City of Storms

by Kat Ross

  “I haven’t seen you before and I know all the chars that serve the vestals. What is your name?”

  “Nikola Thorn,” she said with a curtsy. “I mop the floors in the chapel, but Sister Chernov asked me to check on her guests, Domina. Do you require anything?”

  “No.” The word was bitten off.

  “Well, just call when you need fresh towels, Domina,” she told Kasia cheerfully.

  The older woman’s gaze burned Nikola’s back as she shut the door and hurried from the Castel Saint Agathe.

  “Give me one more day. I almost have her in my confidence.”

  Malach stared at Nikola, trying hard not to lose his temper. She’d been twenty minutes late to the rendezvous at a deserted tram stop across from the Dacian Gate. Malach had been pacing like a caged beast when she finally showed, certain something had gone wrong.

  “You shouldn’t have spoken to her,” he said. “I told you not to take unnecessary risks.”

  The gates opened. A long, black car rolled out of the Arx. Headlights swept across them and Malach pulled Nikola into his arms, lowering his face to the neck of her gray cloak. The garment smelled of incense and floor wax and damp wool. His lips found the warm skin beneath, where she smelled only of herself. For a moment, he wished they were back in her flat, eating noodles and arguing, among other things.

  The car passed. Nikola pulled back.

  “She invited me into her room. She was worried about some priest.”

  “The laqueus,” Malach muttered.

  “I’m sure I can find out what she knows.” Nikola seized his coat sleeve. “Please, Malach. Let me try.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t wait.”

  “Why not?”

  “Every Oprichnik in the city is hunting me, if you hadn’t noticed.”

  “They have no reason to search my flat,” she said reasonably. “But if you try to go in there, you’ll be caught for certain.”

  He gazed at the Wards along the high walls, the dim orange glow of torches in the towers beyond. “Are there extra guards posted tonight? Anything different from the usual?”

  She sighed. “Not that I can tell, but it means nothing. Surely they might expect you to come here.”

  “Falke is too arrogant. He thinks his citadel is impregnable.”

  She gave a mirthless laugh. “Falke is arrogant? You really do lack a single iota of self-awareness, Malach.”

  “Enough.” His jaw tightened. “Did you get it?”

  Nikola produced a rolled-up length of black cloth from beneath her cloak. “I stole it from the dirty laundry.” She shoved it against his chest. “I hope you get fleas.”

  Malach shook out the cassock. He pulled it over his clothes and drew the cowl up. The garment was slightly short, but it covered him well enough. As long as no one realized he lacked a Raven Mark, he should be able to walk through the grounds unnoticed.

  Of course, if they saw the broken chain around his neck, he’d be done for. Nikola hadn’t recognized it, but any priest or vestal would know it at once. The Mark of Bal Kirith. The Mark of unfettered will.

  “Where am I going?” he asked.

  “The Castel Saint Agathe,” Nikola said. “Her chamber is at the very top, in the east wing. Here, I drew you a map.” She pressed a folded scrap of paper into his hand but didn’t let go. “You won’t hurt her. Promise me again, Malach.”

  “Compulsion does no permanent damage.”

  “Promise!” Her voice was hard.

  Malach studied her, this woman they had rejected as beneath their standards. “I swear.”

  “Good.” Nikola gave a friendly nod. “And I ever discover you’ve lied to me, I’ll cut your balls off and keep them in a pickle jar.”

  He smiled. “Understood, Domina Thorn.”

  The downpour concealed them as they followed the wall to the side of the Arx that abutted the river. Malach had chosen the spot for its seclusion and distance from the Dacian Gate. The wall was rough stone and offered plenty of handholds. Scaling it would be simple if not for the Wards carved three meters apart for the entire length. They were Arx’s true defense.

  “I’ll wait for you here,” Nikola said.

  “Go home.”

  “But—”

  “There’s nothing more you can do.”

  Malach turned away. She grabbed his arm. “You’d better come back.”

  Her voice was calm, but he sensed turmoil beneath the surface. Normally, Malach enjoyed provoking a strong emotional response. He’d savor the victory, find a way to heighten it to serve his own ends. But she’d risked everything and so far, he’d given her nothing in return but an unwanted life inside her.

  “Death is the only thing that will keep me from you,” he said.

  “That’s what I’m worried about.”

  “They haven’t killed me yet.” He thought about it. “And not for lack of trying.”

  “Don’t get captured either,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t tell them about you. No matter what they did to me.”

  Nikola held his gaze. “I know,” she said quietly.

  He grinned. “See? You do love me.”

  “Fool.” She rolled her eyes, but he earned a tiny smile.

  Malach traced her lower lip with his thumb. “Leave,” he said. “I don’t want you to see the next part.”

  Nikola opened her mouth to object and he covered it with a long, deep kiss. Even now, in the shadow of his enemy’s stronghold, he wanted her. He forced himself to pull away.

  “Just go. Please.”

  She held his gaze for a long moment. Then she turned and walked away.

  She did not look back.

  Rain beat against the hood of his cassock. Mud and fish filled his nose. Malach crouched down and laid a palm on the sodden earth of the riverbank. A chill wracked him as he delved through the shallows and reached the fiery abyssal ley, like a hot spring beneath a glacial pool. Lines of flame raced across his Marks. He drew deeper, blood stirring with urgent need.

  Malach had answered a hundred furtively whispered prayers, but his own remained out of reach. There were limits to the power of the ley. It could not heal or stave off death. It could not be used directly against itself.

  In other words, he could not simply unmake the Void, no matter how badly he craved it.

  Yet under every other circumstance, abyssal was the strongest. It delivered swift results—often with unintended consequences, if the wielder was inexperienced.

  Liminal ley, the threshhold where the surface mingled with the abyss, was second in potency. It twisted chance, which is why the Curia restricted its use to the clergy, yet it was unreliable.

  Surface ley had always been the weakest, just as the conscious mind governed a mere fraction of all brain activity. Surface ley soothed and pacified. In a fight like the one with the laqueus, the red would always overwhelm the blue.

  But something in the construct of the Wards turned that rule on its head.

  His aunt Beleth believed it to be faith.

  The Raven was not an empty symbol. Wards were steeped in the hopes and dreams of their creators, the unshakeable conviction of moral righteousness. Falke hinted at it in his book.

  “Make the conflict a struggle for liberation against the oppressor. This external space, lying outside the physical boundaries of engagement, is the true battlefield.”

  Malach lifted his hand. The Broken Chain ignited like molten ore against his chest, then faded. He stood and pulled on a pair of leather gloves.

  Compassion. Courage. Fidelity. Honesty. Forgiveness. The Five Virtues of the Via Sancta.

  Romantic sentiments, but none held any particular appeal.

  He took a step toward the wall, heart pumping like a bellows.

  Someday, you will topple that stela and fuck someone on it. Do you believe me, Malach?

  “Yes,” he said softly.

  Ten meters out, the nausea kicked in. He swallowed hard and kept walking, a steady, unhurried p
ace. Eight meters and icy sweat trickled down his back. Five, and his Marks triggered the full defenses.

  “I believe,” he said through gritted teeth. “I have faith.”

  The climb to the top took approximately a hundred years, give or take a decade. The Wards flayed him alive, then tossed him on a rack of hot coals. Knives stabbed his abdomen. Iron spikes splintered his joints. They sucked the breath from his lungs and the strength from his muscles. Blue starbursts in the image of a Raven seared his retinas.

  “I believe,” he rasped, reaching for the next handhold, and the next. “I have faith.”

  A cramped, trembling leg thrown over the top and then he was weightless, the ground rushing to meet him. Malach lay curled on his side for a minute, vomiting dark blood. He spat and scrubbed his mouth. Fingers and toes dug furrows in the earth. Centimer by centimeter, he crawled away from the torture chamber they had designed for him. With infinite slowness, the tide of agony receded, leaving him shaken and panting.

  He found a stone chapel and huddled against it until he could walk. Twinges of pain still scraped his bones, but the Wards had failed to finish him.

  “Faith,” he muttered hoarsely, “is a marvelous thing.”

  Malach took Nikola’s map from his pocket, shielding it from the rain. He looked around and took his bearings. The dome of the basilica lay just ahead, which placed the Castel Saint Agathe off to the left. Bells tolled from a distant tower. Malach counted ten peals.

  In Bal Kirith, the evening debauchery would just be starting, but they led tamer lives inside the Arx. The night was quiet.

  Malach’s teeth gleamed in the darkness.

  Inside the Arx.

  How many times had he watched the citadel from afar, imagining the day he would burn it all down? The urge to do so right now was almost overwhelming, but he mastered himself. First things first.

  He set out along the pathway, cowl raised and hands tucked into the sleeves of the cassock. Occasionally, the glow of headlights pierced the night, but the cars moved at a leisurely pace. Half a dozen knights stood before the Pontifex’s Palace. Malach didn’t come close enough to see their faces.

  No one challenged him.

  Wards glowed everywhere and he kept his distance, pausing now and then to consult the map. At last, the hulking stone headquarters of the vestals came into view. Its counterpart in Bal Kirith was open and airy, with wide balconies and fluted marble columns—the ones that still stood, at least. This building was squat and ugly, like a closed fist.

  Malach found a window and squeezed through the deep slit. After the drubbing he’d taken at the wall, the single Ward, nearly six meters away, knotted his jaw but failed to induce the dreaded black vomit.

  Perhaps they’d already bled him dry.

  He started down a long vaulted corridor, listening intently. Torches sputtered along the walls, the smoke smarting his eyes. He still felt raw and tender, the way he did after leaving his cousin Dantarion’s bed. She liked it rough in every sense and her partners weren’t spared the pleasure.

  A sliver of ice touched him.

  May she never, ever meet Domina Thorn.

  Malach pulled his gloves off and trailed a finger along the wall, letting the abyssal ley flow into his Marks like a rush of infused blood. It couldn’t heal his hurts, but it made him feel better nonetheless.

  Beneath her crown of raven feathers, the Lady of Masks smiled.

  True to Nikola’s map, the corridor ended at a set of spiral stairs. Malach climbed them to the very top. He was about to open the door when muffled female voices sounded on the other side, growing louder. He backed down the stairs. Tiger in a Cage lashed its tail.

  Be gone.

  Power surged forth, primed to alter the branching course of events as it suited him. The voices receded.

  Malach left the stairwell and found the third door from the end in the east wing. He knocked softly.

  No answer.

  He pressed a palm against the smooth age-dark wood.

  “Domina Novak?” His voice was a rough whisper, impossible to distinguish as male or female.

  Still no answer.

  Asleep, then. That made his task easier. He touched the lock. The tumblers clicked. Malach eased the door open, a square of light spilling across the stone floor. A figure lay in the narrow bed, facing away from him. Malach stepped inside, silent as a cat.

  He would take what he needed and send her back to sleep. When she woke in the morning, he wouldn’t even be a hazy dream. She would have no recollection of him whatsoever.

  Malach resolved to hit her with a heavy dose of abyssal ley. He still didn’t know how she’d broken his compulsion the last time and had no desire to repeat the debacle.

  He stepped forward, reaching behind to ease the door shut.

  Wards burst into blue flame. Over the door. The window.

  He threw an arm up, every muscle seizing.

  The ley vanished.

  Not just regular Wards. A mage trap.

  The room filled with priests. He lashed out wildly. A fist snapped his head back. Malach tasted salty warmth on his tongue. They pushed him down to the bed, where pillows had been shoved beneath the blanket to resemble a slumbering body. A dagger at his throat discouraged further resistance.

  Candles were lit. Cardinal Falke eyed his cassock with a melancholy expression.

  “I wish you wore that in truth,” he said. “But it was a futile hope.”

  “Where’s my letter?” Malach rasped.

  “I burned it. Would you like to know what it said?”

  Malach spat a dark gob. “I would, as a matter of fact.”

  “I’ll tell you, but only because it makes no difference now.” His purple robes gleamed in the candlelight. “If you’d come a day earlier, you’d be taking home a prize right now.”

  “Massot?” Malach sneered, although he had no real idea of what the doctor had found. “His work was useless. I don’t know why I bothered Marking him. He failed both of us.”

  “Did you know about the women?” An edge entered the cardinal’s voice. No ley to dull his anger. A flush spread across Falke’s jowls, his eyes cold.

  Malach stared at him, uncomprehending. “I saw Massot once a year. What did he find? Some girl who could Mark a cat? That’s your obsession, not mine.”

  “Oh, he found a little more than that,” Falke said softly. “Try the man who forged the ley lines.”

  Malach stared at him. “Lezarius is in Jalghuth.”

  The fourth city-state of the Via Sancta was in the far north, surrounded by glacial fields with hundreds of stelae—and the frozen corpses of nihilim who had died trying to break through and capture him.

  “Oh, there’s a Pontifex in Jalghuth, but it’s not Lezarius. Not the real one, at any rate.” The cardinal sat down on the chest at the foot of the bed, resting his arms on his knees. “Here’s what I think happened. Let’s go back thirty years. You were about four, weren’t you?”

  Malach didn’t answer, but the cardinal simply nodded. “Beleth’s forces surround Novostopol. Nantwich is burning. Kvengard clings to neutral status, but Luk knows the end is in sight. It’s time to broker the terms of a final unconditional surrender.

  “The Lion refuses to concede. He marches with his forces to defend Nantwich, but is taken captive and held in Bal Agnar. Under torture, he lashes out and makes the Void. At the junctures of the ley lines, stelae rise up from the earth, fully formed. His loyal forces have been trying to fight through to free him and they do, now that the ley is gone. Bal Agnar falls, and then Bal Kirith. Balaur is taken back to Jalghuth. The stelae are copied and called Wards in the cities.”

  “I don’t require a history lesson,” Malach said coldly.

  Falke tilted his head. “Lezarius alone had power over the physical course of the ley, so he created the Void and cast you out. But here’s something you may not know. When it was done, he thought the nihilim should be left alone. That being deprived of the ley was sufficient p
unishment for your transgressions. When the other Pontifexes overruled him, Lezarius was furious. He severed ties with the rest of the Curia and retreated into the Arx at Jalghuth. He’s been a recluse ever since, which would make it rather easy to replace him with someone else.”

  “Who?” Malach scoffed.

  “I have no idea, but I intend to find out.” Falke looked grim. “His Marks must have been deliberately Inverted. Only a mage could do that.”

  Malach swallowed against the edge of the dagger. He locked eyes with the heavyset priest looming over him. “It’s rather hard to have a conversation,” he said, “with your minions on the verge of cutting my throat.”

  Falke made a small gesture. The blade eased back a millimeter.

  Malach counted four priests in the chamber, plus the cardinal. Three of them wore blue robes with no insignia. Falke’s private army? The fourth had the Golden Bough of General Directorate.

  “If one of us did have Lezarius under his or her control,” Malach said, “why not just make him free the ley?”

  “I don’t know,” Falke conceded.

  “So they put him in the madhouse and gave his robes to another Pontifex. One who must look exactly like him.”

  “Apparently so.” Falke shook his head. “There’s an undeniable genius to it. Even if he remembered who he was, no one would believe him.”

  Malach was silent for a minute. Then he started laughing. “You might have come up with something more plausible. You’re as crazy as Massot.”

  “I know you had him looking for Invertido with the ability to manipulate the ley. Obviously, you hoped he might find someone who could reverse the binding. A long shot, but you’re desperate.”

  Malach’s smile faded.

  “His letter referred to the Source of all your Troubles. Capital S, capital T. What does that tell you, Malach? He wanted you to spirit this patient from the Institute and suggested you act quickly because Massot had concerns about his quote latent powers unquote.”

  “That still doesn’t mean—”

  “His Marks match. Massot had to dig deep to find a description of them. He spent the last year collecting any book that referenced the Pontifex of the Northern Curia. We found them all hidden away in his house. He finally found an obscure biography of Saint Jule, who Marked Lezarius, that gave a precise description. No two Marks are the same, but you know that already. They cannot be faked. It’s him.”