The woman was in the cell beside her, watching her lazily. She was middle aged, Scarko guessed, wearing the beige prison jumper, her thin, blonde hair pulled into a tight knot on her head.
“A bruised wrist is, quite obviously, the least of my concerns. Where am I?” Scarko asked, her voice hoarse.
The woman smiled, picked at her teeth as she stood glancing down at Scarko from her own cell.
“Kezdan prison,” the woman drawled. “Although I dunno why you’re chained,” she glanced at the chains around Scarko’s wrist. They weren’t connected to anything, leaving her free to move, if she willed it.
“Who brought me in here?” Scarko wanted to stand, but her body hurt, her face felt as if someone had butted her with the pommel of a sword. Probably did, she thought. She glanced at her clothes. The same beige jumper as the woman. Someone had stripped her. She longed for her knife. But she still had her necklace.
“Guards, same as always. They looked scared. Of you,” the woman grinned, then coughed up phlegm and spat it on the floor of her cell. Scarko cringed. “What did you do to them?”
“You don’t want to know.” She thought of the blood-sword, of the six dead soldiers. The good news was they’d be forced to put her to death for that. She couldn’t possibly be sent back to the Praeminister. The bad news was Zephir Crista would stay alive if she didn’t get out of her cell.
“Did they say anything? About me?” Scarko asked the woman who was still watching her, as if waiting for her to do a trick.
“Said you were Vraka.” The woman shrugged. “I don’t believe it. If you were, I don’t suppose you’d be here. Vrakas get killed quickly.”
Scarko felt a flash of white-hot rage run down her spine.
“Guess I’m lucky,” she murmured.
The woman nodded. “Guess so.”
Scarko glanced sidelong at her. “Why’re you here?”
The woman took a seat on the rickety bench built into her cell. “Tax evasion.”
Scarko tried not to gape.
In the dungeon, she had no idea how much time had passed between when she killed those soldiers and now. She leaned her head against the wall, hungry and pissed off. The woman next to her, Natalie she said her name was, informed her the bells didn’t ring down in the dungeon, but if she had to guess, it was the dead of night, considering Natalie hadn’t eaten in a while. The woman sounded very put out by that fact.
Scarko could relate. She considered asking her to donate her blood to a good cause but thought the better of it when she realized it might be useful to have a friend in prison. With no choice but to wait, she thought over the events of the past day, starting with Vojtech’s sudden appearance in Kezda.
He never went to populated cities when she was with him. It was too risky. Too dangerous. He wouldn’t do so until he was ready for the final battle, he always told her. So why would he have come to the Martyr’s Day festival? Why would Emil have let him, Scarko thought angrily? Emil was clearly horrible at his job.
And Zephir.
She could barely think his name without wanting to rip down the cell doors. What had he been playing at? Why did he turn her in, only to advance on the guard who brought her to her knees? Nothing made any sense. The betrayal still stung, even as she hated the boy. Even, as she reminded herself, she had planned to kill him. They had made a deal. He had put her in here.
And Rhodri. How had his voice been in her head? If he could appear and disappear at will, why had he not saved her? Why would he? she asked herself, shaking her head.
The night passed slowly, Natalie trying to make conversation on everything from Scarko’s lack of sleep—commenting on the bags on her eyes—to the strange bird skull around her neck. At the mention of it, Scarko felt relief again flood through her that they hadn’t removed it, looked down to see the pale yellow of the delicate bones. What good it would do her now; even if she bit her tongue so hard she bled, something she was seriously considering, the bird skull was too small to help her out of here.
Sleep wasn’t an option.
If only more mindeta was on hand, she thought bitterly. It seemed to be the cure to her insomnia. She considered the path that was likely before her—execution at the palace, to make an example of her. Her head still leaned against the stone wall, the blood most definitely hers—she had tasted it to see if it could do any good for food—she sighed. It was better than the alternative; the Praeminister’s green and gold rooms, the leer on his wrinkled face, his beady eyes widening at the sight of her in his bed.
She butted her head against the wall.
Natalie clicked her tongue. “Getting yourself knocked out will only make you miss breakfast.”
“I don’t eat breakfast,” Scarko countered.
It was partly true. There was nothing but Vokte police, prison guards, and other prisoners she’d be willing to eat. Unless they were on the prison breakfast menu, she was out of luck.
When at last she heard the sound of footsteps, coming down what sounded like a stairwell, she sat up straighter, unwilling to let the guards see her so defeated. If what Natalie said was true, that they had seemed scared of her, she wanted to keep that fear in them.
A door she couldn’t see scraped open, and the clink of keys sounded as someone walked towards her. Two people, she realized. There was a grimy wall stained with what looked strangely like blood in front of her cell, only a small space to allow prisoners in and out. She wondered if that blood was hers, too.
It wasn’t until the two people were directly in front of her that she could see who had come to visit her.
A prison guard, dressed in black with a baton and a sword on his hip, his eyes narrowed at the sight of her, twirled the keys in his fingers.
And Zephir Crista stood beside him, dressed impeccably in his black dress shirt and cloak, a stitch above his eyebrow.
He looked to the guard. “I’ll be out soon.”
The guard nodded and left the way he had come, some prisoners down the line of cells jeering at him as he did so.
15
An Unholy Visit
Zephir folded his arms over his chest as he looked down at Scarko. She glared up at him, got to her knees, leaned her head against the cell bars, and spat on his boots. In the cell beside hers, Natalie laughed quietly. Scarko shot her a scathing look until she grew silent, walking to the opposite side of her cell, in an attempt to give them privacy.
“Hello to you, too,” Zephir said, glancing down at his boots.
“Why?” Scarko slumped against the wall once more, her body still aching, hunger making her feel too weak to sit up straight.
For a moment, a flash of concern crossed Zephir’s face, but just as quickly as it had come, it was gone, and Scarko thought it likely she’d imagined it. She had been stupid to think he cared about anything at all, anything other than himself. Especially her.
“Did you know I used to live in the Palace?” His voice was low, so quiet she could barely hear him. He squatted down before her, himself pressed against the wall, only the cell bars between them.
“No. And I don’t care.” It was mainly true.
“It’s a good thing you’re in there and I’m out here, so I can tell you about it anyway.”
Scarko rolled her eyes, then closed them. She wouldn’t give him the benefit of looking at him while he spoke. Let him indulge himself.
“My mother was a teacher, of the Vraka brought to the Palace—”
Scarko resisted the urge to open her eyes.
“Taught them how to harness their gifts, even after I was born. How to fight with them. She was a Skuggmat, a shadow conjurer. When I was 11, Olofsson received word the Djavul’s Order was less guarded than usual, that he had sent some of his Vrajo and Missionaries out to Maraz, to convince them to fight with him.” He paused. “This was probably around the time you were discovered.”
Scarko bit her tongue, squeezed her eyes shut.
“Olofsson commanded my mother and other Warskian sol
diers to take the Vrakas to the Order, to decimate the castle and kill the Djavul. She wouldn’t leave me,” he paused again, and silence echoed in the dungeon. “She had heard about the Praeminister.”
Scarko’s eyes flew open. “She had heard, and she did nothing?” she asked harshly.
Zephir shrugged. “I don’t know if she did anything or not. I don’t know much of what my mother did, of what she believed. Regardless, we went to Gotheberg, to the Order. Needless to say, Olofsson, as always, had severely underestimated your Djavul. We lost the battle. But the Djavul took my mother in, me in, and the Vrakans that had survived. Many he killed,” his voice had an edge to it, “but not my mother. Not me.”
Vojtech had told her none of this, told her none of the history of Zephir Crista. Had he known? Did Zephir change his name? What had the gods shown Vojtech in his vision?
“One day, my mother and I left the castle, to the Skov forest. She convinced the Djavul to let us go unguarded. She wanted a normal life for me.” He laughed bitterly, shaking his head, but his gaze didn’t falter from Scarko’s. “Marazan rebels found us there and realized my mother was a Skuggmat as she fought them off with shadows. But they had mindeta, and they took us both to Kezda, selling her into a brothel here. I met Jalde there, a kid sold into the trade, stolen from Beheni.”
Scarko felt her stomach clench.
“My mother took him under her wing. She tried to tell everyone that she worked for the palace, that she had been ambushed in a mission for the king, but no one listened. They drugged her, every day, with mindeta, and then troomla, until the most caretaking she could do for me was to brush her lips against my cheek before she was enraptured with what they gave her. We lived on the streets outside the brothel, and in the winter, it was cold.” He grimaced. “So, it was really no surprise when she died in the streets, trying to keep me and Jalde warm, her skin turning black, the last act of kindness she could show us. Before she died,” his voice grew hoarse, “she gave me the gift of being immune to your magic, afraid the Royals might come looking for me, maybe. Or afraid the Djavul would kill me for not protecting her. Maybe she was just high. I don’t know.”
Scarko’s eyes widened.
Zephir smiled. “Yes, he was in love with her.”
“But why—” she started.
“Why did he not come to look for us?” Zephir snorted. “That’s where you come in. I wondered, when I sent him a messenger, letting him know I had you as a hostage here, if he would come for you, since he never had for her. I always kept an ear out for the happenings at the Palace, I knew a girl who drank blood had run away, who used blood as a weapon. She was a valuable soldier for the Palace, rumored to be used in case of war. And when I saw you watching me at the fight, I wondered about you. I had never seen you before and there you were at the very front, eyes narrowed as I killed the Vrakan boy. And when mindeta took you under, I knew you had probably been sent from the Order.”
Scarko’s blood was pounding in her ears.
He had brought Vojtech here. He had put him in danger. And Vojtech had come for her.
Zephir shrugged. “Guess you mean more to him than my mother did. And I guess it’s him you saw, when you didn’t take your revenge on the cathedral? I wanted to give you that at least. The festival was a way to keep you here. I guessed at what the Praeminister did to you. I guessed right.”
“Your revenge,” Scarko began, the pieces clicking together, “was against Vojtech?”
Zephir tilted his head. “Vojtech? Funny, I never learned his real name.” Slowly, he stood, put his hands in his pockets.
Scarko glanced at the wound on his brow, wished to tear it open and drain his blood. Wished it more than she had ever wished for anything in her life, in that moment. And Vojtech—he needed to leave Kezda. Perhaps Zephir wouldn’t be immune to his fangs and his horns, but even so, Scarko knew how deeply rooted revenge could become. Until nothing would stand in the way of it. She had found that out here the hard way.
“I haven’t found him yet. But I will. For my mother, for what he did to us.” Zephir turned to leave. “There’s more, you know, about us. Probably why my mother gave me her blood curse. But I’m not sure I believe it myself. Do you know of the Nacht Lands?”
Her eyes widened. She thought of Rhodri.
Seeing the answer in her face, Zephir left without another word.
It wasn’t long afterward that three guards came, unlocking her cell door, shoving a wad of cotton in her mouth, she guessed to prevent her from biting her mouth to conjure more weapons from her blood. Natalie watched her go with sad eyes, but Scarko felt nothing, didn’t try to fight as they dragged her down the line of cells, down a dark hallway, and shoved her into a room that was too small for her to lay down in—a closet, really, entrenched in darkness.
She didn’t ask questions as they slammed the door shut, pointing out the hay in the tiny back corner before they did so. She didn’t look for a way out, knowing there was none. She was alone in there, and she would probably die in there. She didn’t particularly care, not as long as Vojtech stayed safe, as long as Emil kept his guard up.
She sat in the corner, the back of her head leaning against the wall, eyes open in the darkness, the scent of urine from the previous occupant, and hay, heavy in the small confinement.
Zephir Crista had played the game better than her.
This was her punishment.
It didn’t really matter if Vojtech had known Zephir was the boy whose mother he had fallen in love with and let die on the streets of Kezda. It didn’t matter that he didn’t tell her that story. Didn’t matter that she and Zephir were connected, that perhaps the Nacht Lands had something to do with it. It didn’t matter at all. He had given her a job to do as his second in command, and she hadn’t done it. She had let Zephir charm her, and the fighter hadn’t even tried very hard. He had given her the thing she wanted most—a chance to kill the Praeminister. A chance for revenge, same as the chance he took with getting her thrown in this cell, with keeping her in Kezda to lure Vojtech to the city.
And Vojtech had come for her, even as she had failed him. She didn’t deserve it.
She could only pray to the gods he wouldn’t die trying to save her, ruining any chance Warskia had of returning to Vrakan rule. She let her eyes fall closed, hunger gnawing at her like a whipping wind, unceasing. She prayed to Blüd that Vojtech would return to the Order and start the Holy War, ending it with Olofsson’s family dead, the Praeminister gutted, and Zephir Crista nothing more than ash in the ground, his reaper tattoo flayed from his neck. She didn’t know if Blüd heard her, if she cared at all. But she knew that if she had listened to the gods, listened to Vojtech’s message from them, Zephir would be dead, and she would be on her way back to the Order.
Too late for that now, Kadezska.
Two times a day, guards entered the room with a tray of soup, a glass of water, and fresh hay. She didn’t need the hay; she sat in her own filth, the reek of the room enough to make the guards gag as they changed out her bowls, always still full, the water untouched. She didn’t pay the guards any attention. She had curled up on her side, her knees pressing into her chest, the only way she could lay in the solitary confinement.
She drifted in and out of dreams, maybe of consciousness, she wasn’t sure. Sometimes she heard Rhodri’s strange, musical voice. Sometimes Vojtech crunched bones in her dreams, spoke about the gods as if they were favored friends. Her mother and father stroked her hair as she slept on a warm bed of hay, spoke of her as if she were a gift from the heavens. Yezedi and Klaus held her between them, whispering words of encouragement, of praise, of love. But in every vision of her family and of her friends, there was always something lurking in the shadows, just out of her vision. Sometimes, she would catch a glimpse of it, and her heart would nearly stop in her dreams. It changed, but only morphed between two people: the looming figure of the Praeminister, a wicked grin on his lips, or Zephir Crista, the reaper tattoo clearly visible, even as his
features were obscured. She hated them both.
She couldn’t decide if she hated herself more.
Days passed, and her lips split open from dehydration. Her tongue was heavy in her mouth, and some days, she could barely move it. The dreams came more frequently, the times she was aware less so. She was cold, so cold that it turned to numbness, and the smell in the room was enough to make one of the guards vomit outside of her door, but she didn’t care about that either. She had no strength left to feel any shred of shame or embarrassment.
There was no fear, either, in her body. Sometimes, the bone necklace caught her attention, and she would reach for it with stiff fingers absentmindedly, but no memories came with it, and she liked it that way. Rhodri’s voice didn’t sound again in her head, not after the first few days.
After a time, the dreams of her family and friends fell away altogether, and she was plunged into an icy nothingness—no awareness, no senses. Nothing but black, and as she floated in that oblivion, she smiled to herself. It was all she had ever wanted.
*
When she felt certain death was coming, felt certain she would take her final breath and find out the gods never existed—not Krys or any of the Vrakan gods either—felt sure that all of her worries, the miserable cold that sometimes crept into her peaceful oblivion, would be gone, something terrible happened.
Three guards carried her out of the little room, into the dim hall, half-dragging her along. She did not resist. They brought her into a brighter room, much larger than her cell, placed her in a chair, and unchained her, only to strap her arms and legs to the chair. Her eyes fluttered open, her oblivion disrupted, and she saw the room was lit by a lamp overhead. A table was before her, and across the table, something she had seen in those dreams that had ceased to be.
The Praeminister, clad in white robes.
The guards left the room, clanging closed a door behind them.
She blinked, waiting for the fear that was sure to come. But in her reeking prison jumper, cold and clinging to her body, nothing came at all. Maybe, she thought, this was just another dream, the final one before she left this world. She would endure it.
Stranger Rituals Page 15
