Wicked Saints

by Emily A Duncan

  Żaneta smiled warmly at him as he sat down. He felt Ostyia perk up next to him.

  “Surely they should be announcing your arrival?” Żaneta asked.

  He glanced to where his father’s seat remained empty at the other end of the table. No, the announcement would be for that arrival. Not for him, never him.

  “Doubtful,” he said cheerfully, waving a servant over. “But I much prefer it this way.” He grinned at Józefina as he gestured for the servant to fill the glass in front of him. “What is this?” he questioned. “Please tell me it will help numb the drudgery of this evening.”

  “Krój, Your Highness,” the servant replied.

  Mead was good enough, he supposed. “I apologize, I’m certain present company will be sufficiently charming.”

  Żaneta rolled her eyes fondly. Józefina looked unsure but smiled.

  It was going to be very hard to fake his way through this. He exchanged a look with Ostyia and she immediately began flirting with Żaneta, leaving him to focus on Józefina.

  She was unhooking her white leather mask. The relief on her face was clear when she finally got it off.

  “The mask not to your taste?” he asked.

  “I’m not used to them,” she admitted. “They’re far more uncomfortable than I expected.”

  Without her mask on he could actually see her soft features. Her skin was lightly dusted with freckles, her eyes long-lashed and dark.

  “You can elect to not wear them, but other girls, well—”

  “The other girls will rip you apart,” Żaneta chimed in, momentarily distracted from her discussion with Ostyia. She smiled. “Your duel was excellent. Though, next time, I would recommend setting a barrier down when the fight begins so you aren’t caught off guard by a spell that works your blood.”

  Józefina looked puzzled for a split second, but the expression was gone so fast Serefin questioned if he’d even seen it. Had she not noticed Felicíja’s spell? Unlikely.

  “That didn’t even occur to me.”

  “No, it wouldn’t in the heat of the moment,” Żaneta said, pulling a dinner roll apart with her fingers. “Many mages use internal spells because they’re quick and dirty ways to take out an opponent.”

  “They were written specifically for torture,” Serefin mused.

  “Serefin, you are, as ever, the most charming of dinner companions,” Żaneta said.

  The doors at the back of the hall opened and silence fell like a smothering blanket. Serefin felt cold. Everything he and Kacper had learned came spinning back to him as his father entered the room. His father’s gaze met his, a flicker of rage in his eyes, and fear flooded through Serefin.

  He knows. He knows. He knows. A Vulture trailed behind the king. Serefin didn’t recognize the mask. They were too late. It was all moving too fast out of his control—not that he had ever been in control—and now his father knew Serefin suspected and would not be complacent.

  He was going to die.

  He ripped his gaze away, noticed Józefina’s hands were clenched so hard in her lap that her knuckles were bone white. She was glaring at the king with open hatred in her eyes.

  She caught him looking at her and her entire face flushed. She ducked her head, murmuring a soft apology.

  His eyes narrowed. She didn’t need to apologize. Why did a girl from an out of the way city in Tranavia look at the king like that? Perhaps it didn’t matter.

  Or perhaps he had just found another ally.

  23

  NADEZHDA

  LAPTEVA

  Svoyatovi Yakov Luzhkov: The founder of the Selortevnsky monastery in Ghelovkhin, a place where clerics were trained in secret to fight in the holy war. When the monastery was destroyed in 1520, Yakov burned with it.

  —Vasiliev’s Book of Saints

  The High Prince of Tranavia was a charming boy who enjoyed self-deprecation and complaining. Nadya found herself laughing at his jokes and responding in kind as the evening went on. Żaneta was equally engaging, with biting wit and a keen intelligence that Nadya had not expected from one of the most impressive blood mages of the court.

  Well, this is fast becoming a nightmare, she thought as she swirled her spoon through a bowl of borscht. There was soft music playing in the background, airy and light, and the atmosphere of the room didn’t feel nearly as oppressive as when the king had entered.

  “A nightmare that you are making for yourself.” Nadya almost dropped her spoon when Marzenya’s voice rang through the back of her head.

  Not now, she pleaded. She couldn’t keep this up and have a goddess pulling her apart for what she had done at the same time. Admonish me all you like later but not here.

  “You are treading dangerous ground, child.”

  Dangerous ground that she was only making worse. Marzenya required full devotion. Nadya never could have dreamed that would be an issue. Yet here she was, a few days into Tranavia and already full of conflict.

  There was a disturbance at the head of the table where the king sat. A crystal goblet went flying, crashing into the wall and shattering into thousands of glittering pieces, wine splattering across the stone like blood. Nadya couldn’t parse the Tranavian the king shouted after the servant fleeing the hall.

  She was chilled to her bones as one of the Vultures slunk off after the servant.

  Serefin’s face reddened and he tore his gaze away.

  “He’s getting worse,” Nadya heard Ostyia whisper to Serefin.

  He swallowed hard, nodded quickly. He reached for his glass only to find it empty and raked a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. After an uncomfortable silence, Serefin grinned brightly, his strain clear.

  Nadya eyed the king. There was no clear sign as to why he’d thrown the glass. “Józefina?”

  Nadya started. “Forgive me, Your Highness, I was distracted.”

  The prince leaned closer to her. “Please, just call me Serefin, the Your Highness thing gets very old.”

  She raised an eyebrow. This was all a game. “Of course.”

  “Trade places with me,” the one-eyed girl demanded of Serefin.

  “You can’t flirt with every girl here, Ostyia,” Serefin said.

  “I can and I will,” she replied primly.

  He rolled his eyes and—casting another anxious look toward where his father sat—stood up and traded places with the girl.

  Ostyia had a glittering eye patch covering her right eye in place of a mask. Her smile was electric, and she shined it Nadya’s way.

  “Your fight was the most interesting thing I’ve seen in years,” she said, tucking a lock of black hair behind her ear. She wore it cropped at her chin, unlike any of the fashions Nadya had seen in Grazyk. “I mean,” she leaned in conspiratorially, “I’ve seen Żaneta fight before.”

  Żaneta waved her hand. “Flatter the new girl, I don’t mind.”

  “Your Highness.” The boy who sat beside Żaneta caught Serefin’s attention. “If it isn’t too much to ask, are the rumors coming from the front true? Are we finally beating back the Kalyazi?”

  Nadya didn’t hear Serefin’s response as Ostyia had leaned closer.

  “Your spell book doesn’t look like any I’ve seen bound here, who did it?” she asked.

  Nadya’s mind went blank. She saw Żaneta turn her gaze from the prince to her. One of her hands dropped to the spell book at her hip, feeling the ridges in the design on the cover, the icons of the gods she had set in the front.

  “I have a friend who binds spell books, actually,” she said, smiling. “He does beautiful work.” She unclipped the book from her hip. “He’s a bit obsessed with the Vultures, though, and it shows.” Her smile turned sheepish. She desperately hoped a Tranavian noble wouldn’t recognize symbols for the Kalyazi gods.

  She offered the book for Ostyia to look at, heart pounding in her throat. The girl took it, running her hand over the cover.

  Żaneta’s eyes narrowed. Nadya caught the expression before the slavhka smoothed her f
eatures.

  The gamble relied on something Malachiasz had mentioned offhand to Nadya: that no blood mage would dare open the spell book of another. If Ostyia ventured past the cover of the book, Nadya would be in trouble.

  Each second felt like ages, but finally Ostyia handed Nadya the book back. Nadya clipped it to her belts with shaking fingers.

  The food she ate was delicious, but Nadya barely tasted any of it. She was too focused on not making any more mistakes.

  Somehow, she managed it. Well, she thought she did. The prince had caught her watching the king. It was sloppy of her, but she was trying to convince herself that both the king and the prince needed to die. Seeing the king in person, it was easy for her to remember the horrors Tranavians had done to Kalyazi over the years. The prince, though … he made it easier to forget. She shouldn’t be so swayed.

  Kostya. You’re doing this for Kostya, she reminded herself. Kostya would still be alive if not for Serefin.

  Just before dinner ended, the king rose, approaching Serefin. The prince tensed—Nadya saw his hand go for his spell book before he clearly forced it away. He didn’t stand, though it didn’t seem like the king was expecting him to. The king leaned down to whisper something in Serefin’s ear. Their resemblance was clear, but Nadya noticed the king was careful to remain as physically far away from Serefin as possible. Serefin’s face drained of color, his eyes flickering closed as his father spoke before a mask settled over his features, pale eyes dim when they reopened.

  “Of course,” he muttered, not turning to look at the king.

  The king left in a flurry of servants, emblazoned guards, and masked Vultures.

  Serefin offered to see Nadya back to her rooms. Whatever had passed between him and his father was forgotten or shoved aside.

  “It’ll put a target on your back and Serefin was told not to be seen favoring anyone in particular,” Żaneta said to Nadya before turning to Serefin. “Don’t get her in trouble while you engage in petty squabbles with your father.”

  Nadya froze. Serefin shot Żaneta an exasperated look. “There’s no reason to scare her,” he scolded.

  “There’s every reason to scare her,” she replied sweetly. She stood and inclined her head to Serefin. “I bid you a good evening, Serefin. And Józefina?”

  “Yes?” Nadya said a beat too quickly.

  “Good luck, and I do mean that.”

  “Thank you,” Nadya replied. “You as well.”

  Żaneta laughed, throwing her head back. “I don’t need luck, but thank you.”

  Serefin held his arm out to Nadya, casting a sly look down the table at those who were openly staring at them. She hesitated before taking it. She met Parijahan’s eyes as she passed where the servants were waiting. An echo of a smile touched her lips as she got up to trail behind them.

  “So,” Serefin said, his voice hushed, “what did my father do to Łaszczów to get you to look at him with that level of hatred?”

  Nadya stumbled. She was fairly certain her heart stopped for a beat. Did he know? There was no way. He couldn’t know. She tried to smile but knew it came off false.

  He chuckled. “Ah, that was cruel of me. Forgive me, but you are so charmingly provincial.”

  Nadya grimaced.

  “Sorry,” Serefin said with a slight frown. He ran a hand through his hair. “That was meant to be a compliment. It wasn’t a good one.”

  “No.”

  He laughed sheepishly. “I’ve been at the front for years and lost all skill I formerly had at interacting with people, I’m afraid. Not that I was ever particularly good at it.”

  “I think you’re doing fine,” Nadya said. “However, I am probably the worst judge.”

  “It’s refreshing,” he said. “You are candid, and you hate my father; these are both things I appreciate.”

  The way he spoke of his father—the tightness around his eyes and tension that built in his shoulders—and the way he had reacted to his father merely speaking to him made Nadya suspect Malachiasz was right; they really had walked into something bigger than petty court games.

  She wished she had more time to gauge if Serefin would make a better king. What she saw of him that evening made her hopeful, but it was not enough to stop the war. She had to press on.

  “These are my rooms,” she said, stopping. Parijahan walked around her to open the door.

  She pulled away from Serefin but he caught her hand. He lifted it to his mouth, kissing it gently.

  Nadya blushed instantly.

  “Good luck, Józefina. I would not wish for you to lose your life for such a ridiculous reason as this Rawalyk.”

  “Thank you, Serefin.”

  His smile was crooked as he dropped her hand. “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  He inclined his head to her before he loped down the hall. Nadya darted into her rooms, slamming the door shut. She leaned back against the door and slowly slid to the ground, her pale green skirts pooling around her.

  Parijahan was grinning. “I think you charmed the prince.”

  “I think I did.”

  “Was it difficult?”

  “I felt like throwing up the entire time.”

  Parijahan laughed. Nadya dropped her head into her hands. “He isn’t what I expected.” She had been expecting someone more like how she’d first seen Malachiasz—intimidating and powerful—and wasn’t sure what to do with this charmingly awkward boy. That he was one of the most powerful blood mages in Tranavia—as well as a heretic—unfortunately caused her fingers to itch for the szitelka hidden in her sleeve. She had wavered too much already; she couldn’t allow herself to feel any more.

  Nadya had spent a fair portion of the evening tracking the king’s movements, trying to decipher just how many guards he had around him at all times, just how difficult it would be to separate him and kill him.

  Their odds weren’t good. “Do you think I’ll have to win this—whatever this Rawalyk is—to get us close enough?”

  Parijahan considered, her gray eyes cast up at the painting on the ceiling. “I don’t know if we have that much time. Be careful around any Vultures you see lurking around the palace.”

  Nadya pulled Kostya’s necklace out from under the neckline of her dress and flipped it between her fingers. She didn’t need to be warned about the Vultures.

  “What’s your homeland like? Akola?” she asked. She didn’t want to talk about the Vultures with that painting hovering over them.

  Parijahan smiled, her eyes closing dreamily. “Warm. Even in the winter, it’s not nearly so cold as it is in Kalyazin. The sands catch the sun and everything is golden.”

  “How long have you been away?”

  “A long time. Much too long but still not long enough.”

  “Do you think you’ll go back?”

  Parijahan laughed. “I don’t know.” She stood. “Mistakes were made. People died. Rashid and I both learned that sometimes the only thing left is to disappear.” She held out her hands to Nadya, offering to help her to her feet.

  Nadya accepted. Parijahan was taller than her, and she rested her brown hands on Nadya’s shoulders.

  “We’re asking too much of you, Nadya, I know that. We’re asking you to trust us, foreigners that we are, and Malachiasz, monster that he is, and put your entire being on the line for the sake of something that may be impossible.” She rested her forehead against Nadya’s. “Please do not think just because you fell into our lives at an opportune moment that the three of us do not care about you. I do, and Rashid and Malachiasz do as well.”

  “I’m used to being used for my power,” Nadya said. “You three are my friends. I’m just tired of secrets.”

  Parijahan nodded. “I understand.”

  Nadya didn’t usually see this side of Parijahan. It relieved her to see there was a warm softness to Parijahan’s flinty gaze.

  “Well, I survived the court of monsters this far,” Nadya said cheerfully. “Now it’s just a matter of fi
nding a weakness in their system and exploiting it.”

  * * *

  Nadya tucked her prayer beads in her dress pocket. It was late, but not so late that it would be odd for her to be found wandering the palace halls. Besides, she was too nervous to sleep—and she hated feeling like she was alone in Tranavia. She needed the gods back. There had to be a way past the veil that was blocking Nadya’s access to them.

  “Where are you going?” Parijahan poked her head out of her room.

  “To find some answers, ideally. You stay here in case one of the boys shows up. I wouldn’t want them to worry their pretty heads about us.”

  Parijahan frowned.

  “I’ll be fine, Parj,” Nadya said, clipping Malachiasz’s spell book to her belt. “I have the prince’s attention. Malachiasz will take care of the Vultures surrounding the king, and I’ll use the prince to get close enough to strike.”

  Parijahan reluctantly let her go.

  The palace was eerily quiet as Nadya wandered through the halls. As if everyone was waiting—a bated breath before a plunge. The flickering candlelight cast ominous shadows on the paintings that stretched over the ceilings.

  The royal wing was on the opposite side of the palace and she found it watched by a handful of king’s guards. No Vultures in sight.

  One of them called her over to ask her business and believed her when she told him she got turned around looking for the library. A bored slavhka up too late wanting something as harmless as books. He pointed her in the right direction and then promptly ignored her.

  She wasn’t expecting to find anything on her magic in the library, but surely someone had documented the blood magic causing the heavens to be blocked off from the earth. Tranavians were so terribly proud of it after all.

  There were a few people in the stacks when Nadya entered, but evening was growing into night and they paid her no mind. Nadya didn’t have a firm sense of what she was searching for, but if growing up in a monastery had taught her anything, it was how to find exactly what she needed from a library.