“Yes. I am.”
“Nadya,” he breathed out, and there was something in the way he used her name that made her feel too warm and too cold all at once. She blinked up at him, sudden terror gripping her. He looked shaken, and she didn’t really want to contemplate just what could frighten this blood mage.
“It’s the Vultures.”
A chill swept through her. She felt a stirring in the back of her head. The gods were distressed. Her joints locked up and ice wormed its way into her bones. How was this happening? First the High Prince, now the Vultures?
She couldn’t run from the Vultures. She couldn’t run from the darkest nightmares of Tranavia.
Malachiasz tore out multiple pages of his spell book and frantically scrawled blood over the wood and torn pages. “If they come here, you and I won’t be long for this world.”
“Why would you be in danger?” she asked. If she focused on the little things, maybe terror wouldn’t swallow her alive. “Because you defected from the army?”
He stopped writing, closing his eyes and whispering something fast under his breath in Tranavian that Nadya couldn’t catch. He let out a bitter laugh and turned to look at her, his pale eyes full of fear. “Because I defected from them.”
9
SEREFIN
MELESKI
Svoyatovi Roman Luski: Appointed as a bishop in secret by half of the Council of 1213, Luski fought to maintain Kalyazi control of the eastern provinces. It was a losing battle, as Dobromir Tsekhanovetsky gained the votes of the other half and betrayed his country’s trust by handing the provinces to the Tranavian king.
—Vasiliev’s Book of Saints
Three mages against two dozen soldiers, and Serefin only had a bare handful of spells left. The Kalyazi camp was just down the hill, the predawn dim revealing only a few soldiers awake.
Ostyia flipped twin szitelki in her hands, impatient while Serefin carefully shifted through his last five spells. If they ran into any more Kalyazi on their journey home, he would be in trouble.
“What do you have left?” Kacper asked, his voice low. He leaned on his staff. Razor-sharp metal was tied to the tip of it.
Serefin showed Kacper his painfully thin spell book. Kacper selected one of the remaining spells. The chosen spell would burn for a while, creating a sufficient distraction while Ostyia and Kacper finished off any soldiers not already boiling from the inside out from Serefin’s magic.
Serefin eventually made his way down the hill once the sounds of struggle had ceased. He found Ostyia cheerfully riffling through rucksacks with provisions. “I don’t think we’ll have to stop by the border now,” she said.
“Should we do something about the bodies?” Kacper asked.
Serefin shook his head, squinting up at the morning sky. “No, let the buzzards have them.”
Ostyia tossed Kacper a rucksack as he went to fetch the horses.
“Hey now, what’s this?” Serefin heard Ostyia murmur as she lifted a tent flap and peered inside.
He followed after her and watched as she picked up a book discarded on the tent floor. There was a small pile of them inside. She flipped through it before handing it to him and picking up another.
“These are Tranavian spell books,” she said, frowning.
Serefin knew the Kalyazi burned the spell books they picked off Tranavian bodies. If they could help it, they avoided even touching them.
“There’s Kalyazi written in some of them,” Ostyia noted.
Serefin found a page in the book he was holding where blocky Kalyazi script was scrawled in the margins. He frowned. It was a cross between a Kalyazi diary and musings on the functions of the spells written in the book.
Well, it seems not every Kalyazi is so rigidly devout, he thought. He recognized the structure of Kalyazi prayers amidst the spells. Were they trying to merge the two?
“Are they all like this?” he asked.
She opened a few more, flipped through them, then nodded.
“Collect a few,” Serefin said. “I want a closer look.”
“What do you think it means?”
“Desperation.” Serefin stepped over a dead officer’s body. “The Kalyazi are losing the war. One might even say they’re becoming heretical.”
* * *
The border came and passed without trouble. Serefin tried not to worry. They were so far north they skirted the front entirely, but they had found the border unmanned and unguarded.
It was as if the war had grown routine. This stretch of border used to be carefully watched, but they were losing resources. He would have to remember to post a company to keep the border, even in the north. It would be too easy for Kalyazi troops to slip into Tranavia using this same route through the mountains into the marshlands.
“I can’t decide if you complained more when we were in Kalyazin or now that we’re back in Tranavia,” Ostyia said.
While the change in temperature had not been immediate, it was obvious they were no longer in Kalyazin. There was barely any snow on the ground or trees. It was still cold—the long winter that had struck Kalyazin had graced Tranavia as well—but it was nothing like the frigid bite of Kalyazi air.
Also, it was raining. Serefin might have mentioned his dismay at traveling through the rain.
“It’s simply my nature,” he replied.
“I can’t argue with that,” she muttered.
“I’ve mentioned I hate the marshlands, right?” Kacper said. “While we’re all getting our complaints out.”
“No, Serefin’s complaining is inherent to his system. Everything he says must be a complaint,” Ostyia said.
“I’m going to demote both of you when we get back to Grazyk,” Serefin replied. “Have fun guarding the Salt Mines.”
Serefin didn’t particularly wish to travel through the marshlands either, but the main roadways would be clogged with Tranavian nobles traveling to Grazyk. He wanted to avoid dealing with the nobility for as long as possible; they were the one thing that could make him miss the front.
The Tranavian marshes had wooden boardwalks, built centuries ago, else they would be impossible to cross. Serefin had always been certain the reason the front stayed on Kalyazi soil had nothing to do with the strength of Tranavian forces and everything to do with Tranavia being too soggy. Staging any battle in the marsh or lake lands would be difficult and miserable for both sides.
Unfortunately, the marshlands were perpetually dark. Light struggled to get past the thick foliage. There were legends of demons that lived in the dark corners where the light never touched and the boardwalks never reached. Dziwożona, the marsh hag, or the flesh eating rusalka. Creatures who waited in the damp for the unsuspecting to venture to watery graves. In Tranavia, there was always another monster around the corner waiting to devour you.
They reached an inn early in the evening, managing to go undetected by the few travelers they passed. Few ventured this way, Tranavian superstition holding most of the country in check. After all, it was always better to simply not risk being dragged underneath the water by a wolke to serve as his slave.
Serefin sent Kacper inside as he unpinned his badge of office and handed it to Ostyia. Normally he would enjoy using his status in a backwater inn like this one, but Serefin was tired and didn’t want to attract unnecessary attention. The scar on his face was telling enough. He couldn’t go anywhere in Tranavia without being recognized. Hopefully he was dirty enough he would go unnoticed.