Wicked Saints

by Emily A Duncan

  He eyed her before starting back into the woods.

  “You should have cut his throat. I’m disturbed you chose to spare him again,” Marzenya said. The thought slid into the back of Nadya’s mind like a suggestion.

  Nadya had noticed a distinct increase in Marzenya’s presence, in her interjections and nearness. She found she liked it, comforted by the knowledge her goddess was nearby and watching her. But a small part of her was unnerved by the pressure that came with it. Thoughts like that wouldn’t do for someone chosen by the gods. One of the most important lessons Father Alexei had taught her was to keep her mind schooled, to keep doubts away. While it was perfectly human to doubt, it was not something she could indulge.

  As much as Marzenya might wish for it, more death was not what Nadya needed. There was a chance that when—or at this rate, if—she and Malachiasz returned to the church there would be nothing left. Neither of them was willing to admit that.

  It would be her breaking point. If it was delusional to hope their flight had saved the others, then so be it, but Nadya couldn’t entertain the notion that her last friend in the world was gone and she had been left with a Tranavian abomination as a companion. Anna had to be alive.

  But Nadya couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d abandoned Anna the same way she’d abandoned Kostya. Running to save herself for some greater purpose was a bitter survival when it meant losing everything and everyone with each step she took.

  “We won’t survive a night out here,” Nadya noted when they’d stopped in a clearing for a brief respite.

  Malachiasz was gazing into the trees with a puzzled expression on his face. “What would kill us first, do you think, the cold or whatever lurks in these mountains?”

  “That’s not a question I want answered.”

  He smiled softly, turning to where she was sitting on a downed tree.

  “And it will be your kind, won’t it? It’s only a matter of time before they find us out here.”

  “Does Kalyazin have no monsters?” he asked.

  She narrowed her eyes, puzzling over his question, but clearly he meant it as rhetorical because he continued speaking.

  “Rozá is arrogant,” he said. “She left Aleks, the Vultures’ best tracker, in Tranavia. She has no way to find us now.”

  Nadya ran her hand down her prayer beads. The spell book tied to Malachiasz’s hip was thick. She found it hard to believe the other Vultures couldn’t just cut their arms and find their way there.

  He followed her gaze and seemed to know what she was thinking. “Most Tranavians buy their spell books with the spells already written by arcanists, Vultures included. I write my own.”

  “But you can’t know for certain Rozá didn’t have someone write her a handful of tracking spells before she came.”

  “Of course not. It’s just incredibly unlikely.”

  “Which doesn’t make anything better. They could still be at the church. Anna, Parijahan, and Rashid could be dead, and now we’re lost in the middle of the mountains slowly freezing to death.” Distantly, she knew she was panicking. Everything was falling through her fingers and she was powerless to stop it. This wasn’t how things were supposed to happen.

  Malachiasz sat down beside her, careful to keep space between them, but she could feel heat radiating off him and it was almost enough for her to lean into him. Almost.

  She dropped her head into her hands. There had to be a way out of this. She would risk returning to the church for Anna, she had to. After that, she had nothing. She could continue running, it was apparently all she was good at.

  Or she could end this. She glanced at Malachiasz, who returned the look, eyebrows lifting.

  “Would killing the Tranavian king destroy the Vultures as well?”

  He shook his head. “They have their own king, the Black Vulture.” He caught the disappointment on her face because he was quick to continue. “You can rattle the order, Nadya. You already have.”

  “The Vultures destroyed my country’s clerics,” Nadya whispered. And he was one of them.

  But he was also sitting quietly beside her as she worked to reassemble the pieces of her shattered life. She didn’t have to trust him, or even like him, but he had ignored the multiple chances he had already been given to kill her, just as she kept sparing his life. That had to count for something. She could stand this begrudging uneasy truce, even if she was reminded of onyx eyes and iron teeth every time she looked at him. Except now his fingernails were just those of a boy with too much anxiety, jagged and red from being chewed at.

  “Do you want revenge for that?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what I want,” she whispered.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  Except the hope of a nation was pinned on her. She had spent her whole life studying the Divine Codex and preparing for something vast and great that would shake the world. She just hadn’t known what it would look like. She didn’t know if it was in front of her now, or if she needed to take a different path.

  Could that path mean she would have to work with this Tranavian? That was what she didn’t understand. Because it was clear Marzenya wanted him dead.

  “Why are you here?” she asked softly. “Why would you entertain Parijahan and Rashid’s plans for killing your king?”

  “He’s not my king.”

  Nadya’s brow furrowed. If he had been a Vulture, then his king would have been the Black Vulture. Is that what he meant?

  “Tranavia is crumbling,” Malachiasz said, voice low. “The throne is corrupt. But if you break off the Meleskis’ grip on the throne, replace the king with someone who has Tranavia’s well-being at heart, maybe the kingdom can be saved. Despite how you judge me, I hate this war. I would like to see it end, too.”

  As if he realized he had said too much, his eyes tightened and he looked away. She tugged her necklace off, running it through her fingers until she landed on a bead that felt right. Nadya had touched Alena’s power only once in her life and it had been humbling. She was always nervous when she prayed to the older gods, the ones who rarely granted their magic to mortals at all. The Codex said Alena never had, but Nadya knew that wasn’t exactly the truth.

  Will you take me back to your church? Nadya prayed.

  The goddess’s warm touch filled Nadya. She stopped shivering. Then something pulled at Nadya’s chest, right over her heart. A thread she could follow straight back to the church. Back to danger, back to this strange world of monsters and dark magic she had found herself in. If this was where she was supposed to be, then so be it, even if it took her to Tranavia, right into the monsters’ nest.

  She stood, prayer beads held loosely in her hand.

  “What were you doing?” Malachiasz asked.

  “Praying. I know how to get back to the church. We can make it before nightfall if we hurry.”

  She couldn’t read the expression that flickered over his face. It was a mixture of discomfort and awe rolled into one jumbled pile. She found it oddly heartening that her magic disconcerted him just as much as his did her.

  They weren’t as far away as Nadya initially thought. When they reached the church they found the front door hanging off its hinges. The walls were covered with blood. Nadya stumbled as she imagined the worst and Malachiasz put out a hand to steady her. He didn’t immediately remove his hand from her arm and she didn’t pull away from its steadying warmth.

  “The Vultures aren’t here,” he said, voice soft.

  She swallowed hard. Her hands were shaking when she pushed open the door.

  “Hello?” she called into the dark, stagnant air within the church.

  There was only silence. She felt her heart drop. She glanced over her shoulder at Malachiasz, who stepped past her, farther into the church.

  He was immediately knocked aside as Anna tore into the foyer. She threw her arms around Nadya’s neck and Nadya finally relaxed. Anna was safe; she hadn’t lost everything, not yet.

  “I tho
ught you were dead,” Anna whispered fiercely.

  She pulled back, reluctantly, but then a steely look appeared in her dark eyes and she whirled. Malachiasz’s eyes widened and he took a step back, lifting his hands. There was a sharp crack as Anna punched him in the jaw.

  “How dare you,” she snapped.

  “Anna, leave him alone,” Nadya said, grabbing Anna’s arm as she prepared to strike again. “We didn’t have a choice.”

  “We?”

  Malachiasz slowly worked his jaw. Nadya heard it clicking from where she was standing. He was definitely going to have a bruise.

  “The Vultures left after we did?” Nadya asked hopefully.

  Anna was still glaring daggers at Malachiasz. He back stepped once, then fled to the sanctuary. She ground her teeth, but nodded.

  “They wanted me … and him.”

  “Because he’s one of them.”

  Nadya nodded.

  “We have to leave.”

  Nadya shook her head. “I’m going to Tranavia. I’m going to end this war.”

  Anna turned, but her movements were slow, horrified. “Nadya…”

  “If this war were at a different place, if we weren’t losing, then I would go to Komyazalov from here. I would go to the Silver Court and let the king decide what to do with me. But I don’t have the luxury, Anna. You have to understand that.”

  “So you’ll throw your lot in with that monster?”

  “He saved my life,” Nadya said.

  “Only so he can ruin it later!”

  Nadya didn’t respond.

  “Is this what the gods want?” she asked.

  “It’s what I want.”

  Anna tensed. “That doesn’t make a difference. You know that.”

  “It’s still my life and I get a say in how I use it.”

  Anna reared back, making the sign against evil over her heart. Nadya rolled her eyes.

  “I have had the gods chattering in my head my whole life. I’ve had this … this destiny hovering over me and I think the least I can ask for is the choice in how I see it into being. If it means going with these foreigners and that monster, then so be it.”

  “Do you hear yourself?”

  Nadya didn’t understand why Anna was reacting so strongly. It was like Nadya was shattering the image of the innocent, holy cleric Anna had, but Anna knew her better than that. She was chosen by the goddess of death. She never had a chance at innocence.

  Anna took Nadya’s face between her hands, forcing her to meet her gaze.

  “I don’t want your name added into the book of saints,” she said quietly. “I thought—” Her voice cracked and she swallowed. “When half the sanctuary collapsed and we couldn’t find you, I thought…”

  Nadya hugged her. Anna smelled of incense and a lingering reminder of home. The roads before her went in opposite directions but they would lead to the same end. The child in her yearned to see the famed Silver Court once more—the last time she had been there she was far too young to really remember. She wanted to see the dolzena with their kokoshniks and the voivodes before all that gold and splendor melted away for good. But to them she would be a soldier, nothing more, a holy relic, a symbol, perhaps. Nothing human.

  Nadya loved her country—more than life—but she wanted to do something that mattered. She could bring the gods back to Tranavia if she did this. They would need to fine-tune the details of the plan on the road, but she felt a confidence she had never really known before. There was an element of divine providence—strange as the circumstances appeared—and Nadya wasn’t going to ignore it for the safer option.

  She pulled away, heading off to find the others. She nearly ran into Malachiasz in the hallway. He looked frantic, making fear immediately spike through Nadya. He took her by the shoulders. “Can your magic heal?”

  Nadya’s eyes widened and she nodded.

  “Parijahan was fine,” Anna said.

  “She’s decidedly not fine now,” he said, voice tight. The skin on his jaw was starting to purple as blood settled underneath the spot where Anna had punched him.

  “Calm down,” Nadya said, touching his arm.

  He blinked, his gaze dropping to where her fingers lightly pressed against his scarred forearm, and seemed to realize he still had her by the shoulders. He let go and stepped back.

  He’s genuinely worried about her, Nadya thought, shocked. He cares.

  “Is there any incense left in this place? I’m going to need it. A censer would be wonderful as well, if you saw any when you moved in. What kind of injury is it?”

  “Her side is torn up. And yes, I can find some.” He took off at a run down the hall.

  He returned swiftly with a dented censer, a pouch full of incense, and a few sticks that seemed to puzzle him. He handed them to Nadya with such an earnest expression on his face that her heart tripped over itself. She handed the censer to Anna, following Malachiasz into one of the side rooms.

  Whoever had initially wrapped the wound on Parijahan’s side had done a good job but there was a darkness Nadya could sense in the jagged gash that was making it fester. Anna lit the censer. The scent of spice and holiness flooded the room almost instantly. Nadya relaxed and let her eyes shut. The smell was familiar, it was home. She tucked a slow-burning stick of incense behind her ear, hearing Anna’s breath of a laugh. It was a bad habit of hers and she had singed her hair on multiple occasions, but she liked having it burn nearby. Rashid was pacing and Malachiasz was putting out such a frantic energy that before Nadya could even do anything she sighed.

  “All right, boys, get out of here. Parijahan will be fine. Her wound got worse, she has a fever, but she’s going to be fine.” She shooed them out.

  She wrapped her necklace around her hand, finding Zbyhneuska’s bead and pressing her fingers against it. Opening her eyes, she scanned Parijahan’s unconscious form. The girl’s breath was shallow and sweat beaded her forehead, her brown skin ashen and pale.

  The healing goddess was a mute one, working in feelings and visions. Of the pantheon, she was the gentlest, though soldiers had a tendency to send all their prayers to Veceslav instead of her; something about how a god of war was more likely to shield and heal them during battle than a goddess. A ridiculous superstition. Most would live through battles longer if they burned a candle to Zbyhneuska.

  Thanks to Zbyhneuska’s silence, Nadya always felt like she could work through her problems with her.

  Marzenya is upset I haven’t killed the Tranavian yet, Nadya said. I know we’re at war and Tranavians are heretics, but murder feels needless to me. She felt Zbyhneuska’s chime of scolding, but also understanding. Zbyhneuska thought death was needless too.

  But Zbyhneuska, goddess of health, was not Nadya’s patron. Marzenya, goddess of death and magic and winter, was. It wasn’t something that usually bothered Nadya. But the way Malachiasz had dug his fingers into hers, the resignation with which he had readied his neck for her blade, had left her off balance.

  She didn’t understand it. She didn’t want to kill him until the time came when she did. When she no longer had a choice.

  Nadya pulled the spell Zbyhneuska gave her apart in her head, trying to decide how to channel it properly. There was a darkness to Parijahan’s wound that unnerved Nadya. She tugged at her magic, feeling a chorus of holy speech swirling in the back of her head. It felt clean; hopefully, it would be enough to heal the damage done by monsters.

  Could this be more than just blood magic? Are the Vultures something else? It was thought not meant as a prayer, but Zbyhneuska reacted all the same. Her confusion startled Nadya.

  But the gods were not infallible. The Tranavians had found ways to shield themselves from the gods; that was one of the reasons the war had begun in the first place. It meant that if they had found some darker method of harnessing magic, then the gods would not know. It was terrifying.

  Nadya returned her focus to the task at hand, murmuring prayers under her breath. She wasn’t entirely sure s
he had succeeded when she finally lifted her hands away and opened her eyes. What she was sure of was her spinning head and the sudden glaring awareness that she couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten. She felt like she was going to pass out.

  Parijahan’s breathing steadied, and the wound had closed, so Nadya left to let her sleep and picked her way through the rubble into what remained of the sanctuary.

  “She’ll be fine,” she said, collapsing beside Malachiasz on a pile of pillows now covered with dirt and bits of debris. “Now let me fix that while I have Zbyhneuska’s attention.”

  “Your goddess won’t allow her magic to heal someone like—”

  “Shut up, Malachiasz,” Nadya said wearily.

  He tensed, going utterly still as she brushed his long hair back, gently pressing her fingers over the blackening bruise. His eyes closed and she thought she heard his breath hitch. Healing the bruise was a simple task, but it wiped out the last of her reserves. So then she fainted.

  13

  SEREFIN

  MELESKI

  Svoyatova Evgenia Zotova: Zotova hid herself in the guise of a man and lived for most of her life prophesying from a cave at the base of the Baikkle Mountains.

  —Vasiliev’s Book of Saints

  The palace’s throne room was one of the most over-the-top places in all of Tranavia. It was a huge space, lined with columns of glass. Carved floral etchings ran up them in delicate spirals. The floor was made of black marble, so polished it was practically reflective. A lush carpet of deep violet ran along the length of the hall, leading up to Serefin’s father’s throne. The throne was the physical manifestation of power, blood, glory, and magic. Iron flowers with sharp thorns curled around the back and intricately twisted metal made up the arms and legs. It commanded attention.

  Serefin had never been able to picture himself on it. He was a weapon, never a prince.

  Izak Meleski sat upon the throne now, tall and straight-backed with his ivory military coat emblazoned with medallions and black epaulets. He had a severe face—one Serefin loathed to admit his own resembled—a neatly trimmed beard and finely kept dark brown hair. His crown was a simple piece of iron that was somehow just as commanding as the throne if not nearly as dramatic.