There were ornate chairs, serving as temporary thrones, set upon the dais, and the soldiers helped the royals into them. Ladies-in-waiting poured from the other carriages, coming to fawn over the Queen, wrapped up tightly in thick fur-trimmed garments and hats. Curiously, the prince did not leave the carriage. She wondered if Zephir had intended to kill him, and if his absence ruined the fighter’s plans.
She found she didn’t particularly care.
While the men and women of the court ensured their rulers were comfortable, and the soldiers and police took their positions around them, another cheer went up through the crowd as the carriage with the flag opened up, and a man in white robes and a fur hat was helped down. His pink skin glinted in the sun, and he threw his ungloved hands wide, waving to his adoring fans. He bowed with hands up, a smile on his shrunken face, as if leaning into their applause. Around his neck was a necklace, thick and heavy, bearing the symbol of Krys—a lightning bolt.
Scarko didn’t need to see the necklace or the white robes to know who he was. She had seen the man naked.
The Praeminister turned, just once, in her direction. And all that rage she had pent up over the years slipped just a little, into something that felt more like fear. She snatched her knife and poised the blade over her glove. The Praeminister was led up the steps, seated beside the Royal family to much cheer and whistling. She found she was holding her breath.
Godsdamn Zephir, Scarko thought. Hurry the hells up.
Naturally, he didn’t.
The King spoke first after the cheers from the crowd settled down as he stood to address them. It was a lengthy speech about the sacrifice Warskians had made against the rebel Vrakas and their false gods, giving thanks to the Vrakas that used their talents for the true god, the holy Krys.
“Needn’t mention they’re all drugged in cages, given no choice,” Scarko murmured.
He gave thanks to the soldiers, to his military, giving them a bow that earned a yell of approval through the Warskian forces gathered in the square. He thanked Krys for blessing him with such vast lands, such a blanket of blissful peace.
“More like a blanket of smallpox,” Scarko muttered, fiddling with her knife, growing cold on the roof. She twitched her muscles so they wouldn’t fall asleep, glanced across the square to see Ida sitting on her ass, head on her knees, as if she were napping through the speech. Scarko wanted to send a blood-sword to wake her up but decided against it as the king made to introduce the filthy Praeminister in white.
The cheers for him rivalled those for the king. But the king still beamed on the dais as he took his leave at his throne, pulling the holy man into a tight hug, then letting the Praeminister bake in the applause of the frozen Kezdans.
Scarko wanted to look away from the man who had wrecked her whole world, who had stood beside her as her parents hung, encouraging her to watch, to see the punishment doled out to “traitors,” but she could not turn away. Instead, she felt the bird skull around her neck grow warm. The blade in her hand twitched as she itched to sink it into her flesh, to send her blood to cover the Praeminister, to drown him in it. Watch him die before the adoring crowd.
He smiled eagerly at the Warskian people, waving to a group of children closest to him. Scarko prayed he’d never once be allowed alone with those children.
“I thank Krys for letting me live another day to serve the mighty hearts of Warskians,” he paused, “especially those here in Kezda.” Scarko was sure he winked. She choked back a gag.
“I have had the great fortune of being able to serve alongside the almighty King Olofsson for nearly three decades,” he gestured to the King, “to give counsel to his wife and son, and to lead some of our most broken, lost souls—the Vraka—to the greatness of Krys.”
Overwhelming applause erupted throughout the square, and Scarko clenched the knife in her fist. She wondered if Zephir was purposely torturing her with this speech or if he had a valid reason for making her wait.
Across the square, she saw Ida throw up her hand in a lazy gesture and wondered if she was trying to give her some sympathy. What had Zephir told her? What did they suspect of the Praeminister? Scarko looked away, back to the Praeminister, itching to drive her blood into his neck. Her heartbeat was pounding in her head at the restraint.
He droned on about the goodness of the false god, the wickedness of the Vrakan gods, the progress Warskia had made since the Olofssons had conquered the land. He praised Kezdans for their lovely and lively city, praise given to much applause. He failed to mention the drug dens, the strung up Vraka, the brothels, and the starving children. Scarko felt her nose grow numb as he spoke. Her temper, however, was icy hot.
And then two things happened at once that, together, made Scarko question why in hells name she had ever thought she might actually get a chance today to kill the piece of filth that was the Praeminister. She should have known, she realized with a jolt, that it was too good to be true. She should have listened to someone like Rhodri, no matter his dark magic, his strangeness.
First, the signal firework shot into the air with a loud, high-pitched zing, bursting into emerald green in the blue sky, coming from somewhere amid the buildings that stretched beyond the Mill Square.
And then, as it burst forth, exploding in the air, raining down over the square in plumes of smoke, people whooping and cheering, the Praeminister’s speech faltered. Scarko saw, beyond the cathedral Ida was perched upon, hidden from view of the military and police and crowd alike, a nondescript carriage stopping abruptly, the man atop the horse eerily familiar. As he jumped down, Scarko’s knife still held against the leather of her glove, the last sparks of emerald green fading from the sky, the familiar man opened the carriage door and out stepped a tall, lanky figure, ivory horns glimmering in the sun.
Scarko scrambled to her feet, and nearly fell from the roof, her arms whipping like windmills to keep her balance.
A voice not her own roared in her head: Run.
14
Something Has Gone Horribly Wrong
Before she could scramble down the iron ladder from the roof, she heard a familiar voice ring out in the middle of the Praeminister’s continued speech, drowning out the holy man’s words. “There! St. Jerilo’s!”
She froze at Jalde’s voice, and watched as hundreds of eyes, including those of the Praeminister’s and the Warskian soldiers and Vokte police, turned to gaze at her upon the roof of St. Jerilo’s. Her first thought was that she would add Jalde to the list of people she would kill that were currently in Kezda. Her second was that the idiot had unwittingly drove attention away from Vojtech, which is precisely what she wanted. She had no idea why the Djavul was there—to look for her, to enjoy the Martyr’s Day festivities, to go for a sail on the Furlan Sea—and no time to think about it. She had to get off the damn roof before the Warskian soldiers aimed their bows—or before Jalde opened his big mouth again and revealed she was a Vraka. She wished him a slow, painful death at her hands. She did not glance at Ida, did not wish to know her part in this.
Run, princess.
That voice in her head roared again and she realized with a sickening jolt that it was Rhodri’s.
Snapping out of her frozen stance on the roof, chaos slowly descending below her, she ran to the wall with the ladder, putting her knife away. She would need it, but it would be of no help as she scaled down the cathedral. She didn’t dare look at Vojtech again, lest people turn in the direction of her gaze. She had no idea where he was now, if he had seen her or not, but could only hope he wasn’t stupid enough to stroll into the crowd with his horns blazing.
Quickly, she lumbered down the iron ladder, cursing her boots as they clanged against each step. If the soldiers and police hadn’t figure out yet where she was going down, they’d only need to listen. She chanced one glance down at the alleyway she would drop to and felt a spark of hope when she saw it was still empty. A wall of buildings separated the square from the church, and they’d have to cut around to find her on the opposite street
. As soon as she thought she’d survive the jump without a broken leg, she let go of the ladder, bending her knees, and landed in a graceful crouch in the alley, no one yet sprinting for her. Unsure how long her luck would hold out, she ran for the end of the alley. It would take her opposite the square, out into the wealthier district of the city. She could only hope the rich wished to see the king, too, and were clear of the streets.
She ran as fast as she could, unsheathing her knife. She’d figure the rest out as she went. As she emerged into the streets, she saw nothing to indicate the chaos had extended this far out. Shoving her knife out of view beneath her black coat, she pulled her hood over her head and walked quickly. None of the few people who had chosen not to attend the festivities gave her a second glance. But she could hear, one street over, soldiers roaring orders, the sound of horses galloping over cobblestone streets—likely taking the Olofssons and the Praeminister away, out of her grasp. People were gasping, talking loudly, the roar of voices rising up in a clamor.
Would Zephir be pissed she’d blown his shot, of whomever he’d been trying to kill?
She was pissed enough for both of them, and as she walked, taking a long way around the city to end up where she had seen Vojtech, she wondered again why the hells he had come. He had expected this mission to take weeks…unless he’d gotten another vision from the treasonous gods that she had started working with Zephir instead of working to kill the boy.
Where was Zephir? Would he be looking for her? Why had Jalde called her out? Was it part of the plan, should she not do her job right? Was it in retaliation for flaking? Or was Jalde a traitor of a different sort?
And Rhodri, that voice in her head. Princess. She shuddered.
“None of that matters, Kadezska. Find Vojtech. Forget the rest. Stop talking to yourself.” She muttered the words in quick succession, nearly out of breath as she finally turned around a corner toward the street where she had last seen Vojtech.
He wasn’t there. Neither was the carriage. Or Emil. Instead, she caught a glimpse of Mill Square beyond, and saw people panicking, running in the streets, no sign of the royal family or the rutting Praeminister. Children were shrieking and running after one another as if it were a game. Soldiers were grouping together with Vokte officers, taking each street around the square, a whole host of them hanging out by St. Jerilo’s, craning their necks to better see the roof.
Suckers, she thought. It was a little too late for that.
She ducked around the next row of buildings, eyes peeled for any white horns or a sign of Emil, the carriage they had arrived in already murky in her mind as adrenaline shot through her. It wasn’t a carriage of the Order; at least they had taken that precaution.
Hearing the sound of hooves on cobblestones again, she spun around, but saw only a horse ridden by a man she didn’t recognize, and he trotted off opposite her without sparing her a glance. The sounds of soldiers barking voices were growing closer, and she felt panic seize her. If she were caught, Vojtech would never know. She’d be hung, or worse, tossed back in with the Praeminister.
She ducked under a bakery’s awning, closed up for the Martyr’s Day festival, and dipped her head as soldiers came on foot, pouring from the street adjacent to the Mill Square.
“If anyone sees anything suspicious, raise an alarm!” a voice bellowed, and Scarko saw several men had mindeta blowers wrapped around their backs as they scanned the streets with watchful eyes. They looked right over her, but kept coming down the street, the Kezdans scattering before them like water parting in the seas—a supposed miracle of Krys, Scarko thought ruefully.
Someone yanked her arm.
She pulled out her knife.
“Put that thing away before you get us both killed,” a raspy voice hissed. The scent of the sea surrounded her as she spun round, right into the arms of Zephir. His eyes were wide, looking her over in an assessment, and then glancing at the soldiers that still passed them by.
“What happened back there?” he ground out, his hands gripping her forearms.
“I-I panicked,” Scarko lied. She couldn’t tell him about Vojtech. Zephir somehow knew Vojtech had sent her to kill him. She didn’t think he would hesitate to look for the Djavul.
“You panicked?” Zephir hissed.
“You know, if you had let me in on the rest of your plans, maybe I wouldn’t have—”
She stopped. He was looking at her in a way that made her breath stop short. Calculating, cold, as if he were weighing her. She had thought his assessment had been for injuries, but now she saw he looked at her more like a hungry predator would look for prey. Without warning, his hands still on her forearms, he turned to the soldiers sweeping past them, the Warskian soldiers who had already determined she was not a threat.
“I’ve found her!” he called, his voice rough. “I’ve found the girl on the roof! She’s a Vraka!”
Scarko stared at him, wide-eyed, feeling as if the bottom had just dropped out from beneath her. In fact, he had to stagger her upright, hold her to keep her on her feet as the soldiers abruptly changed direction and headed towards them.
Somewhere, a boom resounded, and the soldiers stopped, calling to one another. Afterward, another boom that shook the ground Scarko barely managed to stand on.
“Shit,” Zephir swore low, and when the third and final boom rang out, Scarko blinked, understanding dawning over her. Ida and her damned ships.
She yanked away from Zephir.
“I’m sorry, Scarko.” His voice was thick with an emotion she could not place, not on him, not as she pulled the knife from her cloak. “But someone has to pay.”
She didn’t dare ask what he meant, didn’t dare give him another second as she whirled to face the soldiers who advanced on her, her knife held aloft. She quickly ripped off her gloves, and slashed her knife, deep, across her scarred palm, the one Zephir had cleaned with his own shirt the night before. He had betrayed her. The thought was like acid in her mind.
He was behind her, calling out something to the soldiers, but she tuned his voice out as she dropped the bloodied knife and, twisting her fingers in the air, conjured half a dozen crimson swords, blood pouring from her wound as she called more magic. The swords poised to take aim right at the six soldiers closest her, none of them with a mindeta blower. She felt woozy, but she did not dare falter.
The soldiers’ mouths hung open, but they unsheathed their swords even still, staring at the red blüdsvards as they sailed toward each of them. They held their swords aloft to parry the blow, but the crimson swords didn’t falter as they made their mark into the men’s necks, sending them to their knees, wet blubbering resounding out through the street alongside screams and gasps.
Rage surged through Scarko as the blood-swords rose once more into the air, and she splayed her fingers wide, sending them toward the emerald green soldiers who looked on in horror at their fallen comrades. But before they could find their mark, she heard the sound of a machine whirring, felt a light breeze ruffle her coat. She turned, fingers still spread wide, and watched as a soldier with a mindeta blower approached, felt her mind go fuzzier still, the crimson swords disintegrating into nothingness.
The last thing she saw before she fell to her knees was Zephir, his back to her as he charged at the soldier with the machine that rendered her magic useless.
*
She dreamt of Klaus and Yezedi, the three of them in Klaus’s room, sitting around a bottle of vin. Yezedi wanted nothing to do with it, her eyes kept darting to the door, and back to Scarko, worried Vojtech would storm in and drag her away any minute, scolding her for her libations.
Klaus cracked joke after joke, making Vojtech the center of most of them, waving off Yezedi’s concern with his hand.
“You and I both know, Yez, that no one likes the Djavul like I do.” He waggled his brows and a blush spread over Yezedi’s bronze skin. She rolled her eyes, raking a hand over her braids.
“Yeah,” she countered, brow arched, “and you and I bot
h know the Djavul would only strip down for Scarko.”
Scarko snorted, choking on her vin. “Excuse me?” she gasped.
Yezedi shrugged. “Don’t play dumb,” she snapped in a very non-Yezedi like tone. “Vojtech is in love with you.”
Klaus sighed loudly. “Guess I’ll take him off my list of potential suitors and stick it out with Cook.”
Before the last word had left his lips, Klaus’s door swung open so forcefully on its hinges, it knocked a tapestry from the wall. The three friends whipped their heads around to see Vojtech, tall and towering in the doorway with narrowed eyes, his white horns nearly scraping the ceiling.
“Scarko,” his voice was like ice, “why would you dare to betray me? Surely you don’t want to lose your head?”
Before she could scream as he bared his teeth, charging towards the three of them, she woke.
Her throat was dry, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, her head leaning against something warm and wet. Her entire body ached.
She tried to open her eyes, but they felt stuck together, so she made to reach her fingers to her face to pry them open, but heard chains rattle as her arms yanked back.
Not again, she thought, cursing the existence of a plant like mindeta. Three times she had went under, three times and all three because of that godsdamned Zephir Crista. At the thought of the fighter, she lurched on her chains harder, but they held fast, leaving her hands pinned behind her back, her head against something hard, that warm, wet sensation matting the side of her face. She would kill Zephir as soon as she saw him next.
Rhodri had warned her. Rhodri, strange, beautiful, cruel. He had warned her. And that voice in her head, telling her to run…
“If you keep pulling on them, you’re going to bruise your wrists,” a woman’s voice sounded.
She wrenched her eyes open, blinking rapidly to take in the dark room. A dungeon, she realized. As she saw the cells before her, hers the last in a row of them, her head leaned against the stone wall in a smattering of her own blood, she corrected herself: a prison.
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