Wicked Saints (Something Dark and Holy #1) - Emily A. Duncan Page 0,58

they reached the border, anyway. “Then I’ll keep my mouth shut. All they’ll see is a Tranavian soldier split from his company, two Akolans seeking refuge, and a mute peasant the Tranavian picked up for pleasure. Because they’re like that.”

That earned her a dirty look. Anna snorted.

They reached the point where Anna would part with them and Nadya wished she could pretend it wasn’t happening. She understood why Anna was staying behind—if they were successful, Kalyazin needed to be ready—but she hated it nonetheless.

Anna’s final words to Nadya nestled down within her bones. “Don’t be a martyr. We have no use for yet another saint.”

Afterward she walked into the military camp where Nadya could not follow. Nadya watched as she spoke with a soldier at the perimeter, the soldier’s eyes scanning the woods behind her. She watched as the soldier waved Anna inside, and watched as she disappeared. It wasn’t fair that Nadya had to lose everything for this, but she should know better. She had read the Codex enough times; her goddess demanded sacrifice.

Parijahan hooked her arm through Nadya’s. “You’ll see each other again,” she said softly.

Nadya didn’t believe that, but it was a small comfort.

The mountains gave way to fields bitten by the frost of the long winter gracing Kalyazin. As each day brought them closer to the border, soon there was nothing but the burnt and blackened remains of what were once Kalyazi villages. Ravaged fields and decimated buildings where homes had once been. How much death had to sweep through these countries before someone finally said enough?

Nadya distanced herself from Malachiasz during those days of travel. She would rather lose the time learning about Tranavia than look him in the eyes and pretend she didn’t want to murder him.

Rashid was a gift from the gods during the bleak stretch where they were surrounded by the constant taste of death in the air. Nadya would spend her evenings next to him as he spun tales with a skill Nadya wouldn’t have expected from the flashy Akolan. Kalyazi legends of princes and saints and old magic, Tranavian stories of monsters and shadows, Akolan tales of sand and intrigue. Every time Nadya learned something new about Rashid she found she was surprised; she wouldn’t have ever thought him a scribe or a storyteller.

Parijahan would listen with her head leaning against Malachiasz’s shoulder or her hands idly braiding his hair, and Nadya would forget they were probably doomed as soon as they reached the border.

* * *

It was early evening, the setting sun creeping through the gaps in the trees and flooding the clearing with warm, amber light. Malachiasz and Nadya agreed that the moment where they cast magic on each other should be kept between them, so they had separated from Parijahan and Rashid.

Malachiasz leaned back against a tree, gazing up at a small murder of crows that landed in the branches shortly after they arrived.

“The tolst is an omen,” Nadya whispered.

“Good or bad?”

She shook her head. “It could be either. It could be both.”

His lips twitched into a smile. “You Kalyazi are certainly superstitious.”

“Try my patience, Vulture boy, and I’ll tell Vaclav to send a leshy after you. No one will know you’re gone.”

“No one would mourn my absence, either,” he said.

Nadya blinked, faltering at his frank words. Her hands were trembling as she called on Veceslav and felt the holy tongue of the spell ease its way into her mind.

“Stand still,” she ordered, lifting up on her toes. She rested a hand on his shoulder for balance. He stooped down a little so she could reach more comfortably.

She took her other hand and pressed two fingers to his forehead just at his hairline, where the trio of black lines were etched into his skin. She slowly ran her fingers down his face. Something sparked underneath her touch, something that wasn’t magic at all. His lips parted when her fingers brushed against them, and the barest of sighs slipped through. She almost drew her hand back and away, frightened at the electricity jolting its way up her arm.

He tilted his head back and she let her fingers brush down his throat. His pulse sped under her fingertips. Lifting her hand again, trying to ignore its shaking, she touched his ear, dragging her fingers horizontally across his face to the other side. She felt her magic sweep over him, pause, hesitate, then cover him, shield him.

He looked the same to her. She recalled Veceslav’s word: enemies. It would shield