by Nathan Long
The splashing of water on the other side of the room turned her thoughts to Stefan, and she saw him once again stumbling into Evgena’s drawing room, covered in blood and terribly hurt. The silver-tipped arrow in the leg had been only the first of his wounds. How he must have fought to keep the cultists from following her.
A sudden thought shook her. Ursun’s teeth! Had he fought Kiraly? In the whirl of battle and what followed there had been no time to ask. She hadn’t even thought of it. Had he failed to hold back the cultists because Kiraly had driven him off? No wonder he was wounded so.
The pile of trunks and furniture was between her and Stefan. She started around it. Poor Stefan, to fight such a desperate battle while still in pain from the silver-tipped arrow. And he would still be in pain. He would still be in agony. She knew that from bitter experience. The bite of silver would not fade quickly. Not without blood to heal it, and Evgena had given them no blood. But Stefan had showed her another way to heal wounds. She stepped forwards, desire rising within her.
After all he had done, after doing his best to defend Evgena against the cult and Kiraly and receiving nothing but scorn and suspicion in return, he deserved more than wash water and imprisonment. Ulrika would heal him and soothe him, and in the giving, be soothed and healed herself. The pleasure would ease her sorrow at Raiza’s death and her anger at Evgena’s mistrust. She would lose herself in it and, for a while at least, all would be well.
Padding softly, she stepped around the corner of the stacked furniture. Stefan stood facing away from her, naked, as he scrubbed his forearms over a drain in the floor. She stopped, admiring the trim lines of his back, and the lean strength of his long legs. Despite his wounds, he was as beautiful as a hunting cat. Perhaps they even added to his beauty, giving him an air of danger and experience. Well, she should savour them while she could, for after she and Stefan had exchanged blood, they would be gone. Even the wound from the silver-tipped crossbow bolt on the back of his leg would be nothing more than–
Ulrika paused, frowning.
There was indeed a wound on Stefan’s leg, red and deep and crusted with scabs, but that wasn’t right.
She looked at her wrist, where Jodis had cut her with her silvered long-knife. Even days later, and after drinking Stefan’s powerful blood, the edges of the scar were still black – black, not red.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
A VOW IS BROKEN
Ulrika stared again at the angry red wound on Stefan’s leg. How had the edges not blackened and peeled back as hers had? It didn’t seem possible. Was this another strange gift he had, like the ability to walk in the sun, or…?
Her mind sped back to their flight from the cultists. Stefan had sent her up the wall before him. He had fallen when she was looking the other way. She had not heard the twang of a shot. She had not seen the wound, only blood and a hole in his breeches. But the bolt – he had held a silver-tipped crossbow bolt. Surely–?
Her mind turned back further. He had caught a bolt – snatched it out of the air – when the cultists had first sprung their ambush by the fountain at the Music Academy. Her stomach sank with dread. He had faked the wound. But why?
Her theory that it had been Kiraly who had led the cultists to Evgena washed away, replaced by another. It had been Stefan. He had separated himself from her so he could guide them to the house without her knowing. But then, where had Kiraly come from? Had he been with the cultists the whole time? Or had he been watching Evgena’s mansion and only struck when the opportunity presented itself?
Or…
The two theories came together, like drawings on glass that only made a whole picture when laid on top of each other. Ulrika extended her fangs and claws, and took another step towards Stefan’s back.
‘Kiraly.’
Stefan turned, drying his hands on his ruined shirt. ‘What about him–?’ He paused as he saw her claws. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Your leg wound has betrayed you,’ said Ulrika, continuing to advance. ‘You were not wounded by silver. You sent me on to Evgena’s alone so you could bring the cultists down on her. You are the cultist with the Blood Shards. You killed Raiza.’
Stefan stepped back, knocking over the pitcher of water. ‘Ulrika, wait. You jump to conclusions.’
‘No more lies!’ Ulrika snarled. ‘Evgena was right! You are everything she said you were. I am a fool!’
‘You are not,’ said Stefan. ‘Listen to me. I can explain.’
‘What is there to explain? Your own flesh bears witness against you!’
Stefan backed around the two chairs, putting them between them. ‘Please, Ulrika. Listen. You are right – in part, at least. I did trick you with the silvered bolt, and I did lead the cultists to Evgena’s house, but not for the reason you think. I did it to help you.’
Ulrika snorted, the ridiculousness of the claim bringing her up short. ‘You speak nonsense. How was attacking Evgena to help anything?’
Stefan passed a hand over his face. ‘It – it didn’t go as I planned.’
Ulrika sneered. ‘You mean some of us survived?’
‘No, that’s not what I mean,’ Stefan snapped. ‘Just listen, and I will explain.’
Ulrika glared at him, then folded her arms and waited.
Stefan watched her warily for a moment, as if afraid she might still attack, then sank into one of the chairs and looked up at her, sighing. ‘You see, I knew that, alone, we two could not defeat the cult. They were too strong. There were too many of them. We needed the Lahmians’ help. But I also knew that no argument you put forwards would stir Evgena to action. She would only hide and hope someone else saved Praag for her. She needed a goad. She needed to be attacked personally. Only then would her pride force her to retaliate.’
Ulrika stared at him. ‘But… but…’
‘I didn’t tell you,’ said Stefan, cutting her off, ‘because I knew you wouldn’t agree. You… you are too honourable. You had taken Evgena’s oath. You would not knowingly have allowed harm to come to her or her household, even to save her from a worse fate.’ He spread his hands. ‘I have taken no oath, so I did what you could not.‘
Ulrika stepped back, her mind whirling. His plan made a mad kind of sense – for he was right. Before the attack, Evgena had been contemplating retreating to Kislev rather than facing the cultists, and Ulrika doubted anything she could have said would have convinced her to do otherwise. And he had also been correct about her. She would not have let him go through with the plan, even if she had agreed with it, for she would not break her oath.
But…
‘But you didn’t just goad her!’ she cried. ‘You cut off her right arm! You killed Raiza! You brought Kiraly and the hunchbacked warlock down on us! We all nearly died!’
Stefan closed his eyes and hung his head. ‘I know. I know, and I am sorry for it. I did not count Kiraly into the equation, nor the warlock. I don’t know where they came from, and I tried to stop them when they appeared. I didn’t want any of the Lahmians to die. I thought they would destroy the cultists easily. I… I was a fool. I should have found another way.’
Ulrika stared at him, unable to decide if she believed him, and if she believed him, if she forgave him. She wanted to, desperately. She had given her answer. She had told him she would be with him for all time. But it all seemed so thin, so cobbled together. His story fit everything she knew, but there was no way to prove any of it. Her more damning version of events could also be true. Except… except he hadn’t killed Evgena when he had the chance.
A faint flame of hope flickered to life in her breast at the thought. Even if the rest of it sounded like a lie, that was still true. If Stefan was Kiraly, wouldn’t he have sprung on Evgena when she was at her weakest? He could have killed all of them in the little room behind the fireplace, but he hadn’t. He hadn’t – and that was the proof.
Ulrika sighed and sat down heavily in the other chair. ‘When Evgena hears of this, it will confirm everything she thinks of you.’
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Stefan looked up, eyes wide. ‘Don’t be a fool. She mustn’t know.’
Ulrika frowned unhappily at him. ‘Stefan, I vowed not to conspire against her. I must tell her what I know.’
‘You can’t,’ he said. ‘Tell her after the cult is stopped, if you must, but not now. Please, Ulrika, I don’t say this because I fear her. I say it because, as underhanded and disastrous as it was, my plan succeeded. Evgena hates the cult now. She works to stop them as we speak. If you tell her of it, what will happen? She will cry conspiracy again and turn all her fury upon me. The cult will be forgotten. Will you make Raiza’s death pointless? Do you want everything we have just gone through to be for nothing?’
Ulrika blinked as what he said sank in. He was right. Evgena would go mad if she learned he had brought the cult down upon her. She would claim it was all a trick to kill her. There was no help for it. Though it went against her vow, for the safety of Praag – and Evgena’s safety as well – Ulrika would have to keep silent.
‘Very well,’ she said at last. ‘I will not speak.’
‘Again, I am sorry,’ he said, lowering his head. ‘I have abused your trust and strained your honour. I will not ask forgiveness, for what I did should not be forgiven. I only hope we succeed in the end because of it, and you have an opportunity to avenge yourself on Kiraly for Raiza’s death.’
Ulrika looked at him. ‘I thought you had reserved that for yourself.’
Stefan nodded, curt, then turned away. ‘He had hurt no one but me before. That is no longer true.’
She swallowed. It was a great gesture. ‘You are generous,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘As long as he is dead and my master’s essence recovered, I am content.’
Ulrika looked at his profile, sharp and sad and lost in thought, then trailed her eyes down the rest of his body, and the wounds which had not yet healed.
She took his hand. ‘I… I came in here to offer you… healing,’ she said. ‘I see you still need it.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You would share blood with me, now? Knowing what I have done?’
Ulrika licked her lips. The hunger within her howled that she would share blood with him even if he were Kiraly himself, but she only said, ‘You must be strong and ready for the battle ahead.’
‘Aye,’ said Stefan, smiling. ‘And you as well.’
She pulled him to her, and turned her neck. ‘Drink, and be strong.’
Ulrika woke to the turning of a key in a lock. She raised her head blearily. She was lying naked next to Stefan on the cellar floor. The flagstones were spattered with dried blood, as were she and Stefan.
At the top of the stone stairs, the heavy oak door was swinging open, and lantern glow spilled in from the corridor. Boyarina Evgena’s tall frame ducked into the cellar, followed by Galiana’s shorter one, and then four men-at-arms behind them. One held a lamp as they started down the stairs.
Ulrika shook Stefan. He grunted and looked around, then cursed and sat up. Ulrika did the same, fumbling for her bloody shirt to cover herself.
The boyarina seemed to have regained her strength, but Ulrika thought her shoulders had lost much of their proud bearing. She looked sad and tired as she approached them, and barely raised an eyebrow to find them lying together.
‘You,’ she said, looking down at them. ‘You have ruined us.’
Ulrika and Stefan exchanged a glance. Did she already know Stefan had led the cultists to her house?
‘What do you mean, mistress?’ asked Ulrika.
‘You dragged us into your little war and now we are done. We will have to begin again from scratch.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Ulrika.
Evgena sighed deeply. ‘The battle fought at our house did not go unnoticed. The watch came. The chekist came. Things were found that could not be explained.’ She waved her fan with a limp hand. ‘The state of my pets might have been dismissed as vandalism, but there were other things – grimoires and artefacts of mine no one without witch sight could have found, and yet they were strewn about the house for anyone to discover.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘We sought to stymie the cult. They have stymied us.’
‘So, you were not able to warn anyone?’ asked Stefan. ‘The concert goes on, then?’
Evgena’s eyes blazed at him. ‘Have you not listened? I have been branded a witch! There is a warrant for my arrest! I can do nothing. I can stop nothing. None of my associates dare speak to me, even through intermediaries. Ha! I have no intermediaries any more! My web is cut!’ She groaned. ‘I will have to retrench – new faces, new names, new houses. It will be decades before I am in a position to influence the court again.’
Ulrika stared at her, guilt gnawing at her insides. It was what had happened to Gabriella and the Lahmians of Nuln all over again. They too had been ruined and forced to start anew, but where, in Nuln, it had been the mad Strigoi, Murnau, that had brought about the Lahmians’ destruction, here it had been her. She and Stefan had involved Evgena, Galiana and Raiza in a conflict they wanted nothing to do with, and it had shattered their lives irreparably.
She rose to one knee and bowed her head. ‘Forgive me, mistress. I wish now I could take it all back. I should never have asked you for help in this. It was all done with the best of intentions, but–’
Evgena laughed, harsh, cutting her off. ‘Was it? By the Queen, then I would hate to see what you might have done had you set out to ruin me!’ She turned away, and all the fire went out of her again, as if it had never been. She looked as old and broken as a Nehekharan ruin. ‘Get dressed. We leave for Kislev within the hour.’
Ulrika’s head snapped up. ‘You – you’re leaving? But what about your vengeance on the cult? You swore to hunt them down and kill them.’
‘And I will,’ said Evgena. ‘When we are strong again we will return. In ten years, perhaps. Or twenty.’
Ulrika stood. ‘Mistress, you can’t leave. You must fight them now or there will be no Praag to return to. We must go to the opera and stop the cultists ourselves.’
‘Yes,’ said Stefan, standing as well. ‘Yes, we must.’
Galiana laughed, then stifled it with a hand.
Evgena looked at them as if they had grown horns and hooves. ‘You’re mad. Go to the opera? And then what? Do you suggest we brawl with these daemon-lovers? In public? Did I not say there was a warrant for my arrest?’ She snapped open her fan then slapped it shut again. ‘No no no. We must vanish. We must regroup, rebuild.’
‘Mistress,’ said Ulrika, stepping to her. ‘How will you rebuild when Praag has fallen? Will you seek influence in the court of Sirena Amberhair? Will you become a follower of Slaanesh?’ She raised her chin, glaring. ‘If we do not stop them tonight, you will have no position to reclaim. Praag will be gone. The Lahmians will have no power and no eyes in the north. Will our Queen thank you for that?’
‘You dare tell me my duty?’ snarled Evgena.
‘I tell you nothing,’ said Ulrika. ‘I only show you what will happen if you fail in it.’
Evgena hissed and struck her across the cheek with her fan. Ulrika stepped back and went on guard, shooting out her claws and growling, but the boyarina had turned away and was sobbing against the wall, her head in her arms.
‘Sister!’ said Galiana, and went to her, stroking her.
Evgena shrugged her off and remained turned away from them, her back shaking and her fists clenched. Then, after a long silent moment when no one dared speak or move, she lifted her head and straightened her shoulders, and turned back to them, her face white, and cold as snow.
‘Come upstairs,’ she said. ‘We will find you clothes and masks suitable for the opera.’
Ulrika blinked, then stepped forwards, making to speak, but the boyarina held up her hand.
‘You are not forgiven for bringing this crisis upon us,’ she said. ‘But as you have thrust it in my lap, and as all now depends on me, I will not falter. But do not expect my goodwill when all is done.’
And with that, she turned on her heel and led them all upstairs.
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE CONCERT
An hour later, with night falling, Ulrika, Stefan, Galiana and Evgena left the safe house – a modest townhouse in a quiet cul-de-sac in the Merchant Quarter – and travelled in chilly silence within a black coach through the Noble Quarter to Windlass Square, Praag’s greatest plaza, upon the southern edge of which sat the duke’s palace, and upon its east flank, the Opera House.
Ulrika and Stefan were dressed now in the height of Praag fashion – Ulrika in doublet and breeches of dark green and black with a cloak to match, and her cropped white hair hidden beneath a Kossar’s fur hat, and Stefan in deep blue and white with a short cloak that draped over one shoulder. To complete their costumes, Evgena had given them masks. Ulrika was certain there was some petty spite behind her selections, for she had chosen for Stefan the traditional black, full-faced mask of comedy, and for Ulrika, comedy’s ancient counterpart, tragedy, complete with a diamond tear, and lugubrious, down-turned mouth.
Evgena and Galiana had dressed up as well, Evgena in a forest-green gown with black trim to match Ulrika’s colours, and Galiana in midnight-blue over white silk to match Stefan, though their masks were beautiful, glittering works of art, plumed with iridescent feathers, rather than ugly jokes. In addition to these disguises, the boyarina and her sister had donned new wigs, chestnut-brown waves for Evgena, and a spill of blonde curls for Galiana – but the true transformations were those of the women themselves.
Through darkest Lahmian magic, the boyarina had cast an illusion of youth and beauty upon them that was stunning to behold. Evgena, who had looked like a skinned and mummified cat since Ulrika had first met her, now appeared to be a dignified beauty of perhaps forty years, with an imposing bosom and alluring eyes, while Galiana, who had seemed a wizened doll with a wig too big for her head, now looked a fresh-faced young girl, with pink cheeks and plump, parted lips. It made Ulrika wonder when they had given up the effort to maintain the illusion, and why. It also made her wonder if she had ever seen Countess Gabriella’s true face.