Yezedi twirled one of her long braids around her finger. “Not as much as he should have.” She looked up at Scarko. “He’s waiting for you to do that.”
Scarko ran a hand over her face, wincing at the swelling in her cheek. “He still wishes for me to kill him?” she asked.
Yezedi shrugged. “Gods’ vision and all.”
“Right.” She thought of what Zephir had suggested—a link between them, the Nacht Lands, where Rhodri claimed to be from.
Yezedi frowned. “You don’t sound convinced.”
Scarko sighed and shook her head. She couldn’t have this conversation with Yezedi. She could still feel the sting of her slap from those years ago. “It’s just…”
“What?” Yezedi questioned, brow arched.
“Nothing,” Scarko leaned back against the headboard once more. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Yezedi was quiet. “Maybe I would,” she offered softly, after a tense moment.
Staring at the ceiling, Scarko spoke. “What have the gods ever done for Vojtech, exactly? Besides crumbling his kingdom, stealing his girl—I assume you know that story—and nearly getting me killed? Who’s to say Krys might not be better? Who is to say any of these gods give a damn about us at all?” The words came out in a tumbling rush.
Yezedi didn’t speak for a moment, and Scarko waited for her to leave the room, as Vojtech had the night before. But when Yezedi began to speak, her voice soft, devoid of anger, Scarko sat up straighter to look at her friend.
“In Yuljan, we don’t only believe in Krys, or the Vraka’s gods. We believe in jâmna, balance. Good and evil, you might call it. Gods exist in Yuljan, but we do not pray to them. Instead, we pray for that balance; without one, there is not another. Without the sun, there is not the moon. In many places in Yuljan, Vrakas are seen as saints.” She paused and frowned. “Of course, some are beaten, but…” She shook her head. “My mother sent me to the Order of Saints for that reason. She was an overgiva, as my father was, too. They believed my gift was part of the world’s balance, that I would help make a difference in the scales.”
She paused, and Scarko realized her mouth hung open. She had never heard Yezedi speak anything but piousness for the gods.
“The Order’s teachers taught me of their gods, and I believe in them, as I do in the Yuljan gods. Balance is the key. The Djavul believes in this balance, too, and he sees the Vrakan slaves at the Royal Palace as throwing the balance out of order. The gods have punished him, but that is to keep the balance. They have also rewarded him.” Yezedi’s hazel eyes found Scarko’s.
Scarko’s cheeks flushed.
“You are part of that balance, Scar,” she whispered, “as I am. As we all are. But you haven’t quite decided, have you, which way you wish to tip the scales?”
Scarko couldn’t answer. She had no answer.
“There is no right or wrong. There is only different.”
Scarko stared.
“You choose which calls to you, and that is the balance.”
Yezedi sat up, swung her legs from the bed and hopped down, then walked to the door. She glanced over her shoulder. “Come down to eat when you’re ready.” She nodded toward the armoire. “There are clothes for you in there.”
She left, closing the door gently behind her.
*
Scarko dressed in black pants and a soft black blouse and pulled on socks and black boots left at the foot of the armoire. Whoever had shopped for her knew her well. She glanced in the mirror by the door, the first time she had seen her reflection in weeks, if Vojtech’s casual remarks had been true about being locked up that long.
She was slightly horrified at what she saw, especially considering what had happened with Vojtech the night before.
Her hair was dirty, greasy, limp with blonde strands hanging loosely down her back. The shadows under her eyes, despite her unconsciousness from a wonderful combination of mindeta and pain, were worse than ever before, nearly black beneath the murky green-brown of her eyes. She was thin. The clothes, while they fit, hung limply on her body, and her wrists had angry red welts from where Yezedi had broken her chains. One side of her face was swollen, a yellow bruise still lingering.
She sighed.
There wasn’t much she could do about it now, besides go downstairs, drink some blood, and get on with whatever Vojtech’s next foul plan for them to escape Kezda was, while she was surely being hunted right outside.
The house was clearly owned by wealthy people. Merchants, perhaps, maybe healers. There were rich tapestries hanging from the wall, depicting nothing in particular but beautiful colors of reds and pinks and purples blending together. The staircase had an ornate runner down the polished, dark wooden steps, and there wasn’t a spot of dust. Scarko found herself in a grand entrance hall with sparkling marble floors as she came down, and standing guard at the enormous door was Emil, wearing the grey cloak of the Vrajo.
His dark eyes actually lit up when he saw her.
“Hi,” he said awkwardly.
“Why are you not more unhappy to see me?” she asked from the bottom of the stairs, brow furrowed.
He smiled sheepishly. “Being his,” he jerked his head to another room that Scarko couldn’t see into, “personal guard isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
Scarko blinked. Then laughed out loud.
Emil laughed softly, too. “He’s in there.” He pointed toward the arched hallway, and Scarko nodded, walking past him, through an oak-paneled door, and into a large dining room, doors closing behind her.
Vojtech was seated at a long, wooden table, three candelabras flickering along it, the heavy drapes of the home drawn closed. There were paintings on nearly every inch of the deep red walls.
A goblet of crimson was beside Vojtech at one end of the table. He had a white plate of small bones, still wet with fat and ligaments. He stood, inclining his head to her.
“I’m glad to see you out of bed.” He gave no indication anything at all had happened between them the night before.
She sat beside him as he sank back down, pulling her chair up. She drank from the goblet. It wasn’t Vojtech’s blood, and she was glad.
After she had gulped down nearly half of it, Vojtech watching her with an amused expression, she set the cup down and turned to him. “Are they looking for me?” Her head had cleared just a little, and she wanted to go home.
Vojtech nodded. “They are. But we’re hiding in plain sight,” he sounded amused at the prospect. “They won’t come here, not for a few days yet.” He frowned. “At least…I don’t think they will.” His tone was completely uncertain.
“Why are we still here?” It wasn’t safe for him. She was his guard; that was her job. She would do it. Even if she had royally screwed up the night before.
Vojtech frowned. “We’re still here because I want us to be.”
“As your personal guard, Vojtech, we need to leave.”
“As your Djavul, Scarko, we will not leave.”
She watched as he picked up a thin, curved bone, popped it into his mouth, and crunched on it without effort, as if he were chewing mashed potatoes.
“Why are we still here?” she asked again, an edge to her voice.
His lips curled up into amusement. “Are you questioning my commands?” he asked.
“Yes. Also, I need a knife.” The bird skull was still around her neck, and she pushed aside the memory of the Praeminister trying to rip it from her throat. She felt naked, still, without a knife.
Vojtech nodded. “You will get one,” he promised. “Klaus is searching now.”
“Why do you have Zephir? Why did you not kill him?”
Vojtech tilted his head, his black hair falling down one shoulder. “You must kill him.”
“What if I don’t?” There was a challenge in her voice.
Vojtech noticed. “There is no other choice, Scarko. I know you have suffered greatly here, and wish to be done with it, but things must go according to the gods’ pl
ans.”
Balance, Yezedi had said.
“Can I kill him now and be done with it? Can we leave immediately?”
Vojtech sighed and rubbed his temples, then steepled his hands on the table before turning to her again. “Perhaps. The Praeminister has ordered travel into and out of the city forbidden.”
“What do we do?” She would not speak of the Praeminister coming to see her in the prison, and if Vojtech wasn’t going to follow her commands…
“We fight or flee.”
“We have no military here,” Scarko countered.
“We have you,” Vojtech ticked them off on his fingers, “Emil, Alexander, Yezedi, Klaus. And me, of course.”
“We have six people.”
“You can count. Delightful.”
Scarko glared at him. “That is not enough, not with the mindeta blowers and the—”
“Do you know why the mindeta plant renders our magic useless, Scarko?” Vojtech asked, twisting his fingers together.
“No,” Scarko answered, picking up her goblet once more.
“It’s a plant from Själ, the god of the mind. We can all fight through it, if we only try.”
Scarko rolled her eyes. “Says the man who doesn’t use any known Vrakan magic.”
“Oh, no, dear Scarko, it numbs my senses, too. If I let it.” He watched her as she drank the rest of the blood. “One of these days,” he added calmly, “I might bite that smart tongue of yours.”
Genuine fear trailed down Scarko’s spine. “One of these days I’m going to take your threats seriously and run away for good.” Her response was haughty, but Rhodri’s voice in her head, Rhodri telling her that perhaps Vojtech had written the Holy Writ…
Vojtech reached across the table, his pale fingers on her shoulder. “I thought you had run away for good,” he whispered, leaning down to her ear. The hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end. “And I’m so glad you didn’t.”
Emil cleared his throat by the door, startling her. Vojtech didn’t remove his hand, only straightened, cocked his head to Emil.
“Is it urgent? May I help you with something?” he asked.
Emil lowered his gaze. “No, sir,” he mumbled.
Vojtech released his grip on Scarko’s shoulder. She felt a longing that she despised as he stood from his chair and moved gracefully past her. He and Emil walked from the room, the doors closing behind him.
Don’t be stupid, Kadezska. You’re a guard, not a child fawning over her first crush. And he isn’t to be trusted. That voice was not hers. She looked around the room; Rhodri was not there. She swallowed, steadying her nerves.
After Vojtech spoke privately with Emil, Klaus led her down to the basement of the house, near the back of the kitchens. Vojtech trailed them. Scarko had thought of reminding him and Emil that she was his personal guard, that she should be consulted about any urgent matters, but then she remembered Emil’s words and thought the better of it. Let him deal with it a little while longer.
There were strange splatters along the wall, dark red against the white paint as they descended the stairs.
She stopped on a stair, turned to Vojtech, and arched a brow, her eyes trailing from the splatter to him.
He blinked, clutched his pale-fingered hands to his heart, and looked up, feigning innocence.
“All for you,” he gushed, slyly meeting her gaze.
“You killed them, then? I hope you didn’t eat anyone important, anyone whose absence might,” she shrugged, mocking his innocence, “I don’t know, get us killed.” She jerked her head in the direction of the Kezdan streets. They were sitting ducks. Sitting meat bags, Kadezska. Ducks can fly.
Klaus cleared his throat a few steps down from her.
The Djavul smiled broadly, white, pointy teeth prominent in his pale face. “There’s no one I wouldn’t kill for you, no matter the cost.”
Scarko rolled her eyes and turned from him, but her skin crawled. And besides, it was a lie. Zephir was to die at her hand.
She wasn’t sure what bothered her more—the lie, or the message.
“That’s love,” Klaus murmured as they managed the last few steps.
“You’re as sick as he is.”
Vojtech sighed behind her.
The basement of the house was lit by lamps in the wall, the large room made of wood and stone, barren in decor and furniture, save for a long, wooden box that was shoved against one wall, the lid closed. Scarko stood at the basement entrance, staring at it.
“Is that a—”
“Coffin, yes.” Vojtech answered matter-of-factly, sweeping in behind her, his hand on his chin. “Turns out grandmother was going to die soon, horrible lung condition, so…I borrowed it.”
Scarko turned to him. “Where did you put dear grandmother and her family?”
Vojtech frowned. “Obviously, I ate them. Meat went to the beggars two streets over.”
Klaus cleared his throat again.
Scarko shot him a glare, and he shrugged, a smile on his lips. She turned back to the casket.
“Zephir…is in there?”
Vojtech murmured his confirmation.
“Is he alive?” Perhaps he had gotten rid of the fighter after all.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Vojtech’s finger tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as he leaned in toward her. “Is that worry I detect?”
She stared resolutely ahead at the closed casket. “Is he alive?” she asked again.
Vojtech straightened. “I left the traitor breathing for you to do with what you will.”
“Don’t lie to me, Vojtech. Your gods want him dead.”
She knew by the deathly stillness that settled over the room like a harsh blanket of ice that she had said the wrong thing. Even Klaus was looking at her, wide-eyed, his face pale.
Vojtech fixed her with a smile that made her skin crawl. “My gods?”
She sighed, ran a shaking hand through her hair. How could she explain she didn’t quite believe in the gods? No more than she believed she herself—or any of the Vraka—were saints. No more than she believed ships could sail on land. How could she tell that to the Djavul, a man with ivory horns that seemed to her now impossibly sharp, sharper even than the wicked little blade she’d had stolen from her in the Kezdan prison? And more importantly, if she had to have this conversation now, one that could end in blood and bone, Zephir, if he was still living, certainly wouldn’t be when it was all over. Vojtech would kill him himself or force her to by sheer will.
She reached a hand out to Vojtech’s black cloak. He still had that eerie smile plastered on his face, but he did not move away from her touch.
“I misspoke. You know that Krys is no god of mine.” That much was true, true enough she could say the words with real conviction, righteous anger.
Good, very good. Rhodri’s voice. She kept the mask of conviction on her face and did not flinch.
Vojtech’s eyes flickered with something like sadness, and then rage. He grasped her hand, the one on his cloak, tightly, and pressed it to his cold lips.
“Very well.”
He didn’t quite believe her, but he was thinking of the Praeminister. Thinking of her victimhood. He relinquished her hand, and she walked toward the casket.
She thought only of her revenge as she pried it open.
Beneath, in the velvet lined box, Zephir’s swollen eyes were wide, the green startling. He had his hands crossed over his chest, the standard corpse position. Strapped to his chest, she realized, with thick ropes. He wore his black dress shirt, although it was stained with blood, ripped in places. Out of his mouth, a thick trickle of crimson.
Beneath the tape that rendered him mute.
He blinked at her.
He was alive.
Scarko felt something uncoil within her, something she hadn’t realized was held tight. It was relief.
She hated the feeling.
19
Coffin Discussions
Someone placed the cool hilt of a
blade in her hands as she stared over Zephir. His expression was unreadable. He did not move, did not try to escape, or even reach for her. His brow was furrowed, but otherwise, he gave no indication of fear or of alarm.
She closed her fingers tightly around the blade, and she knew Klaus and Vojtech were staring at her. She knew she should kill him; it would be so simple. Vojtech had said he kept him alive for her, but why? Why did it matter if he died, if they had him now with them? Perhaps he could be useful…perhaps they could learn more of his blood curse, instead of leaving him to the Warskians or throwing his body in a pit.
Because the idea of drinking his blood, of Vojtech crunching his bones—it was repulsive. Even after he had betrayed her. Perhaps, she thought, because she knew she would have done the same, if she had been him.
She turned around.
“Why kill him?” she asked, keeping her tone even. “He’s clearly not going anywhere.” She gestured with the little blade in her hand. “Why not take him back with us? Find out more about this blood curse?”
Klaus frowned, clasped his hands in front of him, and looked resolutely down at his boots.
The Djavul smiled cruelly. “You’d like him to live?”
“Why does he need to die?” Try as she might, she could not keep the defense out of her words, her tone. Still, she did not drop the Djavul’s pale gaze.
“The gods ordained it.”
“Why?” It was a challenge, and Klaus cut her a look that said she would do best to shut her mouth. He was probably right, and yet…
Vojtech’s silence was more startling than if he had yelled, or pulled her head back by her hair, or gutted her with his horns. She could hear her own heart beating. She could feel Zephir behind her, his eyes on her. Why it mattered to her, why the fighter was even worth saving, she didn’t know. She had killed before, countless times. Hundreds, maybe thousands of times. Why did it matter now? She wasn’t sure it did.
“Do you know how I got these horns?” Vojtech asked quietly. She had asked him as much before, with no answer.
But she was thinking of Rhodri when she responded: “You were born with them, I suppose?”
Klaus couldn’t suppress the grin that he forced into a grimace on his face.
Stranger Rituals Page 18
