His father had come to dinner, seeming almost giddy about something. Serefin tried not to have misgivings—this was all part of the plan—but he was worried. If his father was to be believed, Malachiasz was the one pulling the strings. Even if the Black Vulture had admitted his fault, did that mean he wasn’t going to hand the king exactly what he was looking for?
But it didn’t matter. They were out of time. At dinner the king had mentioned that the Kalyazi forces had moved, that an attack was imminent. He’d seemed … overjoyed at the prospect, and that terrified Serefin the most. All he could cling to was the desperate hope he could save himself in the end.
A knock at the door startled him. Likely Ostyia or Kacper—he hadn’t seen either that evening.
Żaneta looked washed out when he opened the door. She shot him a weak smile. Before he had a chance to greet her she reached out, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and kissed him.
He stiffened in surprise, but soon relaxed into the kiss. His hands clasped Żaneta’s waist and her fingers slid into his hair.
“What is this?” he asked, breathless when she broke away. He kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw. She didn’t answer. He lifted his head, searching her face. He felt a chill cut through him as he took in her bleak expression.
“Żaneta?”
She shook her head, forcing a smile. There were tears in her dark eyes. He gently cupped her face in his hand.
“Can you come with me?” she asked. She blinked hard and the tears were gone, the discomfort gone with them. She looked as poised as ever. “Sorry, I’m fine. I shouldn’t have—”
“Żaneta…”
She shot him a bright smile, no longer strained. “I’m fine, Serefin.”
He hesitated before gently kissing her again. When he broke away, she reached up, combing his hair with her fingers.
“It will only take a minute,” she said. She held her hand out.
He took it.
“Have you seen Kacper or Ostyia?” he asked.
“I’m surprised neither of them were with you. I haven’t seen them today.”
He frowned. It wasn’t like them to disappear. A heavy feeling began coiling inside him that felt suspiciously like dread. He had dismissed it before—Żaneta was the only person at court he trusted—but as he followed her down the dark halls of the palace he couldn’t deny this was going to end badly.
He tried to think, to pull his hand from Żaneta’s grip, but found his head suddenly fuzzy and his fingers slack. Żaneta went from leading him to dragging him down the hall.
Foreboding crept up his spine like cold fingers as they walked. Past the dungeons, in the back wing of the palace, far below ground, where any magic research the king was doing took place. Research not ordained by the Vultures.
There was blood trailing out from underneath Żaneta’s sleeve and sliding over her fingers. She glanced back at him, wiping the blood off on her dark skirts, and cleaned off her mouth with the back of her hand, a smear of blood coming away on her fingers.
His brow furrowed; he hadn’t tasted blood when he’d kissed her. The realization came slowly, his thoughts searching through a murky fog.
It was a spell. She put magic on her lips and now he was trailing helplessly behind her even though he knew he should flee. The only one he thought was on his side, and she had sold him away like all the rest.
They reached the entrance to the catacombs. The doors intricately locked and guarded on both sides. Serefin felt the jaws of his fate close in around him as he stepped into the dark.
Żaneta stopped. She turned back. The dark was choking and thick. Panic constricted his chest, making it feel as if no air was reaching his lungs. He felt her hand on his face, her touch light.
“I’m sorry, Serefin,” she whispered. She kissed his cheek.
“What could he give you that I couldn’t?” Serefin asked. It was hard to speak, his words came out thick and muffled.
He couldn’t make out her features in the darkness. “I want to be the queen. It’s that simple.”
Queen alone.
“He’s down here, isn’t he?” Serefin hated that his voice broke. He hated that he was scared.
“He needs you,” Żaneta replied.
She nudged him forward. Toward the darkness. Into the depths. He had no choice but to throw himself headfirst down into it.
30
NADEZHDA
LAPTEVA
Svoyatovi Konstantin Nemtsev: A cleric of Veceslav during a rare time of peace between Kalyazin and its neighbors. That did not protect Konstantin from meeting an unfortunate end. He was captured by Tranavian blood mages and drawn and quartered. The peace did not last long.
—Vasiliev’s Book of Saints
Nadya dreamed of many-jointed monsters and creatures with thousands of teeth. Of gaping mouths and claws of bone. These monsters, they knew her. They reached for her, hissing her name, and even as she ran she could feel claws catching on her clothes. The thousands of eyes peeled away the flesh on her back. She dreamed of fields of blood, of blood raining from the sky, of a world already ravaged by war with rivers that ran red.
She woke up screaming. Horrible, throat-searing screams that shook her whole body. Her hair dripped with sweat. She was only vaguely aware of Parijahan’s cool hands brushing her hair from her face, of the whisper of Akolan words, rapid and fluid.
Of the door flying open, a pair of warm hands folding over hers, the bed sinking down slightly on one side as Malachiasz sat, pulling her against his chest.
“Nadya, it was just a dream,” he whispered in her ear in Kalyazi. Her screams gave way to gasping sobs. “You’re safe here, towy dżimyka.”
She curled against him, his heart beating fast against her ear. There was rustling on the other side of the room and she heard Parijahan and Rashid talking softly to each other. Little things to center herself in reality.
“What time is it?” she asked, her voice raw. It hurt to speak.
“Sometime in the middle of the night,” he replied.
It felt like it should be nearly morning. She heard the door close as Parijahan and Rashid slipped out.
If she hadn’t felt so awful, she probably would have blushed at the realization she was alone with Malachiasz on his bed. At this point she was too tired to care.
“I haven’t heard the gods since I woke up in a pool of my own blood,” she whispered. “What scares me is maybe it’s a good thing. I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
Malachiasz nodded slowly. He looked like he’d been torn from sleep; his long hair was tangled, his shirt hastily thrown on. It was open wide, half hanging off one shoulder.
“It’s perfectly human to doubt, Nadya,” he murmured.
“Not when you’re divine,” she said. She sniffed pathetically.
“No, I suppose not,” he agreed.
“How do you do it? Live without faith?”
He was quiet against her except for the rhythm of his breathing. “Nadya, do you really want to know where my ethics come from? Me?”
Him, the king of monsters. The liar. The heretic.
No … she supposed she didn’t.
She murmured her answer. He nodded, unsurprised, and gently kissed her forehead.
“I feel like I shouldn’t ask what had you screaming bloody murder in your sleep but I admit I’m curious.”