Malachiasz was quiet for a long time before he spoke again. “You never feel trapped?”
“Trapped by what?”
“The path you have to follow for your magic. That it could be denied at another being’s whim. You have so little say in the direction of your own life. Isn’t that stifling?”
“When you frame it that way, yes. Except my life isn’t like that. My magic isn’t like that either.” But … for a flickering instant, she let herself consider just how carefully she had to tread with the gods, how a decision to survive had already cost her hours of guilt. She shoved the thoughts away.
“But you have all these rules and guidelines. What happens if you break them?”
“I don’t.”
He frowned. “What keeps you from testing them?”
She leaned back on her hands and her fingers brushed against his, heat burning up her arm. She shifted away. “What are you trying to say, Malachiasz?” she asked, too mortified to look at him directly.
He drew one knee up against his chest and rested his chin on it. “I’m trying to understand.”
“Why?”
He appeared genuinely puzzled by the question. “Am I not supposed to be interested?”
“You’re not supposed to care.”
He opened his mouth, and closed it again, looking thoughtful. “I do care,” he finally said, voice quiet.
Nadya swallowed hard. “Why?” she asked. He was Tranavian, a heretic, a Vulture, every part of him was in opposition to what Nadya believed, and yet …
There was something else. She didn’t know what it was. She was unnerved to discover she wanted to find out.
“Because I have known nothing but the Vultures my whole life,” he said reluctantly. “And we have both spent our lives preparing to kill, well, each other, but here we are instead.” He didn’t need to indicate the decided lack of space between them.
“The Vultures destroyed Kalyazin’s clerics,” Nadya said.
He met her gaze before he nodded. There was no shame in his eyes, nothing like remorse.
“I will not harm the last,” he said.
Nadya’s heart felt erratic in her chest and she didn’t know how to make the feeling go away. “We have no idea if I’m the last,” she said finally, primly, hoping it would break the spell that was keeping her trapped here with him, even though she knew magic had nothing to do with it.
“Don’t you wonder what it would be like? To be someone else, with no expectations upon you or the fear of retribution keeping you on the same path.”
No. Yes. It’s more complicated than he could ever know.
“You grew up in a monastery.” He fidgeted, fingers picking at a hang nail. “And that’s just a different string of rigid rules, isn’t it? How to live, who to love, what you can and can’t think.”
“I don’t mind rules, or having grown up in a monastery, but I can grant you that the magic, the destiny, knowing most clerics are killed young…” she trailed off. “It’s hard living your life knowing you’re probably going to die horribly. But this is who I am. It’s a blessing, not a curse.”
She hoped it didn’t sound like she was rationalizing to herself, too. What was happening to her?
He seemed to be considering that.
“You disagree,” she said.
He nodded.
“This is why our countries have been at war for nearly a century,” Nadya said. “And I do feel a little like killing you right now, so I can see why.”
“Just a little?”
“Don’t press your luck.” She returned to the statue.
In a flash, his hand was underneath her chin, thumb brushing against her jaw. He turned her face back to his. “I plan on doing exactly that,” he murmured.
If Nadya hadn’t been sitting down she suspected her knees would have given out on her.
Then, just like that, he let her go. He stood up and nodded to the altar. “Are you finished?”
She had been done for some time. She nodded, clearing her throat. He held out a hand. She hesitated before letting him pull her to her feet. He let go as soon as she was standing, digging his hands into the pockets of his coat as he started down the road to where the others had decided to camp. She watched him go. Something had shifted between them.
* * *
Spending days speaking only in Tranavian did wonders for Nadya’s understanding of the language but little to mask her accent. It was frustrating Malachiasz more with each passing day, but she wasn’t sure what she was doing wrong.
“It’s soft. Your words are too soft. Like,” he waved his hand in front of his mouth, “your words are mush. Tranavian is hard.”
Nadya let her horse wander instead of tying it up, sending a short prayer up to Vaclav to keep an eye on the animal so it didn’t stray too far.
“You’re not making any sense.”
“We could lose this whole game at the border because it’s desperately obvious your native tongue is Kalyazi.”
She waved a hand. It was out of her control. The only way to get any better was to continue doing exactly what they were doing. They still had plenty of time until they reached the border, anyway. “Then I’ll keep my mouth shut. All they’ll see is a Tranavian soldier split from his company, two Akolans seeking refuge, and a mute peasant the Tranavian picked up for pleasure. Because they’re like that.”
That earned her a dirty look. Anna snorted.
They reached the point where Anna would part with them and Nadya wished she could pretend it wasn’t happening. She understood why Anna was staying behind—if they were successful, Kalyazin needed to be ready—but she hated it nonetheless.
Anna’s final words to Nadya nestled down within her bones. “Don’t be a martyr. We have no use for yet another saint.”
Afterward she walked into the military camp where Nadya could not follow. Nadya watched as she spoke with a soldier at the perimeter, the soldier’s eyes scanning the woods behind her. She watched as the soldier waved Anna inside, and watched as she disappeared. It wasn’t fair that Nadya had to lose everything for this, but she should know better. She had read the Codex enough times; her goddess demanded sacrifice.
Parijahan hooked her arm through Nadya’s. “You’ll see each other again,” she said softly.
Nadya didn’t believe that, but it was a small comfort.
The mountains gave way to fields bitten by the frost of the long winter gracing Kalyazin. As each day brought them closer to the border, soon there was nothing but the burnt and blackened remains of what were once Kalyazi villages. Ravaged fields and decimated buildings where homes had once been. How much death had to sweep through these countries before someone finally said enough?
Nadya distanced herself from Malachiasz during those days of travel. She would rather lose the time learning about Tranavia than look him in the eyes and pretend she didn’t want to murder him.
Rashid was a gift from the gods during the bleak stretch where they were surrounded by the constant taste of death in the air. Nadya would spend her evenings next to him as he spun tales with a skill Nadya wouldn’t have expected from the flashy Akolan. Kalyazi legends of princes and saints and old magic, Tranavian stories of monsters and shadows, Akolan tales of sand and intrigue. Every time Nadya learned something new about Rashid she found she was surprised; she wouldn’t have ever thought him a scribe or a storyteller.