How was Nadya supposed to stop an old god? She hadn’t been able to stop Serefin from setting a fallen god free. She had set a fallen god free from his prison, starting it all. She wasn’t the one to save the world. She was the one to ruin it.
“Daughter of death, you have come so far,” Myesta said. “You may fail at this.”
“Also, I’m dead.”
That was ignored.
“But why not give you the chance? You cannot do this alone; you will need help. Luckily, there are plenty of you mortals running around, blood tainted with the divine.”
Nadya frowned. “But what about everything else? The war? Tranavia?”
“Do you think I care about Tranavia and their mistakes? Do you think I care what the Akolans do with the blood they spill across the sands? Do you think I care what the Gentle Hands do to the mages of Česke Zin and Rumenovać? What those people do with our bones? You mortals and your magic are your own problems. It is all insignificant,” Alena snapped.
“Then why did Marzenya care so much? And the other gods?”
“Because we act in reflection,” Myesta said simply. As if it were obvious.
Her answer left Nadya unmoored and reeling. But it didn’t matter; she could not change how Kalyazin saw the gods, how Tranavia saw them. To Kalyazin, they were a comfort, their priests and churches stable footholds in a world of chaos. But Tranavians saw it all as stifling. Forcing them to see would change nothing, just as showing Kalyazin that the gods they worshipped were as monstrous as the abominations the Tranavians called the Vultures would change nothing.
She buried her face in her hands. She wasn’t ready to go. This was all useless, merely information in hindsight; all that she had been unable to unearth on her own. A reminder of her failures.
It was silly to think the goddesses couldn’t hear her thoughts.
“Failures, certainly,” Alena said. “But that’s what we expect of mortals. It’s the failures that make it all so infinitely fascinating.”
“The rest of the gods would disagree with you,” Nadya muttered.
“They’re young yet. Their ideals are still being formed.”
“If Chyrnog has his way, your world will be devoured,” Myesta said, returning to the task at hand. “It’s as simple as that. He has been waiting a very long time for this. Waiting a long time to devour Alena.”
“But he isn’t the only old god?”
She gave what could almost be read as a shrug. “There were others. They faded, died, went away. There were others far more terrible, and there were those full of light. None of them matter.”
“Because Chyrnog is the current problem?” Nadya asked.
“Precisely.”
Nadya swallowed. “Or, whoever is left deals with him, I guess.”
Myesta laughed and Nadya cringed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. The goddess moved, fingers brushing against Nadya’s forehead. Exquisite pain.
“Will that be a blessing or a curse?” Alena asked, lightly disapproving.
“Likely both,” Myesta replied.
If they said more, Nadya didn’t hear it. Everything fell into a heavy, crushing black around her.
interlude ii
PARIJAHAN SIROOSI
Parijahan would never forget the deadened expression on Rashid’s face when he brought Nadya’s body in from the rain. The cleric looked young and fragile in his arms. She was so small as he gently placed her on a bed in the boyar’s house, carefully pushing her hair away from her face.
Biting her lip to keep the rush of grief from overwhelming her, Parijahan did her best to lock it away. To place it on the shelf next to Malachiasz’s death. She couldn’t take this.
They couldn’t both be gone.
The tsarevna followed Rashid into the room, but when he stepped away from the bed, dark eyes glassy with tears, she clearly wanted to flee. She touched Nadya’s forehead, closed her eyes with fingertips that were achingly gentle, and left the room in a hurry.
It had happened quickly; she had fallen quietly. Parijahan had watched it from a distance, unable to stop it, and it was too much like watching Malachiasz fall when she was still struggling up the mountain. The blade a careful caress that had slipped from a woman’s hands into Nadya’s back. Nadya had been gone by the time she had crossed the muddy square.
Nadya had survived so much. She’d seemed so impervious.
Parijahan moved to Rashid, who was staring, unseeing, at Nadya. She wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her forehead against the back of his neck.
It’s time to tell the truth.
“No more of this. No more death.”
“Parj…”
“You never asked what I was doing the night we left Akola. All this time, all these years, you’ve never asked what we were running from. What my family would want returned to them so badly. What makes it impossible for me to go home.”
She had asked him to go, and he had. She’d asked that he follow her into Kalyazin, and he had. He had watched her gather a group of misfits and renegades around her and never asked what she was doing. He would listen to her tell Taraneh’s story and know she was giving a partial truth, but never asked what she was hiding.
“I never told you,” she continued. “For foolish, petty reasons. I never told Nadya for similar reasons. And I should have.”
“No more secrets. We’ll talk later,” Nadya had said before going with Katya to defend the city. And now it was too late. Her arms tightened around Rashid.
“Too many secrets. Too much death.”
“They’re trying to get you back,” he said.
“I’d just lost Taraneh and I was scared and confused. Arman was never coming back. He had gone to the mages in the sands and I knew what that meant. I knew what you were capable of.”
Rashid tensed.
“It was so impossible, living in that palace, listening to talk of how to handle the problem in the west.”
What a benign way to talk about what amounted to attempting to eradicate his people, she thought blandly.
“And conversations about the north … Did you ever hear how they spoke of these countries? They were barbarians, mad, and this was the problem with power. This was why Akola kept their mages locked away.”
It would have been his fate. The mages in the Travash only had a few years at court before they were imprisoned. Chained under locks made unbreakable by some long dead mage of the past. Only drawn out for death and pain before being swept back into the dark, out of sight, out of mind.
“They spoke of you constantly. The little indentured servant from Yanzin Zadar who had power. Do you remember being tested?”
He was quiet for a long time before a very soft, “Yes.”
She swallowed, overcome with tears. “Rashid, I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”
He pulled out of her arms, turning to face her. “What do you mean? What did you do?”
She closed her eyes. “It’s what I didn’t do. I don’t know how the missives kept finding me. How they knew. They kept begging me to return, but begging turned into threats, and the threats became something much darker and I—I … it was you. I know what not going back to Akola means for me, but it’s more than being the prasīt, it’s—it’s far more in line with all this divine nonsense. And I’m sorry, but Rashid—” she reached out and took his wrist, pushing his sleeve back. She ran her fingers along his forearm, down the vine markings.
Suddenly flowers were blooming from his skin. He choked on a breath. She hated doing this to him, she knew how much he didn’t want to use his power.
“I knew what bringing you here would do because I’m like you. I knew the stars in our blood would burst in this land of gods and power. In Akola, it was only magic on sand, but here it’s different. The gods that walk these lands are not our gods. They are much worse. They’re greedy and they want, and our foolish friends have set them free.”
She closed her eyes. “In the forest, I chose to stay here, knowing what that w
ould mean. We’re going to be burned up by all of this and it’s my fault. Without Nadya … we’re doomed.”
The flowers growing from his skin were white and crimson and shot through with purple. They would be beautiful if they weren’t so terrible.
He would have a thousand questions. She didn’t know how she would answer them all; she had been holding this close for too long. Malachiasz knew a piece of it. That she had magic, a kind unlike the power used in Kalyazin or Tranavia. But Malachiasz had died and taken that truth with him.
Rashid didn’t get the chance to ask any questions. Nadya’s voice, small and tired, jolted them both.
“I’m going to need to hear all of that again, but in Kalyazi,” she said.
The world dropped out from underneath Parijahan and Rashid’s hands held her up as her knees gave out.
Nadya lifted a hand very slowly, her eyes still closed, her eyebrows furrowed. “Gods, I feel … well, like I was dead. Give me a second for my limbs to work.”
Parijahan struggled out of his arms, moving to kneel at the side of the bed. She reached out, very carefully, and touched Nadya’s hand.
Her eyes opened at the touch. Her skin was like ice. A moth appeared and settled in her white-blond hair.
How was she back?
Nadya groaned, closing her eyes again and pressing her hands against them. There was a long beat of silence.
“Right, then, now I can say that dying is extremely unpleasant, in case you were wondering.”
20
MALACHIASZ CZECHOWICZ
It started with a finger. A paltry trade for magic. Took it clean, he did, right off, little pain. Didn’t blink when he took another. My hand was missed, but it was the left one anyway. Walking got tricky when he took the leg. Let him take whatever he wishes.
—Fragment of a journal entry from an anonymous worshipper of Chyrnog
Malachiasz felt better after sleeping, suspiciously so. That he had slept at all was suspicious. He hadn’t slept much in months.
“Astonishing how different things are when you comply with me,” Chyrnog said.
Malachiasz didn’t respond. There was a lot he was trying not to consider. How it had felt to slide his teeth across that boy’s throat. To kiss him. How much he did not want to remember what he had done. Each time he thought he had fallen as far as possible, he proved it untrue.
But what haunted him most was the chill when, somewhere, the girl with hair like snow had been struck down forever. Her death was an ocean he would drown in. Better for her to be alive for him to quietly hate from afar.
Let him live with the denial.
“Were you expecting something other than my survival?” Malachiasz asked amiably.
Ruslan smiled slightly, tilting his head. Malachiasz was better, sharper, stronger, and those things were bad news for these people.
“You wanted me to destroy the boy, no? I hope that was your intent because it’s certainly what happened.” He gestured vaguely at the tree and straightened to his full height. “We have things to discuss, you and I,” he said, smiling. The barest flinch, nearly invisible, as Ruslan got a good look at his teeth. “Just the two of us,” Malachiasz continued, stepping around the square of light and closer to him, away from his brother. It was strange, thinking of Serefin that way, but … right.
“Wait, what?” Serefin sounded distressed.
Malachiasz glanced at him, holding back a sigh. He’d hoped Serefin would have figured out his game by now.
“I’m the vessel for their god reborn,” he said, flatly. “They don’t really need to talk to you.”
Trust me, he thought, knowing Serefin wouldn’t. He had no reason to. What had Malachiasz done except consistently undermine his power and ignore his authority?
“Only talk?” Serefin asked cautiously. He glanced at Kacper, whose fists were clenched. For all he knew Malachiasz was intending to go off with these cultists and leave him to die. Malachiasz had found people played their parts so honestly when they were truly desperate.
“Well, if we come to an understanding during our chat, that wouldn’t be so bad,” Malachiasz replied with a shrug.
Except this time the deception didn’t feel particularly good. He discovered, with some measure of surprise, that he didn’t want Serefin to think he was betraying him. He’d committed a horrific act and Serefin had treated him with kindness after. He didn’t deserve that. As much as he hated what Chyrnog had made him do, he’d relished it all the same; he was too much a monster to fight Chyrnog’s appeal to his basest instincts.
A wounded look flickered over Serefin’s face. Malachiasz bit his lip.
“Malachiasz, don’t you dare,” Serefin said, his voice dangerously soft.
Ruslan held the door open, glancing over his shoulder to see if Malachiasz was following. He did, feeling wretched the whole way.
* * *
“How long have you been waiting for his return?” Malachiasz asked, unable to keep the curiosity out of his voice. He folded his hands behind his back as he trailed after Ruslan.
They were in a stone church, potentially a monastery, but Malachiasz wasn’t entirely certain. It had a similar feeling to the one Malachiasz had been to with Nadya, though this was exceedingly colder. Empty and hostile. He carefully stepped around sunlight spilling in through window slits, though it couldn’t always be avoided and at times he was forced to grit his teeth and press on. He gathered Ruslan had taken him on this route purposefully.
“The order has stood since the beginning of time,” he replied.
“A nonanswer. That’s fine, it’s worthless information anyway.”
He took a step back in expectation of Ruslan whirling on him. Ruslan moved closer, holding a blade to Malachiasz’s jaw. Interesting. He wanted magic. His skin didn’t react to the blade, he noted with relief. Not a relic, then. He could survive any number of blade wounds—outside decapitation, the only true way to kill a Vulture—but not a relic, as had been discovered so painfully.
“Don’t press your luck,” Ruslan hissed.
He’d had plenty of practice thinking quickly with a blade at his throat thanks to Nadya. He had plenty of practice pressing his luck, too.
How much control over me do you have, truly? he ventured to Chyrnog. He didn’t want a demonstration, but he had a theory and quite liked the idea of testing it.
“You are mine,” Chyrnog replied.
That doesn’t answer my question. Whatever. Malachiasz had picked up enough nonsensical religious jargon from Nadya to hold his own.
Reluctantly he let a thread of control go—his shifts roiled faster and more chaotically when he gave in—bracing himself for the kaleidoscoping of his vision as it shattered and reformed only to shatter again.
“I am the voice of your god made flesh,” he said, dropping his voice and speaking through teeth of iron. “My genesis is irrelevant. I don’t need you or your order if you choose to treat me without the respect I am due. I am entropy. I am chaos. You will bend to my will or I will see you in the same pieces of flesh and marrow that are left of your last acolyte. What makes you think you can chain me, bind me, break me, and drag me like a fool through your halls of light?”
He had Ruslan’s jaw in his hand, turning to slam him against the wall before he had the chance to blink.
“Think very carefully about how you have chosen to go about this and how you are planning to proceed,” he said softly. “We could be allies. You could have glory at my ascension as I rip apart the heavens and take it all for Chyrnog. Or I could kill you right here.”
A shift of muscle under his fingertips as Ruslan swallowed. Malachiasz smiled ever so slightly. This was a game he played very well.
“But how long until it no longer is a game?” Chyrnog contemplated. “Do you think I chose you without reason? That I had not been biding my time, waiting for you? I spent eons tempting Velyos to be in my thrall. To have him finally take a vessel and to lead that vessel to you.”
Malac
hiasz refused to believe that what was happening here was predetermined. It brought up far too many questions that he simply was not willing to contemplate.
“I will let you continue pretending, but, oh, just wait until the day it is no longer a pretense.”
Malachiasz dropped Ruslan, eyeing him dispassionately.
“Have we come to more of an understanding?” he asked, pulling everything back and carefully folding it up, his voice cheerful.
Ruslan looked up at him from underneath dark eyelashes. Was that hatred or respect in his eyes? Veneration? Malachiasz would take any of the three. They could all be molded into zealotry.
The other boy grinned, blood staining his teeth. “Yes,” he said. “I think we have.”
“Please,” Malachiasz replied, gesturing. “Lead on. And keep it to back hallways, if you will, my skin is sensitive.”
He was led to a study that seemed to double as a library. Though he knew that the majority of these texts were religious in nature and thus ridiculous, he couldn’t shake the itch of desire the sight brought him.
He missed this.
He missed being left alone to his study and his books and his paintings. He missed living without the weight of desperation and the feeling of his time running out clinging to his chest. He missed his idle dreams of holing up in his study with Nadya and showing her what could be accomplished if they worked together with their equally enigmatic magic.
He missed Nadya.
She’s in a better place. The thought was poison. If Kalyazi beliefs about the afterlife were to be trusted, the thought was true. If it were Tranavian, well, things got a bit trickier. She deserved peace. But he wished he could have seen her one last time.
Did he?
He didn’t know.
Maybe idealistic hindsight was all he had to keep himself from going mad with grief. He couldn’t really think about it. The knowledge was very distant, unreal. The longer he avoided that snapped tether, the longer he could pretend. He had to deal with this god and this cult when all he truly wanted to do was break down and shatter into pieces.
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