by Raye Wagner
While Vasi couldn’t see the woman’s face, her carriage, posture, and slender figure indicated she was close in age to Vasi or, at least, within a couple of years. Did Baba Yaga have other guests in the large house, or was this another hallucination?
Vasi turned her attention to the Horseman, feeling a pang of disappointment as she took in the steed the color of fresh snow. The man on the saddle was, likewise, dressed in white.
Despite the rider traveling on horseback, his boots, doublet, and cape were pristine, the edges of his apparel filigreed in gold. His horse was a beautiful stallion, at least eighteen hands. His saddle and tack were the same pale leather, the color of freshly creamed butter, and also trimmed in gold.
Aksel, the black Horseman, was meant to fight treachery, betrayal, and the debauchery of the innocent. He was the bringer of justice. His weapon . . . Vasi brought her hand to her mouth as understanding set in. Aksel’s weapon was famine.
Pokor, the white Horseman, was meant to fight pride. His weapon was pestilence.
Vasi stared out her window, no longer looking at the immortal djinn. Two days ago, with her thoughts muddy from shock and fear, Vasi hadn’t considered why Aksel had saved her. Her initial thought, that her savior must’ve been Prince Henryk, bordered on delusional. But with all that was happening in Rizy, why did Aksel save her?
Movement on the road caught Vasi’s attention. She studied the white rider, his small silvery horns jutting through corn silk-platinum hair. The strange abnormality of silver horns did not detract from the beauty of his face. He was handsome in the same otherworldly way as Aksel, despite looking nothing like him. Wisps of hair escaped from the tie at the nape of his neck and brushed his high cheekbones. He tucked the loose strands behind his ear, his pointy ear. His skin was pale but not in the anemic way of illness, and his full lips were pursed in a look of displeasure.
He had a straight nose as she would’ve expected with his sculpted features. His umber eyes were framed in lashes black as night and shone with an intense ferocity as he glanced her way.
She dropped her gaze and then noticed the gold trimming of his tack was designed in human bones, the rivets each individual skulls, and the design on his doublet was created by heaping mounds of skeletons, and in the corner of his saddle blanket and edging the trim of his cape were the bones of hands reaching out as if to steal what they’d missed of life.
Bile burned at the back of her throat, and Vasi stumbled off the seat, backing away from the window with her heart racing.
Nothing about the white Horseman spoke of humility. Perhaps he’d been immersed in pride for so long he’d actually become it. In fact, everything about his look and the details of his tack promised he was powerful but cruel and indifferent to humanity’s ills. No help would come from Pokor she decided. Nor would she ask.
With the sound of hoofbeats, Vasi returned to the window. The white Horseman was gone, and only a cloud of dust remained. But, the sound of hooves crescendoed, and Vasi wondered if he’d turned around until another Horseman broke through the gap in the trees.
Again her heart raced, but her curiosity piqued when she saw this djinn was dressed in vibrant crimson, the color of fresh blood. His style of dress was distinctly different than the first. Where Pokor’s raiment was stunning and showy, the scarlet leather armor tied over the top of this Horseman’s simple garb was beautiful but functional. Both a sword and shield were strapped to his war-horse, a beautiful red-dun stallion. The weapons dripped with decorative rubies, and his tack was accented with the jewels. Vasi reconsidered her previous assessment of his modesty before shaking her head. As the rider reined in his horse, he laughed, but instead of carefree joy, the sound made Vasi’s heart skip with fear.
He pulled up next to the woman and tipped his head, the rising sun highlighting the reddish undertones of his blond hair. His skin was golden, glowing with health. But he had that same otherworldly beauty, and Vasi kept her gaze averted from his eyes. It wasn’t until he turned his face that Vasi saw the scars. Four scars ran from the Horseman’s forehead to his jaw line, and like his cloak and tack, his fresh scars shone out a deep crimson.
Kaitse. The Red Horseman, he brought the greedy to their knees and peace to the war-torn. Surely, this djinn would help her. He could wipe out all of Cervene with his power—or just take out the queen regent, the leader of their armies, and if necessary, the princess. Vasi flinched, uneasy with the thought of causing any harm to the young woman.
Words were exchanged, and Vasi thought she caught something about “war” and “greed” and then something about a curse.
Vasi sucked in a breath to yell to the red Horseman, but he galloped off.
The Four Horsemen, the Ctyri – these were the djinn who ruled this realm, and they were coming here to Baba Yaga’s hut. Why?
With the sound of hoofbeats, Vasi pushed closer to the glass, up on her knees, and placed both hands on the cool pane. She stared into the woods, her heart racing with anticipation. A smile pulled the corners of her lips, and she took a deep breath to call to Aksel.
The forest seemed to contract and spit the black rider out as if the very woods wanted nothing to do with him. Vasi forced away the niggling uncertainty, for here was Aksel. His glorious stallion’s coat gleamed in the morning light. The saddle and tack were simple and molded to the horse as if they were a part of the magnificent beast. Aksel was again dressed in plain, fitted black, his clothing lacking all ornamentation. Vasi only had time to see a glimpse of his black hair, warm honey skin, and mask, and then he was gone.
Why had he not stopped? She blew out her breath and smacked her palm to the window, wincing with the jarring force of her strike. Emotions crashed over her in a wave, a confusing mix of comfort and sadness, desire and jealousy, resolve and longing. The overwhelming feelings pushed her back from the window, and Vasi gasped to rein them in. As quickly as they’d hit her, the sentiments disappeared. Then she noticed the center of the large pane of glass was cracked, right where she’d hit it, with spindly webs of fissures snaking out from the epicenter.
Double rats. Now she would have to pay to have the window repaired. Perhaps Baba Yaga would take a gem from the knife as payment. Even the thought sank heavy disappointment into Vasi’s chest.
Why had Aksel brought her here, and why now . . . With a heavy sigh, Vasi waited for the fourth Horseman to make his appearance. A moment later, the creaking sound of wagon wheels echoed up to her, and Vasi backed away from the window. She did not want to risk the blind djinn catching her spying—
Oh. Rats. Shock followed by fear rocked Vasi, and her mouth dried and skin crawled. She swallowed once and then again to clear the crawling trepidation from the back of her throat. Her mother’s words rang in her mind. “The most powerful of all of them is Death. He knows all. He can see all although you’d never know it to look upon him. For Death is . . .”
Blind.
Vasi racked her brain, trying to remember anything else that might help her with the Horsemen, but her mind stuck to the single confirmation that the blind peddler was the Fourth Horseman.
Stunned but determined to do nothing further to attract his notice, Vasi stood at the wall where the door should be and waited for it to reappear.
Vasi would never think highly of Marika, but at least she’d always given very clear instructions.
Vasi made her way back down the stairs, turning toward the kitchen. The witch had sent no further instructions on where Vasi was to be or what she was to do. Besides, if Sef was willing to cook for her, breakfast was a good way to start the day. The smell of bacon, cinnamon, and baking bread greeted Vasi long before she crossed the threshold into the warm room. She found the table heavy and laden again with porridge, rolls, butter, and jam with a side of bacon beside it. As she sat down to eat, she raised her face to the ceiling and said, “Thank you, Sef.”
Several minutes later, the front door slammed open, the sound reverberating from the other side of the house, and Vasi’s m
oment of peace evaporated. Fear flooded her, and Vasi dropped her spoon and jumped to her feet, instinctively reaching into her pocket to grab her knife. The irregular flutter of her heart and shaking hands worsened as Baba Yaga’s heavy footfalls treaded closer. Vasilisa had seen two sides to the witch and had no idea which one would round the corner. Worse yet was the fear that Vasi had already failed to impress because she didn’t know where to start. The knife offered little comfort, for Vasi had no weapons training.
The sound of footsteps halted just outside the door, and Baba Yaga said, “Don’t think you’ll use that pretty blade on me.”
She gnashed her teeth, and the grating sound of shearing blades filled the room.
Vasi loosened her grip but didn’t let go of the knife completely. She stared at the looming shadow of the witch.
“You want to hold your knife? Then you best put it to good use,” Baba Yaga said, emerging from the shadows.
“I-I would be happy to be of good use.” Vasi stammered, pushing through her fear. “What do you want me to do?”
“Come with me. This way.” The witch spun on her heel, striding back toward the open door. The sound of metal on metal grated with the witch’s commands. “Come on now.”
Vasi hurried after, down the steps and around the bony foundation. She almost tripped on the taloned claw that jutted out from under the grotesque substructure.
There, in the center of the sidewall, was an open door, and Baba Yaga glared down from within.
“Get in here,” she snapped before disappearing inside.
Vasi rose onto her tiptoes, doing her best to peer over the layers of bones without touching them. She glimpsed nothing through the darkened doorway, and beside her, the taloned claw shifted as if to invite her to step up.
“Don’t make me regret this,” Baba Yaga growled.
Vasi reached out and touched the gigantic chicken foot. The flesh was velvety soft and taut to the muscle and bone beneath it. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and stepped one foot onto the boney claw and said, “Sorry if this hurts you.”
She shifted her weight, grabbed the edge, and hoisted herself over the foundation of bones and through the doorway, sliding into the room on her belly. The pungent smell of herbs and spices assaulted Vasi, the aromas so thick she could have been swimming in them.
Lying on the floor, Vasi watched in awe as a basket, filled with foliage, skipped past her, across the rough wooden floorboards, and then floated up to rest on a stone table. Vasi stood and gaped at the long polished stone workspace littered with blades, cloths, and large, porous ovoid stones.
A globe of light hovered over the table, seemingly suspended in the air. Another glowing sphere floated over the witch, its light glinting off her silver hair. Plants hung throughout the space, so many that the ceiling was completely obscured by a drying canopy of leaves and roots.
Perched in one corner on a twisted branch, a glossy black raven watched Vasi. She darted nervous glances at the creature, a bird larger than any she’d ever seen. Bigger than an eagle, this fierce animal looked like a raptor. The bird’s shiny beak was sharpened to a wicked point, much like the deadly assortment of blades scattered over the tabletop in the workroom.
“Come to stare, or come to work?” Baba Yaga asked as she picked up a large stone. The witch stood at the table nearest the ebony bird and continued to mumble under her breath as she pounded and scraped something beneath her stone. The pungent smell of ginger wafted in the air and then with it peppermint. “You’re going to help me with my tinctures and potions, so be careful and precise. Do it right, or I’ll add your bones to my gate.”
“I’m happy to help, but I’m not a witch,” Vasi said to clear up any misconception that might raise Baba Yaga’s ire.
“Not a witch?” Baba Yaga muttered darkly without turning around. “Do you mean you’re not from a bastard lineage? Not the half-breed child of a wayward immortal?”
Vasi frowned. Why was the witch trying to instigate animosity? “I said nothing of the kind. I merely wanted to clarify so there would be no misunderstanding later.”
“Did I ask you to make the herbs dance midair? No. If you want to stay here, you need to earn your keep.” Without breaking her rhythm, Baba Yaga snapped, “Tie off the herbs, and set them to dry. All of them in that basket, right?”
“Of course, ma’am.” Vasi crossed to the basket and pulled out a fistful of herbs, taking note that the quantity in the basket didn’t diminish at all. Of course, more magic. But she could do this; she’d done it before with her mother.
Vasi went to work with her knife. She expertly extracted the medicinal portion of the deadly foxglove while leaving other areas untouched. She tied bundles of the leaves with twine and clipped each cluster onto an empty hook then hung the bouquet from the ceiling.
The two women worked in silence for the better part of the morning, and Vasi almost forgot who she was with and why. When she finished the last of the herb, she grinned at Baba Yaga and said, “Done.”
The witch didn’t even look up. With a wave of her hand, another basket, this one of hemlock, skipped over to Vasi’s table. “Back to work.”
Vasi sighed, but she pulled out a handful of the flowering stalks, their hollow roots still attached. As she cut through one of the larger stalks, her knife slipped, slicing deep into the tip of her finger. Vasi hissed in a breath as her blood welled. She dropped her knife to the table and clutched her wounded hand, pushing the blood out to get rid of the poison.
Across the workshop, Baba Yaga dropped the stone with a clatter. She spun around, lifting her hooked nose into the air as she inhaled. She opened her eyes and pinned Vasi with that wretched burning gaze. One moment the witch was across the workshop, and the next, she stood over Vasi, snatching up her hand.
“Stop—” Vasi gasped and then froze as Baba Yaga’s lips closed around the young woman’s bleeding finger.
Vasi’s heart pounded, and she clenched her core, waiting for those iron teeth to bite down and sever her finger or maybe even her hand. Vasi inhaled, getting ready to scream, but almost immediately, the witch released her hold.
Shock rocked Vasi, and without the witch’s resistance, Vasi fell, landing on her butt. Vasi scooted back, and then the lack of pain registered. She stared at her hand, flexing her fingers. Her whole fingers. The moment of shock passed, and she blinked up at Baba Yaga.
The witch grinned, a mouthful of metal tips, and then cackled. “Just as I suspected.”
Vasi blinked, her mind racing incoherently. After a moment, Vasi scrambled to her feet and asked, “What’s as you suspected?”
Across the workshop, the raven let out a piercing caw.
“Someone in your lineage did a very naughty thing, little witch.”
4
Adaline
The dust from the training ring billowed in the air as Adaline hit the ground with a grunt. She rolled to the side, scrambling to get to her feet before—Too late. Evzan tapped the flat of his sword on the soft skin just beneath her chin, forcing her head up. Her necklace swung into the dirt, and Evzan removed his blade.
“That’s two for me, Princess.” He chuckled, withdrawing his blade. “Will you yield to me now?”
Adaline grabbed the heavy pendant and tucked it back into her tunic. She stood and brushed the dirt from her backside then wiped the sweaty strands of hair off her face. With a huff of frustration, she stooped to pick up her blade. “This is practice, Evzan. You’re supposed to be training me, not just humiliating me.” Although, the round had gone longer than any previous sparring session, and Evzan’s hair was damp with sweat. “You act like you get your kicks from making me look stupid.”
Her frustration was not with him though. The constant snickers at court, the cruel games, and the deliberate exclusion from the social activities of the royal families of Cervene were adding up. Frustration drove Adaline to the training field every morning where she knew she could make progress.
Over the la
st few weeks, Adaline learned no one was as good as Evzan. Even the other generals, older generals, deferred to him, and more than one knight mentioned General Shulz had never been bested. She wished doing better here, in the training arena, translated to acceptance there, in court. But none of that was his fault. “Sorry.”
“Sorry?” Evzan frowned as if she’d insulted him. “Sorry doesn’t work, Princess. I’m training you, or at least I’m trying. I’ve done the same sweep both times, and you keep making the same mistake.”
Adaline raised her eyebrows, and when he didn’t continue, she asked, “Which is?”
“You’re so busy watching my sword,” Evzan said. “You’re missing what the rest of my body is doing.”
Adaline was pretty sure her fixation on his sword wasn’t the sum total of the reasons she’d been fumbling more than usual. Besides the issues at court, there was the problem of Evzan himself. Her guard towered over her by several inches, and his muscled chest spanned nearly twice hers. His intimidating size wasn’t his only advantage; he was faster and stronger, and his agility was better than the acrobats she’d seen in the traveling entertainers. Yet those weren’t the only culprits for her failure either. With their close proximity and the quantity of time they spent together, Adaline was increasingly aware of Evzan’s other qualities.
The princess grew distracted by the escaped wisps of golden strands from his short braid. She stared too long at the chiseled lines of his face, watching as a bead of perspiration trickled from his hairline to his jaw. She froze when his whiskers brushed her skin. And his lips, those were the most distracting of all. She was losing her focus because he mesmerized her, and even though it wasn’t his fault, irritation flooded her belly.
Evzan reached for her blade, his vibrant-blue eyes darkening when she glared at him and pulled her weapon out of his reach.