Thena pounded on the door until two young witches came.
“What is it now?” the first demanded. He looked like a barbarian, with a feather earring and the pelt of some white-haired animal slung across his shoulders.
“My friend Korinna,” Thena wailed. “She’s dead.”
They pushed past her and hurried to the bed. As they examined the body, she told her story with new embellishments—Korinna’s appetite had been poor lately and her breathing heavy and labored. It was too cold in the keep, and her delicate constitution must have succumbed.
“I told you we needed more blankets,” Thena said, heaving a piteous cough. “I feel a touch of fever coming on myself.”
“What happened to her eyes?” the first witch asked in a hard voice.
Thena peered down at Korinna, pretending confusion. “Her eyes? I don’t know. I suppose they are a little red, but—”
They’d barely begun to question her when shouts erupted in the hallway, followed by the sound of running feet. One of the witches stuck his head out the door.
“What’s happening?” he called.
“Galen and Rafel broke through!” a voice replied. “Halldóra of Val Tourmaline is coming in.”
The two Danai looked at each other.
“I’ll wait outside,” the first witch said to his companion. “They might need you for an escort.”
He took up a post in the corridor just as Rafel entered. When he saw Korinna, he stopped and looked at Thena. They gazed at each other for a long, wordless moment.
The witch standing guard clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, cousin,” he said. “I understand you cared for her.”
Somewhat belatedly, Rafel adopted an expression of grief. “Oh gods,” he whispered.
“A fever, the poor thing,” Thena said, drawing him away to the far corner.
Rafel glanced down at her hands, taking note of the scratches before Thena could cover them with her sleeves.
“What did she do?” he asked, all traces of sympathy gone.
“It’s not your place to question, Nikias,” Thena replied. “And she died of a fever.”
His mouth twisted. “Of course she did.” He glanced over his shoulder. The guard had returned to the corridor. “I need to know where you hid the talisman.”
“And why would I tell you that?”
“Because I found him.”
Was he lying? Thena felt the pain behind her eye again. “Who is it?”
“Victor’s son, Galen.”
Thena never suspected Darius had a brother. Or that he was here. Her pulse raced.
“He’s weak in earth power,” Rafel said. “It’s the sign, yes?”
For a brief moment, Thena wished Korinna was still alive just so she could prove how wrong the girl had been. But her thread had been snipped short, as the Moirai decreed.
“We have to get him out somehow,” she said, tapping a tooth with one ragged nail. “Daníel can help—”
“I can handle it,” Rafel interrupted. “But I need to know where you hid the Talisman of Folding.”
Thena smiled serenely. “You see? The God’s hand arranges things even in this forsaken realm of darkness. He has not abandoned us, Nikias.”
The witch’s lips tightened at the use of his slave name. “Where is it, Thena?” he demanded, his voice ragged.
She studied him. She could see the hatred in his eyes, though he tried to conceal it. Rafel wasn’t broken in the least. She’d always known it.
“Wait until everyone is sleeping tonight,” Thena said. “Then come get me. Kill the guard if you must. We’ll all go together.”
For an instant, she thought he might strike her. But the guard waited just outside the door. Rafel’s fists relaxed.
“What about Daníel?” he whispered. “They’ve taken him away to be part of this parley with Halldóra of Val Tourmaline.”
“I’ll manage Daníel,” she replied. “Off with you now.” She glanced over at the bed. “I must see to Korinna. She shall have the proper rites, as befits an initiate of the Temple of Apollo.” Thena gave him a gentle smile. “One must always show mercy, Nikias. Don’t forget that.”
Katrin leaned forward in the saddle, the low ceiling of the ice tunnel nearly brushing her head. Halldóra’s abbadax crept along just behind, along with Frida and Sofia. They’d been camped across the valley, preparing for a long siege, when sentries spotted a dark spot in the unbroken carapace of ice surrounding Val Moraine. Katrin had flown with Halldóra to investigate when a Valkirin appeared at the entrance, waving his arms. Halldóra swooped down, her face pale with shock. He’d called to them, saying Victor Dessarian wanted a parley. Then he disappeared into the tunnel.
Katrin knew Halldóra’s grandson Daníel had gone missing over a year before, though she couldn’t imagine why he’d turned up at Val Moraine. She somehow doubted Eirik had been holding him prisoner all this time, although it might be possible. No one ventured down to the cold cells without a good reason, and they’d been empty for years before Victor Dessarian took the keep and tossed her and Culach inside. She told Halldóra all of this as soon as they returned to the camp.
Katrin admired Halldóra. She was clearly overcome with emotion to find her grandson alive, but she maintained her composure and consulted calmly with the others before reaching a decision. She wanted to know what Katrin thought of Victor Dessarian. Could he be trusted to keep a pact? Did he have honor? Katrin wasn’t sure how to respond. He hadn’t killed his prisoners, while Eirik most certainly would have. And he kept his bargain with Culach. Katrin was living proof of that. But then again, he was Danai, and Danai were all cowardly dogs at heart.
In the end, Halldóra decided she would meet with Victor, but she would not cede him the Maiden Keep under any circumstances. The Dessarians had to go.
Katrin was relieved to hear this. As promised, she’d put in a word for Culach, though she hadn’t received any guarantees. In Halldóra’s view, he was a traitor through and through.
Now she found herself in the stables, with ten Danai stiffly flanking the door to the keep. Katrin slid from her mount and eyed them with disdain. In a moment, the others stood beside her.
“Told you I’d be back, assholes,” she said.
Halldóra drew herself up, tall and fierce. “Where’s Victor?”
A slender man with dark skin and vulpine features stepped forward and gave Halldóra a polite nod. “I’m Mithre, Victor’s second. Thank you for agreeing to come, Halldóra of Val Tourmaline. Victor awaits you inside. He thought the stables a bit chilly for conversation.”
Halldóra didn’t move. “Where are we going? And where’s my grandson?”
“Daníel is with Victor. He’s not our hostage. Not precisely,” Mithre added, as though uncertain how to explain. “But I give you our oath no harm will befall any of you—or Daníel—while you’re our guests here.”
“Guests?” Halldóra snorted. “We shall see. But lead on, then.” She glanced back at the tunnel mouth. “I have a hundred riders out there and if I don’t return to my camp within the hour, a tenth of them will go to Val Petros and Val Altair, after which they shall return with a thousand riders. The rest will storm this keep, so they don’t get bored while they wait.”
Mithre’s lips twitched but he nodded again. “The situation is perfectly clear. This way, please.”
He turned and strode inside, his Danai trailing behind. Halldóra shared a quick look with Katrin and followed.
Victor waited in Eirik’s old study, sitting at the head of an ornate iron table that must have broken a few backs to drag in. Katrin was delighted to see he looked awful. Red-rimmed eyes gazed at them from a hollow face that had lost none of its arrogance. The diamond was hidden inside his coat, but she could see a glint of the chain around his throat. Just like Eirik.
Mithre took a chair to Victor’s left. Daníel sat at the opposite end of the table, where an empty chair waited for Halldóra. She made no move to sit. Instead, she surveyed the assembled Danai, all clad in fur-lined white leathers and half with swords at their hips instead of bows.
“I wonder if you’ve truly conquered Val Moraine, Victor Dessarian, or if the keep has conquered you,” she observed.
Frida and Sofia laughed at this. The young Danai shot them dirty looks, though Victor gave no reaction.
“You can play at being a Valkirin,” Halldóra continued dryly, “but without our blood, I’m afraid you won’t last long in these mountains.”
“I’ve lasted long enough,” Victor replied. “And your emissaries couldn’t tell the difference, could they?”
Frida scowled. Katrin heard she’d fallen straight into Victor’s trap, barely escaping with her life. The emissaries from Val Petros and Val Altair weren’t so lucky.
“But don’t worry,” Victor added with a faint smile. “I’ve no wish to be your king.”
Katrin’s hand fell to the hilt of her blade. “How dare you—” she hissed.
“We will discuss terms in a moment,” Halldóra snapped, her voice like steel again. “But first I wish to know how Daníel came to be here—and why he wears an iron collar around his neck.” She turned to her grandson. “Did the Dessarians take you for a hostage?”
Daníel returned her level gaze. The whole room seemed to hold its breath.
“No,” he said at last. “It was the Oracle of Delphi.”
A minor pandemonium erupted among the party from Val Tourmaline at these words.
“Quiet!” Halldóra shouted. She waited for perfect silence before speaking. “The mortals caught you? How?”
He touched the collar. “This is a talisman, grandmother. Like none I’ve ever seen before. It allows them to control a daēva. The Oracle has others. Danai too.”
Now Halldóra did take the chair, sitting heavily. “I’d heard she was stirring up trouble, but we pay little attention to such matters.” She turned an accusing eye on Victor. “You knew this. What have you done about it?”
“Daníel arrived just after I deployed the ice defenses,” Victor said. “There’s been no way to get word out until today.”
“So no one else knows? The Matrium?”
Victor shook his head.
Katrin snuck a look at Halldóra’s heir, her skin crawling. A talisman to bind a daēva? What an obscenity!
“How did you escape?” Halldóra asked Daníel.
“A mortal helped me. She’s here too.”
Victor pointed at two gold bracelets lying on the table. “Those are the match of the collars. When a mortal wears one, it gives them control over the Nexus. We cannot touch the elements without permission. The bond can also be used to cause severe pain. I would have destroyed them, but they’re warded—just like your grandson’s collar.”
Everyone in the room stared at the bracelets with disgust and, Katrin had to admit, a touch of fear.
“You’re welcome to Daníel,” Victor continued with a wave of his hand. “And I’ve no wish to remain indefinitely at Val Moraine. But nor will I let you have it. So here are my terms. We unite to destroy the Oracle and liberate her prisoners, and you leave Val Moraine an icebound tomb. With assurances that there will be no repercussions for my ridding the world of Eirik Kafsnjór.”
Halldóra considered this for a moment. “I don’t like the second part much. But I do agree Delphi must be dealt with, swiftly and severely.” She drew a deep breath. “It has been a long time since Danai and Valkirin fought side by side. A thousand years, by my reckoning. The other holdfasts might not accept it, even if they believe me.”
Victor appeared to listen but his expression grew vague, one hand slipping inside his coat to grasp something. Katrin’s green eyes narrowed. She’d seen Eirik perform the same gesture countless times.
“I would speak,” Mithre said, rising to his feet and addressing the Valkirins. “I followed Victor into the shadowlands. We found a new world on the other side. There were no daēvas, only mortals. We were the first. The mortals there discovered a similar talisman, but they called it a bond. We were slow to react, slow to unite, and they enslaved us all. Forced us to be soldiers. To kill each other.”
Daníel listened closely to his words, Katrin noticed, though it was hard to tell what he thought of them.
“You think you’re strong and the mortals are weak, but they’re not. If they can take one, they can take us all.” Mithre sat down.
Frida and Sofia were no longer smirking, nor was Katrin. Halldóra nodded slowly.
“I’ll leave it to you to inform the Matrium,” she said to Victor. “I’ll tell Runar of Val Petros and Stefán of Val Altair. We can meet on the plain outside the city, in the Umbra. But I have not yet agreed to the final disposition of Val Moraine. That will be taken up again once the Oracle has been dealt with.” She gave Victor a grim smile. “And any new treaty will include your mother. Or do you rule House Dessarian now?”
Victor’s gaze slitted but he gave a brusque nod.
“Done,” he said.
Gerda clenched her teeth, letting the globe fall into her lap. Before she could stop herself, she’d hurled her goblet of wine across the room, thin arms quivering with rage. It shattered against the wall in a scarlet stain.
An alliance between Danai and Valkirin? Curse Halldóra to nine hells! This simply wouldn’t do.
She looked around at the dismal chamber where she’d spent the last century waiting to die. Before she found Nicodemus, there’d been little to live for. She passed the long, lonely hours drinking and talking to ghosts. But the return of the Vatras changed everything. Together, they could restore the Valkirins to their former glory. Masters of the air! Lords of sky and stone! Her pulse quickened. Yet again, the Avas Danai stood in their way. Well, she wouldn’t let history repeat itself.
Gerda ran to the door and pounded on it with both fists.
“What now?” a voice on the other side asked wearily.
“Open up, boy!” Gerda said her most commanding tone. “This instant!”
The bolt was thrown and the door cracked open. A young Danai stood on the other side. He barely looked old enough to shave. Even in her fury, Gerda felt insulted they’d given her the runt of the litter.
“I demand to see Halldóra,” she said imperiously.
He sighed. “Look, I can’t leave my post—”
“Listen, you little weasel. Do you have any idea who I am?” She struck her breast. “The oldest living Kafsnjór! I was hunting icebjorn five hundred years before you crawled from your mother’s miserable womb. Halldóra of Val Tourmaline is one of my dearest friends. If she finds out you’ve kept me hidden away, abused me, you can kiss that treaty goodbye. And Victor will nail your hide to the wall. You’ll be despised by every—”
“All right, all right.” He did look a little worried now, which pleased her. “But you have to wait here.”
Gerda clenched her teeth as he shot the bolt. Long minutes crept by. Then she heard footsteps in the corridor. The door swung wide.
Halldóra of Val Tourmaline had aged since Gerda last saw her, but she was still a handsome woman. The light blue gems of her holdfast’s namesake gleamed in her silver hair.
“Gerda,” Halldóra said, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “I didn’t even realize you lived.”
“Please, for the love of all that’s decent, take her away with you,” muttered Victor Dessarian, who stood behind Halldóra.
“I will speak with her alone,” Gerda said haughtily.
Victor laughed. “Not likely.” He shouldered his way inside.
Three other Valkirins provided an escort and Gerda was delighted to see one of them was Katrin. They shared a warm smile. She’d always liked Katrin. A proper Valkirin, that girl was.
Daníel hovered in the background, his expression shadowed.
“Wait outside,” Halldóra told them.
Katrin didn’t look happy about it, but she nodded. Four Danai gathered down the corridor, whispering among themselves.
Gerda closed the door and stared at Victor, who lounged in her favorite chair. Well, let him stay. What did she care?
“I’m sorry about Eirik,” Halldóra said. “He will be sorely missed.”
“No, he won’t.” Gerda drew Halldóra aside. “There’s no need to pretend. Everyone hated him, even his own children.”
Halldóra didn’t bother disputing this. “You’re more than welcome at Val Tourmaline,” she said. “The ultimate fate of Val Moraine remains undecided, but be assured—”
“That is not what I wish to discuss,” Gerda interrupted, glancing at Victor. “This is an ill-conceived alliance.”
“I don’t require your blessing,” Halldóra replied stiffly. “I understand you bear the Danai a grudge, but Eirik is dead now. And we have a common enemy that is far more dangerous.”
“The mortals?” Gerda sneered. “Pah! A bugbear, conjured to distract you from the truth.” She drew herself up. “Heed me now, Halldóra. War is coming, but not the one you think.” She paused. “The Vatras will return. They aren’t all free of the Kiln yet, but they will be.”
“The Vatras,” Halldóra said flatly.
“I can prove it to you. But first you must understand what really happened.” She pointed to Victor, who watched them with hooded eyes from across the room. “It was all the fault of the Danai. They betrayed the Vatra king and drove him to a blind rage. And our ancestors made the mistake of sheltering his enemies. We chose the wrong side! But now we have a chance to choose again.”
Halldóra studied her with an unreadable expression. “Why do you think they’re free?”
“Because I’ve spoken with one. Seen him work fire with my own eyes. He promised to liberate Val Moraine from the invaders. But if you ally with the Danai now…. We will burn. All of us.”
“The woman is mad,” Victor muttered.
Gerda smiled grimly. “Am I? Or do you have doubts in your heart? What if I speak the truth? If I were you, I would dig myself a very deep hole to hide in when the Vatras come. And they will come. Make no mistake—”
“Enough,” Halldóra interrupted with a touch of impatience. “What proof do you have?”
“I will give you proof.” Gerda retrieved the globe, blowing on the runes. “Show me the Vatra,” she whispered.
A man appeared in the depths. He crouched over a glass display case.
Victor leapt to his feet and hurried over, his face a thunderhead. “What is this?” he demanded, peering at the glass orb. “Some trick?”
Gerda smiled. “It is no trick, you fool. His name is Nicodemus.”
“I had these rooms searched! You lying old—”
Victor reached for the globe and Halldóra laid a hand on his arm.
“It is hers,” she said sternly.
Victor grumbled but dropped his hand. “This is ridiculous.”
“He’s in Tjanjin, I think. But he escaped the Kiln, with one other.”
Halldóra watched him for a moment, then sighed.
“Why don’t you come with me and we can discuss this further at my camp?”
“No!”
“She’s not taking that globe,” Victor growled. “It’s spoils of war and belongs to me now.”
“Over my dead body,” Gerda hissed, clutching the talisman.
She willed Nicodemus to take out his own globe, but as before, he didn’t seem to see her. She felt Halldóra’s interest waning.
And then…a sudden flame erupted from the man’s palm, illuminating his features in flickering red light. The shadows fled before the sudden light. He appeared to be standing in a windowless chamber cluttered with objects of every description.
Halldóra gave a low gasp. She leaned forward.
“I cannot believe it,” she whispered. “After all this time.”
“You see?” Gerda said in satisfaction. “We must do all we can to help him break the Gale.” She let the image vanish. “A new age will come! The lost art of forging talismans will be restored. Air and fire are sister elements. Of all the clans, we were always the most alike.” Gerda touched Halldóra’s arm. “I know you want vengeance for Daníel, but the Vatras will punish the mortals, do not fear. And if you are the first to forge a pact, I am certain they’ll reward you with Val Moraine and all her riches.”
Halldóra stared at the globe, which had grown cloudy. She drew a deep breath and looked up.
“We must tell the Marakai,” Halldóra said—to Victor.
He nodded, face white with shock.
Gerda scowled. “Why do you speak to him? He is our enemy. I will inform Nicodemus the holdfasts stand behind the return—”
“You are mad,” Halldóra snapped, eyes blazing. “Ally with the Vatras? They have no allies! They despise us all. We helped imprison them, in case you’ve forgotten. Do you think they would overlook that now?”
Gerda recoiled. “Don’t be a fool!”
“Give me the talisman,” Halldóra growled. “You shall not work any more mischief with it.”
She reached for the globe and Gerda yanked it back. “You’re making a terrible mistake!” she screeched.
“No, it is you who’ve made the mistake. You are either a monster or an old fool, I care not which.” Halldóra’s grey eyes hardened to flint. “But I would see my whole holdfast burn before I grovel to the Lost Clan.”
Gerda felt everything she’d worked for slipping away. A terrible, black grief descended on her. First, she had mourned the dead of Culach’s Folly, their corpses left to rot in some foreign land. Then, only months later, the Dessarians came to finish the job. Gerda could have endured the horror of losing her entire holdfast if she knew the Valkirins as a race would be saved. But even that was not to be.
Gerda’s mouth set. Her thin white hair lifted in a sudden whirlwind. Halldóra sensed it and reached for air herself—too late. Gerda lifted her like a child and hurled her at the wall of ice, a hundred times harder than she’d thrown the goblet. There was a terrible crack as her skull struck. Halldóra hit the ground in a broken heap.
Gerda spun to Victor, teeth bared, and saw the shining edge of his sword sweeping toward her.
Albert, she thought, and nothing more.