Wicked Saints

by Emily A Duncan

  I feel it.

  “You came here to kill a king; I wonder if you won’t uncover something even more terrible.”

  Nadya shivered. Can’t you give some warning as to what that might be?

  “I can barely see through the fog this country has cast, child. You have plunged yourself into the dark where the monsters dwell; now you must fight them off before you’re consumed.”

  Holy speech whispered through her head and she moved to disassemble the spells woven through the walls. She couldn’t take them apart completely—someone would notice, precautions in place—she was just making them fuzzy, bleeding them out. She dulled them so any information imparted back to the mages who set them would appear mundane.

  Nadya liked taking spells apart, casting magic that wasn’t flashy or dangerous. She had been trained for destructive magic—for spells that would turn the tide of battle—but she liked doing smaller things most.

  She looked up at the ceiling. “I didn’t realize how much they idolized the Vultures.” I didn’t realize just what Malachiasz had run from.

  Parijahan sat down on the chaise, letting her calm spread into the room and wear down Nadya’s frazzled nerves. The Akolan girl had a knack for commanding attention then slipping away without notice. She was so closed and careful, from the way she bound her hair back into a tight braid to how she kept her sleeves always down to her wrists, her skirt hems brushing the ground. Nadya wondered if she had always been this way, or if this was a product of losing her sister and turning her back on her home.

  Nadya placed Malachiasz’s spell book on the table and sat down next to Parijahan.

  “What happens now?”

  Parijahan tugged off the leather strip tying her braid and ran her hands through her hair. “We’ve snuck in right as the gates were closing. Tomorrow the entire affair begins.”

  “I don’t like that we’ve split from the boys.”

  Parijahan nudged her shoulder. “I think we can handle ourselves.”

  “Clearly.” She grew quiet, still eyeing the painting on the ceiling. “Do you regret leaving your home? The time you spent in Kalyazin couldn’t have been comfortable.”

  “Not regret, no. Having Rashid with me helped. I’ve known him my whole life. And we crashed into Malachiasz about six months ago after getting into trouble with some off-duty Kalyazi soldiers. Rashid ended up unconscious in a ditch; Malachiasz nearly had his hair shorn off and spent the entire next day after we got to safety panicking over the close call.”

  Nadya giggled. Parijahan gently turned her so she could undo her braid as well from where it was spiraled around the back of her head like a crown. Nadya was quiet as Parijahan combed her hair out with her fingers.

  “Do you think we can actually do this?”

  Parijahan’s hands stilled. Nadya felt her fingers curl over her shoulders.

  “We have to.”

  Her tone made Nadya’s spine straighten. She has some other stake in this I haven’t heard yet, Nadya thought. Something other than revenge.

  “Then we will.”

  19

  NADEZHDA

  LAPTEVA

  Myesta, the goddess of the moon, is deceit and deception and an ever-changing illusion of light in an eternal darkness.

  —Codex of the Divine, 15:29

  Nadya clutched Malachiasz’s spell book against her chest and regretted every single decision she had ever made that had led her to this point.

  “Relax,” Parijahan said. “They’re only dresses.”

  Nadya let out a strained whimper in response. Any one of the dresses in front of her was worth more than what would feed the monastery for five years. Rich fabrics in vibrant colors, pearls and gemstone beadwork spilled over the bodices and onto the skirts. Vague impressions of flowers were prominent amidst the glittering finery. The headdresses made Nadya’s neck ache just looking at them. Some were tall, some looked like floral wreaths—though they were made from fabric and lace and beads—some vaguely resembled the kokoshniks Nadya knew nobles wore in Kalyazin.

  “Where did these come from?” Nadya asked.

  “Officially? You have a wealthy Akolan patron.”

  Nadya glanced at Parijahan, who grinned at her.

  “I guess unofficially that is also the case.”

  They eventually landed on a dress the color of midnight, close to black but flashing deep blue in the light. It was like slipping darkness over Nadya’s skin, with just enough light to keep her from being consumed. Next she chose an ornate headdress that spilled strings of black pearls. Nadya fastened on a slim mask that only covered a strip of her face.

  Parijahan stepped back with a nod.

  Nadya reached for a delicate belt for her spell book before changing her mind and taking Malachiasz’s instead. Instead of looking out of place, the worn leather seemed to fit over the rich dress.

  She looked like a blood mage. She swallowed hard, hands fumbling for Kostya’s necklace. She tucked it down in the bodice of the dress, out of sight but still close, still comforting. The last piece she had of home.

  “Try to remain relatively inconspicuous,” Parijahan said. “You don’t need attention drawn to yourself yet, it’ll just make all the other contestants try to take you out faster. We need to figure out how the king keeps himself guarded.”

  “Once we have that?”

  “I’ve already heard more than one slavhka comment on the king’s weakness with blood magic.”

  “An easy mark,” Nadya said softly.

  “It’s the prince you have to worry about,” she continued. “He surrounds himself with those lieutenants of his—both blood mages—and from what I’ve gathered, the prince is the opposite of his father in nearly every way.”

  Nadya couldn’t worry about the prince yet. The king was the one she had come to topple.

  “However,” Parijahan said thoughtfully, “if you get close to the prince, that will get you a seat near the king. Then you’ll have your opening.”

  “So, don’t draw attention to myself, but also get the prince’s attention?”

  “Basically. You can do this, Nadya,” Parijahan said softly.

  She could. She had to. Kalyazin would win the war; the gods would reclaim their hold on the world. This was what she had spent her life preparing for.

  * * *

  It took Nadya exactly thirteen minutes to make a mistake big enough to land her in a terrifically uncomfortable situation. She was shuffled into a salon with the other participants and—in most cases—their chaperones. She knew what this was; a game of subtleties, Malachiasz had said. The first test.

  This was where alliances would be forged and rivalry lines drawn. It was also where a number of the contestants would get their first true look at the High Prince. If Nadya messed up here she could lose the entire game before it even began.

  The only thing Nadya initially noticed about the slavhka who flitted past her was that her large violet eyes were strangely off-putting. It took Nadya’s brain a handful of seconds to translate the comment the girl made to her companion while still in earshot. It took her another second to realize it was a slight about Nadya’s appearance. Her nose was crooked and her hair limp.

  She can’t even see my hair, Nadya thought, irritated and bewildered. And she’d seen herself in a mirror, Malachiasz had done a perfectly fine job with her nose.

  “Porodiec ze błowisz?” she called pleasantly. “I thought those with money could pay to learn how to properly associate with other people.”

  The girl froze. Chatter in half of the room ceased immediately. The girl turned slowly on her heels to face Nadya.

  I should’ve let the slight pass.

  She lifted her eyebrows as the girl stalked over to her and smiled. If she was going to get through this in one piece, she needed to act like this was something that happened to her all the time. Snide comments were a normal thing for her and so she would retaliate in kind.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I think
you heard what I said,” Nadya replied.

  “How dare you speak to me like that. Do you know who I am?”

  “Am I supposed to?”

  The girl snatched her spell book open, tearing out a blank page and crumpling it in her fist. She tossed it down, grinding it underneath the heel of her shoe.

  “Can you back that up with power?” she asked.

  Nadya had literally no idea what was happening. No one had ever explained to her what this meant. Her confusion must have shown on her face because a tall girl with luminous skin like onyx threaded with gold glided over to stand near Nadya.

  “She’s challenging you to a duel, dear,” she said gently.

  Nadya looked over at the second girl, who smiled encouragingly. She fought the urge to glance back at where Parijahan was leaning against the wall.

  Mimicking the other girl, Nadya flipped through Malachiasz’s spells until she found a blank page. She crumpled it and stepped on it like the younger girl had. The girl gave her a vicious smile before stalking away.

  “Well, that was unexpected, and we’ve barely begun!”

  Nadya—still dazed—turned to look at the tall girl. She wasn’t wearing a headdress and her spiral curls fanned out around her head like a halo.

  “My name is Żaneta,” she said. “And you just had the misfortune of being the target of an incredibly ambitious competitor.”

  “What just happened?”

  Żaneta laughed. “Sit tight, my dear. There will be attendants now scrambling to prepare the arena for a duel. Congratulations—if you survive, this will significantly improve your chances.”

  The doors opened then and the High Prince entered. Żaneta smiled once more at Nadya before crossing the room to meet the boy who had destroyed everything Nadya held dear.

  SEREFIN

  MELESKI

  “Serefin!” Żaneta greeted him by name as he stepped into the parlor, thus cementing her place as the one girl among the Rawalyk candidates comfortable enough with the High Prince to bypass formality.

  He was already tired and the ceremony had barely started. He wasn’t ready to speak to any of the nobles yet so he moved to an empty side of the room. Kacper stepped away as an attendant drew his attention.

  “You will never believe what has happened,” Żaneta started when Kacper returned.

  “The arena is being prepared for a duel,” Kacper said before she could continue, sounding puzzled.

  Żaneta pouted. “I was going to tell him.”

  “I’m sorry,” Serefin said. “I thought you just said a duel has been called.”

  Kacper nodded.

  “The Rawalyk started this morning,” Serefin said flatly.

  Kacper nodded more emphatically.

  “Is this your work?” he asked Żaneta.

  She lifted her eyebrows. “I cannot begin to tell you how disappointed I am that I had nothing to do with this.”

  Serefin collapsed back onto the chaise. “Well, that’s certainly a dramatic start.”

  Ostyia perched on the arm of a nearby chair, earning a venomous look from a middle-aged chaperone. She winked at the chaperone’s charge, which only made the woman’s glare more intense. “You’ll never guess who it’s between.”

  “Point them out to me.”

  Kacper handed Serefin a glass of wine before he flopped onto the chaise beside him. Neither of them should be acting this casual in present company, but Serefin couldn’t dredge up the effort to care. Kacper pointed to the Krywicka girl.

  “No.” Serefin didn’t even have to pretend to be scandalized.

  Żaneta laughed out loud. “The other is a latecomer,” she said. “Over there.”

  Her name came to him immediately. Józefina. She had removed her mask, twirling it between idle fingers as she watched the parlor. There was a sharpness in her gaze Serefin found fascinating. Her other hand rested against the spell book at her hip. She glanced over just in time to catch Serefin watching her.

  Her eyes widened but she didn’t avert her gaze like he expected.

  He smiled and stood, ignoring Żaneta as she hissed a protest. He was supposed to be observing, not interacting, but he was already bored and he wanted to know about this duel from the source.

  “Lady Zelenska,” he said once he was before her.

  She was slow to stand, careful in her movements. She bowed her head as she dipped into a curtsy. “Your Highness.”

  “Shouldn’t you be preparing for your duel?” he asked. “Lady Krywicka is nowhere to be found.”

  Józefina’s fingers tightened over the spell book. It was a hefty thing, the sign of a skilled mage. But her knuckles were white, tension revealed in her iron grip.

  “I’m prepared,” she replied.

  She sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than she was trying to convince him.

  “Tell me,” he said, “what did you do to stir up such a fuss?” He slouched against the wall, forcing her to move as well. Now her back was to the room, the eyes watching them less immediately noticeable.

  “You assume I am at fault?” Her tone was too flippant. She wasn’t used to functioning at court at all. Every interaction was a facet of the Rawalyk and she was completely inexperienced.

  He grinned. And he was surprised when she smiled back.

  She waved a hand. “It was nothing that would interest you, Your Highness, petty comments taken too far.”

  Serefin leaned closer. “I don’t think you understand how petty I can be.”

  She shifted back. His favor would put a mark on her. She seemed to realize that.

  “Would you explain something to me?” she asked.

  Serefin lifted an eyebrow. “What do you wish to know?”

  “This is probably ridiculous, but you must understand, my father died at the front and my mother is an invalid. I never had anyone to properly explain how this all works.”

  And she’s brave enough to betray her ignorance to the High Prince? Serefin thought. He couldn’t decide whether she was incredibly smart or terrifically stupid. The fact of the matter was that the Rawalyk favored the nobles who lived near Grazyk; it stood to reason those from the outer reaches of Tranavia would struggle. The entire game was in subtleties.

  What this girl likely didn’t realize was this duel would be to the death, and if she survived, it would give her an edge in his father’s eyes. And an edge was all a person needed to be chosen.

  Will this be the one who gets the throne after I’m done away with? he thought absently.

  “It’s a game,” he said. “A game played in what you say, who you speak to, and how you act.”

  She paled.

  “Think of it this way,” he said. He ran his thumb over the rim of his wine glass, the crystalline tone sounding too loud amidst the hushed chatter of the parlor. “My consort—” He cringed. He had tried so hard to distance himself from this whole mess. “—will need to be someone who can prove she will hold her own against whatever Tranavia throws their way. Sometimes that will be underhanded slights in a ballroom. Mostly, with the state of the world as it is, it will be someone who can aid me in winning this war.”

  A frown flashed across her face, and he realized that she didn’t seem nervous anymore. “You don’t seem particularly invested in this, Your Highness, if you forgive my candor.”

  He couldn’t fathom how she possibly could have seen that. He was doing his absolute best to hide how trying this all was, how much he just wanted to curl up and sleep until it was over.

  He shot her a crooked smile. “I’m less than pleased about the circumstances surrounding it, but that is certainly none of the participants’ fault.”

  “It would be difficult, though, to have no choice,” she said, voice soft. Her hand went up to her neck, then fell. “You don’t, do you? The choice will be the king’s?”

  Inexperienced maybe, but clever. She’s definitely clever. “I’m used to it.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Me too.” Her thumb ran over
the spine of her spell book.

  He wanted to ask what she meant. He was fascinated by this backwater slavhka with her strangely soft words, but a stately Akolan girl stepped up to her side, whispering in her ear.

  Józefina lifted her head, her smile like a knife’s edge. “Apparently I have a duel to see to.”

  “Good luck, then,” he said. “I’ll be watching.”

  She was ushered away and Serefin returned to his friends. Żaneta straightened when he sat down next to her.

  “So?”

  “You have competition, darling.”

  Żaneta wrinkled her nose. “Really? She seems so … soft.”

  “You know better than to hold being from Łaszczów against her,” Serefin scolded.

  She rolled her eyes. “Well, if she dies in an hour, then it won’t matter at all, will it?”

  NADEZHDA

  LAPTEVA

  Malachiasz had found Parijahan and Nadya in the courtyard just outside the arena. He looked tired. She could relate.

  “This certainly wasn’t part of the plan,” he noted sarcastically.

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Nadya muttered. She had heard enough from Parijahan already. Slip through under the guise of perfect mediocrity, indeed.

  She let the noise from the crowd in the arena filter out as she fixed the belts on her hips strapping down Malachiasz’s spell book. It was so strange. All this time and energy spent on such a trivial affair when there was a war happening and people were starving, dying. It was just a game to them.

  She was wearing the white leather mask again, and though it stifled, she took comfort in the anonymity. She was nothing but a name; a lesser noble from a forgotten city in Tranavia.

  She heard her false name read to the crowd: Józefina Zelenska from Łaszczów, a blood mage of no military rank. Inconsequential. Insignificant by all standards. My name is Nadezhda Lapteva, she thought. I am from the monastery in the Baikkle Mountains. I am a cleric of the divine. I am here to kill the king and end this war.