Wicked Saints (Something Dark and Holy #1) - Emily A. Duncan Page 0,24
disbelieving look. “He’s been stepping on you for ages now.”
“Has he?”
Serefin hadn’t had a moment’s respite in years. With the country at war it stood to reason, but anytime he returned to Grazyk to remind the country that they did have a prince, he was turned around and sent right back to the front. He was tired, beginning to fray at the edges, as if the barest touch would shatter him. He didn’t want to play political games as soon as he returned to Tranavia, but that was his fate.
Ostyia was right, the rift was growing deeper. His father had been trying his hardest to gloss over the truth. His son was a talented blood mage, and he was not. If he pushed Serefin out of sight, the slavhki of the court would never recall the son was more powerful than the father.
Serefin jumped down off the wall, sliding on the icy stone of the courtyard before turning around and facing his friends. “Well? We might as well put on a good show.”
“Is that what it will be? A show?” Ostyia asked.
“If it’s a Rawalyk, then yes,” Kacper said.
“Meaningless dramatics for the sake of the nobility,” Serefin said, then shrugged. “There’s something else here. I might as well see what it is. I’m sure it won’t be good.”
Ostyia’s eye narrowed. “I know that look. What are you planning?”
Serefin wasn’t sure he was planning anything yet. He had a feeling, a creeping dread that wouldn’t allow him to run home and play the part of the prince without some misgivings first. Maybe it was a product of being battered alive by this war, of seeing death and destruction every day for years. Maybe he was just growing irrational. Either way, it was there.
“What if my father is using the Rawalyk to install a puppet as his heir? Someone who can be manipulated.” Serefin was too opinionated, too powerful, too much of a threat to Izak Meleski’s sovereignty. “If he ties someone to the throne through me and then I meet an unfortunate accident…” he trailed off.
“Oy,” Ostyia murmured.
“Just how paranoid do I sound?”
“Very.”
He nodded. “I’ve been leading armies for three years,” he said, voice soft. “And you don’t go onto a battlefield without a strategy. But sometimes, reconnaissance is necessary. So I’m going to go home. I’m going to see what this nonsense is about, and then I’m going to deal with it as necessary. That may mean playing the prince and participating in needless dramatics. It could mean something entirely different. We may as well go and find out what this battle is going to look like.” With that, Serefin started down the seven thousand steps.
8
NADEZHDA
LAPTEVA
The goddess of vision, Bozidarka, is a goddess of prophecy. Be warned: for her gifts can break a mortal’s mind and her blessings are not so easily interpreted.
—Codex of the Divine, 7:12
No more was said about plans to kill kings. After Nadya had stuttered through her disbelief that it was even possible, Parijahan had suggested they speak more in the morning.
Killing the Tranavian king could end the war, but better still—at least for her—it would be some small justice for Kostya’s death. She would take the risk for that. She didn’t know if it would be possible—doubted it immensely—but the conversation made her warm to the Akolans. Even if she was still waiting for the right moment to put one of her voryens in the Tranavian’s heart.
Nadya passed a restless night in a chilly room with hard beds and thin blankets stolen from Tranavian soldiers. She was up before dawn breached the horizon, slipping out of the room and down the hall. She was used to waking before the sun to pray and wanted to be somewhere suitable to do so.
Anna was still asleep when she stepped out into the hallway. She found Parijahan in the gutted sanctuary, sitting at the table with ragged maps spread out in front of her.
“You were serious, weren’t you?” Nadya asked. She sat down across from the Akolan girl.
“Why would I joke about something like this?” Parijahan replied, without looking up. She wore her dark hair in a loose braid that curled over her shoulder. “There were more of us, once. A boy who lost everything when the Tranavians burned down the forest he and his family used as their livelihood, a girl who grew up in a refugee camp, Kalyazi siblings from Novirkrya who were conscripted into the army when they were children but then defected.”