by Kat Ross
Mikhail strode toward the Pontifex. The Raven on his neck stirred, unfurling dark wings. Each feather gleamed like pale moonlight striking water. The beak opened in a silent croak of rage. Misha’s face was cloaked in shadow and Kasia was glad she couldn’t see it clearly. He looked too much like his brother.
Feizah raised the sword. “I hold your Marks, Bryce,” she said grimly. “Traitor or not, twelve of them are mine. Kill me and you will die.”
Mikhail moved like a cat, springing away from Feizah’s slashing lunge. She recovered quickly, adjusting her two-handed grip. The blade cut the air with a sharp whistling sound. Mikhail leaned back as it passed within a centimeter of his throat. She unleashed another lightning slash at his legs. He leapt over the blade and wrested it away in one brutal movement. Kasia might have looked away then, but she wanted to see what happened next.
The Pontifex turned to run. Mikhail stabbed her in the back. She fell and he stabbed her again, this time through the chest. She died without much of a fuss. It was an unpleasant sight, but in truth Kasia felt little sympathy for the Pontifex. Feizah had gambled and lost.
She hoped they would leave, but footsteps approached. The cabinet was flung open. The point of Mikhail’s sword touched her throat. A spray of fresh blood crossed his white tunic.
“Make it quick,” she said with a dry throat, her pulse finally spiking at the prospect of imminent death.
Up close, Misha’s face was a little narrower, his lips fuller. The vast gulf between the brothers lay in the eyes. Mikhail’s held not a shred of warmth. Not even anger. Just fanatical devotion to his cause.
“What have we here?” Lezarius walked up to the wardrobe. “Are you a vestal?”
“I’m no one.”
Mikhail’s sword lifted the braid hanging over one shoulder, exposing her Raven-less neck.
“Climb out of there,” Lezarius ordered.
She did, eyeing the corpse that lay across the steps at the foot of the enormous bed. It seemed impossible that the Reverend Mother was really dead. She’d been the Pontifex for as long as Kasia could remember.
“Show me your Marks,” Lezarius said.
“I don’t have any.”
“Prove it.” The Mad Saint stared at her with profound suspicion.
“Ah.” Not again. “You mean…?”
“Prove it. Or I must assume you are part of the plot against me.”
Kasia sighed, but she was past the point of modesty.
Far, far past it.
She discarded her jacket and started to unbutton her blouse. Mikhail Bryce turned his back, resting a hand on the pommel of the sword, which he held point-down. The old man watched her closely, but there was nothing leering about it. Kasia unzipped her skirt and let it fall. She rolled her stockings down and dropped them on top of the skirt. When she got down to her bra and underwear, he held a hand up.
“You are an innocent,” Lezarius declared. “Do you wish to come with us?” He smiled. “You could be a follower of the saint. I offer you my protection. Unmarked are treated almost as poorly as Invertido. It is wrong. I see that now.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To raise an army, of course. There is work to be done.” He glanced at Bryce’s broad back. “Mikhail is a valiant knight. You mustn’t be afraid of him.”
Oh, not in the least. “He looks ill.”
“Yes,” Lezarius said sadly. “Perhaps he will improve in the Void.”
There was much more Kasia might have said at that point, but, standing in her underwear before two Invertido who had just killed the Pontifex of the Eastern Curia, she decided that getting the fog out of there would be the smart thing to do.
“Your offer is very kind.” She smiled. “But I have a cat I’m fond of. It’s not a good time to leave town. Thank you for asking though.”
“I own a cat, as well.” Lezarius picked up the cardboard box and took out a ball of black fluff. It mewed plaintively. “I believe it is hungry.”
Kasia regarded the kitten. It was like a bizarre dream, but she still felt the point of Mikhail’s sword where it had touched her throat. “There’s some cream,” she said, pointing at the tea service, which remained miraculously upright.
Lezarius filled a saucer and set the kitten down. It lapped at the cream. “What is your name?” he asked.
Fifteen years had passed since she’d last claimed it, but he deserved a truthful answer. “Katarzynka Nowakowski.”
He pursed his lips. “Got a smoke?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“Too bad.” The Mad Saint bowed. “Domina Nowakowski, I wish you well.” The kitten began to lick its paws. Lezarius picked it up, very gently, placed it back in the box and turned to Mikhail. “It’s time for us to move on.”
The knight cast her a quick, intense glance. He was not soulless—she saw intelligence and emotion lurking behind those blue eyes—and Kasia wondered if she should tell him she knew his brother, maybe even entice him to free Alexei from the dungeon, but before she could regret her decision the pair were walking out the shattered doors and down the corridor. Kasia stared after them for a long moment.
The last card of the Massot spread fell into place.
The Mage, inverted, was Mikhail Bryce.
The Knight was Alexei.
The Fool was Malach.
The Slave was Massot himself.
But someone else bound them all together.
“I think,” she said aloud, “I just met The Martyr.”
Someone had done Lezarius a terrible wrong. How and why remained unclear, but he wanted revenge and Captain Mikhail Bryce would help him get it. There was much to think on, but more guards would arrive at any moment and she did not want to be found standing over the corpse of the Pontifex in her underwear. Kasia quickly dressed and stepped into her boots. She took a moment to scoop up the two coraxes—they’d rolled under the bed— then strode for the door.
A dozen guards sprawled in the corridor outside, swords next to their outstretched hands. She recognized the woman who had grabbed her by the hair. The Knights of Saint Agathe were as fierce as any man—fiercer, if the tales of their valor during the war were true. Bryce had killed each of them with a single thrust to the heart.
Kasia raised a hand to her throat. What had he become?
She left the palace through a service door near the kitchens. Outside, a gale shook the trees like giant hands. Not a single Ward lit the night. There was only the faint gleam of torches from within the buildings, which failed to dispel the thick darkness outside. Bells tolled in towers across the Arx and she saw the sweep of headlights, but no guards in the blue and gold.
Perhaps Captain Bryce had killed them all.
Kasia used a fallen branch to break a ground floor window of the Curia Press. She found a candle stub in one of the offices and retraced the convoluted route down to the cells. Left, then right, then right, then left again . . . . It was a long, lonely trek and although she didn’t fear getting lost, she missed Patryk Spassov.
Are you his friend, Kasia? Alyosha has very few.
The Pontifex had ordered his release, but she had to make sure. That’s what a friend would do. At the bottom of the fifth set of stairs, the water rose to knee-deep. Kasia took her boots off and plowed on. At last she reached the card table where the guards had sat. It lay on its side, tugged by the current. Nearer to the cells, she came upon a body floating face-down. Kasia stared at it, a steel band tightening around her chest until she could hardly breathe. She grabbed the cassock and rolled it over. It was a priest around Bryce’s age, with a long, mournful face. The eyes were half-open. His neck looked broken.
The steel band loosened. “Alexei?” she called.
The low vaulted ceiling threw her own voice back. She waded into the open cell. It was empty.
Kasia went back out and searched the dead priest, careful to keep her candle dry. His pocket held a corax like the ones Lezarius had thrown at Feizah’s feet. Sh
e examined the three copper coins nestled in her palm. All had a Raven on one side and a name on the other. Gerlach, Brodszky and Zsolt. Words were engraved in a semicircle beneath the Raven. Hoc ego defendam. This I will protect.
Kasia studied it for a moment, a slight frown on her face. She’d only looked at Mikhail’s corax for a few seconds when Alexei showed it to her at the flat, but she recalled the motto, which must belong to the Beatus Laqueo.
Foras Admonitio. Without warning.
Two different orders—and she was willing to bet the first one had something to do with Cardinal Falke.
She slipped the coins into her jacket pocket. The candle was growing short. Wherever he had gone, Alexei was beyond her help now. It was time to get back. Even with her perfect memory, Kasia didn’t relish groping her way out in pitch darkness with the water rising.
* * *
Twenty minutes later she reached the lawn surrounding Falke’s residence and crept around to the library. The window was still unlatched. Kasia climbed over the sill. The fire had burned low, leaving most of the room in shadow. “Nashka?” she whispered.
“Natalya has been taken to Sor Foy’s country estate.”
Cardinal Falke stepped into the firelight. She froze. “Your Eminence, you startled me.”
He glanced at the window. “Where have you been, Domina Novak? Your friend was reticent regarding the details of your sortie.”
She met his eye. “That is my own business.”
He sank into a chair, moving stiffly. “Let me guess. Fra Bryce?”
It was the story she’d intended to tell if she was caught—or a version of it, at least. She gave a reluctant nod. “I was worried for him, Your Eminence. So I went to see Fra Spassov, but then the Wards broke. He was called away and I came back here.”
“I’m sure Bryce is fine,” Falke said wearily. “If you wish, I can arrange a visit in the morning.”
The offer surprised her. “I would appreciate that.”
He nodded absently. “I can’t seem to find a candle, Domina Novak. Would you . . . ?”
She lit a taper from the hearth and touched it to the wicks of the nearest candelabra. “You’re bleeding!” she exclaimed.
Falke glanced down. His face shone with a ghastly pallor. “So I am.”
Kasia hurried to the library doors and flung them open. The two priests who had been standing guard outside were gone. “Where are your aides?”
“I sent them to look for you. I feared Malach would find you.”
“Did the mage do this?” The blood had been hard to see against the cardinal’s purple robes, but now she realized he was soaked in it.
Falke nodded. “He killed four of my knights.”
“After the Wards went down?”
“He was already inside.”
Ice touched her spine. “How did he breach the walls?”
“I don’t know, but I expected an attempt. Sure enough, he came to the Castel Saint Agathe. We were waiting in your chamber. I had him secured, but then the ley surged . . . he stabbed me in the thigh.”
Kasia sat down and peeled a stocking off. “Cinch this above the cut, Your Eminence.”
Falke took the stocking. He wore elegant woolen trousers beneath the purple robe.“I’ve grown soft,” he said with a wince, tightening the knot. “Too many rich dinners and tedious meetings. Once I would have stayed to fight, but Malach is young and hungry, and I’m old and tired.” He sat back with a sigh. “Mors vincit omnia. Death always wins.”
“You need a doctor, Your Eminence. I’ll call for a car.”
Falke stared through the rain-streaked windows. “Have you ever made a bad mistake, Domina Novak?”
“Plenty.”
“I underestimated him.” Falke coughed. “Would you be so kind as to bring me a drink? There’s a bottle in that cabinet, the one with the glass doors.”
Kasia found the whiskey and two heavy crystal glasses, pouring a finger into each. She handed one to the cardinal. “Malach, you mean?”
Falke downed the amber liquid in one swallow. A vicious gust of wind rattled the glass panes. “Among others,” he said.
“Do you think he’ll come here?”
“I don’t know.” The cardinal regarded her with a strange expression she couldn’t quite place. “What would you do if you were Malach?”
“I would try to kill you. If I failed, I would run to fight another day.”
“Always the wisest course.”
“Did he get what he came for?”
“No.”
But he hesitated before answering and Kasia knew he was lying. “Your Eminence?” Falke looked up at her. His face was ashen. “We’d best get you to the infirmary now.”
“Do you mind bringing me the telephone? I think the cord will stretch.”
She waited while he dialed a number. Falke explained the situation, then listened for a long minute. “Saints,” he said faintly. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”
He replaced the phone in the cradle with a trembling hand. Then he closed his eyes, lips moving in a silent prayer. His grief did not strike Kasia as feigned. In the quiet of this stately, book-lined room, she felt the weight of what had happened that night. By morning, thousands would be weeping and covering their windows in black drapes.
“The Reverend Mother is dead,” Falke said heavily. “Along with at least a dozen of her guards. No one saw a thing.”
Kasia pressed a hand to her mouth. “It cannot be true.”
“Malach,” he ground out. “I will hunt him to the ends of the earth for this.”
They were both silent for a time. Kasia could think of nothing more to say. Cardinal Falke appeared lost in thoughts of retribution and, judging by the hollow look in his eyes, guilt. Every now and again she sensed his Marks lighting up, though he seemed unaware of it.
“Your Eminence?” she said at last.
Falke glanced over. He’d aged ten years in the last quarter hour.
“If you have no further need for me, I’d like to go home. Once you’ve been tended to, of course.”
“I meant to send you to Tessaria.”
“I prefer my own flat.”
She expected him to refuse, but to her surprise, the cardinal slowly nodded. “I only brought you here to protect you, Domina Novak. Whatever you may think of me, I’ve always had your best interests at heart.” His tone grew bitter. “But the Arx is no safer than anywhere else, perhaps less so.”
“Will Malach come after me again?”
Falke considered the question. “I very much doubt it. He only wanted you for what he thought you knew. But his interests have shifted now.”
To Lezarius, she thought. Good luck to you, Malach, if you think you can take both The Lion and Captain Mikhail Bryce.
The library doors opened and four aides rushed inside bearing a stretcher. The cardinal refused to lie down on it and limped out to the car under his own steam, though one of the aides supported him.
“You will be driven home, but I’m leaving two men outside, Domina Novak,” he said brusquely, easing himself into the back seat. “You cannot deny me that.”
“I would never attempt it, Your Eminence.”
Falke studied her through the window with a peculiar mixture of regret and tenderness. Whatever evils he had done, this man would not harm her. She had no idea why, only that it was true.
Kasia raised a gloved hand in farewell as the car drove away, then hurried to a second vehicle waiting at the curb outside his residence. The rain was no longer a steady downpour, more scattered bursts of drizzle tossed about on a fresh breeze. Still, strands of hair were damply plastered to her forehead by the time she slammed the door and sat back.
“Number 44 Malaya Sadovaya Ulitsa,” she told the driver.
The car pulled out and glided towards the Dacian Gate, followed by another vehicle that Kasia presumed was carrying her shadows. Somewhere beyond the walls of the Arx, a frenzied howling rose.
The Markhounds had found an
other trail.
Chapter Thirty
Malach stumbled through the dark streets, one hand gripping the hilt of the knife buried in his stomach.
The blade had entered just below the navel, a few centimeters lateral of the midline—right through the neck of the two-headed serpent coiled at his hip. Suction stemmed the blood flow, but burning cold radiated from the wound.
The adrenaline that had propelled him from the car was ebbing. He didn’t have much time before the comedown brought him to his knees, and the laqueus would be looking for him by now. Malach regretted leaving him alive, but he’d had other more pressing priorities.
Anger dampened the fear, though it clawed at the back of his mind. Just because he was on his feet didn’t mean the wound wouldn’t kill him eventually. If the knife had damaged any vital organs, he’d be dead. If it had perforated his bowels or ruptured the stomach lining, he’d be dead.
The excited baying of a pack of Markhounds urged him to a stagger. He ducked into a narrow gap between two buildings just as the lead dog streaked past, swift as a galloping horse, and vanished into the rain. Three others followed on the alpha’s tail, narrow snouts pressed to the ground. They left glowing paw prints in the ley for their masters to follow. Malach leaned against the wall, waiting, even though all was perfectly silent. Sure enough, a minute later, he heard the roar of an engine and a long black car sped down the block.
The pack wasn’t hunting him. If the hounds had his scent, he’d be cornered already. But it wouldn’t be long before more came, the ones trained specially to track Nightmages.
Falke. The name stoked his rage to a high boil. Malach started walking again. He held the blade as straight and steady as he could, but he still felt every small movement of it—intimately.
West of the citadel, limestone mansions hugged the left fork of the river. They were set back from the street behind immaculate lawns and low wrought-iron gates. Crime being nonexistent, the gates were merely decorative. Malach lurched up to one of the homes and pounded on the front door until it was opened by a girl in the gray uniform of a char. She took one look at him and tried to close the door in his face. Malach shoved past her into a marble foyer.