The young man stiffened slightly but didn’t turn. Soon the entire city would be whispering about the old gods.
Ostyia laughed. “Absolutely not. War was awful. Court was worse. Except for that Rawalyk. I did quite like the drawing of every pretty, powerful girl into Grazyk, that was a very good idea.”
“I was too scared out of my mind to truly appreciate it.”
“Is your taste in girls as awful as your taste in boys?”
Nadya wrinkled her nose. “Almost guaranteed.”
The door opened, the young man almost fleeing the room when Katya sauntered inside.
“Viktor!” she called, sounding delighted in a specific way that Nadya had come to learn meant the other person was about to be wildly uncomfortable and Katya was going to enjoy it immensely. “I didn’t know you had left Komyazalov!”
“Yeah,” Ostyia said softly, watching Katya, “I have awful taste, too.”
* * *
“That’s … bad,” Ostyia said.
It was a massive understatement.
“Oh, is it? I wasn’t sure. I wanted you to confirm it for me,” Katya drawled.
Nadya rolled her eyes.
The tsarevna had led them outside to the graveyard. Half of the graves appeared fine, perfectly well tended. The other half were ravaged. As if the bodies had been hastily dug up—or had clawed their way out.
Nadya ran a finger along a grave marker. It came away black with mold. She glanced over her shoulder to where the swamps lurked in the distance. Katya followed her gaze.
“The priest says it’s gotten closer,” she said.
“The whole swamp?” Nadya couldn’t hide the skepticism from her voice.
Katya only nodded.
“How, pray tell, does that happen?”
“Don’t be willfully dense, dear, it doesn’t suit you,” Katya replied absently.
Nadya sighed.
“You’re the one who had that Vulture break a wall that has been in place for centuries.”
The last thing Nadya needed was a reminder of yet another thing that was her fault. She tightened her fist. Ostyia caught her eye and shook her head slightly.
“He would have done that even if Nadya hadn’t asked,” Ostyia pointed out.
“Even so,” Katya said with a frown.
“Even so,” Ostyia agreed. “It did happen. So, where do we think the bodies are?”
“And where is the priest?” Nadya asked.
She moved closer to inspect one of the empty graves. Her first guess was proving to be spectacularly incorrect. Something had clearly clawed its way out of this.
Serefin came back from the dead, now this? Death was Marzenya’s domain, what happened when the goddess who tended it was gone? Apparently, death did not hold so tight a grip.
Nadya almost missed Katya shifting on her feet uncomfortably. She looked back over her shoulder at the tsarevna, who was avoiding her gaze.
“The priest?” she repeated.
“Did not wish to speak with you,” Katya replied.
Nadya blinked. “What?”
“Apparently since you got here, the icons have been weeping.” There were a few crumpled pieces of paper in Katya’s fist.
A chill dragged down Nadya’s spine. She hadn’t noticed anything amiss in the sanctuary.
Katya didn’t make eye contact, instead crouching to inspect another grave. “I’ve been gathering reports in each city and village we pass through and they’re all like this. Icons weeping—usually tears but not always. In Gazhden’viya the statues dedicated to Veceslav, Bozidarka, Myesta, and Alena were found to be crying tears of blood, which is novel. Marzenya’s statue has begun to erode.”
A sick feeling settled at the pit of Nadya’s stomach.
“I have more,” Katya said, sitting back on her heels and glancing up at Nadya.
“Tell me,” she whispered.
“The ancient poplar tree that has protected the city of Czezechni for centuries caught fire. The bodies of an entire sect of monks in the Voltek hills were found dead with absolutely no way to tell how they died. The farmers in the land around the Yevesh’tiri lakes have reported that something in the largest of the lakes has drowned all their livestock.”
Each report hit Nadya like a blow. “And the winter,” she whispered.
“And the winter,” Katya agreed. “One thing has followed in your footsteps, though, and that is the tears of the icons.” She eyed Nadya’s corrupted hand, hidden by a long kidskin glove that had been far too expensive, but which Katya had paid for anyway. “I thought you were a cleric; I’m beginning to wonder.”
“I was,” Nadya said softly. “I am.” But she was something else, too. There was more Katya wasn’t telling her—so much more, she suspected, and she didn’t know how much her heart could take.
“The Vultures have moved to the front,” Katya continued. “You did something to blood magic, yes, but it didn’t have the desired effect. They weren’t touched.”
But it was gone—wiped out, the knowledge as if it had never existed in the first place. Nadya looked at Ostyia, who appeared to be chewing that over.
“The Vultures are made of magic,” she said. “They’re more than blood mages. To take magic away from them would be to unravel them.”
“Then why didn’t they unravel?” Katya asked.
“Malachiasz would have known,” Nadya murmured. She didn’t realize she’d said it aloud until she turned to see the other girls staring at her. She shrugged.
“I warned you about speaking of him,” Katya said.
“No one in Kalyazin knows what his damn name was,” Nadya snapped. “It doesn’t matter.” Żywia might know. Nadya didn’t want her anywhere near Katya, but it was worth an attempt. “What do you have?”
Katya glanced at the papers in her hands. “Leaflets from the church. Seems the age of magic is over. The time of the cleric has ended. All we can do is turn toward the church for guidance.”
Nadya swallowed. She should have expected this. “I’m going back into the church,” Nadya said. “I’ll catch up with you both later.”
Katya nodded curtly. Ostyia almost looked torn at leaving her, but ultimately, she went with Katya.
All right. One of you talk to me, I don’t care who.
Nadya pushed her way into the sanctuary. It was empty and the air stifled, the light was … dimmer.
The icons were crying tears of blood.
12
MALACHIASZ CZECHOWICZ
I hear whispers in the night. I thought it my dreams, nothing more, but they’ve grown so insistent and the things they say … is there truth to them? Is there truth to what Odeta has said? Are we fighting for a lie?
—Fragment from the personal journals of Celestyna Privalova
When Serefin returned, his skin was so gray it was almost green. He wordlessly sat back down. Pelageya had spent Serefin’s absence muttering nonsense to herself and glaring at Malachiasz as if she would kill him on the spot if able. It was a rather unnerving shift in atmosphere.
“Oh,” Serefin said. “It’s gone.”