Another mystery to deal with later.
“Seems that makes two of us.” While he didn’t raise his voice, Zephir’s gravel-like tone was full of menace. “You’re lucky I let you live. Don’t let your luck run out. You know, I’m curious,” he paused. “Why?”
“Why what?” Scarko asked angrily, jaw tight. She was not lucky, she was cursed.
“Why, if you were brought up in the Royal court, do you now work for the very man who stands against the king? His number one enemy? I assume, when you went missing, you left for the Order?” He leaned back in the booth, arms crossed over his chest. Scarko was thankful he had put a shirt on beneath his black wool coat.
“The Djavul deserves loyalty. The king…” She bit her lip, took a shaky breath, forcing away the memories of the Praeminister. Zephir watched her intently. She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. My loyalty lies with the Djavul. With the Order. If neither of us can kill the other, then let’s split ways. There’s nothing you can say to convince me otherwise.” Even as she said the words, she had absolutely zero intention of letting Zephir live to see another fight.
“Why did he send you after me? Do you know?” Zephir asked, taunting her as if he knew something she didn’t. And Rhodri had told her Vojtech dealt in half-truths. But she pushed that thought aside, down with all the rest.
“He didn’t send me. The Vrakan gods did.”
Zephir’s gaze lingered over her for a moment before he spoke, lifting his pint of ale, half-finished. “Gods bend to the will of men. You’re foolish to believe otherwise.”
Scarko lunged for him across the table, reaching her injured palm to the collar of his coat, the rest of the vin spilling in a sea of purple over the table, dripping from the edges. Somewhere behind her, the barkeeper groaned in annoyance.
Zephir dodged her grasp, came around the table so fast she didn’t have time to change direction when he shoved her against the wall forcefully, her head cracking against the wood, the both of them now on the same side of the booth, forced together in the too-small space.
He was glaring at her, his hands still pressing her cheek against the grimy wall. “Your gods don’t seem to be doing you a lot of good right now.” He looked around the near-empty pub, the barkeep reaching for a yellowed towel, shaking his head and muttering beneath his breath. “Where was Blüd when you asked her to help you out of this mess?”
Slowly, he released her and slid down to the end of the booth, staring at her. She turned to him, rage in her eyes, hiding her surprise. How had he known of Blüd?
“What happened to you in Visla to make you believe the Djavul is worth your blood?” He ignored her rage completely, his own anger glinting in his green eyes.
Scarko blinked. No one had ever asked her that so directly before. She had told Vojtech, crying and drunk, confessing the sins of the Praeminister to the horned man she served as a king. But aside from him…even Yezedi only knew whispers of the truth. Klaus had experienced more or less the same, but they had spoken little of it. They each had their own nightmares to work through, not yet meant for sharing.
“Never mind,” Zephir said, snapping her out of her shame. He sighed. “What you do with your blood and for whom is your business. But maybe don’t kill me quite yet?”
Scarko narrowed her eyes, thought of doing that very thing with the blade on the table. “Why not?”
“In three days’ time, it’s Martyr’s Day, celebrating the Warskian royals who gave their lives to spread the message of Krys—”
“I know what Martyr’s Day is,” Scarko snapped.
Zephir held up his hands. “Sorry,” he murmured, placing them back on the table. “The Royals are coming to Kezda for the festival, Olofsson is to set sail to Zussia afterward from the port, so he’s gracing us with his presence before he does so.”
“What the hells does this have to do with me?” Scarko snarled.
“We’re both trying to kill each other,” he pointed to his black eye, glanced at the blade on the table, “but I think the real enemy here is the Royals,” Zephir placated.
“What do you care of the Royals? You fight their fights, kill their defective Vrakas. You do their bidding.” Scarko snatched the blade from the table, and she saw with satisfaction Zephir shift further away, down the bench, his eyes on the blade.
“I do it because it pays well, not because it’s my dream job.”
“And what is your dream job? Bathing in the blood of dead Vrakas? Commanding the lowest pits of hell?” She glanced to the tattoo on his neck.
Zephir narrowed his eyes. “Right now, my dream job is wrenching that blade from your fingers and stabbing it between your eyes.”
Scarko growled. “Watch your mouth. My blood might not kill you, but this blade could.”
Zephir winked. “We’ll see.” He stood from the booth, ran a hand through his curly hair. “I have a score to settle with the Royals, too. Keep your secrets, I don’t care about your why. But if you want to help me put down a few, meet me tomorrow morning at the docks. And don’t think about slipping a blade in my back. I’ve got eyes in the back of my head.”
“That’s grotesque.”
He sighed. “You can come, or…”
“Or what?” She met the challenge.
He shrugged. “Or I can turn you into the Warskians and have you brought back to the Palace before you have a chance of running.”
Without bothering to wait for her response, he walked away, tossing a few golden coins to the barkeep before he left the pub.
Scarko watched him leave, wondering as she felt the warmth of the bird skull close to her chest, what his bones would look like with her blood on them.
9
This Is Not the Palace
Penance is pain. There was more to the Holy Writ, but she had never bothered with it. Holy books were all full of nonsense and regurgitated garbage anyhow, she thought as she dressed in a white tunic, dark grey pants, did her boots up tight before the light had shone through the window into her room at the Cove. And Rhodri’s hint about Vojtech writing the book himself…she shook her head.
It couldn’t be.
Guilt coursing through her, she knelt to her knees on the wooden floor, put her cheek to the cold ground and closed her eyes. She stayed that way until it ached, thinking of Vojtech, of the Order, of Klaus, Yezedi. It was a lousy penance, Yezedi would have scolded her for more, and Vojtech would have laughed at her attempt, but it was all that she was willing to do. The rest of the job of keeping them safe came from action, not cowering before the gods.
She hadn’t slept after meeting with Zephir, hadn’t done anything but pace around the city, pace around her rooms, keeping her eyes peeled for Rhodri, for Zephir, both of whom seemed to know far more about her than they should. Night had crawled by, and once or twice, she had dozed off sitting up, but then her eyes flew open as she could have sworn she heard a low laugh from somewhere in her room. But when she searched, there was nothing.
She left her room, grey cloak wrapped tightly around her—her gloves and coat missing, never returned by Zephir and his henchmen. Zed coins clinked in her pockets; she left her black pack, along with her new hat, in the room. If anyone stole it, she reasoned, it was less for her to bring back to the Order.
The morning was cool, and yet the sun had already started its sluggish rise, a sign that winter would end in a few weeks’ time. And she remembered Martyr’s Day fell near the beginning of spring, remembered the Praeminister parading her around, his hand bone-crushingly tight around hers, as they marched in remembrance of Warskian soldiers, behind Olofsson and the royal family. In remembrance of the military’s sacrifice to enslave the Vraka, to banish the old gods and bring in the age of the new. Remembered the Praeminister visiting her tent that night, as they stayed in Islat, a city near western Beheni.
She would not pass up a chance to personally repay him for that visit, and all the others, even if she didn’t trust Zephir Crista.
Biting her tongue, sh
e pushed that memory away, and headed toward the docks in the sleepy Kezdan streets.
Ships were tied to the marina, their sails moving gently with the cold breeze. She shivered; it was colder this close to the sea. She watched the sparkling light the sun cast on the deep blue. There was a Warskian military ship further from the others, emerald green sails looming over the rest, the serpent’s tongue flickering as the wind blew.
A few men mingled by their own, smaller vessels. A few glanced her way, but no one spoke. She walked past the white apartments where Thomas had died—she refused to let herself forget his name, as a reminder that no matter what information Zephir gave her, he killed Vrakans just as the king had ordered her parents deaths. He might not like the Royals, but he did their dirty work, encouraged the hatred toward Vrakans, just as the Olofssons had done for far too long.
As she walked, she got the peculiar sense that someone was following her, but whenever she twisted around, first slowly, then quicker at each step, she saw no one. When she finally pulled the knife from her cloak, whipping around once more, someone tapped on her shoulder, the way she had been heading. She jumped and took two steps backward, heart racing.
Ida stood before her, hands on her hips, her beige coat collar turned up, a grin on her diamond shaped face.
“Isn’t your head cold?” Scarko asked, glancing toward her shaved head, masking her irritation, but not sheathing her knife.
Ida narrowed her eyes. “Funny.”
She did not sound amused.
“You look like hell,” and there wasn’t menace in Ida’s words. Scarko knew she did. Her exhaustion ached in her bones.
“What’re you doing here?” Scarko demanded as the two women stared at one another by the edge of the docks. There were no ships this far down.
“Zephir is one of my oldest friends. When he gets it into his brain that taking a Vrakan girl into his confidence is a good idea, instead of turning her into the King and letting her hang like he should,” she shrugged, “I take it upon myself to check her out.”
“So, you’re saying you’re his mother?” Scarko asked, imitating her shrug.
Ida’s scowl deepened. “His mother is dead,” she said flatly.
“Join the club.”
“What?” Ida seemed perplexed as she tilted her chin.
“Join the club? It’s an expression of…” Scarko waved her scarred hand, the one holding the knife. “Oh, never mind. What do you need to know from me before I’m allowed to see your boyfriend again?”
Ida snorted. “He’s not my boyfriend.” But Scarko watched a faint blush appear on her creamy cheeks.
He might not have been. But did Ida wish he was? Something kept her and Jalde by his side, kept them so close…what was it, exactly? And where did Rhodri fit here? He hadn’t seemed to know much of Zephir. Did that mean he, too, was hunting the fighter?
“I need to know why you were sent here to kill him.” Ida inclined her head toward Scarko, her eyes boring into hers.
Scarko smiled, held her knife aloft at her side. “You guys are the ones that keep saying I was sent here to kill him. But he’s still alive, and you’re the ones that shoved mindeta into my mouth, chained me to a basement, and then drugged me to take me back to my rooms at an inn that I’d never stayed at before, where no one knew my name. Who, exactly, is trying to kill whom?” She crossed her arms, the blade brushing against her cloak.
Ida glanced down at it, a sour expression on her face. “We know about the Order, Scarko. About the Djavul—”
“Everyone knows about the Order and the Djavul,” Scarko shot back. They knew of them, at least. But even Scarko could admit Zephir and his friends knew more than most; too much.
“Everyone knows, too, that Zephir is…immune.” Ida’s hands had dropped to her sides, and she shoved her fingers into her pockets. The sun glinted off her creamy skin, and Scarko spotted freckles across her nose, much like Scarko’s own.
“You say immune like he has some sort of medical condition, like he’s a science experiment. What is it really?”
Ida frowned. “Krys doesn’t make magic.”
Scarko laughed aloud. “You saw the shadows from the boy’s fingers at the fight. You’ve seen the wind, the ice, the fire. You’ve seen Vraka. I could show you my tricks, if you’d like? I don’t give an unholy damn what Krys believes, what Olofsson forces down your daddy’s throat—”
Ida shrieked, a sound of rage, and went for Scarko, her fingers reaching out for her, but Scarko ducked, easily avoiding her grasp. She brandished her knife toward her own palm, a smile on her face.
“I’ve been itching to show you just what I can do, Ida. And I assume you’re not immune, too? Or else you’d be the main attraction in this three-ring act?” Scarko took a step back as Ida looked like she might go to attack her again, her hands curled into fists by her side. “Speaking of, where’s the short one?”
“You have some nerve, girl,” Ida hissed, but she didn’t move to attack again. She glanced beyond Scarko’s shoulder, then back again to meet her gaze. “Watch how you talk about Jalde. I might just be a hired hand, but Jalde is like a brother to Z.” She turned to leave.
Scarko called after her, brandished her knife in the air.
“That went well.” A raspy voice spoke behind her, and she turned, knife to her hand once more.
Zephir stood looking down at her, the sun at his back, but he blocked most of it so Scarko didn’t need to squint as she met his gaze, eyes green as new spring growth. He wore a collared black shirt, a black wool coat, and black pants, his angular face smooth save for the swollen lip and black eye.
“Why did you send her here?”
“She works for me. It’s her job.”
Scarko tilted her head, took a step back so she didn’t have to crane her neck to meet his eyes, something she was used to doing with Vojtech. With anyone of average height, really. “Did you sleep with her?” she asked.
She watched with satisfaction as Zephir’s eyes widened, then his lips pulled into a frown. “What?”
Scarko shrugged. “It’s just that, if you didn’t, she’d probably be willing to—”
“Let’s make a deal, okay? I don’t talk about your sex life, or lack of, and you don’t talk about mine?”
Scarko pushed back thoughts of the Praeminister, then of that strange warmth she had around Vojtech, the feelings so different for the same thing. “Deal.”
“Let’s walk.” Zephir turned, his hands in his coat pockets, and Scarko followed, tucking away her knife, stuffing her own cold hands into her pockets. They walked along the Furlan Sea, the only sounds those of gentle waves and the occasional bird. Kezda sprawled out adjacent to them, even as the docks had ended.
“You came,” he said after a moment as they continued to walk on the rocky road that hugged the coastline. Soon, the sands would overtake the road and they would be forced to cross the street.
“Obviously.”
Zephir shook his head. “Who is it you want dead?”
Scarko considered lying, thought it best if she did. But the fighter already knew too much to turn her in. He already knew she was the girl with the blood magic, the one who could bring bones to life. He had seen her feed off the beggar in the alleyway. If he knew that, he could use that information to give to Olofsson, to the Praeminister himself. There was no use covering it up if they were really going to work together, however briefly, to assassinate some of the Warskian royals. She felt guilt at thinking she would consider working with him, the boy she was sent to kill. Vojtech would certainly not approve.
But she thought, if she could only end the Praeminister, she could sleep at night. She could feel something besides a bottomless pit of rage, masked over with humorless jokes.
“The Praeminister,” she said at length, answering Zephir’s question.
Zephir stopped walking. He turned toward her, and despite wishing they could continue to stroll along until the sands crumbled the road, until they needed to spl
it, to not be seen together—he the famous fighter, she the stranger in town—she stopped walking, too.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “The Praeminister?” he repeated, his voice quiet.
She nodded. “Is he your father or something?” she joked, uncomfortable.
He didn’t smile. “I never knew my father. What did the Praeminister do to you?”
Scarko opened her mouth, a retort on her lips, but nothing came. She had told Vojtech, had told him every horrible thing, from the beginning, to the end. Vojtech had listened, had heard her, had vowed she would have the revenge she needed to sleep well again at night. But she had been drunk, two bottles of vin in her bloodstream. And the Praeminister was still very much alive.
“I—” she started, and then the memories began to creep in again, the gilded golden room, the white robes the Praeminister and all of the holy men wore. Her lip trembled. The Furlan Sea, the streets beside her, even Zephir himself seemed to vanish, and she dropped to her knees in the crumbling road, whimpering, even as she willed herself to stand, to stop.
This is not the Palace. This is not the Palace. This is not the Palace. She repeated the words over and over in her head, over and over. But those golden rooms, those soft sheets…
“I don’t want to—” the words wouldn’t leave her throat, she closed her eyes tight, balling her hands into fists, pressing them against her eyes, willing the images to disappear, to go away for good. To leave her the hells alone.
Zephir’s hands were on her shoulders, shaking her gently. “Scarko,” he said quietly, “Scarko. You’re here, by the sea. You’re free.” There was a nervous edge to his voice. They could easily throw punches at one another, but this…
She shoved his hands roughly off her, scrambled to her feet, and backed away from him, hands in her hair. She took deep, shuddering breaths, willing herself to be calm. Yezedi had taught her that, how to breathe through the pain, the panic.
Stranger Rituals Page 9
