Stranger Rituals

by Kali Rose Schmidt

  For a moment, he clenched his eyes shut, and it surprised her to see something that seemed like a weakness. When he opened them again, they came to the necklace around her neck, eyes trailing down to the bird skull. He furrowed his dark brow but did not ask about it.

  Instead, he stood and yanked her to her feet. “You have no reason to trust me. But you have no reason to trust him, either.”

  And then they were spinning in that dark wind, the cemetery gone beneath her feet. When she felt something solid again, she was in her room at the inn. Rhodri was gone.

  10

  A Waste of Perfect Hair

  That night, she sat wide awake in her bed at the inn, once more listening to the sounds of laughing and shrieking coming from the foyer below. She had paid the woman at the entrance way too much zed to have a lukewarm bath, but she had to scrub any scent of the raptum den from her body and hair.

  She had seen no more of Rhodri after he left her in the inn with his strange brand of magic. Stranger than her own. But it wasn’t the magic that haunted her, not his horns, not even his very existence.

  Instead, it was his words.

  Were they true?

  In the two years she had been at the Order, she had never heard Vojtech speak of using raptum. She had drunk from the volunteers in the castle, had drank from Vojtech, too. But she felt certain raptum had to come from dead Vraka, which would mean her abilities in the desert had been her own. The fight hadn’t come any easier than others, now that she thought about it. And mindeta didn’t exist in the Order, either. She knew that much. She had spent some time in the infirmary when she first arrived, singed skin from training, or frostbitten digits from Klaus. Once, she had split her arm clean open after falling on her own knife during a training battle with a Skuggmat. Never had they used mindeta to help her sleep or to subdue her.

  And how would Rhodri know?

  He had said there was something much worse than another Holy War, but he hadn’t explained what.

  She rubbed her arms, draped over her knees in the rickety bed, as her thoughts shifted to Zephir, to what she knew of him, which wasn’t much at all. Vojtech hadn’t sent her here to get to know him. He and the gods had sent her to kill him. And while she’d had many chances to gut him, he was still very much alive. Even Rhodri seemed to think he should die.

  Another wave of guilt flushed through her as she thought about all those missed chances she hadn’t taken to do what she was sent for, what Vojtech trusted her to do. And something beyond guilt, like longing. She wanted answers from him, about Rhodri, about how they knew one another.

  But Zephir…what revenge did he want on the Royals, and why?

  Two days, she told herself, glancing out the window, the waning moon high in the air. In two days she would get her revenge on the Praeminister, maybe find out more about the King’s journey to Zussia, and then she’d get back to the Order, back to Vojtech, Zephir dead and left behind in Kezda. And Rhodri—she could deal with him then, too.

  Return to me. Vojtech had told her that more than once…did he think she wouldn’t want to come back? She fell into an uneasy, reluctant sleep to images of his long, black hair, his ivory horns, thinking of his cold hand in hers. Thinking of the secrets he didn’t share with her.

  *

  The next morning, after dreams of the man she destroyed outside of the raptum den, his hand a phantom, distended thing that wrapped around her neck, she thought of trying to waylay Zephir at the docks. She imagined forgetting about the Martyr’s Day festival, of going back to Gotheberg instead and of trying to shake Rhodri from trailing her.

  But the thought of the Praeminister suffering at the hands of her blood-sword was too good to pass up, even without Zephir’s threat hanging overhead, and despite Rhodri’s warning not to work with him. This revenge was what she had spent years dreaming about, in between her nightmares. Vojtech had promised her she would get her revenge; he never promised when. Maybe this was it. Maybe he had even seen this. Maybe this is what the gods wanted, too. If she got rid of the Praeminister, she might spur the Holy War on, but more importantly, no more Vrakan children would suffer at his hands. It would help start the fall of Krystwo.

  That was enough for her to drag on her bloodied grey cloak, wrap the scarf around her neck, tuck her blade into her waistband, lace up her boots, and leave the quiet inn, the smell of vin lingering in the foyer along with something foul as she passed through. She was thankful not to see Rhodri anywhere in the inn.

  As soon as she walked out of the Cove, two people came to step beside her, flanking her. She sighed and didn’t bother reaching for her blade; Jalde’s beard seemed to gleam in the rising sun, lathered with an oil of some sort, and Ida’s shaved head was a rarity for women in Kezda. Of course, they would be following her, she thought. It was their thing. It was everyone’s thing.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked as they made their way down the sleepy streets, to the docks.

  “I don’t trust you,” Jalde responded with a shrug of his burly shoulders, his eyes narrowed.

  Ida laughed softly. “Play nice, Jalde.”

  “How famous is he, exactly,” Scarko ignored them both, “that we have to meet so damn early in the morning?” She saw Jalde’s eyes stop glaring at her long enough to glance longingly at a sweet roll left out overnight from a street cart. She noticed Ida see him, too, and roll her eyes. The docks were in view, but Zephir, of course, was not.

  “I was told you wanted to meet this early. Good thing, too, because he’s the only one like him. He never loses, even against the non-Vrakas.”

  Overgivas, Scarko mentally corrected. Those without.

  “Why does he fight in a basement? Why not an arena?”

  Jalde scoffed. “The mindeta blowers aren’t as effective in open spaces, should one of your kind get out of hand.”

  Scarko felt her skin crawl. Of course.

  “And Kezda doesn’t have an arena,” Ida added.

  “What will you do when he ages out? Stops winning?” Scarko asked, as they crossed the road to the docks.

  Jalde scowled.

  “We’ve got plans,” Ida warned. There was something in her tone that pricked at Scarko’s mind, but before she could think more about it, they left her, turned right around the way they had come without any goodbyes, and Zephir took up Jalde’s place beside her.

  “Ready to go to the Mill Square?” Even as the wind blew in the opposite direction, Scarko could smell the scent of the sea on Zephir, see the curls on his hair blow lightly. It was a shame, really, that he had to die with such perfect hair.

  “Why do they do it?” she asked, as they started back the way they had just come. Zephir pulled a hood over his head, and Scarko barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

  Zephir glanced at her from beneath his hood.

  “Work with you? Don’t they want something…more?” she pushed. She could think of a thousand more enjoyable ways to spend her time than following him around.

  “What could possibly be more fun than working with me?” he asked, but there was a bitter edge to his tone.

  An elderly woman walked between them, headed the opposite direction, and Scarko was surprised to see Zephir move out of her way so elegantly, like a gentleman. A façade.

  “Oh, I don’t know, gutting fish? Freezing in the streets?” Scarko pondered as they continued down a street she hadn’t yet explored, the buildings around them changing from dingy and dilapidated to bright red brick with gleaming windows. Warskian flags, emerald green with silver snakes, hung outside many homes here.

  She saw a wry smile on Zephir’s lip, still slightly swollen from when she punched him, but healing. “Ida will find something better some day. I think she likes making her father angry.”

  “I thought you worked with her father—he’s the reason you get the fights?”

  They stopped as a carriage rolled past, horse snorting. The people here were different than in the poorer areas. There were finely-ma
de furs, more horses, and less dirt in the streets. No little boys were forced to steal their food.

  “He is the reason I get the fights. Doesn’t mean he likes me.”

  “So, she’s still smitten with you, from whatever you had?” Scarko guessed.

  Zephir cleared his throat. “We discussed this,” he growled.

  Scarko laughed quietly. “We did. But it’s so fun watching you squirm.”

  They continued in silence, and Scarko took in the wealthy district of Kezda. It even smelled differently, cleaner, crisper. No tang of blood anywhere in the air, which was a shame, because she would have to feed tonight, before the festival tomorrow. There were no children running in the streets, no men guarding alleyways. The unseemly was hidden, closer to the ports. Just how Olofsson liked it, she was sure. Turn a blind eye to those hurting.

  She was grudgingly thankful she didn’t have to pass anymore raptum dens, and she forced her thoughts away from Rhodri.

  “I’m surprised you came,” Zephir admitted.

  She couldn’t read his tone, he said it so matter-of-factly.

  “Me too.”

  Zephir smiled coldly. “You don’t trust me.”

  Scarko scoffed. “Your kind calls us babswas—hags. You drugged me with mindeta, not once but twice. Of course I don’t trust you.”

  He didn’t answer, but she saw something dark cross his face.

  They turned down another street in silence, and in the distance, she saw what she assumed to be Mill Square. It was a square lawn, the grass dead in the winter, but expansive. Churches seemed to line the entire square, and cobblestone streets neatly edged it. There were banners strung from dead trees, emerald green in preparation for the festival. She watched men in brown coats tend to the dead lawn, picking up trash, some streaming more banners. As people walked on to work, they glanced toward it, but the crowd had not yet gathered. A few Warskian soldiers in their glittering green uniforms and fur-lined coats, swords hanging at their belts, walked around the square. She noted they did not have mindeta blowers. Not yet.

  Zephir tugged his hood off here, and as she glanced at his smooth brown skin, she wondered if any of the wealthy people bothered to watch Vrakans die in fights to the death, or if blood sport was for the poor only. But she remembered the fine coats in the basement, the fur hats. Those people, somehow, probably stood something to gain from such brutal fights.

  They walked around the perimeter of the square, talking quietly. As they passed a Warskian soldier whose eyes were on them, Zephir tugged Scarko closer to him, his large hands around her waist, and he grazed her cheek with his lips.

  She forced herself not to pull away, understanding what he was doing as his green eyes met hers. Even still, she felt her cheeks warm, felt too much the spot where his lips had grazed her skin. As the Warskian soldier looked away, disinterested, he let go of her.

  “You’ll be here,” he nodded to the cathedral beside them—St. Jerilo’s, according to a black and gold plaque. The grey steeple extended into the sky, but there was a flat roof, too, jutting out from what was likely the sanctuary. She knew enough about Krystwo churches, more than she wanted to. It came with being one of the Praeminister’s favorites.

  “You’ll need to come early, before the sunrise. And you’ll need a new coat,” he glanced at her grey cloak. “Aren’t you cold?”

  She shook her head, pulling the cloak tighter around her body.

  “Ida is working on the ships by the docks, the ones that’ll be there overnight. In case anything goes wrong, she’ll detonate them.”

  Scarko nearly tripped, and Zephir reached a hand out to steady her. “What?” she choked out.

  Zephir glanced at her, dropping his hand. “You drink people’s blood for food, conjure swords with it, and you’re surprised Ida can handle a few explosives?”

  “How did she learn that?”

  He shrugged. “Her father doesn’t just deal in Vrakan fights.”

  “And where will Jalde be?” As they turned down another line of the square, Scarko heard a man shouting, selling papers advertising the King’s coming.

  “Where he needs to be,” Zephir responded evasively.

  “Right.”

  She glanced up at the sound of horses’ hooves, clomping along the cobblestones, and then stopped walking abruptly.

  Ahead of them, down the street, a small, excited crowd had gathered. Warskian soldiers in green and Vokte police in blue were ushering the crowd against the buildings, moving them from the cobblestone streets. Half a dozen carriages in emerald green were heading toward the square, the silver serpent’s tongue on an emerald green flag waving from the middle carriage. The horses were ridden by armed soldiers, the animals’ flanks gleaming in the winter sun. People were cheering and waving. Someone was sobbing.

  “Olofsson,” Scarko said the word more to herself.

  Zephir glanced at her, but didn’t speak.

  Somewhere in that royal caravan was the Praeminister. Scarko felt the bird skull grow warm against her chest, mirroring her own rage. She clenched her fists and bit her tongue. Then, with will, she turned away from the procession that rolled down the street. He would be hers to kill soon enough.

  Zephir followed her.

  They walked in silence, past the Mill Square, toward the docks once more, dodging people in the streets that had grown more crowded as the morning wore on.

  “Do you plan to kill the king?” Scarko asked finally, as they turned down an empty side street, the buildings swelling up on either side blocking the sun, making Scarko shiver. If he did, that could complicate the coming Holy War significantly.

  “No,” Zephir answered.

  “Then who? You know where my blood-sword will strike, so why not tell me your secret?” She tried to keep her tone light, but she had too many questions. “Why bother to bring me in on this at all? And how did you know, when I came to the fight, what I was?”

  “I’m bothering to bring you in on this so you can keep me company in the Royal dungeons if we get caught,” Zephir deadpanned.

  She didn’t laugh. “No,” she said, “I won’t. I’ll be hung from the gallows.”

  He turned to her, and they stopped walking, her back to the building beside them. He was so close she could count his lashes.

  “I won’t let that happen.”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” She realized her voice trembled as she said the words.

  “I don’t.” His eyes blazed on hers. “I brought you in on this because your blood-sword will be a distraction, will cover my own work, and you’ll act first, understand?”

  She nodded.

  “You came here to kill me because Vraka power is useless on me. I get it.” His tone was so casual. “But I don’t really want to die, and I figure in the chaos we unleash tomorrow, you won’t have time to find me and gut me before you’re needed back at the Order. Am I right?”

  He wasn’t. She would kill him, too. She had to. Whether before or after she killed the Praeminister, she hadn’t decided. But he had to die; Vojtech had ordered it.

  “Right.” The lie tasted bitter on her tongue.

  He took a step back from her, and she could have sworn she saw a frown on his face, but it passed quickly.

  “Get a proper coat. It’ll be cold on that roof, and you can’t risk your arms going numb. Can you find your way back from here?” he asked, looking down the empty street.

  She nodded.

  She needed to eat.

  He turned to walk away, and then glanced over his shoulder. “Ida will find you later this evening. You can help her with the ships.”

  Before she could protest, he found his way back to the main street. And then she heard a girlish laugh, one she didn’t know, a high-pitched voice, “Zephir Crista?” A giggle. “I go to all your fights, would you mind—”

  Scarko turned the opposite way, the girl’s voice fading as she put space between them.

  11

  Killing in the Name of F
ood

  It was, Scarko thought, much too nice a day to spend inside the mildew-like confines of the Cove, tense and on edge, half-waiting for Rhodri to appear again out of nowhere. His warning about working with Zephir kept echoing in her head. Alongside it, the guilt she felt at betraying Vojtech. She shoved it down deep.

  It had warmed up outside, and while she slipped into a dingy shop on the poorer side of the town and bought a black coat as Zephir had suggested for scaling St. Jerilo’s roof, she left it in her room before heading back out. Zephir’s warning, about worse creatures, sounded in her ear, too.

  Did Rhodri and Zephir know of each other? Where did she fit in their puzzle?

  She shook her head as she slipped further into the city. Here, amidst the poverty of those that lacked, nothing like the gilded rooms of the Royal Palace or the sparkling obsidian of the Order, she felt a strange peace settle within her bones.

  Watching children running down the street, free today from freezing to death in an alleyway, women clicking after them, men smoking cigars, smiles on their pink-cheeked faces, Scarko was reminded of her village, the one she had spent nine short years in. Too little time to be with her parents, too little time to learn of her blood magic, of bone resurrections.

  As she watched a boy who couldn’t have been much more than nine help his father set up a rickety food truck in the street, stringing meats and setting out little loaves of bread, paper snakes stuck on toothpicks in celebration of the holiday approaching, she wondered, not for the first time, what her parents would make of her current profession. Her father had been a Glassmat, like Klaus, able to freeze pails of rain, a magic trick he showed her over and over in the wet season. Her mother had been a Skuggmat, conjuring shadows during her spooky tales to the utter delight of Scarko. They used their magic in secret, never revealing their gifts to the other villagers.

  None of the knowledge of the Holy Writ had been taught to her, but they had told her, in whispers, of the gods and of the gifts they granted.