Wicked Saints

by Emily A Duncan

  He tugged a frozen lock of her hair through his fingers. “I’m not sure I will,” he murmured. He turned and started down the path to the church. “Red was a good choice,” he called back over his shoulder.

  Nadya was left sitting in front of the altar, her face the same fiery shade as her hair.

  “You didn’t see that,” she said, aloud, to whichever god was listening. “As soon as this is over, knife to the heart, just like that.”

  She didn’t manage to convince herself. But none of that mattered, not yet.

  15

  SEREFIN

  MELESKI

  Svoyatova Viktoria Kholodova: When Svoyatova Viktoria Kholodova was killed, a pomegranate tree burst forth from where her body fell.

  —Vasiliev’s Book of Saints

  Kacper let the door slam behind them. “That was one of your worst ideas, Serefin. Ever.”

  Serefin couldn’t stop laughing. Kacper was looking at him in shock, unable to see the humor in earning a prophecy from a mad Kalyazi witch. Serefin wheezed, leaning back against the wall and sliding to the floor. A servant passed in front of them, pointedly not looking at the High Prince having a fit of hysterics on the ground.

  “What did it mean?” Kacper continued.

  “Did it have to mean anything?” Serefin asked after catching his breath. He wiped tears from his eyes.

  Kacper shuddered.

  Serefin brushed a moth off his knee, frowning. Where were they coming from? The insect left the barest sprinkling of dust on Serefin’s black trousers as it flew away.

  After heaving an exasperated sigh, Kacper slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor next to Serefin.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  Serefin leaned his head back. He needed a way to dig deeper into the underbelly of the court without anyone suspecting him of stirring up trouble. He had a reputation for getting underfoot and antagonizing slavhki, most of whom weren’t fond of him. While Pelageya was an oddity, it was comforting to know not everyone in the castle was under his father’s spell.

  “How quickly can a person travel to Kyętri and back?” he mused.

  Kacper glanced sidelong at him. “You’re leaving Grazyk?”

  “I can’t. But I need someone to go to the Salt Mines.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “Well…”

  “Definitely not.”

  “I trust you and Ostyia and no one else,” Serefin said.

  “That’s touching, Serefin.”

  “Are you defying a direct order from your prince?” Serefin asked, pressing a hand over his heart.

  “It wasn’t a direct order, and I won’t leave you with only Ostyia for protection while you’re convincing yourself there are going to be assassins waiting for you around every corner. I’ll find someone trustworthy to send to Kyętri.”

  “What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

  “Drink a lot of wine and prepare for your inevitable fate?” Kacper suggested.

  Serefin considered that with a thoughtful nod.

  “Maybe get a new spell book?”

  That got Serefin to his feet. “There’s an idea. With every piece I’m given about this business with the Vultures I grow more concerned, so first, let’s go to the source.”

  “You’re going to try to pull the Vultures away from your father?” Kacper asked.

  “He shouldn’t have them to begin with, so I’m certainly going to try.”

  * * *

  Serefin’s status earned him an interview with the Crimson Vulture, the second in command. Unexpectedly, she came to his rooms instead of requiring he go to the cathedral on the palace grounds to meet her.

  The Vulture was a tall woman who wore an iron mask that covered all but her stormy blue eyes. Piles of black hair fell down her back in waves. Her head shifted to one side in an oddly avian way when she was brought before Serefin.

  “Your Highness,” she said, her voice graveled, “welcome back to Grazyk.”

  He motioned for her to sit and was grateful when she did; her height was intimidating.

  “I hope His Excellency is well,” Serefin said. He wasn’t surprised that he had been denied an audience with the Black Vulture. The leader of the Vultures was notoriously elusive.

  “I’ll be sure to pass on your felicitations,” she replied.

  “Strange that he’s not in Grazyk with the Rawalyk so near.”

  “Matters of state hold little interest to him. As it is now there will always be a war and there will always be state kings to fuel it, so he must see to the things of magic your king forgets or simply has no time for.”

  Or simply isn’t powerful enough to comprehend. What must it be like, to be the king of a land that lauds its blood mages, surrounded by mages all more powerful than you? Serefin supposed he could sympathize with his father’s position, if not exactly empathize.

  “What kind of matters would those be?” Serefin asked.

  “Curious about our ways, Your Highness? I would’ve thought they were too occult for someone with your sensibilities.”

  “I’ve just been given a lot of free time. It’s not something one has a great deal of when they’re continually at war. I may as well spend it putting together the pieces of just what has happened while I’ve been away.”

  She tensed. It was subtle, but Serefin caught it.

  “Tell me, my lady, about the Vulture that was found in Kalyazin.”

  Her eyes widened a fraction of an inch. “I suppose we cannot keep every secret close.”

  “Did that sound like blackmail?” Serefin asked innocently. It would be a scandal if the common folk learned of someone defecting from the Vultures. They were the elite, a higher authority, the chosen blessed.

  Her head tilt dropped a raven lock over the forehead of her silver mask. “Tell me, Your Highness, what do you want?”

  “I was called from the front rather suddenly. The necessity for a consort seems like thin reasoning. I have no true proof of any dealings that should not be happening taking place, yet…”

  “Yet you have suspicions.”

  He shrugged. “As I said, nothing founded.”

  “What makes you think my order would know the machinations of your political games?”

  “There was a Vulture in my father’s throne room,” Serefin said idly. “The Vultures were also very eager to go after the cleric I found, only to fail … The latter is an unfortunate oversight on your order’s part; the former, well, that looks like mixing magic and politics where they should not meet. I have no intention of blackmailing you, my lady—not yet, at least. Your order has traditionally played the role of advisor and nothing more, is that still the case?”

  She swallowed. “Not quite.”

  He hummed an acknowledgment and waited for her to continue.

  “Some amount of paranoia on your part may be well founded.”

  “What kind of paranoia?” he asked, letting his eyes close. He angled his head back. He would have expected more fear, more panic, anxiety that clutched at him and refused to let him think; instead he just felt calm. Here was a problem for him to decipher. Here was something to do, even if that something was surviving.

  “It is rumored that your standing at court is tenuous, but they’re whispers, nothing more.”

  Serefin couldn’t help but smile. So his father had become so anxious about Serefin’s power that he thought it best he was out of the picture entirely? How utterly Tranavian.

  “And telling me this isn’t betraying Tranavia?”

  A flicker of amusement sparked in the Vulture’s eyes. “It would hardly be the first time Tranavian politics were upheaved while the Vultures remained untouched. It’s not like I told you anything you did not already know.”

  Regardless, it was confirmation he wasn’t going mad, that he wasn’t seeing knives where they were not, shadows where none stood. It was something, and it would have to be enough.

  * * *

  Serefin had nothi
ng but time to figure out how to move forward. He might as well enjoy his last days.

  The northern end of the palace grounds held a huge arena built long before Tranavia discovered blood magic. Back when power was tested by might and strength alone. The traditions remained even as power became something far greater in concept. The arena was still used for mage duels, to settle grievances amidst the court, and—most importantly—for trials and executions.

  It was a large building, made for seating a fair portion of the city if necessary. Iron spikes jutted around the circumference, and carvings of war lined the outside. The entrance was decorated with symbols for magic, and Serefin brushed his hand against one as he passed.

  The inner arena was a circle of packed dirt that had been dug twenty feet down from ground level. It could be manipulated by mages during trials, but usually it remained as a training ground. There were a few individuals within when Serefin entered, Ostyia trailing at his heels. None of them took any notice of the prince. He moved to the railing and jumped up onto it, sitting down and swinging his legs over the far drop. Ostyia leaned against the railing beside him.

  “Recognize anyone?” he asked. Faces were a blur.

  She nodded.

  “We have House Láta, House Bržoska, House Orzechowska, and House Pacholska,” Ostyia said. “Ah, and dear lady Żaneta.” She pointed to a young woman who was resting against the far wall of the arena, watching the other four girls as they sparred.

  “They’re all being so civil,” Serefin noted.

  Ostyia rolled her eyes. “When they become anything else, I want you to remember they’re doing it for the crown, not you. Don’t let it go to your head, dear prince.”

  “No, it’s all for me,” Serefin said with a wry smile.

  Żaneta noticed them sitting in the stands and waved, bowing smartly after. That got the attention of the other girls, who bowed as well. Serefin waved a hand.

  “Don’t mind me,” he called down.

  He knew House Láta and Orzechowska were prominent blood mage families, but he was less sure about the other two.

  Żaneta pushed herself off the wall and climbed the steps. Serefin felt his gaze follow her as if magnetized. Before his father’s announcement, Serefin had been quite confident Żaneta would be Tranavia’s next queen. Now, she would have to fight her way to the throne.

  Her mass of dark auburn curls was tied back, throwing her tawny skin and refined features into sharp focus. There was a streak of blood smeared on the coat she wore over her dress.

  Her mother was a noble from Akola, and Żaneta had her dark coloring. Her nose had a graceful hook to it that on anyone else might seem hawkish, but which looked regal on her. Her lips twisted into a smile as she neared Serefin.

  “Your Highness,” she said. Her voice had the barest hint of smoke to it, breathy and dark.

  “Lady Ruminska,” he replied, swinging around on the railing so he could stand. He took her outstretched hand and pressed it to his lips.

  “Ugh, house name and everything,” she said. “You leave for a few years and all my hard work goes to waste.”

  “Żaneta,” he amended with a smile.

  “Better.” She stepped back, turning to the arena seats and a pile of the girls’ discarded things. She picked up her belt and strapped it around her hips, attaching her spell book. “Did you get back this morning?”

  “Yes, and I’ve already been thoroughly scolded by my father and discussed sensitive matters with a Vulture.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “So busy so soon and without a drink in your hand; war has changed you, Serefin.” She picked up a heavily jeweled mask and let it hang from her fingers as she leaned over the railing. “Good luck to you, my dears,” she called down. “Blood and bones will they need luck,” she continued under her breath, turning back.

  “The competition not up to your standards?” Serefin asked as he fell into step beside her. He tried to overtake her pace so it didn’t seem as though he was trailing along behind her. He wasn’t certain he succeeded.

  “Is it ever?” She flipped the mask between her fingers before attaching it to her belt. “It’s good to see you, and under such ideal circumstances.”

  Serefin found he couldn’t agree with her on the circumstances, but at the very least he was away from the front. The likelihood of his death was about the same as it ever was, after all.

  “Tell me something good, Żaneta,” Serefin said as they walked through the gardens. “I have had nothing but bad news for years now.”

  “I’m going to catch you up on all of the best court gossip,” she said. “You’ve missed so much! Did you know that Nikodem Stachowicz was caught in the palace archives with the youngest Osadik boy?”

  “Don’t those families—”

  “Hate each other? And have been locked in a feud for three generations? Yes!”

  Serefin laughed, and for the first time in what felt like years, he let himself relax.

  16

  NADEZHDA

  LAPTEVA

  There are no ancient records of the goddess of light, Zvonimira. There are whispers, rumors, threads of truth or fiction that say that she is the youngest in the pantheon, but who truly knows how the gods come to be? Like Alena, Zvonimira has never bestowed her powers upon a chosen cleric.

  —Codex of the Divine, 36:117

  “Blood magic has become universally ingrained into daily Tranavian life. Without it, the whole country would collapse.”

  Nadya had spent the morning letting Malachiasz’s words filter slowly through one ear and out the other. It wasn’t that she wasn’t paying attention—she was all too aware how vital it was she not misstep while deeply entrenched at court—but it was so much information all at once.

  His words made her pause. “How is that possible?”

  He shrugged, burying his tattooed hands in his pockets. “It builds over time, magic does. Especially blood magic. It’s so accessible. You don’t have to have a true affinity for it to use it in small spells; you just need to know how to channel your own blood through the written conduits. After enough years pass, it becomes routine—fishermen cast spells to keep lines from breaking, bakers cast to keep their bread rising, the like—removing it would fundamentally destroy what has built the country up.”

  Nadya frowned. Her frown deepened when he handed her a slim razor. “Sew that into the sleeve of your coat. Cutting the palm of your hand and fingers hurts more than cutting the back. The razor is treated so the cuts won’t scar.”

  She thought of the scarred plain of his forearms. If the scars weren’t from his magic, then what?

  * * *

  Scattered along the mountain paths and wider roads were wayside shrines that Nadya would quietly attend to whenever they passed. It only ever took her a short while to brush dirt off the statues or pillars and remove the dead flowers before catching up to the others. After the third one they passed, Malachiasz stopped to wait for Nadya while the others walked on ahead.

  She could feel his gaze on her as she worked. This shrine was dedicated to Vaclav so Nadya was taking extra time to ensure it was spotless when she left it. Vaclav was a darker god, chaotic and strong-willed, and Nadya was careful to stay on his good side.

  “I don’t understand,” she heard him say quietly, an odd, agonized note in his voice. Like he was trying so hard to comprehend her strange, pagan ways but simply couldn’t.

  She leaned back on her heels and looked over her shoulder at him, raising an eyebrow.

  “It’s a carving on the side of the road. Your cleaning it doesn’t make a difference,” he said.

  “The gods like when their altars are tended.”

  He shot her a look. “It’s just junk.”

  “It’s a place of holiness and you should treat it with a modicum of respect,” Nadya replied, returning to her work.

  She heard Malachiasz scoff. “So, your power and this are both holy?”

  “What does my power have to do with anything?”r />
  “If it’s all holy.” He waved a hand vaguely.

  “I don’t think you’re in any position to say what’s holy or not,” she said, voice hot. “Besides, it’s not like you can deny my power exists.”

  “Having power granted to you, and acknowledging that beings of power exist, isn’t the same as acknowledging that those beings are benevolent or even sentient.”

  “But you’re acknowledging they exist.”

  “Not in the capacity you do. You’re saying your every choice is dictated by these beings. Everything you do is on their behalf and at their whim, so you have no free choice at all.”

  “I absolutely have a choice.”

  “Do you?”

  “You’re still alive.”

  He immediately fell silent. She half-expected him to leave—they were near where they were planning to camp so Nadya was in no hurry—but instead he moved so he was standing beside the altar, facing her, a puzzled frown still on his face.

  “They talk to me, you know,” she said as she used her sleeve to scrub a patch of lichen off the statue. “They all have their own quirks and desires. Some of them talk to me regularly: Marzenya—my patron—Veceslav, Zvonimira. Others only give me magic when I ask. Some regularly deny my requests. They’re not mere concepts.”

  He didn’t look convinced; she didn’t understand what was so hard to comprehend.

  “How do you explain my power, then?” she said. “Since you clearly know everything.”

  He ignored her barb completely, which was infuriating in its own right. “It’s the concept of gods that I don’t accept,” he said. He idly gathered his long hair back, tying it with the strip of leather he kept around his wrist. “You believe they care about your well-being. I don’t think that’s true. I don’t…” he trailed off, quiet as he searched for words. “It’s what we tie to the word ‘god,’ I think, that bothers me. This idea that these beings are so much more than we could ever be so they deserve our worship. Kalyazi”—he gave her an almost apologetic look—“pin everything on the gods. Creation, morality, day-to-day interactions, their own thoughts. But who’s to say that the gods care at all what individual people think or feel or do? How do you know that you’re interacting with … well, gods and not just beings who have attained a higher standing than mortals?”