Chapter 2 Underworld #2
“Because it’s a grave,” Nyja says with a snort. “That’s where Perun’s forces and ours clashed after the kidnapping of Jutrzenka. Old days.”
Again, she mentions the Goddess of Dawn. I shoot Nyja a questioning glance, but she’s not looking at me. Jaga doesn’t ask about Jutrzenka, her silence giving me a sharp taste of satisfaction. It’s deliberate. She holds back on purpose to hurt me, but that means she’s curious. There might be hope.
“The only entrance to Nawie is through Mogila,” I explain. “It’s why the mountain is often a target. Any casualties, Nyja?”
Her sigh is melancholy, and for a moment, my fearless general looks old and weary.
“A few. We weren’t ready for the rarog. It burned six of my soldiers to nothing. Three of them were out for the first time. It was supposed to be an easy mission. The rarog fled before we could catch it, too.”
Jaga turns gingerly to look at Nyja. I can tell from her movements how frail she feels. So stubborn. If only she ate regularly, she’d be back to her full strength by now. If only she drank my blood that I tirelessly offer her every day.
“Is the rarog a flaming bird? Do I remember correctly?”
Nyja nods. “More or less. It’s an emanation of Swarog, just like the moon is an emanation of Chors.
Swarog is the god of fire and the forge, so you can imagine what we’re dealing with.
Flame hot enough to burn a god, claws and beak as strong as vises.
It’s enormous, but since it’s made of fire, it’s also lethally fast. As it stands, we have no way to fight it unless Weles himself comes out there and suffocates the rarog with his shadows. ”
Jaga shoots me a sharp glance, then looks away just as fast, her lips pursing. My heart pounds harder, thrilled. She forgot herself. She looked at me.
Nyja huffs under her breath, frustrated.
“You know, everything would be so much easier if you two just talked, but I see why that’s impossible.
He refuses to wear the skin you fell in love with, you refuse to forgive him, and the millions of souls stuck here and all my beloved nawkas will die as a result of your stupid standoff.
It’s fine. I’ve been alive too long, anyway.
I welcome the respite of death, or whatever semblance of it I can get. ”
Her sarcasm is biting. Jaga stands so abruptly, she stumbles, but when Nyja’s hand wraps around her forearm in a steadying hold, she shakes her off. Saying nothing, she walks away, her shadow dancing on the floor as the flames flicker.
“Before you say anything, know that I begged her on my knees,” I bite out through clenched teeth. “I spent an entire day prostrating on the cold floor while she sat on my throne. I did all I could.”
But Nyja snorts with derision, unimpressed. “You never had trouble kneeling for a woman if it suited your goals, and I bet she knows that. You haven’t done everything, not even a half of it. Think why she hates you. Think long and hard what the core of your conflict is.”
I don’t have to think, because I know why we keep fighting. I want to win above all else. I need Jaga to be the prophesied key to my victory that she’ll never agree to become. Yes, I love her. But I can’t give up the fight.
“She will never trust me,” I say, throat tight with resentment. “But she’s the one who went off and fucked my own godforsaken son, so maybe she should…”
“Please, don’t,” Nyja groans. “I have to deal with childish dramatics every day. I can’t have it from you, too.”
“Childish dramatics?” I raise my brow, more surprised than offended. “I am older than the world itself.”
Nyja turns to me, her eyes furious, mouth twisted in a mocking expression of complaint.
“But she did it, it’s her fault, Mistress Nyja, punish her. I didn’t do anything. It’s all her fault, put her in the corner! She started it! Let her fix it! Blame her!”
Her mockery is vicious and cutting. I want to scream at her, but I don’t. That would only prove her point.
“When will you remember you’re a god?” Nyja asks quietly, her fury spent. “You’re all-powerful, which means you can do anything. You used to know that.”
“Since when do all-powerful beings get chained and tortured by their own brothers?” I mutter, more to myself than her, and walk away to find Jaga.
I can’t let her wander alone. She’s all I have left.
It’s true that I am but a shadow of the formidable force I once was. I bled my power and will into the soil around the Great Oak’s roots, but there is a glimmer of hope, one I followed ever since Nyja said that prophecy.
A young mortal woman
Who should have died at twelve,
A witch with no ancestral soul
Will settle this war once and for all.
Whoever claims her will prevail.
I cannot win without Jaga. And if I don’t win, there won’t be peace for us to build a life. Why can’t she understand that? It’s not that I want to use her. I need her on my side so we can win—together.
“There you are.”
I stop next to her in front of a massive mosaic depicting an ancient fire celebration. Tiny black silhouettes dance around an inferno of flames framed by the dark spires of spruces.
On a whim, I send my shadows ahead, curling into the shapes of the dancers, infusing the trees. The fire lighting the mosaic blazes brighter, increasing the impression that the flames flicker, and I pulse my dark magic into the image to make the dancers move.
Jaga is quiet, but she watches as I animate the image for her pleasure. She gave me a glance, after all. I can give her this in return.
A few heartbeats pass in silence as we both watch. Abruptly, she turns away, her spine rigid, shoulders tense.
“Wait,” I growl. “Please.”
She’s already walking but stops, her back to me. I sigh, suddenly knowing what I must do and hating it. But Nyja is right. I haven’t exhausted all of my options.
He refuses to wear the skin you fell in love with.
I have good reasons to avoid my darker half. He is unrestrained, cruel, greedy, and likes to destroy more than create. If I let him out, he’ll chase Jaga away with a careless word or gesture. He’ll be impatient with her, maybe violent. He’ll probably make her hate me more.
But I’m out of options.
Magic crackles in the air around me as my body disappears in a cloud of shadows. I stretch, taller, broader, darker. My neck tenses under the burden of antlers. When Jaga gasps and turns to see, it’s not Weles who looks back. It’s Woland.