She tucked her hand in her pocket as she wandered through the stacks—the library was large, and stairs spiraled up to multiple floors all filled with books. Her fingers rubbed over her prayer beads. The gods still felt too distant—but there was a faint nudge at the back of her head, pressing her to the back of the library.
Nadya had always thought she read Tranavian far better than she spoke it. Her fingers brushed over the spines of old, crumbling books, worn down with time and negligence. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was looking at—the titles she glanced at didn’t mean anything to her.
Am I supposed to be seeing something here?
No answer. She sighed, fingers twisting her prayer beads. This was probably a pointless endeavor. She wasn’t going to find anything that could help in a Tranavian library.
A sharper nudge came just as her hand froze over a thin volume wedged between two books, pushed so far back it wasn’t even visible. She carefully extricated it. The cover was blank, no title, no indication to suggest what the book was about. The cloth cover was ragged at the edges, and when Nadya cracked it the pages were yellowed—the hand that had written the text spidery and thin.
Nadya moved to a table. She was gentle when she opened the book fully. It felt as if it could crumble at the slightest touch.
The symbol on the first page was familiar. Uncomfortably familiar. She let go of her prayer beads, shoving them deep into her pocket, and reached for the necklace hanging around her neck.
The same spiral was etched into the round pendant.
She only had time to flip to the first page. Enough time to see the word god scrawled in that spiderweb hand. Enough time to realize she had stopped hearing the quiet sounds of other people in the room and to gather that someone was watching her.
24
SEREFIN
MELESKI
Svoyatova Małgorzata Dana: A Tranavian who fled her family of heretics for a life in a monastery in Tobalsk. Her courage, and death at the hands of her brother, canonized her as a saint.
—Vasiliev’s Book of Saints
All of Serefin’s senses felt disconnected. He heard the smack of flesh against flesh, felt his head whip so hard to one side he thought his neck might snap, but it took a few seconds for pain to flare against the side of his face.
Izak’s ring sliced open Serefin’s cheek and he felt blood slowly drip down his face.
As distant as his father had become with him—as strained as their relationship was—he had never struck him before.
“Now, what did I do to deserve that?” Serefin asked, dabbing at the blood on his face with his thumb. He had known when his father had personally ordered him to his study after dinner it wasn’t going to be pretty, but instigating his father was part of his plan and he would survive the bruises that would come of it. Besides, if this went wrong he would be dead in a few days anyway, so what were a few bruises?
“I ask for so little, Serefin, so little,” Izak said. “A modicum of respect for the traditions of your country. It’s so little.”
That wasn’t what this was about, but Serefin would play along if it kept them both from addressing the true issue. “I’ve expressed how I feel about these traditions. At this point in time, they’re needless. We’re at war, Father.”
“Don’t dare presume to remind me, Serefin.”
He was struck a second time, and again, it took a bit for all of Serefin’s senses to realign.
He worked his jaw, feeling it click. “Are you finished? Would you like to go a third time? By all means, I’m more than willing to be your human punching bag.”
“Serefin…” His father’s tone was a warning.
Izak finally crossed the room, sitting down behind his large oak desk. The room was spare; few items suggested it was ever even used.
Apparently that was the extent of the abuse Serefin would be suffering today.
Serefin eyed his father while he shuffled through the very few papers that were spread across his desk. What was stopping him from putting his dagger through his father’s eye, right now? From throwing his spell book open and burning him from the inside out?
Politics. The fallout would mean Serefin’s execution. His coup had to be more delicate.
“The answer has always been here.” But the answer to what? Why this war was still raging? Why his father, who vehemently denied the existence of gods, wished to become one? Though easily answered with his father’s ego, that wasn’t the reason. Serefin never denied the existence of the Kalyazi gods, he had just never seen their purpose.
He wondered if his father had already started the process. The way his crown was slightly askew and his hands shook were significant indicators where his father was concerned. But it was when his sleeve fell back and Serefin glimpsed dozens of fresh cuts scattered across his father’s forearm that he knew. His stomach soured, finally having confirmation that this was all truly happening.
“I just think we’re wasting resources on trivialities under the guise of tradition when there is a war going on and half the kingdom is starving,” Serefin said sullenly, forcing himself to continue pretending this was just a normal conversation.
“When you rule you can forgo tradition and deal with the riots,” Izak replied without looking up. Serefin’s blood froze.
Nothing in his father’s voice sounded remotely sincere. He shoved down the swell of panic rising in his chest. He had to change the subject. He thought back to a conversation he had with Józefina during dinner, about how her retinue was so small because she had run into Kalyazi inside Tranavia.
“One of the girls who lives by the border told me the Kalyazi had broken through.”
That got his father to look up. “What?”
Serefin shrugged. “I can’t confirm, but from what I saw of the Kalyazi while at the front, it doesn’t sound unreasonable. We’re winning, but that doesn’t mean we’ve won.”
One of his father’s hands clenched to a fist, crumpling the paper in his hand. Serefin felt as though he had just won a small and completely insignificant victory.
An icy chill seemed to settle over his father’s shoulders. “The Kalyazi have moved forces into Rosni-Ovorisk,” he said.
Serefin frowned, unsure why his father was telling him this. Kalyazi forces moving that close to the border was strange, yes, but when Serefin was in Grazyk he was a prince, not a general, and his father usually made that point abundantly clear.
“It’s almost as if they know something we do not,” his father continued. “Like they’re preparing for something … extensive.” Abruptly his father smiled and fear clawed its way down Serefin’s spine. “They won’t survive whatever it is they’re planning, of course. Tranavia is about to show them the true meaning of power.”
“Are we?” Serefin asked, voice strained. His mind spun. If the Kalyazi were preparing an attack on the border, Tranavia might not be able to properly defend it. What did Kalyazin know that Serefin did not?
Izak didn’t respond. He just waved him out.
“You walk on thin ice, Serefin. Stay away from your mother’s brainwashing witch.”
Is that what this was supposed to be about? Serefin almost relaxed. He was considering paying Pelageya a visit in the morning. Now, he most certainly would.
“Oh, I’m well aware of that, Father. Thankfully, I can swim, and I’ve been in Kalyazin, I know what cold is truly like. Because certainly, the ice is about to break.”
His father looked at him sharply. Bowing, Serefin smiled, before turning to leave as quickly as he could.
In the hall outside his father’s chambers, he pressed himself against the wall, his hands shaking. Kacper approached, putting a steadying hand on his shoulder. Serefin gravitated toward Kacper. He had to move fast. If Kalyazin was making preparations—and his father was planning to annihilate the Kalyazi forces with the power of a god—Serefin was out of time.
“You all right?” Kacper asked.
Serefin dropped his head onto Kacper�
��s shoulder. “No,” he mumbled.
There was a beat of hesitation. Kacper shifted, nudging Serefin’s head so his forehead pressed against his temple. “We’ll get you out of this, Serefin,” he said. “You know there’s a pretty spectacular handprint on your face?”
Serefin laughed weakly and straightened. It was late and he was tired. There was nothing more he could do tonight.
They were walking back to Serefin’s chambers when a tremendous crash resounded through the hallway coming from the direction of the library.
“Well that doesn’t sound good,” Kacper muttered as Serefin took off down the hall.
NADEZHDA
LAPTEVA
Nadya shifted so the szitelka under her sleeve dropped into her palm.
Let it be another contestant upset the prince was showing me favor, she prayed.
Her hand tightened over the hilt and she knocked the chair back as she stood, whirling around.
She found herself face to face with a blank metal mask.
Yelping, she jumped back, knocking into the table. The Vulture didn’t move, just tilted its head from one side to the other. Blonde, curly hair tumbled down its back. The candlelight glinted off the Vulture’s iron claws.
Panic constricted Nadya’s chest, a painful grip that made it hard to breathe. She couldn’t fight off a Vulture. Not by herself. Not here.
She wasn’t given the chance to reach for the gods and hope. The Vulture struck, moving so fast Nadya only barely had time to register the movement. Sparks flew up as the Vulture’s iron claws clashed against Nadya’s szitelka.
Do they know who I am?
What if they had found Malachiasz and twisted him back into a monster? Was that how they’d found her?
Nadya shoved the Vulture away, jumping onto the table. The Vulture’s claws ground down over the wood as it narrowly missed Nadya.
She had no magic. She had nothing.
She had no hope without her gods.
25
NADEZHDA
LAPTEVA
Svoyatovi Vlastimil Zykin: A cleric of the god Zlatek. Vlastimil’s mind was weak, unable to handle the rigors of silence his god required from him. Instead of striking him from memory, his failure is remembered as a lesson to those chosen by the gods that they are mortal and the gods are not to be trifled with.
—Vasiliev’s Book of Saints
Nadya ran.
The Vulture followed, moving so fast that it was nothing more than a blur in the dim light.
Nadya didn’t even make it out of the library. A brush of blood magic; the taste of copper filling her mouth. Something slammed into her, sending her crashing into a bookshelf, knocking it over with a deafening crash. Her breath left her in a rush and she gasped for air from the floor, too aware of the Vulture moving—slowly now—closer.
“Frightened little thing, aren’t you?” the Vulture said, trailing an iron claw over a row of books, the spines fraying open underneath.
Desperation sent Nadya scrambling for a thread of anything that would stop the monster in its tracks. With each step the Vulture took toward her, Nadya shuffled back until she hit the wall and there was nowhere left to go. This was where it would end. In the dark. Alone. In the home of her enemies.
The Vulture was inches away from Nadya, crouching down in front of her. Its mask was completely blank except for two slits for its eyes.
“No more running, pet.”
Nadya gritted her teeth. No gods, no hope.
The Vulture moved to strike and Nadya had nothing left to lose, nothing left that could save her. But she refused to die here.
It had been like a well the first time she used it, a well Marzenya had uncovered. Now it was a river, the dam burst. All of Nadya’s frustration and fear channeled into power. Magic that was hers alone. The Vulture was knocked off its feet, crashing into a table and snapping it as if it were made of paper.
Nadya stared at her hand, horror churning her stomach. What was that? She scrambled for her prayer beads. Maybe the veil parted, maybe that was Marzenya.
But Marzenya was far away. That had been something else entirely.
Abruptly the prince skidded into the room, blood dripping down one hand.
What is he doing here? Nadya thought with a touch of despair. This couldn’t get any worse.
“Józefina?” he said.
The Vulture staggered to its feet behind Serefin. Nadya stood, flinging out a hand. Shards of ice shot off her palm and drove the Vulture back down into a pile of books.
Serefin turned. While his attention was diverted, Nadya sliced open the back of her hand. The prince stepped toward the Vulture.
“Leave,” he said. A simple order that had enough command to it Nadya could easily see this boy as the king of Tranavia.
“This isn’t your business, princeling,” the Vulture hissed.
Serefin yanked a page out of his spell book and when he crumpled it in his fist the Vulture dropped, still as stone.
“Did you kill it?” Nadya whispered.
Serefin shook his head. “It takes more than that to kill their kind. I don’t know if I could if I tried. They won’t be down for long. Minutes, at most.”
He offered his hand and helped her to her feet before he returned to the unconscious Vulture. He crouched down, taking a lock of its hair between his fingers. Nadya thought he was going to take off the mask, but he straightened.
“Return to your room,” he said. “Lock the door, though I don’t think they’ll try again.”
“What?”
“Go,” he urged. His lieutenant, Kacper, jogged into the room.
“Blood and bone, Serefin,” he said wearily when he saw the unconscious Vulture.
“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on,” Nadya demanded. If there was a chance this hadn’t been because of Malachiasz, Nadya needed to know.
Serefin glanced from her to Kacper. Kacper shrugged. Serefin raked a hand through his hair. When he looked to her again, his pale gaze was narrow.
“My lady, the participants of this grand game are in danger. Please, just return to your chambers.”
She opened her mouth to protest but he held up a hand. His expression was beseeching and she sighed. Adrenaline was draining to exhaustion and going to bed sounded like a fabulous idea. She just … wanted to forget all of this. She darted back to the table to pick up the book she’d found and bade the prince a good night.
“Thanks for saving my life and all,” she said.
“You seemed to have it rather in hand.”
Nadya carefully opened the book as she walked back to her chambers. She didn’t want to flip through the pages for fear of it falling apart in her hands. But the book landed on a page that had one line focused in the center.
Some gods require blood.
She stopped dead. All the creeping dread that had been building within her solidified into something she did not understand. A feeling that was far too certain she had found something that was truth. A truth she dare not confront.
She shut the book and ran for her chambers.
And straight into another Vulture. This one slammed its fist into Nadya’s face and no amount of power could keep her from passing out.
* * *
Nadya woke up in a pool of blood. There were sharp points digging into the back of her body, fire burning through her veins. She could feel tears pouring from her eyes, coursing down her cheeks.
She reached out to her goddess.
And a door slammed closed before her.
Panic flared, white-hot in her chest. All her joints locked up and her limbs shook. No, this wasn’t happening. No no no no no no no.
This isn’t real.
Was this something the Vultures had done to her? Was she being punished for the power she used trying to escape? This was a different kind of quiet than before. This was worse than the veil. This was emptiness.
Calm down, she told herself. Figure out where you are. A stabbing pain went th
rough her as the silence remained, the gods now more than just out of reach, but turned away completely.
Maybe she would never hear another quip after an errant prayer again. She shivered. It couldn’t be that. The gods wouldn’t have abandoned her. Not for a few doubts, not for kissing a heretic—not even that.
Brushing her fingers against the slab she was lying on, she winced as the delicate parts of her hands met nails and broken shards of glass in return. She attempted to sit up, the jagged edges digging even farther into the backs of her thighs. Her thin dress was in tattered shreds, fabric clinging painfully to her wounds.
A low, pained moan broke past her lips as she tried to shift off the slab. Her head spun; she had lost far too much blood.
She moved herself gingerly off the slab, wincing as her legs were sliced open at every movement. Her feet landed on cold stone, but her knees buckled the instant she tried to put weight on them. She bit back a cry, snapping her teeth down on a fist, instantly breaking the skin of her hand. Iron heat filled her mouth and she coughed, spitting blood.
She pushed herself up off the ground and felt in the dark for a way out, a door, anything. Even if it was locked, she would feel less like she had ceased to exist. She had become nothing but the blood slicking the floor and blinding pain.
She couldn’t help the whimper of relief when her hand landed on a doorknob. She rattled it, though it was useless. It was fastened tight. Another surge of panic threatened to ruin her. She was starting to see things creeping out of the darkness. Things with nails for teeth and razor smiles.
She turned away from the dark and pressed her forehead against the door. The wood was cool and let her refocus before she tried to reach for the gods again.
The door to the heavens remained closed.
Anguish and a rage too fluid to fully define washed through her and she wanted to scream. She reached for the prayer beads she did not have and found nothing but Kostya’s necklace. She yanked it over her head and threw it across the room. She heard it hit the wall with a feeble, metallic clang.
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