Wicked Saints

by Emily A Duncan

  Pews of rare blackwood lined the sanctuary, with the smallest of statues carved at each of the ends. The altar was huge, reaching up to the vaulted ceiling and made of gold and blackwood and silver. The tiers of the Kalyazi gods pictured on either side, the highest tier not depicting figures of the gods themselves, but columns with words in an ancient language Serefin could not make out. The first through third tiers showed the gods in more human forms: regal, beautiful, terrible.

  Serefin paused in the doorway, eyeing the ceiling. Paintings of haloed saints and forests stretched over them. Icons were placed along the walls of the sanctuary, depictions of more saints. How could one country have so many raised to purported holiness?

  Light filtered through the clear glass—Serefin was surprised it wasn’t stained glass like the abandoned chapels of Tranavia. Ostyia was watching him and he turned to her, rolling his eyes derisively.

  “We could make good coin out of all this gold,” he noted.

  “Only if you wanted to carry it back to Tranavia yourself,” she said.

  We’ll have to find new ways to fund this war eventually, Serefin thought. The army had looted the Kalyazi churches near the border, but anything farther away was too difficult to transport. Serefin wondered if he could have a method looked into for moving the riches into Tranavia. At least then the gold would be put to some actual use instead of collecting dust in tribute to empty air.

  Why waste all that money and time in service to gods who did not even know you existed? He would never understand the Kalyazi and their devotion to a thing of the past.

  The future was magic, it was power, it was mankind stepping out of the shadows and finding out the world had been kept in the dark by these gods. Not even gods, but rules and rigors kept in place by men of the church. Of course, the war was about more than just religion—there was a stretch of land between Tranavia and Kalyazin that both claimed as their own. And there were other, minor issues that had compounded during the near century the war had stretched.

  “The abbot gave you nothing?” Ostyia asked as they approached the door where the young monk was being held.

  “An old man content to speak only in riddles. I have a mind to execute him.” Removing their leader would ensure the prisoners remained placid. He had used the tactic before with the Kalyazi. It always worked. He had never used it with church folk, though; he was hesitant to do anything that might turn one of their own into a martyr. The Kalyazi loved their martyrs.

  He paused before the chosen door, stopping Ostyia before she opened it. She shot him a look that was altogether too knowing.

  “If you’d rather not, I would be more than happy to do this for you,” she said.

  Serefin shook his head. It didn’t really matter that he was tired of torturing prisoners, tired of this tour.

  “No, I’ll do it.” He shot her a half-hearted smile. “Besides, this could be fun, yeah?”

  Ostyia kicked open the door. It led into a room nearly identical to the one Serefin had slept in. The Kalyazi boy sat on a hard wooden chair with his wrists tied behind his back, the position yanking his shoulders over the chair. Someone had patched up the crossbow wounds in his leg and side, Serefin noticed. That was good. He didn’t want the boy bleeding out while he was trying to get answers from him.

  “We could bypass all this unpleasantness, you know,” the boy said in fairly smooth Tranavian. He had obviously been taught Graznki, a rougher daughter language to the mother tongue. “I’m sure you don’t want to stain your nice coat.”

  Serefin raised an eyebrow. “Zhe ven’ya?” His coat was nice.

  The boy appeared surprised to hear his own language out of the Tranavian High Prince’s mouth. His dark hair was cut close to his head; three diagonal lines were shaved into the side. His robes seemed too thin to keep him properly warm, but Serefin supposed a Kalyazi monk would enjoy pain.

  “You are going to ask where our missing sisters went. I will tell you I have no idea. You will kill me, end of the story.”

  “That wasn’t a particularly good story,” Serefin said as he moved a chair across the room, placing it in front of the boy. He flipped it around and sat on it backwards, leaning his forearms against the back. “The rising action did nothing for the climax, it all fell short at the resolution.”

  “Tranavians don’t like stories. They’re too busy writing down blasphemes to use for sacrificial magic.”

  “Ah, that’s not true.” Serefin looked at Ostyia, who shook her head, looking rightly dismayed by the accusation. “What a malicious rumor.” He fell silent. The boy stared back stoically, but a flicker passed over his expression. He was finally taking a good look at Serefin’s scar and eye. “What is your name?”

  The boy blinked. “Konstantin.”

  “Well, Konstantin, you are correct, I would like you to tell me where your little acolyte ran off to.”

  Konstantin leaned forward as far as his bound arms would allow. “And I would like to tell you to shove that spell book up your ass.”

  Ostyia took a step forward, but Serefin held out a hand to stop her. He smiled and reached down for the book at his hip. “This one?” He held it up.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Hm.” Serefin opened the book and riffled through it. “Not really the proper use for it.” His other hand shifted his coat sleeve down, his thumb pressing gently against the razor sewn into the cuff. Just a bit more pressure would send the razor through his flesh and draw up the blood needed. “You and I both know I saw you protecting the cleric before she disappeared. Where did she go?”

  “Who?”

  “Feigned confusion is quaint, truly. What’s the girl’s name?”

  Konstantin regarded him with stony silence. Serefin hadn’t expected him to answer. It would take encouragement. He needed her name to clarify the spell. Serefin pressed his thumb down on the razor in his sleeve. He barely even felt the blade slice open his flesh. Konstantin’s eyes went wide as Serefin took his bleeding thumb and pressed it against one of the pages of his spell book.

  “No. Of course you wouldn’t know such a thing.”

  His magic jolted, just once, as the blood ignited with what was written on the pages. Konstantin went rigid, a vein pulsing in his neck betraying his fear. Sweat poured down his forehead and Serefin watched with thinly veiled interest as blood dripped down from the corners of the boy’s eyes. He was boiling him from the inside out. After a few seconds—which surely felt like years to the Kalyazi—Serefin let the spell break. Konstantin slumped back in his chair, gasping for breath.

  “Still nothing?” Serefin asked pleasantly.

  Konstantin spat at his feet, the wad of bloody saliva landing on Serefin’s boot. Serefin regarded it with distaste.

  “I sensed this would happen, but I did so wish to avoid it.” He sighed, waving a hand to Ostyia, who quickly stepped out of the room. The other boy stared at Serefin with some confusion, blood now dripping from his nose.

  It didn’t take long for Ostyia to return and Serefin kept his gaze firmly on the Kalyazi boy as panic stripped his features raw. Ostyia brought the second prisoner forward, kicking the back of his legs to force him to kneel. Serefin finally glanced over to see who Kacper had chosen. Kacper was a master of secrets and information; ferreting out who would break their prisoners fastest was his specialty.

  The boy appeared to be about fifteen years of age, with a subtle resemblance to Konstantin, his eyes huge and wide with fear. He kept them straight ahead, staring at the wall. Ostyia drew her blades and held them crossed over the boy’s throat. Serefin turned his head lazily, his attention returning to Konstantin.

  “Let’s try this again, shall we? Tell me the girl’s name and where she went.”

  Konstantin set his jaw even as his gaze went to the younger boy; his expression softened, but Serefin could see they didn’t have him yet.

  “It would appear I need to be more convincing,” Serefin said. His thumb was still bleeding, so he carefully tore a
second page from his spell book.

  Fear etched onto Konstantin’s face as Serefin leaned his chin on his forearm and inclined his head toward the second, younger boy. The spell caught and the boy spasmed in silent pain, tears running down his face. Serefin was impressed with his stoic grace in the face of agony.

  “No!” Konstantin struggled against the bonds on his arms. “Don’t hurt him! D-don’t hurt him.”

  “Oh? Should I stop?” Serefin shifted the spell, causing the boy to whimper.

  Resignation and a hint of anguish passed over Konstantin’s face. “Nadezhda. Her name is Nadezhda.”

  “Full name, please?” Serefin reached over and slid one of Ostyia’s daggers out of the sheath at her hip. He began to clean his fingernails with the point of the blade.

  “Lapteva. Nadezhda Lapteva.”

  Serefin had to hide a smile. Now he had her. “And the other girl?”

  “Anna Vadimovna. I … I do not know where they were going. There are multiple safe houses in the area. She could have chosen any one of them.”

  Serefin watched as the boy crumpled, the agony of betraying the information breaking him. Funny. For all he knew it was paltry information at best. Multiple safe houses were hardly surprising. He would have to comb the area thoroughly. There was also the matter of certain end-of-the-world incidents Serefin would like answers for.

  “Is she powerful enough to take the stars out of the sky?”

  The boy’s head lifted and Serefin was faintly disgusted to see something that looked suspiciously like hope flicker across his face.

  “No, but the gods are.”

  Serefin snorted softly. “Right, of course.”

  He stood up. “Thank you, Konstantin, for your time.” He tore a third page out of his spell book and crumpled it in his hands.

  Ostyia took a step back as the younger boy fell over, dead.

  Serefin left just as the Kalyazi monk’s shock was beginning to wear off—just as the screams of rage began.

  Ostyia shut the door, muffling them. “I will have someone collect the body,” she said.

  “Thank you.” Serefin glanced at Ostyia. “I’ll have to ask that you convince me not to get drunk again.”

  “Anything for you, Serefin.”

  As they entered the sanctuary, Serefin paused in front of the ornate altar. He skimmed his hand over a carving of a forest that covered the top.

  Pain suddenly lanced through his skull as if spikes were being driven through his eyes. He clutched his head with one hand, fingers fumbling for his spell book and razor. He fell to the ground.

  “Serefin!” Ostyia cried, dropping to her knees.

  He held out a hand. The pain was already dissipating, ebbing away like a trickling stream. He leaned back, expelling a long breath of air.

  “What was that?”

  He internally accounted for all the threads of magic he had active. The spell he had cast to track the cleric had been severed. He scrambled for it, his index finger sliding over the razor in his sleeve, but even with fresh blood he couldn’t reconnect it. He had her name but it wouldn’t help if he lost the trail.

  She’d found his spell, broken it, and kept him from bringing it back. And last night she had taken the stars from the sky. She was more powerful than he’d thought.

  He had to find her. He had to take her power for his own.

  “Have Teodore placed in charge of the company,” Serefin said slowly. “You, Kacper, and I are going after the girl. Now.”

  6

  NADEZHDA

  LAPTEVA

  Though Bozetjeh is the god of the wind, he is considered to be the essence of speed and of time itself. He is everywhere and nowhere all at once.

  —Codex of the Divine, 10:114

  Sweat beaded at Nadya’s temples but relief flooded her as the prince’s spell snapped away. She let out a hiss of a breath, the odd sense of something wrong leaving her.

  Up ahead the Tranavian boy paused. He looked back at her, a frown creasing the tattoos at his forehead.

  He shouldn’t have been able to sense that, Nadya thought.

  “No … he shouldn’t have,” Marzenya agreed. She sounded curious. “You will dispose of him soon, yes?”

  He’s Tranavian, Nadya replied. The answer was obvious.

  Nadya was disconcerted Marzenya had to tell her the prince was tracking her every move, that she hadn’t felt the taint of his blood magic. There were still too many things Nadya didn’t know how to do on her own.

  After Parijahan had offered them a place to hide, they had swiftly caught up with the two boys. Rashid grinned at Nadya, whereas Malachiasz eyed her silently before turning away.

  They arrived at a large, ramshackle church that sprawled down across a valley. It looked like whoever built it had planned for it to rival the Church of Adrian, the Martyr in Khavirsk, but got distracted. It was made entirely of wood—even the round onion domes—and there was unfinished red paint peeling from the bottom of the walls. Carvings over the doorway revealed a dedication to the goddess of the sun, Alena.

  This is yours? Nadya asked, thumbing the appropriate bead on her necklace.

  She felt amusement in return. “It was never truly dedicated.”

  Nadya eyed the church. She could fix that. She wondered how these refugees would take to having their space suddenly inhabited by a goddess. If they were refugees. She wasn’t sure what other word to use to describe them, all three foreigners and one of them the enemy, no less.

  Rashid shoved open the door. It was dark in the foyer, the stumps of half-used torches unlit in their sconces, only one of them left burning. The inside of the building looked nothing like a church. There were three long hallways that were utterly black, two on either side of the entrance, and one down the middle. Nadya had to assume the middle one led to the sanctuary—the church would have been built around an intended sanctuary space—but the rest of the building had clearly been repurposed somewhere along the line.

  “It was like this when we found it,” Parijahan said.

  The dark hall opened up into a large, airy nave that had been gutted. There were piles of weapons against the far wall, clearly picked off Tranavian companies. The room was cut by a chill draft from a hole in the ceiling, but there was a fire smoldering in a makeshift fireplace at the far end of the sanctuary that likely worked to combat it. At the opposite end of the room was a pile of worn pillows and blankets that Rashid immediately sprawled on top of. He pulled the crossbow onto his lap and began meticulously going over it. Beside him was a long table with benches that appeared as though they had been dragged in from the church’s kitchens. A few ragged maps rested atop them.

  The wall between the nave and the sanctuary had been torn down and the only thing that remained of the original space was the icon of Alena that hung over the fireplace—where the altar would have been. It was a lovely piece. It would have been worth thousands of kopecks. Anna shot Nadya a wide-eyed look.

  The icon was by Kalyazin’s most beloved iconographer, Probka Vilenova. She was a saint now, martyred by Tranavians. Her fingers had been cut off and her eyes gouged out before they finally tied rocks to her ankles and drowned her in one of their hundreds of lakes. These three probably had no idea just how much the icon was worth.

  “Are you sure this will be safe?” Anna asked. “It feels … conspicuous.”

  “Did it look like there was anyone in here from the outside?” Rashid said.

  It had not. In fact, it looked like the church had been long forgotten by the world.

  “We’re not staying for long,” Nadya said. “Just a day or so.” She had cut the prince’s spell when they were still far from the church so she had to hope they were safe, but they had to keep moving. They had to get to Tvir.

  “No?” Rashid asked, sounding vaguely disappointed. “Didn’t Parijahan explain the situation?”

  “Situation?” Anna asked.

  “Until they trust us, nothing I say will matter,” Parijahan sai
d. She hopped up onto the table. “But, I suppose knowing our intentions would be a start. We want to stop the war.”

  “Oh, something as simple as that?” Nadya asked, breathing out a startled laugh. “It’s been nearly a century, and you think you can stop it? You’re right. There’s no trust here.”

  “She has a point,” Malachiasz said. He leaned back against the table next to Parijahan. “But we are the ones with the nasty heretic in our midst. I think, first, we should find out just who is the one with magic.” His eyes lingered on Nadya, a smile flickering at the corners of his lips, before cutting to Anna.

  He wore the uniform of a Tranavian military blood mage, though his black jacket was ragged, fraying at the sleeves and hem. There was a patch sewn onto the elbow and the silver epaulets at his shoulders looked like they had seen better days.

  Rashid looked expectantly at Anna and Nadya.

  Neither of them spoke. Nadya chewed her lower lip. If the layout of this church was anything traditional, there would be multiple exits. It would only be a matter of finding the right door and the right hallway and getting out. But Nadya couldn’t let her driving reaction to every situation be acting upon the desire to flee. There was a reason two Akolans and a Tranavian were camped out in the Kalyazi mountains. There was a reason they were speaking cryptically, why the Tranavian seemed unsettled. There was a reason for all of this and Nadya had to believe the gods had thrown her path against these foreigners for a reason, whatever it might be.

  “I could always test them,” Malachiasz said.

  “No!” Anna’s outburst made Nadya jump.

  Malachiasz lifted an eyebrow. His pale eyes slid back to Nadya. A chill ran through her.

  He knows it’s me.

  It was a deeply uncomfortable thought.

  Malachiasz pushed off the table, drawing a wicked looking curved knife from a sheath at the small of his back. He flipped it between his fingers as he walked over to where the girls stood.