“Thank you,” he said, his voice soft. “I didn’t think it would work, you see, there were so many variables along the way, so many things that could go wrong, but you have done exactly as I hoped.”
Nadya stiffened. She watched, mutely, as Malachiasz kicked at the body of the king, adjusting it so the fast flowing blood drained into the chalice.
“No…” she whimpered. She tried to get up, to knock over the chalice and stop whatever Malachiasz was about to set into motion, but she couldn’t. Her limbs refused to move and she remained frozen in horror as Malachiasz lifted the chalice, swirling the blood inside slowly.
“Malachiasz, please.” Nadya had to force the words past her lips.
She felt Rashid’s hand on her shoulder. He approached Malachiasz.
Malachiasz lifted a hand and rested his iron claws on Rashid’s chest, his eyes still on the chalice of blood. “Do not try to stop me,” he said softly. He slowly met Rashid’s pleading gaze. “Please.”
“This isn’t going to fix anything, Malachiasz,” Rashid said.
“You don’t understand,” Malachiasz snapped. “This”—he waved to the body of the king—“won’t be enough to stop this war. Those Kalyazi gods will grind Tranavia to ash like they’ve ground out their own country. I cannot let it happen. I won’t.”
“This won’t help.”
Nadya struggled to her feet. She took a shaky step toward him, curled her fingers over his on the cup. He was trembling.
“Is this what you wanted?” she asked faintly. “All the lies, all the planning, for this?” A flash of clarity, the understanding that he had wanted Serefin’s death, to take the secular throne out of the equation entirely and claim it all. “You think you’re going to save these countries,” she whispered, horrified. “This will just cause more destruction, Malachiasz, please, the gods aren’t like this.”
“Nadya, I showed you freedom. You know what will happen now.” His voice shifted, tone accusatory. “You knew it the whole time.”
She did. And she had been willing to sacrifice Tranavia to save Kalyazin. Her quest was divine and the Tranavians were heretics. But he was wrong; it wasn’t going to end that way.
“I’ll become more,” he said, sounding frantic. “Can’t you see? I told you.”
She blinked, startled. He had. He had told her the Meleskis needed to be deposed. That the gods needed to be deposed.
She’d been too wrapped up in him to put the pieces together.
She reached up, winding her hands through his hair, clasping them on either side of his head. “Are we so different, Malachiasz? It’s over. Let it go. This will destroy you.”
The Black Vulture shook his head. “I’ve waited for this too long.” He lolled his head, gaze unfocused. “Why go back when you can go further? Why let Tranavia burn when I can save it?”
His knuckles whitened as his grip tightened further. He pushed away from her and tipped the chalice back, draining it in one long draught.
No.
Nadya’s heart sped in a fluttery, sick way. She felt Malachiasz’s power still within her burning against her hold. What has he done? She stepped back.
Malachiasz shuddered, and the chalice fell from limp fingers. His head tilted back, Adam’s apple bobbing, as he swallowed hard. His face wrenched. Blood dripped from the corners of his eyes.
Iron claws, iron teeth, blackened horns that twisted back into his long hair. Vast, feathered wings drenched with blood sprouted from his shoulder blades. His pale eyes flickered onyx.
Physical changes that had been burned into his body by those of his kind. Why go back when you can go further?
What was further? Further was a power so corrosive that Nadya—through her terrible connection to Malachiasz—could already feel it eating away at him. Further was the veins underneath his pale skin turning black with poison.
Further was the power of a god—not even a god, this was worse than any divine power Nadya had ever touched. This was something horrible and eldritch, twisting his body and choking his soul. Draining the dregs of his humanity to be replaced with something vicious and mad.
Nadya let out a scream of pain. It felt as if every manifestation was happening on her. The cut on her hand heated, burning up her arm, filling her veins with fire.
Iron spikes jutted from his body, dripping with blood. As he stood, chest heaving, Nadya gasped. He fit the image of the monsters that terrorized her nightmares.
“Fascinating,” Malachiasz murmured. He pressed his clawed hand over his heart and frowned, as if he was feeling something only mildly unusual. His head twitched, wrenching painfully. Lightning and thunder and a groaning in the earth crashed around them.
She stepped closer. Rested one hand over her racing heart. Tears spilled over as she reached out and brushed her fingers against his cheek.
“What have you done, Malachiasz?” Everything she had felt for him was nothing more than ashes at her feet, but still her broken heart lurched at the thought of losing him.
There was madness in his black eyes—madness and something terribly close to divinity.
Which was, in essence, the same as madness.
He didn’t speak, just shook his head. He took a step away from her. Desperate and heartbroken, she pulled him closer and ignored his iron teeth, his madness, and kissed him.
He tasted like blood; he tasted like betrayal.
“I can feel it,” she whispered, her hands smearing blood on his neck. “What have you done? I can feel it.”
His eyes flickered back to their icy pale, agony stark within them. “Myja towy dżimyka. Myja towy szanka…” He tilted her face up. Kissed her again, careful with his razor claws, his touch achingly gentle. When he pulled away his eyes went onyx once more, the ice bleeding away into darkness. “It’s not enough.”
“Malachiasz?” Her voice broke and she clutched at him even as she felt him moving farther and farther away.
One of his hands lifted; the backs of his fingers brushed against her cheek.
He thought this would heal the gaping wound of his tattered soul, save his kingdom. She was watching him destroy himself. Spiraling into pieces as he was twisted into something far past a monster.
But he still has his name, she thought, a desperate, fleeting, irrelevant thing.
Tears dripped down Nadya’s face and she caught his hand, pressing it against her cheek. She kissed the back. His hand slipped from hers.
His vast, black wings snapped open and he rose, crashing through the high window in the chapel and sending fragments of broken glass raining down upon them. Nadya stood, blood staining her skin, fingers to her lips.
The veil over Tranavia was ebbing away, the gods’ touch returning. Now their presence felt wrong. Nadya braced herself for Marzenya’s anger, but nothing came.
She could feel the gods, but they did not speak to her.
36
SEREFIN
MELESKI
Svoyatova Evgenia Dyrbova: The last known cleric, Svoyatova Evgenia Dyrbova, a cleric of Marzenya, fell on the battlefield. Her last words were considered a prophecy of doom—the gods would recede, their touch would lessen, clerics would be even more of a rarity. Kalyazin would be doomed, if nothing changed, if the war continued.