26
NADEZHDA
LAPTEVA
Velyos is a god but not a god. He is a was and an is and never again, never again.
—Codex of the Divine, 50:118
When Nadya came to there was an itching in her veins unlike anything she had felt before. She shoved the necklace down into her pocket, careful to keep it off her skin, though it no longer glowed. If blood sparked the connection, she would have to be especially careful not to touch the pendant again, as blood was slick around her still.
The itching in her veins grew stronger, and Nadya shut her eyes. Remembering the well of power during the attack on the church when Marzenya had given her free rein of her magic, she groped in her own mind, trying to find that place once more. If what the voice said was true, it was hers to use, and she needed to find it.
Fog clung to her. It was as if she was lifting a heavy curtain. What she found on the other side was white and shining and powerful. Refrains of holy speech unlike anything she had ever heard. Pure raw magic. She opened her eyes and stood, ignoring her body’s protestations as her cuts reopened, blood dripping down. White points of light emanated from her fingertips and she touched the door, drawing symbols with the practiced ease of someone who had cast magic this way all her life. She knew—intrinsically—how she was to use this power, how she was to twist the words of an immortal tongue into raw magic.
The door shattered before her hands. She jumped back, wincing as shards pierced her already broken body. She wasn’t going to stay conscious for much longer.
There was no one outside and Nadya wilted with relief against the doorframe, giving herself a moment to breathe through the pain and flashes of wooziness, before she put one foot in front of the other and slowly stumbled forward.
She turned the corner and ran directly into someone coming down the hall. The well of magic flooded down into her hands and she reacted without thinking, shoving out with the power. She saw the figure’s arm lift, blood on their palm. Her magic crashed off them harmlessly, deflected by their own power.
“Nadya?”
She froze, taking a step back. Fear and relief tangled in her chest and she wanted to bolt. If the Vultures had Malachiasz again they could use him against her and she couldn’t fight him. Not in the state she was in now. So she ran.
Nadya was tired and battered and it took him no effort to catch her. He grabbed her arm and yanked her to a stop. Dimly, she realized she was shaking. She heard him hiss out a low breath as he took in her mess of wounds.
“It’s just me,” he said, gently turning her to face him. “I went to your rooms. Parijahan was gone and the place was ransacked.”
No mask; it was tied to his belt. It was just him. Hair tangled and dark smudges of exhaustion under his pale eyes. He was here looking for her, not because he had been brainwashed to kill her. She let out a long, shuddered breath.
He glanced over his shoulder. She lifted her hands, staring at them. What had she done? What was this power she was using? It was blasphemous; the door would never reopen to her if she kept this up. When she lifted her gaze, Malachiasz was watching her with a tentative expression on his face.
“My magic…” she started.
But then he tensed, head whipping around, and suddenly her feet were off the ground and he had swept her down the nearest hallway and into what appeared to be a closet.
It was dark. She was immediately hyperaware of just how close she was to him, face against his chest. His breath ruffled the soft hairs at the base of her neck, sending shivering jolts down her spine. She could feel his hands hovering inches above her waist, clearly afraid to settle on the chance he would place them directly over an open wound.
Footsteps clattered through the hallway. Loud and fast moving. Someone had discovered that Nadya was not where she was supposed to be. Once things grew quiet again, he shifted, taking her hands in his, her palms up.
“Show me,” he said softly.
She swallowed hard. Grasped at the well of magic that flowed too deeply for her to understand. White light like cold flame sparked at her palms.
An odd little half smile flickered at his lips, lit by the glowing magic at her hands. Magic that was … hers? She didn’t know. She opened her mouth to ask him, because he would know, but something stopped her. She didn’t understand how he knew these things about magic; didn’t want to be swayed to his heretical point of view. But …
What if he’s right? He always seemed to be right about her, about magic. She didn’t understand.
“The things you could do,” he whispered. He touched his fingertips against hers and she had to swallow down her heart from where it lodged in her throat. A faraway look appeared in his eyes, but he blinked and it was gone. “We need to get out of here.”
She nodded. There was a second, a tremor, where she wanted to break into pieces and cry. She wouldn’t—she refused to crack so easily. But she threw her arms around him, fingers digging into his back, indulging in the comfort of his warmth.
He let out a startled breath and his hand weaved through her hair to cradle the back of her head. “I’m glad you’re safe,” he whispered, lips soft against her temple. “Let’s get you to someone who can see to the worst of your wounds.”
Nadya reluctantly pulled away. She reached out to the gods again as she reached for Malachiasz’s hand. He twined their fingers together without a word.
And, again, from the gods, she was met with silence.
* * *
Nadya looked up at the winding staircase with trepidation. The glass tower was beautiful, light glittering through the panes. It had more stairs than Nadya would be able to climb in her current state.
“I could—” Malachiasz started, but quickly fell silent when Nadya held up a hand.
“I will not be carried,” she said.
“It would be no trou—”
“Do not offer again.” But the reality of the situation hit her and she leaned her head against his shoulder. She felt dizzy, each wave of pain threatening to knock her flat.
The witch lived at the top of the spiral staircase. Apparently she was their best bet to getting Nadya any help at all. Malachiasz softly kissed the top of Nadya’s head.
“Are you certain?”
“Not at all,” she mumbled. She was in pain and tired and didn’t want to walk up however many thousands of stairs were in front of her.
She straightened, pulling away from Malachiasz and gripping the railing as she started up. He let out a frustrated breath behind her.
“I lived at the top of seven thousand stairs,” she said. “What’s a few more?”
Her head spun and she swayed backwards. She gripped the handrail enough to twist herself around so she was sitting instead of toppling down the stairs.
Malachiasz leaned against the railing. “Written in the history books will be the story of a Kalyazi cleric, killed before her time not by her Tranavian enemies, but because of a flight of stairs.”
Nadya let out a pained whimper. Cuts reopened and started to drip blood down her back. “I hate you.”
“I offered to help.”
She looked up at him. “Written in the history books will be the story of a deranged former Vulture, murdered—quite terribly—after making one too many awful quips.”