daníel. He worships you. But Rafel?” Korinna gave a hollow laugh. “He keeps our secret for the sake of his sister and what the Pythia would do to her. But he despises us both, I can see it in his eyes.”
Thena strode over and took Korinna’s hands. “Be at ease, sister. The god watches over us. He will show us the way. You must have faith.”
“Faith,” Korinna muttered. “I try, but it’s not easy in this frozen pigsty.”
Thena didn’t like it either. She’d had only a brief glimpse of the outside world—mountains and stars and the moons—before the shroud of ice closed around them.
Neither she nor Korinna understood why the dark-haired forest witches held the keep belonging to the mountain witches. Thena sensed the two clans hated each other, but not why. She wanted desperately to see Daníel. He was a base, defiled creature, but he loved her.
Thena thought of the day in the yard Daníel wielded his power for the Archon Basileus. The sheer exhilaration of it sweeping through her, how she and Maia had exchanged a knowing look, trying so hard to contain themselves in the intimidating presence of the red-cloaked Archon. But then he’d brought out those criminals from the dungeons, and the thing happened with Maia, blood running from her nose….
“Let us pray together,” Thena said, dragging Korinna to her knees.
She pushed the memory back into the depths. Andros claimed magic was a natural gift, but every word he spoke was a lie. Magic was wicked. Sinful. Apollo stood for reason and logic, for the industrious works of humanity against the corrosive power of the witches and alchemists. She had seen the consequences with her own eyes.
“It’s cold,” Korinna complained, shivering on the bare stone.
“And it will be even colder in the pits of Tartarus if we fail in our mission,” Thena hissed. “Let the light fill you, sister. Let His will be done.”
And so they prayed together, until Korinna’s lips were blue. Thena tucked her into bed like a child and soon the yellow-haired girl fell asleep. Thena stayed awake for a long time after, whispering with the god. And when she slept, she dreamed of the brazen bull, but it was not her screaming inside.
It was the Pythia.