Of the odd collection of daēvas and mortals trapped within the oppressive confines of the Maiden Keep, Culach No-Name, formerly Culach Kafsnjór, was the only one who didn’t mind the cold and dark. It made no difference to him whether moonlight penetrated the walls, and his Valkirin blood could withstand temperatures most would deem unbearable. In fact, Culach’s circumstances had improved drastically since Victor released him from the cold cells and gave him his old chamber back.
He’d felt nothing when the keep’s magical defenses were deployed. He could no longer touch the Nexus or the elements. But his finely tuned senses detected other changes, such as the dulling of sound within the walls and the complete silence outside. For the first time in his long life, he drifted off to sleep without the wind singing against the shields of air.
In truth, he found the quiet a bit eerie. The Iron Wars—the last time his father had deployed the diamond—ended shortly after his birth. He’d heard stories, of course, but it wasn’t the same. That siege had lasted nearly a year before the other holdfasts gave up and flew home.
Now he lay in bed thinking about Mina and what she’d told him about her son, Galen. How he was pathetically weak in earth power even though his father Victor was the strongest of his clan. Mina had confessed she was once weak in earth too, but she’d grown strong again after Galen was born. She always hoped the same might happen for him someday, but didn’t want to give him false hope so she never told him.
Part of Culach resisted believing it. The boy was a snake. Culach loved Mina passionately and wouldn’t say so to her face, but it seemed monstrous such a man would have such a gift.
Yet it nagged at him, the possibility that Galen could be one of these talismans Gerda spoke of.
He’d seen them himself, the three daēvas, in his dreams, although he was no closer to understanding what it all meant. Twice in the last week he’d relived Farrumohr’s gruesome death buried alive in the sands of the Kiln. The slow suffocation lasted for days and Culach felt every excruciating moment of it.
Then there were the new arrivals.
Two mortals, a Valkirin and a Danai. Mina told him about them. He knew Daníel of Val Tourmaline reasonably well. A bit of a loner who’d seemed to love his mount more than anything else. When he went missing, Culach assumed he’d had an accident. The mountains were dangerous even for seasoned flyers like Daníel. But now he was here, claiming to have escaped the Oracle of Delphi.
The mortal cities had never held any interest for Culach. The Marakai took the Valkirins’ raw ore and brought it back as swords and shields and whatever else the holdfasts asked for. Culach had never even seen a mortal until that cursed girl, Nazafareen.
He wondered if the chimera had found her yet. He had no regrets on that score. She’d killed most of his holdfast and left him blind. Culach would not mourn her death. He felt sorrier about Darius now that he knew Victor’s son was innocent of killing Petur, but what was done couldn’t be taken back.
Culach threw off the fur blankets and dressed in a coat and trousers of fur-lined leather. He’d kept to his room since the keep was sealed and Victor Dessarian hadn’t summoned him. His world now consisted of two things: Mina, who was lovely, and his dreams, which weren’t. What they meant and if they would ever stop. He suspected they had something to do with that day at the lake when he was burned since they began not long afterwards, but the connection eluded him.
Culach scrubbed a hand across his silver stubble. He found a bowl of water and cracked the thin layer of ice, then splashed it on his cheeks and scraped them clean with a blade. Feeling more awake, he set off for Gerda’s tower. He hadn’t been to see her since their argument over the Vatras, but she was the only other living Kafsnjór and he felt it was his duty to see how she was faring. Besides which, sparring with Gerda was one of the last entertainments available.
The guards at her door let him pass without comment. Culach was no longer a prisoner in the strict sense of the word. His bargain to tame the abbadax allowed him the run of the keep, though in reality, they were all inmates of Victor’s asylum.
“Well, well,” Gerda said by way of greeting. “What do you want, traitor?”
Her stiff leather gown creaked somewhere off to his left.
“You’re one to talk.” Culach gave a thin smile. “You told them where the food was.”
She grunted. “We’d all be starving if I hadn’t.”
“I struck a bargain for your and Katrin’s freedom. You chose not to take it. Why?”
“I won’t be forced out of my own home.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“And I don’t care.”
Culach inched forward until his knees smacked into a piece of furniture. It turned out to be a chair so he sat down. Traces of the foul brew she called wine hung in the air. This time, she didn’t offer him any.
“I hear you and the idiot are friends now,” she said.
“Hardly. I did what I had to. There’s nothing left to salvage, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Your father would be appalled.”
Culach didn’t bother responding. He’d expected Gerda to be rude, that was simply a given, but he had the odd feeling she was putting on a bit of a show. In fact, if he had to peg her mood, he’d say she sounded happy, which made no sense at all. The trick would be to find out what she knew without revealing anything of importance.
“I’m still having those dreams about the Vatras. I thought you might help me understand—”
“Oh, now you want my help?”
Culach let the silence hang there for a moment. She tried to conceal it, but he heard a note of curiosity in her voice.
“Well?” she demanded.
“I’m wondering about the talismans.” He chose his words with care. “This weakness you spoke of. Are you certain that’s the sign?”
“Without doubt. Have you dreamt of them?” she asked eagerly. “Who is it?”
“I’ve no idea,” he lied. “I only see the past.”
“Oh. Well, that’s not worth much, is it?”
“What about Farrumohr? The Viper.”
“Didn’t you say he was dead?”
Culach thought briefly of the horrid dream. “Most definitely. He helped Gaius gain the Vatra throne and poisoned him against the other clans. I don’t know why Farrumohr hated them so much, but he convinced Gaius to woo a Danai who was already in love with another. That’s what started the whole thing.”
“Well good for him.”
Culach decided to play along, creasing his face in a mystified frown.
“You can’t mean it, grandmother.”
“I certainly can. What have the others ever done for us?”
He sighed. “That’s not the point. It’s like asking the wolf to save you from the icebjorn. They both want the same thing in the end. To rip your throat out.”
“Don’t be melodramatic.” She bit into something crunchy and chewed with gusto. “Look, kid. I’m sorry for what happened to you, but it’s time to choose sides. We’re the last ones left. So tell me, can you still get it up?”
Culach blinked. “Pardon?”
“Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean. It’s your duty to bear as many children as possible. Katrin would have been my first choice, but we’ll find you a nice girl from one of the other holdfasts—”
“Bloody hell,” Culach muttered.
“Your mother knew she was going to die birthing you,” Gerda continued mercilessly. “She knew something was wrong. She could have gotten rid of you and your sister. But she told me she was willing to give her life so the Kafsnjór bloodline would continue. Does that mean nothing?”
The woman knew precisely where to slide the knife in, Culach had to give her that.
“Of course it does,” he said, seeming to mull it over. “Perhaps you’re right. But what can we do?”
She lowered her voice. “Sit tight. Help is coming.”
“What help?” he whispered.
“Let’s just say all that ice will be naked stone when—”
Culach turned as the door creaked open. He assumed someone realized he had no explicit visitation rights with his cantankerous ancestor. But the guards turned out to be there for another reason entirely.
“Go on,” one of them said, in the firm but not unkind tone one might take with a child being ordered to mount a hissing abbadax for the first time.
A third set of footsteps entered the room. A man roughly his own size judging by the stride.
“Why am I here?” a deep and unfamiliar voice asked.
“Your new quarters,” the second guard replied, and Culach heard a note of pity.
New quarters? Culach thought. Had one of the Danai committed a sin so unforgiveable that Victor would banish him to the hinterlands of Gerda’s tower?
“Why?” the man asked.
“Victor thought you’d be more comfortable with your own kin.”
“He’s not my kin,” Gerda cut in acidly. “What is this?”
“Sorry,” one of the guards muttered, though Culach had the feeling he was speaking to the new arrival rather than Gerda.
“Who the hell are you?” she demanded.
There was a freighted pause. “I’m from Val Tourmaline.”
Culach’s mouth dropped open.
The door slammed shut.
Culach didn’t linger long after that. He had no burning desire to speak with Halldóra’s grandson, and Gerda’s fury had been more than he cared to endure. So he made the guards let him out and hurried down the winding stairs as fast as he could go without falling on his face.
When he returned to his chamber, he found Mina sitting in her old chair. She smelled of clean wool and herself. He ran his fingers down her long braid and gave it a gentle tug. She was the one decent thing in his life. It still amazed him she seemed to care for him after the way he’d treated her for years. It was almost worth giving up his sight for that.
“I went to see my grandmother,” he murmured in her ear.
“And?”
“She’s insane as ever. But she confirmed the daēva talismans would be weak in the power.”
Her shoulders tensed. “Should we tell Galen?”
“What good would it do? And I’m not entirely sure I trust her. This is Gerda we’re talking about.” Culach lifted Mina up and carried her to the bed. She swatted at him, but her heart wasn’t in it.
“It seems wrong not to tell him,” she muttered as Culach began undoing the tiny buttons down her back. He discovered a sliver of silky skin and kissed it reverently.
“Go ahead, then.” Culach traced a finger along her spine and Mina shivered.
“That tickles,” she murmured.
“Tell your son he inherited some extraordinary power, but instead of making him lord of the Danai, it’s left him a sad cripple like me.”
Mina snorted.
“Tell him you have no idea how it works or what it means, and in fact, it’s probably the result of incestuous inbreeding—”
“You have a filthy mind.”
“—going back generations, but you still love him and wish him luck. I’m sure he’ll take the news well. It’s not as if his mental state is fragile in any way.”
Mina slid her hand along his thigh. “You may have a point.”
Culach felt a pleasant twinge in his lower abdomen. “There’s something else. Gerda said help was coming and I don’t think she meant the other holdfasts.”
“Who then?”
The final button gave way. Culach slid the dress to her shoulders and nuzzled the nape of her neck. “What if she meant the Vatras?” he whispered.
Mina laughed. “You said it yourself. She’s insane.”
“Well, yes. But she’s more devious crazy than deluded crazy. And she seemed convinced.”
He eased the dress down another few inches and cupped her small yet spectacular breasts.
“But she’s stuck up in that tower with guards at the door,” Mina objected, arching into his hands. “How could she know what’s going on outside?”
“I’m not sure. Oh, and I didn’t tell you the other thing. They’ve put Daníel in with Gerda.” Culach laughed softly. “That poor bastard.”
She twisted to face him, nipping at his full lower lip. “I have a bad feeling about all this.”
“Oh, I do too,” he murmured. “Very bad.”
She stood and let the dress fall, then pressed her naked body against his leather coat. Nimble fingers plucked at the fastenings on his trousers.
“Why do I like you again?” Mina asked rhetorically.
“Because,” he gasped. “Yes. That.”
“It’s time you earned your keep.”
Shadows obscured Victor’s face, but there was no mistaking the contempt in his voice. The half dozen daēvas arrayed behind the table stared at Galen, silent as wraiths. Only Mithre didn’t seem to despise him. If anything, Victor’s second-in-command looked troubled.
The Danai named Rafel stood apart from the others, watching with an unreadable expression. Galen remembered him, though they’d never been friends. Rafel went missing a few months before Victor returned, vanishing without a trace in the forest with his sister, Ysabel. Now he was back, with an iron collar around his throat and a haunted look in his dark eyes.
“All right,” Galen said evenly. “What do you want?”
His gaze flicked to the diamond hanging from a chain around his father’s neck. It gathered the faint light, glowing with a chill radiance. In his Valkirin leathers, Victor looked grimly at home in Eirik’s chair. He seemed to have forgotten that Galen fought at his side when the emissaries came from the other holdfasts. Or maybe it had never mattered at all.
“I’m putting you on ice duty,” Victor said. “We have to hack out a tunnel to the outside, but you can’t use the power. That might cause the whole shelf to collapse. You’ll do it by hand.”
Galen nodded. If Victor thought this would be some kind of punishment, he was mistaken. It came as a relief. Galen lacked the strength to carry out the task any other way.
“No one wants to take a shift with you and I can’t say I blame them,” Victor continued. “But you’ll dig until that tunnel is finished.” He glanced at Galen’s ill-fitting boots. “Or I’ll see to it you lose the rest of your toes.”
The others smirked. Heat crept up Galen’s neck.
“Fine. I’ll start now,” he said, eager to be gone.
“I’ll take him to the stables,” Mithre offered.
“Good. Just get him out of my sight,” Victor growled.
They turned to leave when Rafel stepped forward.
“I’ll help,” he said quietly. “The work will go faster with two.”
Victor looked at him in surprise, then nodded. “There are picks and axes in the armory.”
Galen felt the heat of his father’s gaze on his back as they left the study. His gait was still awkward from the loss of four toes to frostbite. When the wounds had healed, he’d stuffed rags into the tips of his boots, which helped some. The toes still ached in the cold sometimes. Phantom reminders of his shitty judgment, Galen thought morosely.
Mina had told him about Rafel and Daníel, and the mortal women who accompanied them. It all seemed bizarre. What did the Oracle want with captive daēvas? She must be mad.
They stopped at the armory and silently gathered a collection of picks and axes. Then Mithre escorted them to the stables. The abbadax screeched in irritation when the door opened but soon settled back on their nests. Galen’s breath frosted the air, but it was warmer without the biting wind. A wall of deep blue ice ran the entire length of the pens.
“I’m not sure how thick it is,” Mithre said, resting his hand on Galen’s shoulder for a moment. “But I’m sure you’re equal to the task.”
Galen nodded, surprised and grateful for his kindness.
“Personally, I don’t intend to stay in this desolate hole a moment longer than necessary,” Mithre told them both. “The sooner we can make contact and reach an agreement with the other holdfasts, the better.”
“So Victor will give up Val Moraine?” Galen asked.
“Your father has a plan,” Mithre said. “It’s stupid, but it might actually work. Just make sure the tunnel is wide enough for a single abbadax, no more.”
Galen glanced at Rafel, who gave the barest nod of acknowledgement.
“I’ll check on you lads in a few hours,” Mithre said, heading for the great oaken door. “Good luck.”
Galen took a position to Rafel’s right and started hacking with his pick. Tiny slivers of ice flew off at each blow, but far fewer than he expected. This was not normal ice. His heart sank. It was going to be a monumental task.
Galen’s shoulders burned as he hefted the pick again and again. He used to be strong, but weeks of bitter cold and inactivity had taken their toll. After ten minutes, he thought he’d fall over from exhaustion. A few paces away, Rafel hacked methodically at his patch of ice. He’d actually managed to make a dent and Galen’s pride forced him to push through the misery and keep going. After a while, he found a rhythm. His muscles would be screaming by the next day, but the work was also oddly soothing. The sharp crack and tinkle of the ice as it hit the stone floor. The rush of steaming breath as he brought the pick back and slammed it into the glacier.
Huddled on their nests, the abbadax watched them in slit-eyed silence. The beasts seemed to have adjusted to their new conditions, though every now and then one of them gave a soft hiss.
Hours passed. Mithre returned, surveyed their pathetic progress, and left again, presumably to report to Victor. Finally, Rafel dropped his pick and departed without a word. Galen thought he’d quit but he returned a few minutes later with a jug of water. He drank deeply, then handed it to Galen.
“You look exactly like your father,” Rafel observed. “It’s uncanny.”
Galen turned away, his reflection swimming darkly in the ice. With his raven hair and heavy build, he knew he was the spitting image. Once, he’d relished the resemblance. Now he found he hated it.
“How long do you think it’ll take?” he asked.
“To break through?” Rafel shrugged. “A week. Maybe more.”
That seemed to exhaust their conversational prospects. Galen certainly wasn’t going to ask about the Oracle of Delphi. Or about the collar. He made a point of ignoring it, though when Rafel’s gaze was turned, he couldn’t help sneaking a peek. Gods, it was a vicious thing. Galen couldn’t imagine forcing an animal to wear it, let alone a person. The skin at the edges looked raw and chapped. For the first time in recent memory, he felt pity for someone other than himself.
They grabbed their picks and worked in silence. Gradually, the shallow outline of a tunnel six paces wide and five high emerged. Rafel used the flat end of his pick to sweep away the pulverized ice.
“Better get some rest,” he muttered, taking a swig from the water jug and handing it to Galen.
Rafel started for the door, then turned back when Galen failed to join him. “Aren’t you coming? We’ve done what we could for today.”
“I’ll be along soon.”
Rafel shrugged. “See you tomorrow.”
Galen stayed until he could barely lift his arms. He returned to his chamber, gingerly unwrapping his feet and removing the rags from the toes of his boots. Then he lay back on the bed and pulled the furs over himself. He often wondered who the former occupant had been. A chair positioned next to the arched window held a half-finished coat with needle and thread set neatly on top, and Galen imagined a Valkirin sitting there sewing, gazing out at the starry night (now hidden by the ice, of course). The dried-out core of a pear sat on the sill. He pictured whoever it was absently setting it there, not knowing it was one of the last things they’d ever do.
What was your name? he thought. Were you a man or woman?
A dressing table held boxes overflowing with silver rings and brooches and jeweled hairpins, but this meant little since Valkirins of both sexes enjoying adorning themselves. He hadn’t touched the jewelry or any of the other personal belongings, except for a few linen undershirts, which he tore up to stuff his boots.
Galen had deliberately stayed in the tunnel until he was nearly dead with exhaustion, but it didn’t stop the dreams later. His old friend Ellard, trapped in a prison of ice, a brace of dead rabbits hanging at his side. Galen chopped at it until his hands bled but never seemed to get any closer. Somewhere nearby he could hear the howling of wolves.
“It’s all right,” Ellard whispered, a white palm pressed against the frozen barrier. “We’ll just stay here, Galen. Forever and always.”
He woke glassy-eyed and trembling with weariness some hours later. Rafel was already going at it with feverish intensity when Galen arrived at the stables. He didn’t look much better. After a terse greeting, neither of them spoke at all. But inch by inch, the tunnel grew larger.
And Galen found himself wondering what they would find waiting on the other side.
Blinding snow battered Katrin’s abbadax as she sped through a narrow pass. She’d reached Val Tourmaline only to discover Halldóra had left for Val Moraine with a large contingent of riders, bent on Victor Dessarian’s destruction. They’d probably passed each other and not even noticed in the storm. So now she was headed back to the Maiden Keep, gloved hands lightly cupping the reins. Berglaug knew the way and needed no guidance.
Katrin peered into the darkness ahead, hood cinched tight around her face. Beneath it she wore another layer to fend off the bitter wind. Mountain passes sped by beneath, deep, purple-shadowed ravines and blue-tinged glaciers. The beauty of the northern range stirred her, especially after days in a cell listening to Culach’s nightmares.
It still infuriated Katrin to have been taken alive and she intended to exact the appropriate measure of revenge. She was a warrior, the best Eirik had, but all those years of sacrifice and discipline meant nothing when the Danai used the power against her. If only she had been stronger, faster. Katrin’s jaw clenched. She would be ready for them next time. Halldóra had to take her. If not, she would loose her buckles and embrace the final fall.
She urged Berglaug to greater speed. Sensing its rider’s mood, the abbadax shrieked in fury, great wings slashing the night. And then Katrin saw a phalanx of flyers passing over the mighty glacier of Mýrdalsjökull. She bent low, turning her cheek to Berglaug’s neck, and whispered words of encouragement. They were downwind and he’d already caught the scent of the abbadax from Val Tourmaline. Berglaug snapped his beak and bent his will to overtaking them.
The riders drew closer. Katrin shouted and she thought the wind snatched her voice away, but the last rider turned and saw her, reining in abruptly. The news traveled swiftly through the ranks. The rest of the abbadax wheeled around in a hard bank, their hooded riders signaling to Katrin that she should land in a sheltered pass. Berglaug screamed defiantly, but when Katrin failed to give the attack command, he settled his razor-sharp feathers and dove for the narrow saddle between two peaks.
One by one, the mounts alit in skidding puffs of snow. Katrin leapt from the saddle and threw her hood back so they could see her face. Fifty pairs of stony eyes followed her as she waded through the snow toward the tall, imperious woman who had led the tip of the phalanx and was the last to land.
“Katrin!” Halldóra exclaimed, undoing her buckles and sliding to the ground.
“I just missed you at Val Tourmaline,” she said grimly. “Victor Dessarian deployed the defenses.”
Halldóra’s face hardened. “This is dire news. How did he find the diamond?”
Katrin felt bad, but she wouldn’t lie. “Culach traded my freedom for it.”
Halldóra cursed under her breath. “So he lives. What about the others?”
“All dead,” Katrin replied. “Eirik too.”
Halldóra’s shrewd green eyes narrowed. “I assumed as much. Why did the Dessarians spare his son?”
Katrin shrugged. “He’s blind. I don’t think they had the stomach to kill him.”
“What a mess,” Halldóra muttered.
Katrin knelt at the older woman’s feet.
“I would pledge my life and honor to Val Tourmaline,” she said, looking Halldóra in the eye, heart drumming in her chest. “If you take back Val Moraine from those Dessarian dogs, I swear to aid you in the attempt, even if takes a hundred years.”
Halldóra peered down at her, silver-white hair whipping in the wind. Then she pulled Katrin to her feet and kissed her on both cheeks.
“I welcome you, Katrin Aigirsdottir.” She raised her voice so the rest of the company could hear. “Victor Dessarian holds the Maiden Keep. She wears her girdle of ice. Should we turn back and let the Danai keep the holdfast?”
The answer came as a resounding roar that cut through the howling storm.
“To war then,” Halldóra cried. “We will teach them why the first mortals named our realm Niflheim, the coldest hell!”
Katrin felt tears sting her eyes. There was hope yet. A purpose greater than her own faults. She climbed onto Berglaug’s back and they soared into the darkness.