Wicked Saints

by Emily A Duncan

  “The throne is mine,” Serefin said.

  The Vulture’s frown deepened at the mention of the Salt Mines. Serefin kept a careful eye on him as Pelageya spoke. He didn’t like that he was here, it didn’t make any sense.

  “If the throne still exists after all of this,” Malachiasz murmured.

  “Your throne likely won’t,” Serefin said.

  “I don’t need my throne. It’s a bit of an empty symbol. Power is power.”

  Józefina grew very still, her face paling. She cast a horrified look Malachiasz’s way before her eyes fluttered shut and she pressed her forehead against her knees.

  “I want you all on the same page, my little revolutionaries, for I think you will all leave this room acting upon a singular plan.”

  “And it will be a mad witch who sets us upon it?” Serefin asked.

  “Ah, but you came here for advice, prince, because you are desperate with a plan that you know will fail.”

  Serefin glowered and leaned back in his chair, sighing. He didn’t know why the Black Vulture and Józefina were here. He didn’t know what they knew or why they were—apparently—acting with the same goal as him. He didn’t know and he didn’t care. If this took him to the end, then he would work with anyone. “What will you have us do?”

  Pelageya laughed, clasping her hands together. “Ah, this is a dream come true. What will I have you all do?”

  “Within reason, witch,” Malachiasz said wearily.

  Józefina still had not opened her eyes or lifted her head.

  Pelageya sat down on the floor in the center of the room, her skirts sweeping out in a wide arc around her. She ran through—tapping out on her fingers—all the details that had come to light during the past few weeks. Most of it Serefin knew, some of it he did not. But those were things he barely believed: intervention of the divine, blood magic being used to block off the heavens, that it had been the Black Vulture who had defected. The latter explained a few things, but not enough.

  “So what do we do?” Ostyia finally snapped.

  Pelageya looked to her before looking away dismissively. Ostyia wasn’t a part of the witch’s mad prophecy so she wasn’t worth her time. However Serefin wanted to know the answer. What were they to do? If his plan was doomed to failure and seemingly he was to work with the Black Vulture? The Black Vulture who had returned to his cult. His cult that had been whispering in his father’s ear.

  “What do you have to gain from my father’s death?” Serefin asked Józefina.

  Her dark eyes were impassive. “I want to end a war.”

  “And killing my father would do that? Why not kill the Kalyazi tsar? Tranavia is winning, why not let the war end organically?”

  Her eyebrows furrowed and she chewed at her lip. “And why would you want to kill your father, Serefin? He’s your father, and you don’t seem particularly hungry for the throne.”

  She’s deflecting, Serefin thought.

  “Oh, but the king needs one last element for this grand spell of his!” Pelageya said before Serefin could answer. “The blood of his firstborn son will take him from our mortal realm to one significantly higher.”

  Józefina blanched. It took her a second to recover. “So, how do we kill him? When do we kill him?”

  “When he thinks he’s won,” Serefin murmured.

  Malachiasz smiled. “Well, that’s where you’ll need me.”

  Serefin’s eyes narrowed.

  “The king doesn’t know I’m in Grazyk,” Malachiasz said.

  “Yes, but we all know your Vultures have fallen to pieces in your absence,” Kacper said.

  Malachiasz stiffened. Józefina shot him a curious look.

  “There are some who want me off the throne,” he said. “How is that unusual?”

  “Because the Vultures can’t act against their leader?”

  “Magic is imperfect, lieutenant,” Malachiasz said. “How do you think I became king? Łucja had the throne for nearly forty years before I challenged her.”

  Even so, Serefin hadn’t known the Vultures were truly split. It made sense now that the Crimson Vulture had come to him even while others were acting as his father’s personal guards. He couldn’t concern himself with uniting the cult, though.

  “The Vultures are the ones who planted this seed in my father, who gave him this idea. Was it you? It makes perfect sense for you to be the puppet master here.”

  Józefina looked ill.

  “This is entirely my fault,” Malachiasz said.

  Serefin flinched back as if Malachiasz had struck him. This has become quite the family mess, he thought.

  Józefina stood, wincing as she did so. She slowly paced the room, walking with a bare limp. What happened to her?

  She idly flipped a silver pendant between her fingers. “The king won’t want to … proceed without you present, will he?” she asked Malachiasz.

  “If he thinks he can do this himself, he is grossly overconfident in his mediocre abilities,” Malachiasz said.

  Serefin snorted softly. “That’s what this all is at the core of it, isn’t it? It’s just power.”

  “Isn’t it always?” Malachiasz asked.

  Józefina cast a glance between them, eyes narrowing. “All right,” she said softly. “It’s safe to assume that the Rawalyk has been ignored in favor of harvesting participants for their blood.” She grimaced, rubbing her forearm, and Serefin realized what had happened to her.

  Blood and bone.

  “I would say he’s going to make his move soon,” Serefin said. “I would like to avoid him reaching the part where he kills me. If that’s possible?”

  A weary half smile flickered at Józefina’s lips. “Tell him you can do this without Serefin,” she said to Malachiasz.

  He lifted an eyebrow. “You want me to go to the king?”

  She held his gaze for a long time, something dangerous sparking through the air between them.

  “If not, then we need to reevaluate our understanding,” she said. There was steel in her voice.

  He looked as if she’d slapped him. “Understood,” he said, voice strained.

  She turned to Pelageya, who grinned. “Tension in the ranks, how exciting. You’re on the right track, now it just needs some dramatics.”

  28

  NADEZHDA

  LAPTEVA

  Svoyatova Alevtina Polacheva: A cleric of Marzenya, she was an assassin who seemed to be more skilled at the art of death than the art of magic. She lost her life on a mission to Tranavia, killed by heretic blood mages.

  —Vasiliev’s Book of Saints

  “I need to speak with on yaliknevi for just a bit,” Nadya told the others, ignoring the brief flicker of agony that crossed Malachiasz’s face as she used his damn honorific.

  What Nadya always had to her advantage was the element of surprise. When she slammed Malachiasz into the railing of the stairs to the tower, he seemed genuinely shocked.

  “Nadya, please,” he said through gritted teeth as she hooked her leg around his to make it easier to topple him over the side if she felt like it.

  “Have you ever told me the truth?” She could feel her power swirling in her veins and it was a terrifying thought that she could so easily use it on him now. “How did the prince recognize you?”

  “How he knew my name, I have no idea,” Malachiasz said. He strained against her, but after realizing it was fruitless he relaxed into it, letting his head fall back. He hung, bent backwards over the railing, one foot and Nadya’s hand gripping his shirt all that kept him from toppling over the side. “It was your spell that left the loophole that those who were not our enemies would be able to see me.”

  “So the prince has become our ally?” Nadya asked incredulously.

  “Apparently. But this isn’t why you’re angry with me.”

  She pushed him back a little farther. His grounded foot slipped and he jerked, his hands scrambling to grasp at the railings.

  “You lied to me,” she said throu
gh clenched teeth. “You made me believe you were nothing but a boy, scared and in over his head, when you were the worst of them the whole time.”

  He sighed heavily. “Yes.”

  “Why?” Her voice cracked. She hated that he could affect her like this.

  “Because I’m scared and in over my head,” he murmured. “I also happen to be the worst of them. Nadya, please let me stand.” His tone was weary. “I appreciate the threat, but I would survive this fall. You did better last time.”

  She took a step back, allowing him to straighten, before punching him in the face.

  He staggered back against the railing again, laughing as he wiped blood from his bleeding nose. “I deserved that.”

  “You deserve more than that,” Nadya said. “I should have dropped you.”

  He looked down, considering the fall. She shook her head, glanced at the door, then started down the steps. She needed to talk to him where there was less of a chance of the prince hearing. He was silent, trailing behind her until they reached the bottom of the stairs. Nadya grabbed the doorknob and that was when he finally spoke.

  “Nadya, there was no other way.”

  It was her turn to be silent. She moved to open the door, but his hand landed over hers. She was very aware of his body close to hers, the heat of him at her back.

  “Monsters are real, and I am their king.” His voice was low, a whisper, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “We both know lying was the only way to earn your trust.”

  She wanted to shove him away; she wanted him closer. That always seemed to be the crux of it. She didn’t know what she wanted. Why hadn’t the revelation cut whatever was tying her to this boy? Why did she feel herself leaning back against him?

  “Was my trust really that essential?”

  “Nadezhda Lapteva…” His hand slipped up her arm. She felt his other hand against her waist. Hearing her full name spoken with his Tranavian accent made her shiver. “More than you even realize, towy dżimyka.”

  She let out a shaky breath. His hand slid up her neck, tilting her head back. His lips pressed against her throat, sparks igniting underneath his touch.

  Her resolve was fighting a losing battle. It surrendered when he lifted his head and kissed the corner of her mouth.

  “This isn’t fair,” she murmured as he turned her around and pressed her against the door. “This is playing dirty.”

  “I’ll not lie to you, Nadya,” he said, a smile quirking his lips at the irony. “I play dirty.”

  Then her traitorous, heretical hands betrayed her as she reached up and wove them into his hair, pulling his face down to hers and kissing him. Because she was angry with him, furious with his lies, but not even her anger was enough to cool the burning she felt when he was near; the heat that spread through her nerves when he touched her.

  He made a small surprised sound against her mouth, his hands pulling her closer. His hips pressed into her, hand tugging at her hair to draw her face up to his. She arched her back off the wall, letting her body form against his until there was no space left and it was just them, only them, and the heat of his body and the pressure of his mouth.

  For all his lies and plots and the danger he brought into the shoddy plan they had, she held this over him, she realized. This monstrous king could be undone by the touch of her lips.

  She only had enough sense to tuck that piece of information away before he kissed her harder, deeper, sliding his knee in between her legs, and every sensible thought she had fled her mind.

  When they finally broke apart, Nadya let out a breathless laugh as she gazed up at the glittering rainbows cast by the tower.

  “You’re going to go find Parijahan and Rashid. I don’t know what happened to them after I was taken and I’m worried,” she said.

  He nodded.

  She took his chin in her hand, directing his gaze down to hers. “Prove to me with something other than words that I shouldn’t kill you for what you are,” she whispered.

  But even now, she didn’t know if she could ever do what needed to be done.

  “Go to the cathedral when you’re finished here,” he said. “None of the Vultures will give you any trouble.”

  She felt a chill of dread, but she nodded. “Do the others know about you?”

  “Yes.”

  They’ve all been keeping this from me. Every single one of them.

  “Nadya…” he began, but she waved him off, stepping away toward the stairs.

  “Go,” she said. “I’ll speak with you later.” An undercurrent of a threat, a promise, a statement that this wasn’t over and she wasn’t going to let him sway her with charm.

  He hesitated, and his hesitation did nothing but break Nadya down further. She didn’t know what to do and she didn’t have her gods for guidance. She hated feeling lost, betrayed, and broken.

  Ultimately, it didn’t matter. She had come here to stop a war, to bring about justice for her gods, to bring them back. Her heart wasn’t a factor, no matter how much it was twisted and torn in the process.

  She returned to Pelageya’s rooms, bracing herself for the questions Serefin would surely have for her that she wasn’t entirely certain she could answer. He still thought she was a Tranavian noble. It didn’t make sense that he recognized Malachiasz, but there was something else, something there. They both had the same icy pale eyes, and it was probably nothing, a quirk of coincidence, yet …

  Likely it was something that didn’t matter. Nadya pushed open the door to find Serefin whispering fiercely with Ostyia. They both stopped when she entered.

  “Where did Malachiasz go?” Serefin asked.

  “We came here with companions who haven’t been seen since I was kidnapped.”

  Serefin flinched. Nadya let some of her ice cool. He was fighting for the same thing they were, albeit in a roundabout way. She didn’t know how he felt about the war, but the way he had spoken of it at dinner the night before had been weary.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t know you all would be in danger from him as well.”

  “But you knew there was something going on?”

  “I thought his focus was entirely on me.”

  She nodded. “Is that why you’re willing to kill him? Because it’s you or him?”

  “That and you’ve seen Tranavia, you see what his obsession with power and this war have done to the country.”

  She had. She’d seen poverty and suffering, just as there was in Kalyazin. This couldn’t continue, they couldn’t sustain it for much longer.

  “Do you trust him?” Serefin asked. “The Black Vulture?”

  I didn’t know that was who he was, she thought, so the answer is too complicated for words.

  “I think it’s safe to keep him at arm’s length,” Nadya said—a thing she clearly wasn’t doing; her lips still felt bruised from his kisses. “But I also believe he will help us.”

  “It doesn’t make sense to me,” Ostyia muttered.

  Nadya shrugged. “This is his fault—” Just saying that ached. “—it would stand to reason he would want to atone for it.”

  “Will it be enough, though?” Kacper mused.

  Serefin frowned. He looked dreadful, dark circles bruising underneath pale eyes, his brown hair looking unwashed.

  “What if we bring in a different variable?” Nadya said softly, a plan formulating. “What if we make your father come to us?”

  Serefin lifted his head, meeting her gaze. So desperate, so utterly without hope. He didn’t truly think his father could be stopped, that much was clear. A pang struck her like a knife to the side. She was lying to him, too. She had learned that the prince wasn’t a monster as she had always believed him to be and the boy she was falling for was worse than she could have possibly imagined. And she was lying to them both to see her own goals to fruition.

  But she couldn’t tell Serefin the truth. She couldn’t risk him turning on her before this was finished.

  “Draw him into the c
athedral—he’ll think it’s because Malachiasz is ready for this ceremony or whatever it is—get him to a position where he thinks he’s going to be given everything—”

  “And then take it away,” Serefin murmured.

  She nodded.

  Hope flickered in his eyes and he smiled.

  He sent Kacper and Ostyia off to prepare and offered to see Nadya back to her chambers. She was supposed to go to the cathedral, but she suspected Serefin would be less willing to go there, so she accepted. If only to get a little more from this prince before she made her decision on what to do about him.

  Marzenya would tell her to kill him, to hell with the whole royal family, and to start Tranavia over with a new line of blood. Marzenya would also tell Nadya to slaughter Malachiasz immediately. Neither of those were things she particularly wanted to do. She didn’t know what that meant about what she was. She had never wavered in her faith like this, going so willingly against what her gods decreed.

  Malachiasz had hidden what he was from her, but she would be dead if not for him and she couldn’t deny any longer that her fascination had turned to a fondness that even the lies hadn’t managed to soil.

  Serefin was clever and surprisingly caring. She had listened to the conversation of the slavhki at court; none of them thought of the war as anything more than an inconvenience. They didn’t care about what it was doing to their people, they only cared if it got in the way of their dramatics. She wondered if the Kalyazi Silver Court was the same, if maybe they weren’t so different after all.

  “You’ll have the crown if we succeed,” she said. “What will you do?”

  He was so blithely unaware that his answer would determine whether she spared him or killed him. He looked thoughtful, but she noticed how he tensed whenever they passed servants with their flat, gray masks as they walked through the palace halls. Spies of his father?

  “It’s never seemed real to me,” he said, his voice soft. “I’ve been at war for…” He trailed into silence and there was more in that silence than words could fill. He was broken, she realized, a boy who had seen horrors too young. “I just want to be better than my father.”