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Marat had not returned that night. She waited, listening for steps in the hallway until she drifted off to sleep. Her dreams were undisturbed, consisting of vague past experiences stirred by the subconscious but never forming into the horrifying images of her time at the Glade.
He was still gone when she awoke. Val immediately thought the worst, if he had gone to retrieve their things, he should have been long back by now.
She had slept with the hunting knife beneath her mattress, although not truly believing she would ever use it. But, it made her feel for the first time like she could take care of herself.
Val had been reading the brother’s journal, the notes on creatures, on wards, and herbs. There was a lot that she was too afraid to ask Marat about; she did not want him to take the journal away. She could not help but feel strange when she saw the handwriting of the dead man.
Her nightmare, his face. These were his thoughts and observations. And, Marat had trusted him. Counted on him. Loved him.
It was a curious feeling, almost as if she felt a kind of affection for Erlan, the way that Marat had remembered him. She did not know the man, not at all, all things considered. But she saw the fragmented remains of the brother’s relationship piece by piece. And, despite everything, she wished that she had known him as well. Before the Legho. Outside the Legho.
These journals were his legacy. His passion for alchemy, his vast understanding of the properties of herbs and plants, his plans and inventive modifications on their equipment - they were all there.
But, the journal had remained at the inn. Above all else, she hoped that Marat would retrieve it. It was unclear what had happened with Ezra the night prior, but something felt very, very wrong about the hazy memory of their argument.
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Marat slept off the poisons over the course of a few hours. When he woke up, he was still in the same room, his head pained and muscles aching. But, he was lucid and whole. The kikimora had disintegrated into a black puddle of something sticky and glossy on the floor. He walked around it on his way out, careful not to get the creature on his boots.
He walked down the stairs to the room with the barred door. It was closed again, but Marat did not need to break it down this time. He knocked slowly but with force. There was shuffling on the other side and then silence.
“Ezra, I know what you are. She is dead. And I know you will be soon as well. Give me my gear. I will be on my way. I will not harm you.” Marat said, more interested in timeliness than anything else. Silence was his answer.
Sighing, Marat rubbed his eyes and grunted.
“Ezra. I know this is your home. I will leave you here, just give me my things. I am not above setting it, and you, on fire otherwise. I do not need my concoctions and oils for that.” He tried again. This time, after a moment, it sounded as if the lock had slid aside.
“Walk to the other side of the room!” He heard from behind it.
Marat walked to the opposite wall and waited. The door cracked and then creaked open. A thin, yellowed arm reached out, pushing first one bag and then another outside. The arm was covered in what looked to be chicken skin, its long yellowed nails cracking and breaking at the ends.
“Now go away!” Ezra yelled.
“Not without my money.”
A guttural hiss came from the other side. A minute later, gold was thrown out the door and all over the floor. It shut again.
“Thank you,” Marat called to him with a tinge of smugness and went to pick up the gold.
When it was initially uncertain what role Ezra had played, it had become clear to Marat that he was her domovoi.
The kikimora and domovoi had a highly dependent and symbiotic relationship. Bonded for life, one could not survive without the other. The domovoi would seek out a house while she crazed the inhabitants into leaving, and then they would set up a nest.
She could not speak outside of dreams. So, the domovoi would be the voice. They would lure prey, and she would eat them slowly in the night, in turn feeding her domovoi.
Although, the kikimora could not attach to just anyone. A weakened or ill person would be easy prey - and could not get rid of her no matter where they went. The kikimora did not have to be present if she had already gained access. It only took that very first time inside.
Most people would not make it a week if the kikimora were starved.
Now, with it dead, the domovoi could not feed. On their own, they were harmless. And, unable to fend for themselves, they would eventually starve.
He came back just as Val got dressed and ready to leave. Walking into her room, he dropped their bags against the wall.
Startled, she was about to say something but choked up. She did not have the words, not knowing what had happened between them in his mind. If he felt that it was a mistake, no words were exchanged on the subject, and she did not want to presume just to be pushed away.
“I am happy to see you…” She tested the waters carefully.
He was dirty and smelled of mold and dust. The bags under his eyes told her he had not slept much. There was something else, too; he looked very sickly.
To her surprise, he walked to her quietly and wrapped his arms around her, silently standing with her head against his chest for just a moment. At that moment, she felt his heart racing for the first time. When he let go, he turned away, still wordless and left the room with his bag.
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They left for the Cathedral right behind the royal procession.
The courtyard was full of people. Those not allowed inside would climb the fence and get on each other’s shoulders for a better look. The ambassador led Marat and Val inside, although he did not stick around past that.
The inside of the Cathedral was something truly breathtaking. It was opulence and grandeur. From the outside, it was a colossal white building with rows of glass windows and tall peaks. Inside, white pointed arches were ornamented with gold. The entirety of the space was filled with light - the stained glass coloring it with greens, crimsons, and blues. They reflected onto the black and white marbled floor and flowed across a stone fountain in the middle of the entry space. Alabaster columns with delicate carvings rose to the ceilings, where depictions of divine beings were painted with every color Val had ever seen.
The voices of hundreds of people inside the building echoed through the halls, only lightly disturbed by the ringing of bells somewhere far away.
Marat took Val by the hand, pushing his way through the crowd. Typhonos and Elena had not wanted them to come, but Marat had insisted. It seemed to Val that he did not put his full trust in the royals or their promises.
This day was the day they would see the kings speaking on their state’s behalf.
The center of the Cathedral, the great hall, was an elongated giant room with columns running both sides. At the head of it were fine carpets leading up the steps to a pedestal.
Around it were arranged four thrones.
Marat had brought her to a space against a column where they had a clear view, located just about halfway down the room. There was no seating, but people were gathering to ensure they did not miss out on the best views.
He watched everyone silently, his face unreadable. It seemed to Val that he may have known some of the faces present.
A hush fell over the voices. Val’s eyes fixed on the podium, where a door had opened, and the first party had strolled through. She looked with wonder and curiosity, having repeatedly heard the kings' names. What would they look like?
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The first procession entered.
Thankfully, Marat had leaned down to her, not taking his eyes off the front.
“Batyr.” He said.
Batyr of the Barren Lands strode in with an aura of pride about him. An older man, his head and face had been clean-shaven. Val noted that perhaps he was the reason that Aisultan had instituted the practice of having one’s beard cut off to signify foolishness.
Next entered Typhonos and Elena, followed by their generals and several nobilities.
Then, a taller and slimmer man than the previous two. His skin was a darker golden color which matched perfectly with the amounts of it he wore on his person. It seemed that no part of his body went without a gold ring, necklace, or link. Likewise, the entirely of him up to his neck was covered in dark tattoos in intricate shapes and colors. Even his gold-cuffed wrists and hands were adorned with ink.
He had no hair or eyebrows, but his long dark beard hung nearly to his waist, braided into many braids and again into one.
Along with him came several well-armed men, although none of their armor of sigils matched one another. Val’s stomach churned when she saw that one of them was Johannes, in light golden cloth and his hair braided, the same snake’s smile on his face as before. He did not see them in the crowd, but she could not help but slink back against the pillar.
“Aisultan. The Copper Head,” Marat muttered, his distaste apparent at the tattoed king. “Notice, none of his wives are in attendance.”
Val realized that this was the man to whom the brothers were bringing her to. Had her luck ran just a little short, this would have been the body she would sleep under at night, at least until she bore a son. She was unsure what disgusted her more, those thoughts or the knowledge that Marat would have handed her over to him. Although, it did not feel like this Marat, next to her, was the same person she met back then.
The fourth king was preceded by two generals. They both wore black waistcoats and decorated hats that more resembled helmets. Their movements were rigid and precise, and they stopped on either side of the throne to set out for their king.
“Korschey, of Roska,” Marat told her. “Steer clear of anyone you see beside him today. Or any day.”
The man who walked in seemed to cast a different air about the room.
“ A piece of metal on the sole of his boots is what’s making that clinking noise,” he continued, “It is intentional, so no one could mistake his coming - or think he would be bothered to increase his pace for anyone.”
He was tall, taller than anyone else by him. His thick gray and black wool garments did not hide the fact that he was thin. If Val were to guess, he was maybe ten years older than Marat - out of the kings, he was very obviously the youngest. His hair was very dark, but not like Marat’s had been. Korschey’s sharp, pale features stood out in great contrast to his hair and garb.
He wore no jewelry aside from a single decorated pearl broach at the collar of his waistcoat. Nothing about his dress spoke of his status, but his posture and the way his cold gray eyes had come down on the room made everyone go quieter in reverence.
Val thought that it had gotten colder in the room when he appeared.
The ceremonies started with a crier announcing the kings, and the cheers from the crowd made Val think this seemed like a game. She recalled this energy when the boys in her village would foot race, and their friends would cheer loudest for the one they wanted to see triumph.
None of them, aside from Typhonos, had been as Val had imagined. She was still in awe of having even seen a king –much less four! But so much in Val’s recent life had come as a shock or novelty that it was difficult for her to even feel real anymore. It was just a storybook full of kings and monsters, and many of them, both.
Words were spoken. Politics addressed. She felt her eyes wandering and getting heavy. How long were they to be here? Marat was not speaking to her, and when she tapped impatiently on his arm, he shrugged it off, focusing solely on the ceremony.
At some point, a different man came up and spoke. And then another. Three, all dressed head to toe in white linens, came and chanted something. This was a dreafully slow event, and Val had truly expected more.
Then, something caught her interest and brought it back. Batyr stood.
“Hear all!” He started. His voice boomed deep. “I have come here to show you the truth of Sudraj. We come to you with iron born people, with white stone cities that radiate divinity under the burning sun! Let your eyes fall upon the wonders of the southern deserts.”
With that, the great room fell back as a man brought a two-headed tiger out of the doors to the right of the royal gathering. People in the crowd yelped and talked excitedly, and many backed away fast.
It still seemed this sort of showmanship was a norm for many nobles.
When the excitement died down, it was Typhonos who stood.
“My friends,” he started, “I do not come to you with wonders of my state. I do not wish to awe you or arouse your curiosities. I come to you with gifts of my land and my people—a thousand head of cattle, a thousand pounds of silk. I bring to you a hundred wagons of unrefined cotton. These are the treasures of my land, and I give them freely to you.”
When he sat, there were cheers that went up about the room. Val felt a certain sense of pride as if it were her own king. A woman somewhere nearby was praising him to her friend, and Val was sure that no one to follow would receive a warmer reception.
Then, Aisultan stood.
“My people!” He spread his hands out as if to welcome them one and all. “I do not come here to let you gawk at my pets or treasure. I do not come here to buy your living souls with gifts. I come with the greatest army of the kingdom. As we speak, we span leagues outside the city. Our lands welcome those who should need to come under their protection. I bring you a testament of that.”
With those words, the same doors that had produced the two-headed tiger, two men came out, carrying a large and heavy sword in their pained and shaking hands. Its metal was highly polished, and a sunbeam caught in its reflection and nearly blinded the room.
They brought it up to Aisultan.
“Behold! The All-Father has given us not only his blessing but his favor!” He took the sword from the two men in a single hand. A gasp went up across the room. Val gasped, too; the thing was nearly as tall as he was…
“It is trickery. The best he seemed to be able to get out of a hunter.” Marat whispered to her. “He asked for something to turn the tides of war, and he comes here with a babble of a weapon that he yields as if it is weightless. It may make him a fitter warrior, but it does not make him a fitter king.”
When the excitement died down, and Aisultan returned to his throne, a silence full of excited waiting fell on the crowd.
Everyone held their breath for the final king, Korschey, to present. He took his sweet time - Val thought he must be laughing at the crowd for how long it had taken him to stand and step toward the front lazily.
Everything about the man had such an unpleasant feel to her. Not even Aisultan had evoked such discomfort.
“Good people…” He drawled out. A sly smile crawled across his face and disappeared. Val thought it almost looked as if he had come inebriated, so slow and full of mirth was he in movements and words. It was as if he was laughing at the court and the crowd in secret.
“Good people!!” He repeated louder. “There has been so much talk of prides of the states. What offering? Why are they worthy of a peaceful union of our lands?”
Val felt Marat’s hand tighten on hers. He was tensing, feeling the same uneasiness as her.
“I ask you, are you impressed by a beast whose mother and father had likely been bred for generations with their own kin? So vile that it cannot move its neck enough to tear an animal in two?” Korschey’s voice grew louder. “I ask you! Are you impressed by the same goods you may find at the market stalls? Fine silks, but you all wear them today already!”
Something was happening. Val’s eyes darted around the room frantically. She felt her bones vibrate inside her. It got colder, this time she was certain of that.
“Are you impressed by a fool with a sword he has bought off a better man?” Korschey’s words had roused the crowd and as they got noisier with their snickers and laughs, so did his voice grow louder. It filled the room, bouncing off the marbled and alabaster walls in a menacing echo,. “I’ll give you something by which you should be impressed! My friends.”
Korschey had mockingly looked at Typhonos, who sat unmoving.
“I give you the greatest game found in my forests, behold!”
Val heard her heart thump and pause. Maybe everything had. At the tips of her fingers, she felt the cold crawl up her arms as if her veins had been filled with ice. And in the next heartbeat, the doors to the right flew open. Out of them came three men, each holding the end of a chain. One chain was gold, another iron, and the third was silver. They all tugged at a single collar, at the end of which a creature twisted and writhed furiously.
A creature, small and bony in stature. It’s back hunched. A creature with long, wild hair full of forest leaves and twigs. Its skin wrinkled and hanging over its eyes.
The Hag.
A hush and then an uproar of fright came across the crowd as the sensation of her presence washed over each and every person in attendance. Her anger, her rage, whirling in a tempest across the consciousness of all. Val froze in horror, and her heart stopped, cramping in her chest.
“And now, my friends, I will present to you my the greatest hunter - who has trapped for me the greatest prey!” Korschey boomed above the chaos in the audience.
A figure emerged from the same doorway, stopping by the Hag whose chains had been tightened to keep her claws out of reach.
Marat’s eyes widened at the recognition of the man.
It was Erlan.
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