Parijahan nodded. “There’s an abandoned church nearby. We found it a few weeks ago and have made it almost livable. It could fall around our ears at any second, but at least it’s warm.”
Anna let out a sharp breath. Nadya glanced at her, but Anna just shook her head.
“And you’ll do this … why? You put a dagger to my neck.”
“I did, but it was very dark. And you helped us. I have a bad habit of picking up those who’ve helped me.” She smiled wryly, but her expression became deadly serious as she glanced up at the sky.
It was clear she knew Nadya had cast the magic. There had never been any true point in trying to hide it. Using her power was inevitable, and the minute she did, people would know Kalyazin had clerics again after a thirty-year absence.
One cleric, at least.
Parijahan rubbed the hilt of her dagger. “I think you can aid us in doing the impossible.”
5
SEREFIN
MELESKI
Svoyatovo Radmila, Nymphadora, and Agrippa Martyvsheva: Triplets blessed by the god Vaclav, the Martyvshevas lived in the center of the dark Chernayevsky Forest in quiet communion with their patron until the heretic Sergiusz Konicki invaded. When he tried to force the Martyvshevas to renounce their patron, they resisted. Konicki killed Nymphadora and Agrippa, burning them and half the Chernayevsky Forest. Radmila fled to safety, spent seven years in contemplation with Vaclav, then hunted Konicki down and burned him alive like he had her sisters.
—Vasiliev’s Book of Saints
The next morning, Serefin woke with a raging hangover and a prisoner to interrogate. It was early, before dawn, and he lay on the stone-hard pallet, staring up at the ceiling and contemplating his fate.
If they found the cleric within the next few days—he was certain they would—it meant a speedy return to Tranavia. It had been years since he had been in Tranavia for longer than a few months. The war was all he had.
He wasn’t sure he remembered how to be the High Prince instead of the blood mage general at the helm of the army.
Serefin sat up and was rewarded by a headache pounding a hammer against his temple. He groaned, running a hand through his hair. He shrugged on his coat and tried to ignore that his mouth tasted as if he had chewed on sawdust all night.
He opened the door to find his entire company in a panic.
“Your Highness, I was just coming to wake you,” Ostyia called.
He blinked at the pair of soldiers who were crashing through the hall past her, shouting something about the end of the world.
“I’m going back to bed,” he said. He’d had enough of this ridiculous country and their ridiculous religion and maybe the end of the world would stop the absolutely blinding headache he had acquired.
“Serefin!”
“Oh, yell a little more, Ostyia, please.”
He turned back, regretting the motion immediately as the room spun. He pressed a hand to his face, slouching against the doorframe.
She was fighting a smile. He was going to kill her. “Do you want me to get you something for that hangover?” she asked sweetly.
“No—yes, water, just water.” He waved a hand. This wasn’t fair. He was certain she’d had more to drink than him the night before. “Then someone tell me what’s going on.” He rested his forehead against the stones, cool against his skin.
Ostyia returned a few moments later, handing him a full skin of water. It didn’t help. He kept a hand pressed to his temple as he signaled her to brief him.
“Sometime around three o’clock in the morning everything in the sky went out.”
He flinched as he raised an eyebrow. Why did that hurt? “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means the whole world went dark for about fifteen minutes last night.”
Serefin’s eyes narrowed.
“Also a scout we sent in the direction of the Kalyazi girls never returned,” Ostyia continued. “Are you allowed to kill people if you’re the hand of the divine?”
He ignored that.
“Should I order the rest of the company to move out? We can have them sent ahead.”
He considered her suggestion. “Hold that order.” He wanted to send the rest of the company with Teodore while he sought out the cleric.
“You’re giving her time to get away.”
“I still have her trail. I need something more to ground the spell. We’re going to get it now.”
Serefin followed Ostyia through the sparse and cold hallways of the monastery and into the opulent sanctuary. He didn’t understand why so much money was poured into creating something for the purpose of gods who would not care a bit for it, but he could still appreciate beauty for what it was.
Pews of rare blackwood lined the sanctuary, with the smallest of statues carved at each of the ends. The altar was huge, reaching up to the vaulted ceiling and made of gold and blackwood and silver. The tiers of the Kalyazi gods pictured on either side, the highest tier not depicting figures of the gods themselves, but columns with words in an ancient language Serefin could not make out. The first through third tiers showed the gods in more human forms: regal, beautiful, terrible.
Serefin paused in the doorway, eyeing the ceiling. Paintings of haloed saints and forests stretched over them. Icons were placed along the walls of the sanctuary, depictions of more saints. How could one country have so many raised to purported holiness?
Light filtered through the clear glass—Serefin was surprised it wasn’t stained glass like the abandoned chapels of Tranavia. Ostyia was watching him and he turned to her, rolling his eyes derisively.
“We could make good coin out of all this gold,” he noted.
“Only if you wanted to carry it back to Tranavia yourself,” she said.
We’ll have to find new ways to fund this war eventually, Serefin thought. The army had looted the Kalyazi churches near the border, but anything farther away was too difficult to transport. Serefin wondered if he could have a method looked into for moving the riches into Tranavia. At least then the gold would be put to some actual use instead of collecting dust in tribute to empty air.
Why waste all that money and time in service to gods who did not even know you existed? He would never understand the Kalyazi and their devotion to a thing of the past.
The future was magic, it was power, it was mankind stepping out of the shadows and finding out the world had been kept in the dark by these gods. Not even gods, but rules and rigors kept in place by men of the church. Of course, the war was about more than just religion—there was a stretch of land between Tranavia and Kalyazin that both claimed as their own. And there were other, minor issues that had compounded during the near century the war had stretched.
“The abbot gave you nothing?” Ostyia asked as they approached the door where the young monk was being held.
“An old man content to speak only in riddles. I have a mind to execute him.” Removing their leader would ensure the prisoners remained placid. He had used the tactic before with the Kalyazi. It always worked. He had never used it with church folk, though; he was hesitant to do anything that might turn one of their own into a martyr. The Kalyazi loved their martyrs.
He paused before the chosen door, stopping Ostyia before she opened it. She shot him a look that was altogether too knowing.