Nadya felt her heart speed up as Malachiasz followed the Tranavian into a shoddily constructed cabin. She glanced at Parijahan, whose expression was drawn and wary. The minutes Malachiasz was gone stretched on seemingly endlessly, but the soldier guarding them just looked bored.
Eventually Malachiasz stepped out of the cabin, his face pale. The other soldier followed behind him and waved a hand to the girl guarding them.
“Let them through,” he said.
She looked like she was going to question him, but Malachiasz shot her a thin smile and tapped one of the pins on his jacket. He outranked her—he probably outranked everyone here—and she fell silent.
Malachiasz grabbed Nadya’s wrist and pulled her away from the camp. She let him, fully aware it was all part of the show but also that he was clearly enjoying it.
Neither of them had addressed what had passed between them in the clearing. She didn’t think they ever would. She just tried to ignore the stutter in her heart that was intrinsically tied to his hand around her wrist.
That initial danger behind them, now they had to make it to Grazyk before the real test began.
Tranavia was not what Nadya expected. There were lakes and rivers everywhere. They had to ferry across some, the boats run by haggard, elderly men and women, too old to fight at the front. But Tranavia was beautiful. The water clear and bright, studding the land like gemstones, untainted by the scourge of war that burned across the Kalyazi countryside.
On one of the many Tranavian boats they became acquainted with during the trip, Nadya leaned against the railing, gazing down into the water. Rashid was perched precariously at her side when Malachiasz came up next to her.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” he said.
“It is.”
He was quiet, staring out across the water. There was a fondness in his gaze she had never seen before.
“It hasn’t been particularly kind to me,” he said. “But Tranavia is home. It’s wild and vibrant and tenacious. Its people are bullheaded and innovative.” He glanced at her. “I’ll save it from destruction.”
It was something they had in common—though she felt a pang of guilt because her actions would lead to Tranavia’s fall. Her gods wanted it punished for its heresy and she would see that done. Even if it put her at odds with this strange, beautiful boy. But she could see he cared, deeply, the same way she cared for Kalyazin, and she could respect that.
He wordlessly unhooked the spell book from his hip and handed it to her.
She hesitantly took the thick, leather-bound book from him. She would have held it between two fingers, but it was too heavy for that. “What are you doing?”
“I can’t be seen with that, and you need to appear like a competent blood mage.”
She wanted to drop it in the water. She rested it against the railing, away from her body. He rolled his eyes, unhooked the belts that kept the book at his hip, and handed her those as well.
“I’ll have to tear through it without using the spells,” she said. While ruining a blood mage’s spell book had always been a private goal for her, she would have preferred it not be his.
He tapped his temple. “They’re my spells. I can rewrite them anytime.”
“Are you going to come into the palace with us?” Nadya asked.
Here was what they had not addressed: just what Malachiasz’s role would be once they reached the capital. He had dodged the question before in a way that made Nadya suspect he would simply disappear on their arrival.
“I will remain nearby,” he said. He frowned and it furrowed the tattoos at his forehead. “It would not be uncommon for a slavhka to travel with a blood mage acting as their guard. It won’t necessarily give me optimal reach of the palace, but I can certainly make do.”
Nadya pursed her lips. That was a sound part for him to play and she found she had no arguments. “You won’t get yourself caught by the Vultures?” She was still worried about what he had said about them not being able to act against their king’s orders, even if the magic on him had eased.
“Worrying about him is a rather pointless endeavor, I’ve found,” Rashid noted, nudging her with his elbow.
“You think I’m worried about him?” Nadya said flippantly.
Rashid shot her a disbelieving look. When she glanced at Malachiasz out of the corner of her eye, he was casually watching the water.
“I’m going to go see if Parijahan needs anything,” Rashid said. “We should be on the other side of this lake within the hour.”
Nadya wanted to pull him back, tell him not to leave her alone with Malachiasz, but Rashid was already gone.
“I’ve never had someone worry about me before,” Malachiasz mused.
Nadya contemplated pitching herself into the water.
“Well, don’t look to me to be the first,” she replied.
He smiled. The breeze caught his hair, sending it out like tendrils of black smoke through the air.
“Our plan is as sound as it can be under the circumstances,” he said. “Rawalyki are underhanded affairs. They draw the brightest and best into the heart of the city and after a mess of dramatics and sometimes blood a new consort is chosen. It’s one of the only times the palace is accessible to nobility who are not in the upper reaches of the social spheres.”
He was right, there was nothing further they could do at this point. Malachiasz had drilled her on court niceties until she felt like her brain was melting. Parijahan had taught her all she knew from growing up in a Travasha.
“Nobles are nobles,” she had said, waving a hand. “Regardless of where they come from. The pettiness of court transcends all cultural boundaries.”
Nadya was, for all intents and purposes, ready. She wished she felt it.
“You have to trust me,” Malachiasz said. “Once we get inside, the moment where we can get close enough to strike will present itself. We’ve come this far, getting into Tranavia was half the battle.”
She didn’t want to trust him. Especially not after seeing him for what he was.
“Is … that something you can control?” she asked, knowing he would know what she was talking about. “It’s not sparked by a certain time or incident?”
“I’m not a wolivnak, Nadya.”
Wolf changers whose transformations were sparked by the cycles of the moon. She rolled her eyes. “Our word for those is zhir’oten.”
“Well, I’m not one of those,” he said primly.
“Oddly, I get the distinct impression you’re worse.”
He laughed. “You’re probably right.”
“There’s more to that form than what I saw, isn’t there?” She wasn’t sure how willing he would be to talk about this. His relaxed smiles did not mean he would answer her questions.
He nodded. “Not for every Vulture, but for me, yes.”
“It felt horribly wrong,” she said, feeling a shudder ripple through her.
He shrugged. “It really depends on what you mean by wrong.”
“Monstrous.”
“I am a monster,” he said gently.
Her brow furrowed and she leaned her elbows on the railing, putting her chin in her hands.
Malachiasz angled his head back against the wind. “Tranavians value power and status above everything. It doesn’t matter how that power is reached or what measures are taken to gain it. Monsters are seen as an ideal, because monsters are powerful, more than human.” He held his hand out and his nails lengthened to iron claws. “Your people strive for divinity?”
She nodded, though it was an oversimplification.
“That is not a great deal different. It’s striving for something that would be more than human.”
“But not at the expense of killing people.”
“Kalyazi kill Tranavians every day and do not see it as a problem. Kalyazi were killing Tranavians long before this war began, and it was not an issue then either.”
She whirled on him, anger flashing hot. His people were heretics and mu
rderers and he would not twist her words on her. “It’s not the same as torturing prisoners of war,” she snapped.
He took her chin in his hand, his nails cold and sharp against her skin. He could press a little harder and rip open the flesh of her jaw. Her heart sped up, but she couldn’t tell if it was from fear or something else.
“Perhaps not,” he whispered, leaning down closer. She felt his warm breath feather her face. “Perhaps we should have this conversation again when you have tasted real power.”
His hair brushed against her cheek, his mouth hovering so near to hers that she could feel her lips trembling. Her knees felt weak. His gaze lingered on her lips. The corner of his mouth twitched up and he leaned back.
He nodded over her shoulder, turning her head so she could see the city glittering behind them. “Welcome to Grazyk, Józefina,” he said. “Now the real trial begins.”
* * *
Nadya couldn’t stop her hands from shaking.
Her prayer beads were safely in her pocket, so she clutched at the necklace Kostya had given her. What would Kostya say if he saw her now? Caught up in a plan forged by a group of potentially mad teenagers, a mask on her face made of leather painted white and stamped with impressions of thorns.
He would tease her, scold her, tell her she was getting in over her head. She missed him.
Marzenya had warned her the gods’ presence while in Tranavia would be limited, but Nadya felt their absence like a physical wound in her side. As though the gods were ripped from her as soon as she stepped over the border. When she stretched she could brush against Marzenya’s touch, but it took effort. It would be difficult to cast magic. She felt utterly and completely alone.
The entire city was shrouded in a stifling fog. Nadya could feel the blood magic that had caused such an oppressive taint in the air. It was difficult to breathe. This was why she was here, though, to rip apart that veil, to draw the gods back into this heathen country.
Once they entered the city, Nadya was overwhelmed by the sounds and crowds. She stuck close to Parijahan, grabbing her arm at times to keep from being separated. Unlike the villages they had passed through where the people looked worn and half-starved, everyone in the city dressed in rich, colorful clothes. Most wore masks over their faces—fanciful adornments that hid their identities. They were all nothing more than faceless enemies.
The closer they got to the palace grounds, the more agitated Malachiasz became. Nadya could feel her own nervousness feeding off his. She grabbed his wrist when they were near the palace gates, pressing down hard at the base.
She lifted her eyebrows when he shot her a questioning look. The magic they had cast on each other was all that would keep them safe; they had to trust in it. Nadya had anchored her safety to him and he would have to do the same for her. It was clear he didn’t want to return to a place so near the Vultures, but he had to trust her spell would not falter. Finally he let out a long breath, the tension bleeding out of him. She let go of his wrist.
The guards at the palace gates went over Nadya’s paperwork so meticulously that she convinced herself they were going to be arrested on the spot. A bead of sweat dripped down her spine. Rashid didn’t appear concerned, but Nadya had learned the boy had a knack for calm in a similar way Parijahan did. She wondered what it was that allowed the Akolans to stare headlong into potential disaster without flinching.
After ten agonizing minutes, the guards waved her through the gates. Nadya wanted to collapse against Parijahan in relief, but she merely took the papers back from the guard and stepped past them.
Nadya felt Malachiasz tense when a massive black cathedral at the side of the grounds came into view. Its spires could be seen in the distance even past the overbearing palace with its glittering towers. She nudged the back of his hand, forcing his gaze away. He shot her a strained smile.
An attendant bustled out from the main palace doors, taking the steps with a grace that Nadya envied. Suddenly she was being swept through the doors and any chance she had to back out was gone.
* * *
“Your timing is impeccable, though we weren’t expecting anyone from your part of Tranavia to participate.” The attendant hadn’t stopped talking since they stepped into the palace.
Nadya kept up with the chattering man, only shooting the occasional panicked glance Parijahan’s way. A masked servant had taken Rashid to the servants’ wing, and Malachiasz had disappeared when Nadya wasn’t looking—he had warned her that he would probably be shunted off to the guard’s barracks so she wasn’t worried yet.
“Łaszczów is admittedly a bit out of touch with the rest of Tranavia,” Nadya agreed. “But this opportunity was not to be missed.”
The attendant smiled. “Quite right.” The man wore a mask that looked like birds’ wings on either side of his face.
Nadya had only been wearing her mask for a day and already she was fantasizing about ripping it off. It was hot and uncomfortable and she didn’t want it on anymore.
The exterior of the palace was striking, with golden columns lining the entrance. Aged oak doors opened into the massive foyer. Marble floors were checkered in pale violets and blacks. Paintings of women in flowing gowns and soldiers in crisp military uniforms stretched across the vaulted ceilings.
As they wound their way through the palace, the paintings became darker in tone. The hallways closed in as the colors grew increasingly oppressive. Vultures—the birds and their human counterparts—their claws, and blood magic symbols scrawled by an artist whose frenzy could be felt.
Altogether opulent and terrifying, it was like a nightmare had bled its way into a nobleman’s dreams.
“Feeling left out happens when someone goes drinking without you, Ostyia, not when someone visits a mad—oh.” The droll voice that echoed down the hallway stopped.
A spike of adrenaline raced through Nadya. This was the defining moment, where this plan could succeed or burn to the ground and leave them all at the end of a noose.
The High Prince cut a completely different figure than he had that day at the monastery. His brown hair was shorter now, swept carefully back from his forehead. In this light, his pale eyes were less eerie, though the scar that cut across his face was still intimidating. But in the gilded halls of his palace he looked more like a prince than a monster.
He was trailed by the short one-eyed girl. She had been in the middle of pulling on his sleeve and cajoling him when he’d stopped abruptly.
“Who is this?” he asked the attendant. His lips quirked into a crooked smile.
Her heart was pounding so hard it felt like her entire body was shaking, but she forced herself to move past the attendant anyway.
“Józefina Zelenska, Your Highness,” she said, executing a flourished bow that not even Malachiasz could complain about.
“Zelenska,” the prince mused. “Do I know the name?” he asked the short girl.
She shook her head slowly, appearing puzzled.
“I’m not surprised. Łaszczów is a bit out of the way for royalty,” Nadya said.
Something flickered over his expression and he took a step closer. His eyes narrowed on her face and she felt her pulse speed.
“Remove the mask,” he said, then, as an afterthought, “please.”
He’s going to see straight through Malachiasz’s spell, she thought, horrified, as she undid the catch and slowly pulled the mask away from her face.
With each beat of her heart she felt closer to death. He reached out and took her chin in his hand, lifting her face up to his.
“I’ve been to Łaszczów,” he said softly. “I feel like I would remember such a face.”
She resisted the urge to swallow. “I spend the better part of the year traveling,” she said. “I was in Akola for the past few years, perhaps your visit overlapped?”
He glanced at Parijahan. She must have been confirmation enough that Nadya was telling the truth, because he dropped his hand, smiling in a way that was almost apologetic.
“Perhaps. A shame our paths did not cross. Good luck to you, Józefina.”
She hastily put the mask back on. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
It wasn’t until Nadya had been led to her chambers that she felt like she could breathe again.
She tore the mask off her face and tossed it onto a chair. Taking in the room, she was met with the same level of splendor and intimidation she witnessed while walking through the palace halls. There was a lush chaise and a set of chairs in the sitting room, along with an end table and mahogany desk to one side. There were bookshelves that looked like they had never been touched except when cleaned. Oil paintings hung on the walls—portraits of Tranavian slavhki, probably.
Nadya looked up at the ceiling, and the sight chilled her bones. A massive mural of birds stretched over the entire surface—Vultures shown most prominently—surrounded by dripping, acidic flowers. She felt a stab of disdain that she knew came from the gods. Distant but still present.
Parijahan scanned the room, quickly pulling open the desk drawer, removing a pad of paper and pencil and scrawling a quick message.
This place is probably crawling with spells, she wrote.
Nadya nodded, reaching up for her prayer beads before remembering they were in her pocket. She had spent the better part of the journey carving the gods’ symbols into thin circles of wood, which she attached to the cover of Malachiasz’s spell book. It would work, in a roundabout way, and appear as though she was casting like a blood mage.
Can you clear the spells from these rooms, please? She sent the prayer to Veceslav, but it was Marzenya who answered.
“Can you feel it?”
Nadya paused. She leaned back against a chair and closed her eyes, letting herself feel the invisible wall separating gods from men. She felt it the moment they had stepped into Tranavia, the weight of the veil pressing down against her, choking off her only access to the divine.
She was strong enough to fight through it, but this was manmade magic created to fight against the gods. This was greater than anything Nadya expected and would make her task all the more impossible.
Wicked Saints Page 17