Vojtech nodded. “You know Ofred, god of war, is depicted with horns. But it’s a human fallacy.” Vojtech shrugged, taking a step toward her. “It’s a way to make him seem more dangerous.”
“You have seen the god of war?”
Vojtech smiled. “I know you don’t believe it, Scarko.” His words were gentle. “You don’t believe in the gods, even as your very blood shows their power.”
“My power,” Scarko corrected.
Klaus winced. But if she were going to have this conversation here and now, she might as well tell him precisely what she thought about the Vrakan gods, about any gods. They were no different than the Krystwo, worshipping creatures in the clouds, killing in their name.
Vojtech’s eyes flashed, and he took another step toward her. “I took you to Skov, for the syn, to show you, to help you believe. But all you could see was your nightmare, that damned Praeminister. You let him get to you, Scarko. You let him take your belief in anything more than your own blood, your own hands, your bone magic. You had no choice in the horrors he bestowed upon you, but you let him take your faith away.”
“Why does Zephir need to die? What else did you see, Vojtech, that you haven’t told me?”
And there it was. That trickle of guilt that seemed to slide into his eyes, but only for a moment, gone in the span of a blink. But she had seen it. He did not share everything with her. Not at all.
“Because there is more, isn’t there?” she pressed.
“There were more of me, once. Maybe no longer, but there were. I was raised amongst them.” He dipped his horns, as if gesturing towards them. “The Järenchki, we were called. We were living together in a castle in a cave, the Citadel of Death.”
“That’s not terrifying at all,” Scarko murmured, even as her thoughts went to Rhodri.
“Gods’ sakes, Scar, can you just listen?” Klaus interrupted, but she knew he was trying to hide his own laughter. She shot him a furtive glare.
“That castle and that cave still exists. My mother bore me, dying as I lived, leaving me in the care of the Vrakan royalty that once ruled Warskia. I thought that, despite these,” again, he dipped his horns, “I had a home. There were others like me. Not so many, but still others. From the Nacht Lands.” Scarko swallowed, trying to keep her expression devoid of guilt, of knowledge. “People loved me, they listened to my visions as if I were a holy man. My mother had been a countess, my father a Vrakan that died in the beginnings of the first Holy War. Mindeta was discovered when I was a still a boy, and we were overcome. I fled to Gotheberg and killed any Warskian who came close, trying to stamp me out or the Vrakans I took with me. The others like me did not listen. But I followed the visions of my gods to help us all. That is how we have survived. That is why you had a place to run to.”
“Because you were ruthless, dangerous? Not stupid?”
“Because I listened to the gods. And they told me you would come, too. Showed me your hair, your bird skull, your eyes. Those freckles that grace your cheeks. They told me you and I, we would change Warskia. The world.”
Scarko laughed, a hollow sound. “I have no interest in changing the world.”
Vojtech frowned. “A war is coming, Scarko. The second Holy War. The final battle. It will start sooner than we thought, because of your escape, because they almost had you again. They will know I freed you, know that the Vrakans of the Order released you. Already do know, given the guards were burned to death. And when they find us, Scarko, you will have to have an interest in something.”
“And what is your interest?” She crossed the space between them, clenching the knife in her hand, leaving Zephir in the casket behind her. Klaus sighed loudly, a warning to her, but she stood toe to toe with the Djavul, tilting her head back to glare up at him. “You want what, exactly? To be pampered again? To rule? For Warskians to worship the Vrakan gods? Why?”
Vojtech gripped her forearm tightly in his own, the one she held the knife in. “I don’t want you to have to bleed for anyone ever again. I want you safe. I want Krys’s name to be forgotten in a pile of ash, of bone. I want our kind to be free, to be empowered. I want to raise up the Citadel of Death, to find my lost brothers and sisters once more.”
“You said they were dead.”
“I said no such thing.”
“You implied it.”
His grip tightened on her arm. “People die in the streets here, do they not? Beggars longing for their next bit of Vrakan blood? You saw the raptum den, did you not?”
It must have shown on her face.
“You felt the anger?”
She couldn’t deny it.
“I don’t want that for any of us ever again. And my people in the Citadel, they are waiting.”
“For what?” Scarko growled.
“For me. For you.”
She yanked her arm from his grasp. “They are enslaved?”
Vojtech shook his head. “They are in Visla.”
She furrowed her brow, not understanding. Even Klaus was staring at Vojtech now, in rapt attention.
“Beneath the Royal Palace, under the mountains, is the Citadel of Death. They wait there. The gods have shown me where they died. They wait for your blood to raise them.”
Fear crawled down Scarko’s spine, her breathing caught, eyes wide.
“They can be resurrected?”
Vojtech nodded, his eyes blazing. “They are like me.”
“You could be raised from my blood?”
He grinned. “Yes, Scarko. Yes.”
What did it mean, she wondered, that they were linked so? She felt the knife go limp in her hands, and she nearly forgot about Zephir.
Nearly.
She turned back to him, Vojtech and Klaus behind her. “Why must he die, Vojtech? What does he mean for the Vrakans? For your people? What is he to the gods? His mother was Vraka. What is his purpose?”
Zephir blinked, slowly, at her. She wondered if it were a message, but she didn’t care. Her mind was spinning. Citadel of Death. It sounded like a nightmare. Did the King know the horned men and women were down there? Why had they ceased to exist? Were they all murdered when the Krystwos came in, pillaging with mindeta? Who had placed them there, together, beneath the Royal Palace? How had Vojtech and Rhodri escaped?
As if he could read her mind, Vojtech spoke quietly behind her. “The horned people,” he paused, “the Järenchki, were trapped beneath the earth, a fire let loose. But fire cannot destroy them. The Olofssons built their palace atop their bodies, as a reminder of their triumph.”
“Zephir…”
“Zephir is an inconvenience. The Järenchki can be killed by anyone with a blood curse, or blessing, as he might see it.”
“He could kill you, then?” She turned back to Vojtech, just for a second.
“I suppose. He is an angel, of sorts, for the Krystwo.”
She could have sworn she saw amusement in Zephir’s green eyes. He had remained silent, hadn’t tried to move.
“He hasn’t tried to escape?” she asked, twisting around once more.
Vojtech shrugged. “Until recently, he was drugged. I don’t suppose he could.”
Scarko sighed through her nose. “Of course he was.” She chewed her lip. “Did you see in your vision that I wouldn’t kill him when I should have?”
Klaus palmed the hilt of his sword, shoulders sagging. Scarko wondered what he would say to her when they were alone, discussing just how this conversation went.
Vojtech sighed. “Yes.” He glanced back at Klaus, who met his eyes wearily. “I wanted to give you the choice. I wanted you to choose me, not be forced to me, because you had no other options.”
The admission made Scarko still in surprise. She looked into Vojtech’s eyes, such a pale blue, she didn’t think it existed in nature. Perhaps in the first fallen snow, reflecting the sky above it in the vast Gotheberg desert, during the dead of winter.
She saw something else in his eyes, too, besides unnatural shading. Loneliness. Fear.
But then she glanced to Klaus, as the Djavul had. She swallowed. “But you brought Klaus and Yezedi. My two closest friends.”
He sighed. “Yes,” he admitted. “I am not so honorable as I’d like to be.” He shook his head wearily, ran a hand through the ends of his dark hair, twisting the obsidian locks between his pale fingers.
“Why do the gods wish you to survive? The other Järenchki? Why not let people like him,” she gestured back to the casket, “live instead?”
“He doesn’t believe in them. None of these people do.”
Scarko shrugged. “So? If they are real, as you say, what does belief matter?”
Vojtech looked as if she had struck him. “Belief is everything, Scarko. Everything.”
She thought of Rhodri once more, his implications about the Holy Writ.
She opened her mouth to protest, but a rumbling shook the basement, the sounds of glasses shaking sounding overhead.
“We’d better go,” Klaus offered ominously, unsheathing his sword.
“That sword will do you no good. Leave it.” Vojtech’s words were a command, and Klaus dropped the sword, letting it clatter to the floor. Vojtech walked quickly to the coffin and ripped the tape off Zephir’s mouth in a quick, violent tug. He glared down at the boy.
“Speak with him. Do what you will. It makes no difference to me. He will die now, or he will die later. I must speak with Emil, Alexander, and Yezedi. We will be leaving soon.” He turned on his heel, black cloak fluttering as he walked up the stairs, Klaus following slowly behind with a look at Scarko that said she should probably kill the fighter.
Scarko rolled her eyes and turned back to Zephir, noting the blood from his swollen lips.
“Why you are with that old, horned beast is beyond me.” Zephir’s words were hoarse, his voice raspier than usual.
“He’s what, twenty-two?” Scarko shrugged.
Zephir glared up at her. “Try two hundred and twenty-two. Probably older. But what’s the difference Scarko, a couple hundred years? It’s not as if he bedded my mother or anything. Don’t let him get to you, too. Or did he already? Did that speech mean something to you?”
Scarko looked down at the hand that held her knife. She ran a finger over the blade, the biting sting confirming just how sharp it was. A bead of blood formed on her finger. She pressed it to his cheek, still astounded it didn’t harm him.
“We would’ve been friends, your mother and me. Similar…tastes…” she drew out the last word.
Zephir glared at her from in the casket, his mouth pressed into a thin line.
Another resounding boom shook the foundation of the house, and Scarko heard something shatter upstairs.
Moments later, Vojtech came sweeping back down the stairs, black robes gliding behind him. He looked at Zephir as if he were something disgusting on the bottom of his shoe.
“We must go,” he demanded.
“I was just getting started.” She held up her bloodied finger, nodded toward the blood on Zephir’s cheek.
“I know, my dear, that you and this heathen have unfinished business. But unfortunately, we will have to save his blood and bones for a later date.” He cocked his head, thick black hair swaying behind him. “Olofsson knows we are here. I don’t wish to make my final stand in Kezda, the armpit of Warskia.”
“I can’t imagine how he knows.” Zephir’s raspy voice was dipped in sarcasm. “What, with your godsdamned ivory horns—”
Vojtech crossed the space between him and Zephir in one beat of Scarko’s heart. She watched, tense, as Vojtech raked his nails against Zephir’s cheek, smearing the blood she had left there. “You wouldn’t want me to put my horns down your throat, would you, dear boy?”
“You’re disgusting,” Zephir spat.
“I’ve been called worse,” Vojtech said thoughtfully. He dropped his hand. “I’m sorry about your mother, you know. But it would have never worked out anyway, not with a boy like you as my stepson.” He wrinkled his nose and turned away. “Let’s go, Scar.”
Scarko looked to Zephir, his jaw set even as he lay in the casket, at the mercy of their hands. But Vojtech could have killed him then, swiftly, easily. And he had not. Instead, he had started up the stairs, long black robes trailing behind him.
She tried not to think what it meant that her heart felt a twinge of guilt at leaving Zephir Crista. Boy who had betrayed her and lied to her since they met. Boy who fought Vrakans to the death, strapped into a casket he might never get out of.
She followed after Vojtech, only just seeing him gaze at her, a frown on his smooth face.
20
The Only Way Out Is…
Emil and Alexander were waiting at the top of the stairs, faces grim.
“Have they discovered us?” Scarko asked, knife in hand. She tried not to think of the Praeminister. Of what he would do to her if she were discovered again. He wouldn’t let her go twice.
“Not yet,” Vojtech’s voice rang out from past the kitchen.
Emil and Alexander each looped an arm through hers, tugged her along to the front of the house, to the grand entrance hall. Yezedi and Klaus came running down the stairs, bags slung over their shoulders, Yezedi’s braids whipping down her back.
“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on or—”
“Mindeta bombs.” Klaus spoke.
Scarko blinked.
Yezedi rushed to her side, and Vojtech walked slowly into the room as if they had all the time in the world.
“Mindeta bombs?” Scarko’s voice trembled. The house shook again and Scarko tensed.
Vojtech nodded solemnly. “They used those during the first Holy War. Highly effective, not only for rendering our gifts useless, but for weeding us out. Mindeta doesn’t incapacitate an overgiva.”
“Why are we all just standing around? Shouldn’t we be sealing the doors, the windows?” She shrugged out of Emil and Alexander’s grasp. Emil huffed, but she shot him a glare, and he said nothing.
Vojtech smiled lazily. “I told you before that mindeta can be overcome.” He pulled something from his dark cloak, uncurled his fingers to show what appeared to be five black beads.
“What is that?” Yezedi asked from beside Scarko, having elbowed Alexander out of the way.
Klaus’s brow was furrowed, but then he gasped, understanding dawning on his face. He adjusted his shoulder pack. “I’ve seen that before.”
Vojtech nodded. “I assume you have. Invented by Behenian hunters for their dry season, when waiting for game can become tedious. Sold to Behenian royalty.”
“We don’t have much time. What is it?” Emil asked.
Sure enough, another boom shook the house, and Scarko’s heart hammered wildly. She stole a glance behind her to the heavy door. Would the mindeta seep through? Did they stand a chance at all? All the drapes were heavily closed, but she could hear commands being shouted throughout the streets, orders to stay inside.
“It’s altak,” Vojtech answered. “One for each of you. It will help you focus. Focus on staying conscious, on behaving like an overgiva, on not succumbing to the mindeta.”
Scarko snorted. “You’re saying we take that, and march outside, all the way back to the Order?” Why didn’t you give this to me when I came here? But she didn’t feel it was the time to add the question.
“We can’t go to the Order,” Alexander interrupted sharply. “We will never make it back, not in one piece.” He looked to the Djavul for backing, but instead, Vojtech’s gaze upon him had become predatory.
“I’ve always wondered what your bones would taste like, Alexander.”
Silence echoed in the house even as voices cried out in the streets. Scarko wondered how many Vrakas had lived undetected in Kezda, how many were now being dragged to their deaths because of her.
Beside Yezedi, Alexander’s heavy brow was creased, and he ran a hand over his shaved head. “Pardon me, Twoj śwetosc?”
“You would dare to leave the innocents at the Order alo
ne, unprotected, from the filth that is raiding the city as we speak? The Warskians would go to the Order, Alexander, and they would murder everyone there.” Vojtech’s voice was cold.
But they didn’t have time for that. They needed to get out of Kezda and figure out their next move after they were safe. Scarko cleared her throat. She was the head of this guard, after all. She stepped forward and nodded toward Vojtech’s open palm.
“Where is yours?” she asked.
“I don’t need one. I can focus without it.”
“Any side effects we should know of?” She turned to Klaus, to include him in the conversation. The drug came from his kingdom.
He shrugged, his eyes still on the black beads.
“If you don’t focus on staying alive, staying awake, you will get distracted, and with them,” Vojtech pointed a finger towards the door behind her, “you will die. We will not be able to carry your bodies out.” He surveyed the paltry guard before him. “Understand?”
They all nodded.
“We cannot burst forth into the streets with your horns, not to mention my face is probably on wanted posters throughout the city.”
“We picked this house for a reason, lisla sangva.”
Scarko didn’t bristle at the Vrakan word, but she clenched her knife tighter.
“There’s a tunnel through a trap door in the master bedroom.” Klaus filled her in.
More guards were shouting commands outside, so close to the house. Too close.
“Let’s go.” Scarko grabbed a black bead from Vojtech’s hand, swallowed it quickly, and headed up the stairs where Klaus had pointed.
Heavy hands pounding on the door resounded throughout the house. She turned back, saw Emil take the last black bead, and they all followed her up, Vojtech between them.
Klaus pushed past her toward a room at the very end of the hall. It was enormous, the ceilings impossibly high, the bed draped in grey velvet. Scarko ignored it all, remembered what Vojtech had said about focusing. She felt nothing from the altak yet, but she didn’t want to risk getting sidetracked.
Klaus knelt to an inconspicuous floorboard before the double doors of what Scarko assumed was the closest. He dug with his fingers between two boards, and then yanked them up.
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