She pulled away, heading off to find the others. She nearly ran into Malachiasz in the hallway. He looked frantic, making fear immediately spike through Nadya. He took her by the shoulders. “Can your magic heal?”
Nadya’s eyes widened and she nodded.
“Parijahan was fine,” Anna said.
“She’s decidedly not fine now,” he said, voice tight. The skin on his jaw was starting to purple as blood settled underneath the spot where Anna had punched him.
“Calm down,” Nadya said, touching his arm.
He blinked, his gaze dropping to where her fingers lightly pressed against his scarred forearm, and seemed to realize he still had her by the shoulders. He let go and stepped back.
He’s genuinely worried about her, Nadya thought, shocked. He cares.
“Is there any incense left in this place? I’m going to need it. A censer would be wonderful as well, if you saw any when you moved in. What kind of injury is it?”
“Her side is torn up. And yes, I can find some.” He took off at a run down the hall.
He returned swiftly with a dented censer, a pouch full of incense, and a few sticks that seemed to puzzle him. He handed them to Nadya with such an earnest expression on his face that her heart tripped over itself. She handed the censer to Anna, following Malachiasz into one of the side rooms.
Whoever had initially wrapped the wound on Parijahan’s side had done a good job but there was a darkness Nadya could sense in the jagged gash that was making it fester. Anna lit the censer. The scent of spice and holiness flooded the room almost instantly. Nadya relaxed and let her eyes shut. The smell was familiar, it was home. She tucked a slow-burning stick of incense behind her ear, hearing Anna’s breath of a laugh. It was a bad habit of hers and she had singed her hair on multiple occasions, but she liked having it burn nearby. Rashid was pacing and Malachiasz was putting out such a frantic energy that before Nadya could even do anything she sighed.
“All right, boys, get out of here. Parijahan will be fine. Her wound got worse, she has a fever, but she’s going to be fine.” She shooed them out.
She wrapped her necklace around her hand, finding Zbyhneuska’s bead and pressing her fingers against it. Opening her eyes, she scanned Parijahan’s unconscious form. The girl’s breath was shallow and sweat beaded her forehead, her brown skin ashen and pale.
The healing goddess was a mute one, working in feelings and visions. Of the pantheon, she was the gentlest, though soldiers had a tendency to send all their prayers to Veceslav instead of her; something about how a god of war was more likely to shield and heal them during battle than a goddess. A ridiculous superstition. Most would live through battles longer if they burned a candle to Zbyhneuska.
Thanks to Zbyhneuska’s silence, Nadya always felt like she could work through her problems with her.
Marzenya is upset I haven’t killed the Tranavian yet, Nadya said. I know we’re at war and Tranavians are heretics, but murder feels needless to me. She felt Zbyhneuska’s chime of scolding, but also understanding. Zbyhneuska thought death was needless too.
But Zbyhneuska, goddess of health, was not Nadya’s patron. Marzenya, goddess of death and magic and winter, was. It wasn’t something that usually bothered Nadya. But the way Malachiasz had dug his fingers into hers, the resignation with which he had readied his neck for her blade, had left her off balance.
She didn’t understand it. She didn’t want to kill him until the time came when she did. When she no longer had a choice.
Nadya pulled the spell Zbyhneuska gave her apart in her head, trying to decide how to channel it properly. There was a darkness to Parijahan’s wound that unnerved Nadya. She tugged at her magic, feeling a chorus of holy speech swirling in the back of her head. It felt clean; hopefully, it would be enough to heal the damage done by monsters.
Could this be more than just blood magic? Are the Vultures something else? It was thought not meant as a prayer, but Zbyhneuska reacted all the same. Her confusion startled Nadya.
But the gods were not infallible. The Tranavians had found ways to shield themselves from the gods; that was one of the reasons the war had begun in the first place. It meant that if they had found some darker method of harnessing magic, then the gods would not know. It was terrifying.
Nadya returned her focus to the task at hand, murmuring prayers under her breath. She wasn’t entirely sure she had succeeded when she finally lifted her hands away and opened her eyes. What she was sure of was her spinning head and the sudden glaring awareness that she couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten. She felt like she was going to pass out.
Parijahan’s breathing steadied, and the wound had closed, so Nadya left to let her sleep and picked her way through the rubble into what remained of the sanctuary.
“She’ll be fine,” she said, collapsing beside Malachiasz on a pile of pillows now covered with dirt and bits of debris. “Now let me fix that while I have Zbyhneuska’s attention.”
“Your goddess won’t allow her magic to heal someone like—”
“Shut up, Malachiasz,” Nadya said wearily.
He tensed, going utterly still as she brushed his long hair back, gently pressing her fingers over the blackening bruise. His eyes closed and she thought she heard his breath hitch. Healing the bruise was a simple task, but it wiped out the last of her reserves. So then she fainted.
13
SEREFIN
MELESKI
Svoyatova Evgenia Zotova: Zotova hid herself in the guise of a man and lived for most of her life prophesying from a cave at the base of the Baikkle Mountains.
—Vasiliev’s Book of Saints
The palace’s throne room was one of the most over-the-top places in all of Tranavia. It was a huge space, lined with columns of glass. Carved floral etchings ran up them in delicate spirals. The floor was made of black marble, so polished it was practically reflective. A lush carpet of deep violet ran along the length of the hall, leading up to Serefin’s father’s throne. The throne was the physical manifestation of power, blood, glory, and magic. Iron flowers with sharp thorns curled around the back and intricately twisted metal made up the arms and legs. It commanded attention.
Serefin had never been able to picture himself on it. He was a weapon, never a prince.
Izak Meleski sat upon the throne now, tall and straight-backed with his ivory military coat emblazoned with medallions and black epaulets. He had a severe face—one Serefin loathed to admit his own resembled—a neatly trimmed beard and finely kept dark brown hair. His crown was a simple piece of iron that was somehow just as commanding as the throne if not nearly as dramatic.
It’s the bearing, not the symbols, Serefin mused.
Serefin narrowed his eyes at the sight of the king’s close advisor, Przemysław, hovering near the throne. The slippery old man had been Serefin’s adversary at court for as long as he could remember. Anytime he returned home, Przemysław was there to turn him around and send him back to the front.
“You took your sweet time returning, I see,” Izak noted as Serefin approached the throne, bowing low before his father.
“Why, thank you, Father, yes it has been a long time. What’s that? Oh, it’s only been eight months since last I was in Tranavia. Yes, that is a long time to be at the front, but, as you see I am here now mostly unscathed.” He tapped his temple. “Some scars aren’t so visible.”