name, please?” Serefin reached over and slid one of Ostyia’s daggers out of the sheath at her hip. He began to clean his fingernails with the point of the blade.
“Lapteva. Nadezhda Lapteva.”
Serefin had to hide a smile. Now he had her. “And the other girl?”
“Anna Vadimovna. I … I do not know where they were going. There are multiple safe houses in the area. She could have chosen any one of them.”
Serefin watched as the boy crumpled, the agony of betraying the information breaking him. Funny. For all he knew it was paltry information at best. Multiple safe houses were hardly surprising. He would have to comb the area thoroughly. There was also the matter of certain end-of-the-world incidents Serefin would like answers for.
“Is she powerful enough to take the stars out of the sky?”
The boy’s head lifted and Serefin was faintly disgusted to see something that looked suspiciously like hope flicker across his face.
“No, but the gods are.”
Serefin snorted softly. “Right, of course.”
He stood up. “Thank you, Konstantin, for your time.” He tore a third page out of his spell book and crumpled it in his hands.
Ostyia took a step back as the younger boy fell over, dead.
Serefin left just as the Kalyazi monk’s shock was beginning to wear off—just as the screams of rage began.
Ostyia shut the door, muffling them. “I will have someone collect the body,” she said.
“Thank you.” Serefin glanced at Ostyia. “I’ll have to ask that you convince me not to get drunk again.”
“Anything for you, Serefin.”
As they entered the sanctuary, Serefin paused in front of the ornate altar. He skimmed his hand over a carving of a forest that covered the top.
Pain suddenly lanced through his skull as if spikes were being driven through his eyes. He clutched his head with one hand, fingers fumbling for his spell book and razor. He fell to the ground.
“Serefin!” Ostyia cried, dropping to her knees.
He held out a hand. The pain was already dissipating, ebbing away like a trickling stream. He leaned back, expelling a long breath of air.
“What was that?”
He internally accounted for all the threads of magic he had active. The spell he had cast to track the cleric had been severed. He scrambled for it, his index finger sliding over the razor in his sleeve, but even with fresh blood he couldn’t reconnect it. He had her name but it wouldn’t help if he lost the trail.
She’d found his spell, broken it, and kept him from bringing it back. And last night she had taken the stars from the sky. She was more powerful than he’d thought.
He had to find her. He had to take her power for his own.
“Have Teodore placed in charge of the company,” Serefin said slowly. “You, Kacper, and I are going after the girl. Now.”
6
NADEZHDA
LAPTEVA
Though Bozetjeh is the god of the wind, he is considered to be the essence of speed and of time itself. He is everywhere and nowhere all at once.
—Codex of the Divine, 10:114
Sweat beaded at Nadya’s temples but relief flooded her as the prince’s spell snapped away. She let out a hiss of a breath, the odd sense of something wrong leaving her.
Up ahead the Tranavian boy paused. He looked back at her, a frown creasing the tattoos at his forehead.
He shouldn’t have been able to sense that, Nadya thought.
“No … he shouldn’t have,” Marzenya agreed. She sounded curious. “You will dispose of him soon, yes?”
He’s Tranavian, Nadya replied. The answer was obvious.
Nadya was disconcerted Marzenya had to tell her the prince was tracking her every move, that she hadn’t felt the taint of his blood magic. There were still too many things Nadya didn’t know how to do on her own.
After Parijahan had offered them a place to hide, they had swiftly caught up with the two boys. Rashid grinned at Nadya, whereas Malachiasz eyed her silently before turning away.
They arrived at a large, ramshackle church that sprawled down across a valley. It looked like whoever built it had planned for it to rival the Church of Adrian, the Martyr in Khavirsk, but got distracted. It was made entirely of wood—even the round onion domes—and there was unfinished red paint peeling from the bottom of the walls. Carvings over the doorway revealed a dedication to the goddess of the sun, Alena.
This is yours? Nadya asked, thumbing the appropriate bead on her necklace.
She felt amusement in return. “It was never truly dedicated.”
Nadya eyed the church. She could fix that. She wondered how these refugees would