“A cleric who communes with the entire pantheon—unheard of—arriving during a time of strife when no other clerics were to be found. What makes you so special?”
Nadya ignored her. It wasn’t for her to question.
“I thought you were like any other cleric—with a talent for magic of your own that the gods exploit and inflate to make it appear as though you could do nothing without them, but I was wrong.”
“Wrong because I have no magic to speak of anymore?”
“Wrong because you draw your power from somewhere else entirely,” Pelageya said. She stood, setting the chicken feet onto a table before taking Nadya’s hand. The black tendrils had snaked up her ring and index finger. “What do we think this is, hm?”
“I used Velyos to steal Malachiasz’s power,” Nadya said.
“And so that makes you some kind of magic kashyvhes? No, child, this is something long ignored that you woke up and which now seeks what it has been owed.”
A shiver of fear rippled down Nadya’s spine.
“I’m not used to being wrong,” Pelageya mused, “but I was wrong about you.”
Why couldn’t she just be a foolish cleric who had made bad choices? That was simple. She didn’t want to know what was different about her, because then she wasn’t just a cleric, and that was all she wanted to be. Except she was the cleric destined to stop the war, and she had failed.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” she whispered.
Pelageya perched on the arm of the chair across from Nadya.
“I thought…” Nadya trailed off. “I thought tearing down the veil would change things, even if killing the king didn’t—but I did both and nothing changed.”
“Are you not seeing your divine retribution?”
“Clearly not.”
“You don’t think abstractly enough, child. You thought the gods’ wrath would come in hellfire and destruction? The gods don’t work like that. You are seeing your retribution, it’s merely falling on Kalyazin as well.”
The blood drained from her face. The winter. The unceasing winter. It was going to freeze them all; starve them. And it would be retribution for Tranavia, certainly, but what was it worth if the Tranavians didn’t realize who caused it?
“You think that’s it? Some pesky weather? Nadezhda, you are far cleverer than this.”
Was she? She hadn’t been clever enough to see through Malachiasz’s lies. Or to bring him back. She wasn’t feeling particularly clever at all.
Pelageya sighed. “You think that the new young king is struggling to keep his throne because of incompetence? He is as ruthless and bloodthirsty as a Tranavian king is expected to be—more so, even.”
“Oh,” Nadya breathed. “Bozidarka?”
“Or Veceslav. Any number of your gods could be twisting the king’s plans around him until he truly falls.”
Nadya gazed up at the dark wood of the ceiling. It made a sick kind of sense. She had been expecting an apocalypse but she had received exactly what she had wanted for Tranavia: chaos.
“You really want Tranavia to crumble?” Pelageya asked. “They are on the precipice and it would only take the lightest push to tip them over the edge.”
“How?” Nadya asked. It was the only way to stop the war, the only way to redeem herself.
A small smile pulled at the witch’s mouth. “Soon,” she murmured. “Very soon.”
* * *
It took a few more days before Nadya was well enough to get out of bed. Every movement was minor agony—breathing hurt—but if she stayed in bed any longer she was going to mope herself through the floor.
Kostya continued to hover around her edges, but tension was building, waiting to explode with each day she let pass without telling him the truth.
Honestly, she had been hoping to get away with it. She didn’t want to see his disappointment.
He sat down at the table, pushing a mug of tea her way. The bruises on his face were healing, more yellow than black.
“Nadya, you need to talk to me,” he said quietly.
Not technically true, she thought sullenly. Rain pounded against the dirty windows and she dug her toe into the packed earth floor.
“I only want to know what happened, all of it. Why were you traveling with the prince?”
“Wait,” she said, holding up a hand. “Wait. There are things you need to tell me as well.”
He paused, puzzled.
“This isn’t going to be an interrogation, it’s going to be an exchange of information.”
“I thought it was a conversation,” he said.
“It would be if you weren’t so dead set on hating everything I’m about to tell you.”
“I’m not—”
“It’s worse than you know, Kostya. It’s worse than probably the absolute most terrible thing you can imagine. And I’m not going to be interrogated, but I will tell you if you want to listen.”
“I want to listen,” he said without hesitating.
“Then you have to answer my questions, too.”
He nodded, uncertain what that meant. His expression didn’t sour too much when she explained why she had been with Serefin, even as she glossed over the other reason for being in the Salt Mines. But before she could ask about the pendant, about Velyos, a knock, tentative and soft, sounded at the door. She exchanged a confused glance with Kostya as Parijahan cautiously went to open it.
Nadya heard a surprised gasp and the sound of something hitting the ground. She got up to investigate, taking her mug of tea with her, and froze when she recognized the voice speaking in rapid Tranavian.
15
SEREFIN MELESKI
No one knows what Lev Milekhin’s slight against the gods was; no one knows what happened when he made the pilgrimage to Bolagvoy except that he returned touched by a different god than the one who abandoned him, and never spoke again.
—The Books of Innokentiy
Serefin woke up from a horrifying nightmare only to discover it hadn’t been a nightmare at all. He was still in the damn forest.
At least the eternal night was passing. It was dark, but the occasional flicker of light through the thick canopy of leaves and the sound of birds flitting through the trees was more of a relief than words could say.
He was tired, and hungry, and certainly had no desire to stay in this bloody clearing, so he got up and started walking. The creeping dread was gone. The forest was … normal. It would be pleasant if he wasn’t so terrified he would never make it back to his friends.
He had a vague feeling the voice had not been lying when it claimed he was no longer in Tranavia, and he didn’t understand how that was possible, even as he began to stumble toward the outskirts of a Kalyazi village.
How far did that creature take me? he thought, horrified. Quickly, he shrugged out of his military jacket, shoving it deep into his pack. He went to pull his signet ring off but paused, the metal cool underneath his fingers. Removing it felt wrong, though it might very well get him killed. And if that didn’t, his accent would. The wiser choice would be to bypass the village entirely, but he was dizzy with exhaustion and hunger.
The winter had been hard on this village; it was suffering. The fields should have been sprouting green with growth and the farmers doing their best to make up for the winter’s bite. The buildings he passed were worn down, the thatched roofs thin and patchy. It was similar to the poverty in Tranavia, and he tried to not let that get to him.
This war was destroying everyone.
He wanted to cry with relief when he found an inn because it meant the villagers weren’t looking too closely at him—though he’d garnered some odd glances. This place saw travelers, and even if they didn’t like them, they were used to them. He’d pulled his hat farther down in an attempt to shadow the scar on his face, though he knew it was fruitless. His hat was Tranavian in style, another mistake.
He ducked into the building, grateful to get away from the villagers outside even if it meant
facing the ones within. It was warm, a fire burning in the center of the hall. Serefin was immediately struck by the sharp earthy scent of the dried herbs hanging against the wall. This whole thing was terrifically foolish of him, but he didn’t care. He was tired, he was in the country of his enemies, and at worst he would be recognized as Tranavian and then … what? Hanged? Thrown to the military? That’d probably be doing him a favor.
He wished Kacper was here. For a hundred thousand reasons, he wished Kacper was there, but also because Kacper was very good at these sorts of things. They had never really been in this kind of position before, but Kacper liked to know things, especially if those things had to do with how people worked and what made them tick. Kacper could pass himself off as an incredibly convincing Kalyazi.
I’m not trained for this, Serefin thought wildly. He was a soldier, not a spy. He couldn’t pretend in that way.
He had to risk it.
Serefin lightly thumbed the lining of his pockets and pulled out a thin pouch containing a handful of Kalyazi kopecks. It wasn’t much but it would be enough for a hot meal and a warm place to sleep. Also a drink. Maybe two. Hopefully two.
The crowd sitting around a long, nearby table didn’t spare Serefin a passing glance, caught up in a fierce discussion that was moving too fast for him to keep up with. He caught bits and pieces; it was some kind of political debate, and an old man with a long, graying beard was scolding a younger man and telling him that they were in a korchmy and the neznichi krovitz had no power there.
Serefin frowned slightly. Were they near a low prince’s stronghold? Surely not. And why would a low prince have no jurisdiction in an inn?
He spoke as little as possible to the innkeeper, the man merely waving him to one of the two long tables that stretched across the room. Serefin avoided the large group. He just needed to survive this and find his friends—and ignore the pull farther west, to where he couldn’t yet say. The voice wanted revenge, but on whom? Serefin wanted revenge, too, though he would rather call it justice to better sleep at night. Killing a father and a brother might be enough to finally make him snap; he was so close to crumbling as it was.
“Your hat’s ugly.”
Serefin glanced up from his broth—it tasted terrible but was warm. At least the black bread was good and the alcohol already working its charms, small mercies. A woman slightly down the table from him—wearing an embroidered scarf over her hair and a look that said she knew exactly where a hat like his had come from—was watching him.
“Ugly hat from an ugly soldier,” he said gruffly. “Can’t be choosy in this weather.”
He had said about seven more words than he’d wanted, but the woman nodded and her attention shifted away from him. He’d let out a sigh of relief when the door to the inn slammed open, frigid air sweeping into the room. Serefin reacted without thought, slicing open the back of his hand.
Someone screamed and the table across the room overturned as the group scrambled to move away from the Vulture entering the room. Serefin’s eyes flickered closed for a second; he was in no state to fight off one of those.
And it was definitely here for him.
So much for getting out in one piece.
He ducked as a blade fashioned with magic came flying at him. His head was spinning. Why did they always wait until he had been drinking?
He supposed it was his fault for wanting to get drunk while being fully aware that assassins from Ruminski were inevitable. But what were the alternatives? Not getting drunk? Unlikely. And why a Vulture?
Maybe it was from Malachiasz, not Ruminski.
He shouldn’t use magic. Using it would paint him immediately as the heretic he was because everyone knew there was only one cleric and she was far from here. But the Vulture was moving closer and there was power shivering underneath his skin and moths fluttering around his head and in his hair and it took no effort at all to dip into that chaotic place and pull stars out of the air and send them right into that jagged iron mask. There was a terrible, gut-wrenching scream as the light burned through the mask and into the Vulture’s skin, the flesh bubbling underneath. Serefin looked away but he couldn’t escape the throat-tearing cries of pain.
Interesting, he thought.
He hoped this wasn’t going to come back to bite him in the ass. It wasn’t wise to be using a power he didn’t understand.
The Vulture caught under his guard, tearing his side with its claws. He was only wearing a simple shirt and no protection. He hissed through his teeth, blood running down his side. But with all that blood came an unintentional surge of power he had to tamp down, because if he survived this he was going to be in trouble.
He swiftly sidestepped the Vulture’s next attempt, pressing a hand to his bleeding side. Suddenly his vision shifted, going oddly sharp and focused in a way that was so massively disorienting he almost tripped over his own feet. For a beautiful, shimmering second he could see.
But as fast as it came, it went, and everything he saw was horrifying. Those fleeing the inn were corpses, their flesh blackened and rotting. Appendages worn to bone, extremities broken off, black blood pouring from their eyes. And Serefin stood in a forest that was dark and oppressive and going to swallow him whole and spit him out half a person, only a creature, nothing but a boy whose mind had been cut in two after being thrown about by gods and cast aside.
Then the forest was gone and Serefin’s mind cleared.
Magic pooled in Serefin’s hand and he slammed it into the Vulture’s face so hard the monster dropped like a stone. His knuckles split.
Serefin let out a long, shaky breath and rubbed his eyes. That was nothing. That had to be nothing. He couldn’t stomach the alternative.
He crouched next to the Vulture, dazed but alive.
“Czijow,” he said amiably. There was no use not using Tranavian anymore; he doubted he would get out of this village alive. “I assume you’re from Ruminski.” He paused, and tore the Vulture’s mask off.
He was about Serefin’s age. Pale blond curls fell over his forehead. His face was bleeding where Serefin’s magic had cut through his mask, his dark blue eyes venomous.
“Yes? No? The Black Vulture, then?”
The Vulture spat, narrowly missing Serefin’s face.
“Ah, you’re one of the ones that hate him, we have that in common. So, Ruminski. Excellent. Did he say I was a weak drunkard and an easy kill? He’s having some trouble, isn’t he, taking over my throne? Are there a handful of slavhki that keep him from claiming it without due cause and without proof of my death?”
The Vulture did not speak. His hand scrabbled for something at his belt but Serefin caught his wrist, taking a vial from him and swirling the liquid inside.
“Going to kill yourself instead of talking to me? Seems extreme.” He tossed the bottle over one shoulder, heard it shatter. “You’re going to run along back to Tranavia and tell Ruminski that I hope he spends his nights sweating. That his plans are never going to work. If he thinks I let him have the throne by leaving the city then he is as great a fool as he appears. You tell him”—Serefin leaned in close—“that his daughter is well and truly among the Vultures and no amount of negotiations or threats to my throne will get him what he wants. He can treat with the Black Vulture. But you knew that! You just never told him, did you? He should enjoy the time he has! I have some things to deal with first, then I’m going to tear him limb from limb and enjoy every second.”
Serefin plucked a moth from the air and shoved it down between the Vulture’s lips. He fought but ultimately choked it down, eyes going wide.
“Ah, yes, thought so,” Serefin said, with a sly smile. “You go straight back and deliver my message. And, please, if you’d like to make it more gruesome, go right ahead.” He let the Vulture struggle to his feet and walk into the night as if in a trance.
I have no bloody idea what I just did, Serefin thought mildly.
Surely someone had gone to the nearest military outpost. Maybe he could
get out of the village before the Kalyazi army arrived.
He got up as if in a daze of his own. He took a step forward and his leg gave out.
He made it back to his feet, moving to the door.
And straight into the tip of a blade.
Shit, he thought, lifting his hands, gaze traveling down the length of the sword, up the blue Kalyazi coat with high-order medals emblazoned on the jacket. A black braid draped over a slim shoulder. And right into the sharp green eyes of someone he recognized and wished he didn’t.
“Shit,” he said out loud.
Yekaterina Vodyanova, the tsarevna of Kalyazin, grinned brightly. “Well,” she said, delighted. “The king of Tranavia is a long way from home, isn’t he?”
16
NADEZHDA LAPTEVA
The storms did not always come by Peloyin’s hand; that usurper, that fraud. There was another once, one and one and one. Smoke and shadow and a voice like thunder, a corpse of a tree struck by lightning. He who held every movement of the air before his abrupt defilement.
—The Books of Innokentiy
Nadya gaped, burning tea spilling onto her shaking fingers. She quickly set the mug down.
Malachiasz looked dreadful. He was soaked to his skin and covered with mud; dried blood caked the side of his face, as if he had been struck on the jaw. His black hair dripped and he was shivering, his lips blue from the cold. She could see the tracks of his veins underneath his pale skin. No claws. No iron teeth. No spikes of metal jutting from his flesh. Just a teenage boy, arms wrapped around his body emphasizing how rail-thin he was. He wore a frayed gray tunic over a pair of mud-stained breeches, a battered pack slung over his shoulder.
Nadya was relieved. And then all the anger she hadn’t been feeling struck her at once. She was furious enough to kill him.
His pale eyes met hers, wary. Nadya’s fist clenched.
Rashid grabbed her arm. “Absolutely not. You’ll rip out your stitches.”
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