Wicked Saints

by Emily A Duncan

  “You know me so well, Malachiasz,” Rashid said, his face wrenching as Nadya worked.

  It took her an hour to heal him. When she finished she leaned back on her heels, staring at her hands. She was dimly aware of the others talking, finalizing plans, but all she could think about was how she had healed Rashid herself. It hadn’t been Zbyhneuska’s power, it had been her own.

  Maybe Malachiasz had been right all along.

  What did that mean for her? When all this ended—if she even survived—would the gods turn away because she had discovered her power wasn’t dependent on their whims? Was this true of every cleric in history or was this a flaw within herself?

  She was jarred by Malachiasz moving to kneel on the floor beside her. He gently took her wrists and folded her hands between his. Tears burned at her eyes.

  “We can’t always understand how magic chooses to flow,” he said softly. He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “This is freedom, Nadya, you don’t have to shy away from it.”

  She didn’t have the words to explain that he could never understand, even if he was right. The gods were the reason she lived, the air in her lungs. If they were stifling, it was because it was necessary.

  Except now she was living without the fear of them hovering, digging in her thoughts. Whatever she would have to do to see this plan to its end would be entirely on herself; there would be no danger of a god denying a spell or ignoring her prayers.

  She made a final, tentative reach for the gods and when she was met with a stone wall of silence, she made up her mind.

  This was about survival, about something bigger than Nadya’s magic. She wasn’t going to let herself be riddled with doubt and guilt. This wasn’t something she should run from; it was something she should embrace.

  “Thank you, Malachiasz,” she whispered.

  He smiled. “Are you all right?” He reached out a hesitant hand, brushing his thumb over a long cut that ran down her neck. “I wish I could help, but…” he trailed off. Blood mages couldn’t heal.

  “I like to know you have a weakness,” she replied. She tugged on a lock of his hair. She wondered if that was what she had become, the thing that would cause this monster king to stumble away from his throne. Another weakness. “Explain to me what’s going on—without lying, which I think is a perfectly novel idea—and I might consider forgiving you.”

  Parijahan snorted. Malachiasz’s smile fell.

  “You owe me forty kopecks,” Parijahan said to Rashid.

  He sighed. “In my defense the odds were against it from the beginning.”

  Nadya and Malachiasz exchanged a glance. She could feel the tops of her ears burning. They both pretended they had no idea what the Akolans were talking about.

  Nadya climbed into the empty chair. Malachiasz shoved Rashid’s legs off the chaise and sat down. Rashid protested and kicked Malachiasz in the head as retaliation.

  Malachiasz liked the plan Nadya had formed with Serefin, though he worried it would cause the king to act against the prince early.

  “You want to bring him here?”

  She nodded.

  He looked thoughtful. “It would be less public than acting in front of the entire court. And I do know which of the Vultures are acting as the king’s guards now.”

  “Can you do this? With your order split the way it is?” Parijahan asked.

  “I don’t have a choice,” he said.

  Nadya’s eyelids were heavy and she curled up in the chair, yawning. “Wouldn’t your fleeing Tranavia be seen as treason?”

  “It was directly in retaliation for something the king asked me to do, so, yes. But for the ritual to work, he can’t do this without me. If what Serefin said about his father is true, then he’s so desperate he’ll look past my transgression.”

  Nadya pressed her face against the chair cushion. She could dimly hear them discussing whether they should wait any longer—no—and when they should act—tomorrow.

  Nadya was next aware of being lifted out of the chair, of smelling a pleasant mix of earth and iron and feeling the gentle brush of Malachiasz’s hair against her cheek.

  “I’m going to go speak with the king. I’ll be back. You and Nadya can use my bedroom,” she heard him say to Parijahan, his voice a low rumble in his chest. She shifted into the warmth of his arms.

  “Is she asleep?”

  “No.”

  She shook her head, but buried her face into his chest.

  “She has had her worldview rocked far too many times for any one person in the past twelve hours, on top of being tortured and siphoned. All things considered, she’s doing remarkably well,” Malachiasz continued. “Especially as we expect her to assassinate a man tomorrow.”

  “All part of the job,” Nadya mumbled. “We shouldn’t kill Serefin.”

  “What?”

  “Serefin. He’s good.” She nuzzled his chest. “I like him. He should live.” She forced her eyes open. “Be careful, Malachiasz.”

  His eyes flashed sadness at her, but he blinked and it was gone. He smiled.

  “What have you been told about worrying about me?”

  “It’s useless.” She yawned. “Too late for that.”

  29

  SEREFIN

  MELESKI

  Svoyatovi Milan Khalturin: Svoyatovi Milan Khalturin was a holy man, blessed by no god yet a worshiper of them all, who wandered across Kalyazin. There are miracles attributed not to his life, but to his death, as his bones have been said to have healing properties.

  —Vasiliev’s Book of Saints

  Serefin was too anxious to sleep. He was mostly finished with the necessary preparations for tomorrow, but his mind wouldn’t let him rest.

  As he sat down at his desk with spells sprawled out in front of him, blood still drying on the pages, he couldn’t shake the feeling there was something he still wasn’t understanding.

  What would they do to the kingdom when they started this coup? Tranavia was his kingdom. His land of swamps and lakes and mountains and marshlands. Of blood magic and monsters. A kingdom with two kings. He didn’t want to see it swallowed in the fires of war, and he didn’t want to see it starve to death, either. Both were dangerously close on the horizon. But he also didn’t want to die.

  His father had come to dinner, seeming almost giddy about something. Serefin tried not to have misgivings—this was all part of the plan—but he was worried. If his father was to be believed, Malachiasz was the one pulling the strings. Even if the Black Vulture had admitted his fault, did that mean he wasn’t going to hand the king exactly what he was looking for?

  But it didn’t matter. They were out of time. At dinner the king had mentioned that the Kalyazi forces had moved, that an attack was imminent. He’d seemed … overjoyed at the prospect, and that terrified Serefin the most. All he could cling to was the desperate hope he could save himself in the end.

  A knock at the door startled him. Likely Ostyia or Kacper—he hadn’t seen either that evening.

  Żaneta looked washed out when he opened the door. She shot him a weak smile. Before he had a chance to greet her she reached out, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and kissed him.

  He stiffened in surprise, but soon relaxed into the kiss. His hands clasped Żaneta’s waist and her fingers slid into his hair.

  “What is this?” he asked, breathless when she broke away. He kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw. She didn’t answer. He lifted his head, searching her face. He felt a chill cut through him as he took in her bleak expression.

  “Żaneta?”

  She shook her head, forcing a smile. There were tears in her dark eyes. He gently cupped her face in his hand.

  “Can you come with me?” she asked. She blinked hard and the tears were gone, the discomfort gone with them. She looked as poised as ever. “Sorry, I’m fine. I shouldn’t have—”

  “Żaneta…”

  She shot him a bright smile, no longer strained. “I’m fine, Serefin.”

  H
e hesitated before gently kissing her again. When he broke away, she reached up, combing his hair with her fingers.

  “It will only take a minute,” she said. She held her hand out.

  He took it.

  “Have you seen Kacper or Ostyia?” he asked.

  “I’m surprised neither of them were with you. I haven’t seen them today.”

  He frowned. It wasn’t like them to disappear. A heavy feeling began coiling inside him that felt suspiciously like dread. He had dismissed it before—Żaneta was the only person at court he trusted—but as he followed her down the dark halls of the palace he couldn’t deny this was going to end badly.

  He tried to think, to pull his hand from Żaneta’s grip, but found his head suddenly fuzzy and his fingers slack. Żaneta went from leading him to dragging him down the hall.

  Foreboding crept up his spine like cold fingers as they walked. Past the dungeons, in the back wing of the palace, far below ground, where any magic research the king was doing took place. Research not ordained by the Vultures.

  There was blood trailing out from underneath Żaneta’s sleeve and sliding over her fingers. She glanced back at him, wiping the blood off on her dark skirts, and cleaned off her mouth with the back of her hand, a smear of blood coming away on her fingers.

  His brow furrowed; he hadn’t tasted blood when he’d kissed her. The realization came slowly, his thoughts searching through a murky fog.

  It was a spell. She put magic on her lips and now he was trailing helplessly behind her even though he knew he should flee. The only one he thought was on his side, and she had sold him away like all the rest.

  They reached the entrance to the catacombs. The doors intricately locked and guarded on both sides. Serefin felt the jaws of his fate close in around him as he stepped into the dark.

  Żaneta stopped. She turned back. The dark was choking and thick. Panic constricted his chest, making it feel as if no air was reaching his lungs. He felt her hand on his face, her touch light.

  “I’m sorry, Serefin,” she whispered. She kissed his cheek.

  “What could he give you that I couldn’t?” Serefin asked. It was hard to speak, his words came out thick and muffled.

  He couldn’t make out her features in the darkness. “I want to be the queen. It’s that simple.”

  Queen alone.

  “He’s down here, isn’t he?” Serefin hated that his voice broke. He hated that he was scared.

  “He needs you,” Żaneta replied.

  She nudged him forward. Toward the darkness. Into the depths. He had no choice but to throw himself headfirst down into it.

  30

  NADEZHDA

  LAPTEVA

  Svoyatovi Konstantin Nemtsev: A cleric of Veceslav during a rare time of peace between Kalyazin and its neighbors. That did not protect Konstantin from meeting an unfortunate end. He was captured by Tranavian blood mages and drawn and quartered. The peace did not last long.

  —Vasiliev’s Book of Saints

  Nadya dreamed of many-jointed monsters and creatures with thousands of teeth. Of gaping mouths and claws of bone. These monsters, they knew her. They reached for her, hissing her name, and even as she ran she could feel claws catching on her clothes. The thousands of eyes peeled away the flesh on her back. She dreamed of fields of blood, of blood raining from the sky, of a world already ravaged by war with rivers that ran red.

  She woke up screaming. Horrible, throat-searing screams that shook her whole body. Her hair dripped with sweat. She was only vaguely aware of Parijahan’s cool hands brushing her hair from her face, of the whisper of Akolan words, rapid and fluid.

  Of the door flying open, a pair of warm hands folding over hers, the bed sinking down slightly on one side as Malachiasz sat, pulling her against his chest.

  “Nadya, it was just a dream,” he whispered in her ear in Kalyazi. Her screams gave way to gasping sobs. “You’re safe here, towy dżimyka.”

  She curled against him, his heart beating fast against her ear. There was rustling on the other side of the room and she heard Parijahan and Rashid talking softly to each other. Little things to center herself in reality.

  “What time is it?” she asked, her voice raw. It hurt to speak.

  “Sometime in the middle of the night,” he replied.

  It felt like it should be nearly morning. She heard the door close as Parijahan and Rashid slipped out.

  If she hadn’t felt so awful, she probably would have blushed at the realization she was alone with Malachiasz on his bed. At this point she was too tired to care.

  “I haven’t heard the gods since I woke up in a pool of my own blood,” she whispered. “What scares me is maybe it’s a good thing. I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

  Malachiasz nodded slowly. He looked like he’d been torn from sleep; his long hair was tangled, his shirt hastily thrown on. It was open wide, half hanging off one shoulder.

  “It’s perfectly human to doubt, Nadya,” he murmured.

  “Not when you’re divine,” she said. She sniffed pathetically.

  “No, I suppose not,” he agreed.

  “How do you do it? Live without faith?”

  He was quiet against her except for the rhythm of his breathing. “Nadya, do you really want to know where my ethics come from? Me?”

  Him, the king of monsters. The liar. The heretic.

  No … she supposed she didn’t.

  She murmured her answer. He nodded, unsurprised, and gently kissed her forehead.

  “I feel like I shouldn’t ask what had you screaming bloody murder in your sleep but I admit I’m curious.”

  “Monsters.”

  He flinched. He thought she was talking about him. She almost wished she was, at least that would be easily explained. She considered letting him believe he gave her nightmares. But she wasn’t that cruel.

  “No, not like that,” she said, when she meant not like you. He visibly relaxed and that made her curious. “Would that bother you?”

  “Of course it would.”

  “But you like being what you are.”

  His expression shifted, became troubled. He didn’t correct her. “I would not want to be the cause of your pain, even if it may be inevitable.” After a long silence, he spoke again. “Perhaps you should try to sleep again? I’ll let Parijahan know she can—”

  “Stay,” Nadya said, cutting him off.

  He frowned, already shaking his head. He started to stand but she caught his wrist.

  “I care about you, Malachiasz,” she said, the words rapid as they rushed out of her. “I don’t know when it started, but it’s real and it terrifies me. You’re the single most frustrating person I have ever met and I’m still a little convinced we’re enemies and caring for you is literal heresy, but I do. You’ve been lying to me from the beginning and I can’t make myself stop caring for you.”

  His expression was completely indecipherable and he wouldn’t meet her eyes. Had she been reading him totally wrong? Had she said the wrong thing? She’d never done this before; she wasn’t really sure how it worked. She didn’t—

  He kissed her. It was hungry and purposeful and spoke clearly of wanting. It surprised her, how desperate he felt. It frightened her—just a bit—as well.

  It didn’t stop her from shifting up on her knees, leveling herself to him, and knotting her hands into his hair. Her heart was pounding and every inch of her felt shaky because this was wrong. If she didn’t die tomorrow she would certainly be punished.

  But she didn’t care. She didn’t care. His hands gripped her waist as he pulled her closer. He broke away, his breath ragged and hot. His pale eyes were dark and dangerous as they searched her face.

  “This is a terrible idea.” He spoke in Kalyazi. She was tired of hearing Tranavian.

  “I know.”

  “I wish you did,” he said, his voice hoarse. He lifted a hand, gently tracing her features with his fingertips. She shivered. When he reached her mouth she tilted her face up
to kiss his palm.

  He let out a long, tattered breath. She pulled his face back to hers, kissing him hard, feeling his body notch against her. She drew one hand out from his hair and let it slide down his neck, glancing fingers brushing against his collarbone. His skin was hot and she felt his hand trail up the ridges of her spine. He pressed forward, lowering her back onto the bed.

  For a split second, she froze, suddenly realizing just how dangerous this was, how much further down she could throw herself if she allowed it.

  He felt her instant of indecision and pulled back. A similar misgiving flickered on his face.

  “Just stay,” she whispered.

  He nodded. “Nadya, I…” he trailed off. Kissed her throat. Her jaw. The corner of her lips.

  She was having trouble thinking clearly. Her mind focused solely on the feeling of his mouth against her skin. But she understood he wanted to say something serious to her so she opened her eyes.

  “If something happens tomorrow…” He shifted so he was lying next to her. She turned on her side and moved closer so their foreheads were touching. “I want you to know you are the only good thing that has ever happened to me.”

  Was her heart supposed to be in her throat like this? Was she supposed to feel so alive and so much like crying right now? She had no idea. All she knew was she had gone against everything she ever thought right and had fallen completely, irreversibly for this terrible, monstrous boy.

  She curled her fingers against his face, the scratch of stubble beginning to dust his jaw and cheeks rough against them. His voice scared her, and not in the way it scared her when he was speaking as the Black Vulture. This was different. This was sadness. Desolation.

  How could she be the only good thing to happen to him? She had almost slit his throat, had hung him off a railing. She didn’t even trust him, not really.

  Maybe that wasn’t true. He had lied, he was a monster, but still she cared. A part of her had come to trust him. And that was the most terrifying thing of all.

  “We’ll just have to make sure nothing happens, then,” she said.