Wicked Saints (Something Dark and Holy #1) - Emily A. Duncan Page 0,8
Saints
Serefin Meleski leaned against the tunnel entrance and squinted out into the snow. The sun had nearly set, but the reflection was blinding against his—admittedly terrible—vision.
“You’re letting them get away,” Ostyia whined at his side.
He ignored her, instead picking up his spell book from where it was strapped to his hip, flipping it open. He riffled through the pages in silence before tearing one out. He dropped the book and held his arm out to Ostyia.
Her eye narrowed and she glanced down at the knife in her hand. She snatched his wrist and dragged the blade over his palm.
“Not his hand,” Kacper protested from where he was leaning against the opposite wall of the tunnel.
Serefin ignored him as well, lifting his hand. He watched the blood quickly well up from the cut and drip in slow rivulets down his palm. It stung, but the surge of magic that would come canceled out any minor pain. He moved the spell book page into his bleeding hand, letting the blood soak into the paper. Magic ignited hot in his veins, and as the page slipped into dusky tendrils of smoke, his vision sharpened. A trail leading straight to the cleric showed vividly as red streaks against the snow.
He smiled. “She can run.”
“Is it wise to tether yourself to her with that spell?” Ostyia asked.
“She won’t be able to feel it. It’s not a tether, just a trail.”
It wouldn’t matter how far she ran; he would be able to keep track of her as long as he fed blood into the spell at occasional intervals. Easily done.
“Confident,” Kacper noted.
Serefin shot him a bland look. “Even if she feels it, she won’t be able to break it.”
“You don’t know anything about the magic she was using. How do you know she won’t feel it?”
Serefin frowned. Kacper was right, but he wasn’t about to admit that.
“Have the men round up those still alive and contain them,” he said to Ostyia.
She nodded and disappeared down the tunnel.
Kacper watched her go. “Why aren’t you going after her?” The sleeve of his coat had nearly been shorn off during battle; it was holding on by a few threads, and his gold epaulet hung haphazardly off his arm. He tugged a brown hand through his dark curls and appeared surprised when he found them matted with blood. “We’ve been looking for evidence of a bloody cleric for ages and we finally found one.”
“Do you want to be stumbling around in the dark in the middle of the Kalyazi mountains?” Serefin asked.
Their company had already experienced firsthand how deadly a Kalyazi winter could be to those unfamiliar with the terrain. Besides, Serefin could barely see on a good day and his night vision was worse. Understanding lit Kacper’s dark eyes and he nodded.
Serefin had been on the front in Kalyazin for almost three years with only the occasional leave to return home. In all that time it was as though winter never ended. Even Kalyazin’s melt season felt cold. It was only snow and frost and forests. For the last five months Serefin had charged his company to look for evidence of Kalyazi magic. His father had been adamant it existed, that it was vital Serefin find these clerics. They could tilt the course of the war in Kalyazin’s favor and that would not do, especially now, after a decisive strike against Kalyazin had finally been won. Tranavia had claimed the Kalyazi city of Voldoga only weeks earlier, a vital outpost for the enemy. It was the first step in finally turning this endless war to their side.
“With any luck, she’ll lead us to more of her kind,” Serefin said. He started back into the tunnel, but paused.
Passing an absent hand over the scar that cut across his eye, he turned to Kacper.
“Light?” The word came out condescending, a brittle command instead of a request. Any other time he would have had slightly more consideration for Kacper’s feelings, but exhaustion made him callow.
“Yes, sorry.” Kacper fumbled for a torch that had fallen to the ground and relit it.
They passed the storeroom where the Kalyazi girls had been hiding and found Serefin’s lieutenant general, Teodore Kijek, poking around.
“Send word to my father about today’s events,” Serefin told him. He didn’t bother mentioning the cleric. Best if his father thought the cleric escaped; he didn’t need to know Serefin had let her go.
“Of course, Your Highness.”
“Do we have a count for how many Kalyazi survived?”