Wicked Saints

by Emily A Duncan

  She would bring this country to its knees.

  Nadya let her fingers brush against the razor sewn into the sleeve of her shirt. She was wearing tight black trousers, high boots reaching up to her knees, and a loose-fitting white blouse with sleeves that constricted her forearms.

  The gods were distant and Nadya would have the added difficulty of being forced to pretend to cast magic like a blood mage. The seed of fear she had been ignoring up until this point finally grew into something that threatened to topple her. She could barely feel the gods. How had she expected to do this—be anything—with the gods so far out of reach? What was she without them? Just a peasant girl who grew up in a monastery. A girl who would die for believing she was anything more than that.

  20

  NADEZHDA

  LAPTEVA

  The goddess of the hunt, Devonya, is known for her kindness to mortals, for her interest in their odd ways. She loves to grant them unusual talents in her name.

  —Codex of the Divine, 17:24

  My magic doesn’t feel right. That was the first thought to cross Nadya’s mind as the girl across the arena cut her arm and power whipped through the air like crossbow bolts. In comparison her magic felt weak, as if she was reaching through mud to grasp at mere threads. Her prayers were answered by magic only, no words, no touch of the gods. Just raw spells, cold power, and nothing more.

  She slid the back of her hand over the razor in her sleeve, wincing as it cut, forgetting she wasn’t supposed to react. Blood mages didn’t react.

  The girl—Felicíja—tossed a glass bottle onto the arena floor and poison sprayed out in an arc in front of her.

  It got on Nadya’s clothes and the fabric sizzled as it burned. She fought the urge to brush the droplets off.

  She let ice form at her fingertips, grasping for Marzenya’s power because she could form it to look the most like blood magic. The goddess was distant, her touch far away. Nadya’s prayers felt like nothing more than pleas to empty air.

  Then power. Claws of ice on her fingers shot off her hands. She didn’t have time to see if they landed as she tore pages out of the spell book and crumpled them in a bloody fist.

  She slammed the pages onto the ground and drew a circle of flames up from the dirt. The flames sparked underneath her boots and surrounded Felicíja. The girl staggered back as flames caught up her split skirt. She snarled, her fingers yanking out pages of her spell book.

  Nadya was struck by a bolt of magic that sent her staggering back to the edge of the arena.

  This isn’t working. Using the spell book and pulling at threads of power at the same time was slowing her down. She had to end this fast or everything would unravel.

  She raked bloody claws of ice over a spell book page, realizing seconds later it hadn’t been blank. Panic slammed into her chest.

  The flow of power she channeled shifted and became something dark.

  This power was not hers to use. It wasn’t hers at all.

  She had no word for it but wrong. It was the only word running through her head. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.

  Seething and black and powerful—so powerful—and in a different way than her magic was powerful because where hers was clarity this was madness.

  There was something else, too. A needling that Nadya realized was a spell Felicíja was attempting to cast on her, but it felt so weak by comparison that she barely noticed. Felicíja tried again, and again, tearing out page after page, but her spells were only glimmers, bare brushes of magic against Nadya and this power that tore through her, threatening to rip her apart.

  Blood dripped down her nose. She had to get rid of the magic. The taste of copper bloomed in her mouth. She spat, pressing a hand against her chest because her heartbeat felt erratic.

  She exhaled and let go of the magic. It shot out from her fingertips like bolts of lightning. One struck Felicíja, the crack of thunder reverberating through the arena. The girl went down.

  For a tense second, Nadya was sure she’d killed her. Instantaneously. But the girl got back up, a szitelka in her hand and fury warping her face. Blood dripped from a wound in her side and was smeared across her face.

  Gods, please stay down. Nadya grimaced. Echoes of the darkness rattled in her head. She drew her own blades.

  She blocked Felicíja’s strike, catching her blade on the hilt of the other girl’s szitelka and using the leverage to pull her closer. She lashed out with her second blade but Felicíja twisted out of the way.

  Recovering, Nadya twisted the hilt of her blade and yanked down. The szitelka was pulled from Felicíja’s grasp and she staggered forward. Nadya caught the girl underneath her chin with her foot, snapping her head back and knocking her off her feet.

  As the girl moved to rise, Nadya slammed the szitelka onto her hand, pinning her to the dirt.

  Everything was too quiet. Too aware of the audience, Nadya hesitated, her other szitelka loose in her grip.

  I don’t want to kill her.

  The only reason this fight had worked in Nadya’s favor was because of magic that had not been hers. It could have so easily been Nadya on the ground, Felicíja contemplating the killing blow.

  Felicíja lifted herself up on her arm, glaring at Nadya. She didn’t deserve to die here, with an audience, like an animal. And Nadya wasn’t going to be the reason for her death. She wasn’t going to perpetuate this Tranavian bloodlust.

  It would be so easy, though, and it would further Nadya’s mission. All it would take would be another icy claw into the girl’s heart, or a stronger jolt of lightning. But the darkness lingered and Nadya feared what would happen if she pulled on it.

  “I’m not going to kill you,” Nadya said.

  She was expecting relief, but what she received was a wad of spit that landed on her mask.

  “Pathetic,” the girl said, pain slurring her speech.

  Nadya straightened. Felicíja’s guard and a figure in a chilling mask that could only be a Vulture began to move toward them. It must have been clear she was backing off.

  A hand brushed her arm. The dark echo reacted to the touch—Malachiasz—and Nadya’s knees grew weak. She was shoved forward; knocked to her knees before the girl.

  The girl who had blood dripping from her mouth, who stared at Nadya with eyes that were already dimming. A spike of iron was driven into her chest. As Nadya stared at it, the spike formed into the shape of a szitelka, then the girl pitched forward, dead.

  Her stomach roiled as her vision tunneled. No. Mercy, she was going to give the girl mercy.

  It took everything in her not to turn to Malachiasz. The girl’s guard reached them along with the Vulture. Neither of them said anything. The flurry of activity would have masked what had happened. What Malachiasz had done instead of Nadya.

  She finally glared at him. He raised an eyebrow at her. There was blood on his fingertips.

  Blood dripped from Nadya’s nose.

  One day in this cursed city and she was already tired of the sight of blood.

  Heat coursed through her veins. What point had killing the girl served? She dropped her eyes before someone noticed but not before shaking her head at him.

  Idiot.

  “You expected more from a Tranavian abomination?” Marzenya’s voice was faint, as though coming through a fog. It sounded unbelievably sly, but there was another thread to her voice Nadya had never heard before: rage. “You should have killed the bitch yourself. On your own.”

  A warning. Attempting to spare another Tranavian and Nadya glancing against Malachiasz’s power—unintentional as it had been—had sparked Marzenya’s ire. Before the servants came to collect the body, Nadya stalked out of the arena.

  SEREFIN

  MELESKI

  “What was that?” Ostyia asked, her eye wide.

  Serefin shook his head. It had been ruthless, exactly what the Tranavian court was expecting. But more interesting, some elegance to her movements, innovation in her magic …

  Ostyia
perched on the arm of his chair. “No one uses elemental magic like that.”

  How had this girl not been drafted into the army? Why had she not joined of her own volition? She was talented, quick, relentless, with an arsenal of spells Serefin had never seen before. He knew elemental spells were possible with blood magic, but no one ever used them because they were too difficult. It was manipulating magic in a way that was changing the power at its basest element. Blood magic drew from a person’s innate ability and manifested in whatever way it was needed, but changing it to the elements—another base, another fundamental item in creation—was incredibly difficult.

  Where had this girl been hiding?

  “Żaneta is not going to be happy,” Ostyia commented.

  “She’ll relish having real competition.”

  There was a flurry of activity in the arena and Serefin leaned over the railing. Two masked Vultures were carting off Felicíja’s body.

  Horror rippled through him and he exchanged a glance with Ostyia. What were they doing?

  He dimly felt Ostyia’s touch on his arm. He shouldn’t be staring; it shouldn’t be a sight he found uncomfortable. But it was another piece of the puzzle, another step closer. He hoped it wasn’t coming too late.

  21

  NADEZHDA

  LAPTEVA

  Silence and fear; those who worship the god Zlatek know that above all else, those two things are paramount.

  —Codex of the Divine, 55:19

  A healer ran after Nadya, fussing after her wounds—her entire body felt like it was on fire and her nose hadn’t stopped bleeding—but she waved her away. She could handle it herself and she had to get out of this arena.

  She couldn’t stomach the stench of death any longer.

  Malachiasz trailed behind her, silent. If he spoke, she was going to kill him, and he seemed to sense that.

  They reached the hallway that led to her chambers. It was empty, devoid of servants or other participants who were boarding in this wing of the palace. She couldn’t wait any longer.

  She moved without warning, slamming him into the wall, her forearm against his throat, szitelka drawn and pressed against his side.

  He raised both hands in a sign of surrender, lifting one farther to unhook the mask from his face. It was made of iron and covered his mouth, stopping just where his tattoos started on the bridge of his nose.

  “There was no need for you to interfere,” she said, her voice a snarl.

  He swallowed, his pale stare icing over. “Were you going to kill her yourself?”

  She pressed up harder on his windpipe. “I can handle myself,” she replied through clenched teeth. “Understand?”

  “Perfectly,” he wheezed.

  She released the pressure on his throat but didn’t pull away or sheathe her szitelka. “If anyone saw you—”

  He cut her off, voice low. “Let’s go somewhere a little more private for this discussion, shall we?”

  His expression was carefully blank. Had she angered him with her outburst? Good. He deserved it. He couldn’t place the whole plan’s success on her and then not trust her to see through what was necessary.

  Nadya kicked the door to her chambers closed after they entered. She begrudgingly sheathed her szitelka.

  “You murdered her.”

  He was insufferably calm. “You hesitated. That was a duel to the death, there was no room for anything else.”

  “You’re right, silly me, I forgot that Tranavians are all bloodthirsty with no capability of understanding concepts of mercy, thank you for reminding me.”

  Malachiasz blinked. Hurt flickered across his face and he turned away. Nadya thought seeing one of her jabs land would feel good, but it just made her more frustrated. How dare he play the victim here?

  She grabbed his arm, yanking him back around to face her. “I did not need you to take matters into your hands. If anyone saw you—”

  “Yet no one did. Yet here we are. Yet here you stand with a seat next to the High Prince at dinner this evening.”

  “You can’t talk your way out of this. Her blood is on your hands, not mine.” She leaned closer to him.

  “I can live with that. You’re trying to paint it as something it’s not.”

  “It was murder.”

  “She was a slavhka, raised from birth to slaughter Kalyazi, and as necessary, other Tranavians.”

  “That doesn’t make her a monster!”

  “We’re all monsters, Nadya,” Malachiasz said, his voice gaining a few tangled chords of chaos. “Some of us just hide it better than others.”

  Now she was aware of just how close they were, her hand still clutching his arm. His gaze strayed to her lips. She managed to keep from blushing as she let go and stepped away—she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he could still fluster her while she was angry.

  She closed her eyes. Heard him step away. When she opened her eyes again he was sitting on the chaise, elbow resting against the armrest, chin in his hand.

  “The king will be there, a seat or two away from you,” he said.

  She had to take a breath to tamp down the immediate, crushing fear that swept over her. “Are you saying this is my chance?”

  He shook his head slowly. “No, but this means you’re getting closer. The time will come sooner than any of us expect. You need to be ready.”

  Nadya gritted her teeth.

  The door opened. Nadya whirled, but relaxed when it was only Rashid. He grinned.

  “Well, that was fun.” His face fell as he picked up on the energy in the room. “Maybe not fun?”

  Nadya sighed, finally collapsing into a chair. Malachiasz watched her carefully, like one watched a dog that had just bitten them. Had he assumed her harmless? That she would simply comply with any decision he made? They were still—at their core—enemies in this war. She hadn’t forgotten, not even while she found herself worrying about his safety and wanting him by her side.

  He wordlessly passed her a handkerchief. Blood was still all over her face and she felt herself weaken. He was a nightmare—the echoes she still felt of his power were troubling—but he was gentle. Anxious and strange, a boy caught up in a world that had broken him, all while trying to do something good for once. She wondered if her anger that was so quick to spark was just her fighting against the pull she felt. Was her fascination merely because she had been sheltered her whole life and never known someone so drastically different from herself? Or was it more? Was it because he was dangerous and exciting, all while being completely infuriating yet thoughtful?

  She worked at washing off the blood, hesitantly reaching out to the gods. She would be in deep trouble for all of this, but she was met only with the strange fog. She would be more concerned if Marzenya hadn’t spoken to her in the arena. They were there, watching, but at a distance.

  “What’s next?” she asked softly.

  “Dinner,” Rashid said. He was dressed in meek servants’ garb that didn’t look right on him. She missed the flamboyant gold chains that used to thread through his black curls.

  “I’ve already failed the first etiquette test,” Nadya said. “That bodes well for the next one.”

  Malachiasz stretched out towards her before thinking better of it and setting his hand on the arm of her chair instead. She found her eyes drawn to the tattoos on his long, elegant fingers. They were simple, straight lines: two on either side of each finger and one down the back that started at the bed of each fingernail and ended at his wrist in a single black bar.

  “Everything is a game,” he said. “It’s all a play for power. We didn’t want it, but you’ve caught the attention of the elite, so you may as well keep it.”

  She swallowed hard. “I can handle myself.”

  “I know, Nadya.”

  She continued furiously scrubbing at her face as Malachiasz asked Rashid if he’d found anything useful.

  “Servant gossip keeps a palace running,” he said cheerfully. “The king has barely
been seen in months; the queen is in Grazyk, which apparently never happens due to her health. The tension between the king and the prince has reached astronomical levels but none of the servants seem certain as to why. It was quite clear the prince didn’t want this Rawalyk to even take place. Also, the prince was seen in the witch’s tower—”

  Malachiasz perked up. “Pelageya?”

  Nadya froze. A witch in Tranavia? “What?” she asked at the same time.

  “No,” Rashid said. “Calm down, both of you, and don’t get any ideas. That’s how we all get killed and accomplish nothing.”

  Nadya and Malachiasz exchanged a glance, their fight momentarily forgotten.

  “Mages,” Rashid said, sounding properly anguished. “Parj and I should have done this without you.”

  Malachiasz was smiling the faint, slightly feral smile she recognized from the first day she met him.

  “Regardless,” Rashid continued, “the witch is known to be the queen’s personal advisor.”

  “But she’s Kalyazi?” Nadya asked.

  “Most consider it an obvious jab at king and country,” Malachiasz said. “The royal family doesn’t get along.”

  “Clearly.”

  “The prince had an interview with the Crimson Vulture,” Rashid said. “The king has been paying visits to the Salt Mines, and the prince had someone sent to the Salt Mines who recently returned.”

  Malachiasz stiffened. A shutter snapped closed around him and he absently rubbed the scars on his forearm.

  “That’s not good,” he murmured.

  “Wait, which one is Crimson?” Nadya asked. The rankings didn’t make any sense.

  “Żywia is the second in command.”

  Nadya didn’t like that he knew and used their names when no one else did. She didn’t need to be constantly reminded of what he was.

  “Why wouldn’t the prince meet with their king?” Nadya asked.

  “Perhaps the king’s visits to the Salt Mines means he’s working with the Black Vulture and the prince is attempting to undermine that?” Rashid said.