“No?”
She made a thoughtful noise. “Only if you were there, but if you ever go back…”
Locked away. Burned out.
“Magic doesn’t work that way here,” he said with a frown. “Why is it like that in Akola?”
Ostyia’s head perked up. “Stop whispering when I’m trying to eavesdrop.”
“Is it eavesdropping when you’re in the same room?” Parijahan asked.
“Was it supposed to be a secret, that the two of you have magic?” she asked. “I’ve known for months.”
Parijahan’s eyes widened and Rashid swallowed thickly, shivering as everything in him went cold. Nadya finally sat up, leaning back against the chair.
“What?” Parijahan asked, voice strained.
Ostyia tilted her head.
“How did you know?”
“You hide it well, but it’s my job to make sure that no one with particularly strong magic is around Serefin that I don’t know about.”
“So, you deemed us harmless.”
“You weren’t going to be a threat on his life, from what I could gather. It’s nebulous”—she waved a hand—“imperfect. I figured that if you never used or spoke of it, you didn’t want anyone to know, so I kept it to myself. I can’t say I’m not curious, though. We don’t see many Akolan mages.”
Rashid scowled. He wasn’t entirely pleased at being referred to as harmless. “Because there aren’t many Akolan mages,” he said. “They burn out.”
Ostyia frowned slightly. “What does that mean?”
Nadya straightened with interest.
Rashid glanced between the two of them, mages both. “They’re tools. When the Travash have used them to their full extent, they die.”
Ostyia glanced at Nadya. “Can that happen to clerics?”
“The gods only give the amount of magic a cleric can handle,” Nadya said. “Though we can always reach for more…” She winced. “But it’s a channel, and the gods can stop the flow of power. I don’t think clerics generally die because of magic.”
Ostyia nodded. “If, say, Kacper were to cast from my spell book, he would probably get a headache and the spells would fail. I couldn’t cast from Serefin’s spell book, he’s stronger than both of us. I don’t think there’s a blood mage alive who could cast from Malachiasz’s spell book.”
The sickly expression that passed over Nadya’s face did not escape Rashid’s notice.
“There’s a reason we buy our spell books with the spells already written. The writers construct the spells to control the flow of power so you don’t try to cast one that will, well, kill you.”
“So, it’s not that the concept is unfamiliar, it’s that we have different words for it,” Nadya said.
“We have different ways to handle it, yes. We try to avoid it. But magic can still kill you if you overextend yourself. Do you know what it is you can do?” Ostyia asked him.
Rashid hesitated and shook his head. “She influences things.” He pointed at Parijahan, who scowled at him.
“In a good way?” Ostyia asked.
“It’s rather hard to determine,” Parijahan said.
“Do you think you were counteracting the Black Vulture’s madness?”
Rashid lifted an eyebrow. Nadya looked like a brick had been dropped on her head.
“Everything truly bad with him happened when I wasn’t around,” she said. “But it’s impossible to know.”
“It would be interesting to test,” Ostyia said thoughtfully.
Parijahan rolled her eyes. “Every damn Tranavian is the same.”
Rashid snorted softly, though he didn’t disagree with Ostyia. He supposed this was the reason that Nadya had suggested he talk to her. Ostyia was never as loud about her magic as the other Tranavians, but Rashid knew she was particularly adept.
“What about you?” she asked Rashid.
“I would like to test the perimeters,” he said slowly. “Carefully, because I don’t know how it will truly manifest.”
Ostyia nodded. She gazed down at her book for a long moment, something sad in her blue eye. Nadya reached out and took her hand.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
It was hardly something that could be apologized for, and she seemed aware of that.
Rashid rolled his sleeves back. He moved to sit across from Ostyia on the floor.
“But you can’t remember how magic works,” he said uncertainly.
“Blood magic. And it’s not that I can’t remember. It’s … it’s like the path has been ruined.”
Parijahan slid down into Rashid’s chair. “Magic works in different avenues.”
“And the one I know isn’t viable anymore. It could be a matter of finding a different branch—I have an affinity for magic, but in Tranavia no other way of using it matters.”
“Do you know other ways?”
She shrugged. “I was taught by an old Vulture who found whispers of Akolan and Aecii magic fascinating. Who was constantly paying exorbitant sums to have books from Rumenovać smuggled across the borders. It’s all out there. But in Kalyazin, everything else is heresy, and in Tranavia, well, why use anything else when we know how far you can take blood magic if you’re really trying? We have the Vultures; we have proof of how far you can grasp. Maybe other countries have their Vultures as well.”
It was impossible to know. The war had locked these two countries together so long that any hope of learning without bloodshed had been lost.
Ostyia closed her spell book. “I doubt Viktor will appreciate us doing this here, but if you’d like, we can see what it is you have hiding away.”
Rashid glanced at Parijahan. He couldn’t help it. It was his decision to make, but he had walked this road with her for so long that he wanted to make sure she was ready for whatever this meant.
Her expression was carefully blank, but she slipped. He saw the fear cut through her that she did her very best to shutter away.
“I’ll hardly stop you,” Parijahan said. “I knew this day would come. I just … I worry you’ll attract attention that we don’t want.”
Ostyia tucked a black lock behind her ear and adjusted her eye patch. “We’re out of time for that way of thinking,” she said. “Don’t act as if we haven’t all seen Nadya”—she gestured—“scrambling because her and those damn boys did something too big for any of us to stop. Do you truly think Akola would send people out here when the threat of cosmic annihilation is on the horizon?”
“You underestimate how far Akola is willing to go for resources that they think belong to them.”
“But which part of Akola?” Ostyia returned. “You’re from different territories, I can tell by your accents. And I can’t say I’m afraid of Tehran.”
Rashid had always thought Ostyia was more astute than she led everyone to believe, but he was still surprised she was aware of his and Parijahan’s differences. It was … rare someone from the north ever noticed. It stood to reason, though. She was the king’s right hand. Her games of flirting with girls and caring very little about the world were only a mask to keep people from suspecting everything she saw.
“Paalmidesh,” Parijahan replied with a slight frown. “He’s from Yanzin Zadar.”
Ostyia’s eyebrows lifted. “Really?”
“Frankly, I’m shocked that our particular tensions have made it all the way up here.”
“We share enough of a border with Akola that we aren’t going to ignore when one part of the country moves against the other,” Ostyia pointed out. “Besides, what are you worried about? It would take them a good year to get this far west.”
Parijahan did not look reassured. Ostyia turned back to Rashid.
“Close your eyes,” she ordered.
Rashid sighed and let them flutter shut.
“All right, we need to do this gently. I don’t want to blow up this snotty boyar’s—well, actually, who gives a shit if we do. Let’s go.”
29
NADEZHDA LAPTEVA<
br />
Zlatek blanketed a battlefield with his silence and the horror was profound.
—Codex of the Divine 44:867
Nadya slowly braided her hair. She wanted to make a good impression. She wasn’t planning to speak to the Matriarch—she knew where that would leave her—but she was going to the cathedral to dig through the library, and she wanted to at least look nice as she snuck underneath the Church’s noses.
It was like planning for a war where anyone could be the enemy and they could attack at any time, Katya had complained. But there were answers to be found in Komyazalov and Nadya intended to find them. She needed to figure out who the woman was that had given Kostya the pendant trapping Velyos and warned him about her. Gods, what would be different if she hadn’t bled on that damn amulet? If she had seen out the mission to assassinate the king as she was supposed to?
But that plan had been thought up by a boy desperately searching for power, and even if she hadn’t used Velyos’ power, Malachiasz still would have had his way.
Though he wouldn’t have had a reason to go to the one spot where killing a god would be possible without Nadya …
This was pointless. She needed to stop. She dropped her hands halfway through braiding her hair and tilted her head back.
She was missing something. There were too many pieces, too many variables. Where had Serefin gone? What had happened to him? All she knew was he was alive and Velyos was with him, which meant Serefin hadn’t really succeeded at what he’d set out to do. Funny how they were all such miserable failures in their own ways.
They had sent out messages to the front—Katya using her strange, weak saints’ power to speak to another Voldah Gorovni—but Serefin was nowhere to be found.
Nadya wondered if he had given up like he’d always clearly desired to. She had been present for his coronation and it had been the only glimmering second where she had thought that maybe he could be a king. Since, he’d only proven himself to be a boy who drank too much and ran away from his problems.
It would mean the war wouldn’t end. No one in that damned court in Grazyk wanted that. They didn’t care about the stripped land, death’s hand at the front, the children that were sent to war and came home shattered—if they came home at all.
Nadya had expressed her worries to Katya, but she was as cavalier as ever. She suspected the tsarevna was terrified by the thought of Serefin either dead or abdicating his throne. He was the only hope for a peace treaty.
A peace treaty he will never sign after what you did, Nadya thought, staring up at the high wooden ceiling. Listening to Marzenya had been a mistake. Stripping away blood magic had been a mistake. Even if they did find Serefin, it would only create more problems.
She knew the darkness the king of Tranavia hid. He and his brother were more alike than anyone realized. Serefin would turn to revenge far faster than he would sign a treaty after Nadya had harmed them so grievously.
Nadya lost her balance and wavered, her hip bumping into the dresser she stood in front of, knocking a hairbrush to the ground. She sighed heavily.
Besides, Serefin had surprised her before. Maybe he’d surprise her again. She missed that ridiculous boy. She regretted, so much, what she had done to him.
“The Tranavians deserved it.” The voice jolted her, and it took her a moment to parse who she was hearing. Kazimiera. A goddess who had spoken to her very little even before everything.
Where have you been? Nadya asked.
“Around. Watching. Recording. The others were so mad at you. Then no one could reach you. Then the Death Goddess told us we weren’t allowed to talk to you. That you had sinned and needed to be punished. That you were no longer holy, but that’s silly. You always were and never were.”
Nadya took a shaky step back and slowly sat down, closing her eyes. She had known that the first time the gods had stopped talking to her was because of that damn veil. It cut her access off, made all the more powerful by Malachiasz’s careful, pointed refinement. He had never admitted using magic on her without her knowledge, but she knew he had.
But the rest … The forced isolation. She didn’t want to believe that of Marzenya, even though she knew it was true. She could remember the cold touch of her goddess’s fingers over her skin, the bruises that had bloomed, the cuts splitting open her flesh from being near her.
Never and always holy.
Because of what I am? Nadya asked.
“Of course,” Kazimiera replied. “I wrote it all down.”
The gods keep records?
“Not like you’re thinking.”
Do the Tranavians deserve this war, truly? What have they done that we have not returned in kind?
Kazimiera was quiet.
You don’t control the country south of us. The gods are so fickle with their borders. Why not relinquish Tranavia completely and leave them to this fate they’ve chosen?
“There were wars,” Kazimiera said. “Up here, not down there. Many of us died and did not return. So many lost. The west was ripped from us by other gods and no one wanted to see more people lost when Tranavia began dabbling in heresy.”
Nadya frowned. So much of what she had learned suddenly lined up. That the gods may have been mortal once, long before mortal record. It explained why Akola had different gods, why Kalyazin had not turned its eyes to the west, though it might, one day.
What did you mean, both holy and not?
“Marzenya never told you?”
Marzenya never told me anything.
A knock at the door sounded, and Nadya shot to her feet, the connection snapping.
“Shit,” she said quietly, patting her messy hair. She headed to the door.
Anna was on the other side. She stared, looking Nadya up and down. “Are you all right?”
“No. I mean, yes. Yes, I’m fine. Give me a minute?”
Nadya worked fast, braiding her hair and pinning it to the back of her head. She scrambled for her glove, tucking it underneath the sleeve of her dress. So much for presentable. She was rattled.
The gods spoke as if their deaths were common, but what had happened to Marzenya was a first. The gods killed each other but no mortal had ever …
Well, Malachiasz had been a god, hadn’t he? A chaos god. Usually those were struck down by the other gods, but not this time.
“You have—” Anna reached out and rubbed at a spot on Nadya’s cheek. “Sorry.”
Nadya shot her a weary smile.
“Maybe wear a glove on your other hand, too? It’s conspicuous and someone might ask.”
“You think I should lie about it?” It would be lying by omission and Nadya could hardly believe her deeply pious priestess friend would encourage that kind of sin.
“Of course,” Anna said, her voice low.
Nadya shook her head. “Two would be harder to explain. With one I can make up a story that will sound plausible enough.”
Anna didn’t look convinced, but only said, “Be careful.”
“Annushka, it sounds suspiciously like you mistrust the Church.”
Anna flushed. “It’s strange here. Nothing like the monastery at all. I’ve missed you…” She fell silent with a distant frown.
They met up with Parijahan near the cathedral. She was bored and wanted to help, complaining Rashid and Ostyia spent all their time trying to figure out his magic. The Akolan girl was wearing a nondescript gray kaftan, Akolan in style but not enough to stand out.
Nadya would never forget the day she had seen the sprawling black cathedral in Grazyk, and a similar fear flooded her as Anna led her to the steps of this one.
It wasn’t nearly as ominous as the one in Grazyk. It hadn’t been defaced and half destroyed and painted black. This was, if anything, the opposite in every way. It towered, certainly, but the arches were squat and vibrant, colorful onion domes topping its highest points. Gold shone off some domes, while others were painted bright blues and reds that glowed in contrast to the red toned brick of the cathedral.
She paused and Anna cast her a worried glance over one shoulder.
“If I go in and the icons start weeping…” Nadya trailed off, unable to contemplate any further.
Anna’s face paled. “Do you think that will happen?”
“If not now, it will within a few days,” Parijahan said, answering for her with a grimace.
Anna grabbed Nadya’s hand. “They won’t know it’s you. The world is falling apart.”
“Katya knows it’s me.”
“And Ona Delich’niya won’t tell the Matriarch, right?”
Nadya hesitated but nodded. She could trust Katya. She had to.
Anna’s expression was scarily resolute. Nadya remembered when Anna’s complete trust in her had frightened her. She’d thought it was because of her connection with the gods. For Kostya, the connection had played a larger role than she had realized, but with Anna, maybe it was just Nadya. Maybe she wanted to keep Nadya safe simply so Nadya was safe. She trusted Nadya.
Nadya had never thought she would get that kind of trust from a Kalyazi. Tears welled in her eyes.
“Naden’ka?”
“I’m fine.” She scrubbed the back of her hand over her eyes. “Sorry. I’m fine. I’m ready.”
She tugged out of Anna’s grip and toward the church. Carvings of holy script lined the vast wooden doors. There were no statues of saints but plenty of mentions in the text carved into the stones. Nadya pushed open the doors and stepped inside.
As she passed the threshold, she was struck by the weight of something vast. A shifting. A click into place. Something groaning awake that had been still for a long time.
She hated this feeling, how normal it was becoming for her. She braced herself as divinity and magic and darkness crashed down onto her shoulders and all she could do was wait out the storm.
This church was old, older than the city, as old as the swamp Komyazalov was built on. This church was a stone altar, blood pooling in the cracks. This church was a dagger made of bone piercing flesh, wet with blood. This church was sacrifice and sanctity and darkness, violence, death.
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