Chapter 15 Even #2
Her jaw works, her face quite red now. Oh, she’s adorable. When I chuckle under my breath, Jaga freezes. Her face tightens into the familiar mask of effort, and I shoot up, alarmed. She’ll do it again, burn through her magic, her soul, and I can’t let her.
Before I make a step, Jaga buries her face in her arms on the table, groaning with helpless rage. Good. She knows the risk.
“You did that to stop caring, didn’t you?” I ask softly. “It terrifies you that you might love me yet. Well, let’s make it easy. Ask so you’ll know, once and for all. Ask if I love you.”
She lifts her head with effort, looking at me with deep, profound resignation. I jerk away, my playful mood evaporating.
“I would rather not know, Woland. Because if you love me and still did all those things… Who even wants to be loved like that? Finish the tale and let me sleep.”
My heart slams hard, the memory of her violating touch skittering along my ribs. I don’t think I can love her any other way. But… Maybe I am not as bad as she makes me out to be. Did I love her before or after I got her banished from her village?
After, I think. That’s comforting.
Before or after I manipulated her to fall for me? Ah. But that can be excused. I wanted her to feel the same way I did. And the other things? Trying to wipe her memory, revealing her significance to the world, chaining her to the floor?
I have an excellent excuse: the rage of a betrayed lover. It’s reasonable to be furious after finding out my betrothed fucked my son.
Or maybe she’s right. Maybe my love is poisonous. But Jaga is a poisonous flower herself, just like the poppy after which I call her. It’s a drug that induces visions, makes people drowsy and careless.
She had my heart in her hand, for fuck’s sake. She is as bad as me.
“Perun never confirmed it,” I say, abandoning my fruitless train of thought.
“Hence, it’s just a rumor, one that Dola hinted to me is true.
See, from time to time, powerful people are born in the mortal world or in Slawa.
Like Dar—he received an exceptional soul from the Great Tree.
As you know, souls are magic. That is why he will be able to fly despite his weak parentage. ”
Jaga nods, ever the gracious student. “Will he remember the previous lives of that soul? I know he doesn’t now, but maybe someday?”
I shake my head. “A soul is not a mind. Those reused ones do not have memories. It’s—a person’s essence, a certain quality, a capacity for magic. Things that are nebulous and difficult to grasp.”
“So what does it mean?”
“I’m getting there. Let’s look at you now, hm? A powerful witch with great magic. You were destined to die at twelve, weren’t you?”
She hums in confirmation but doesn’t elaborate. I tried asking her in the past, mainly to find out who hurt her and use my devilish powers to find and kill them in a painful, prolonged manner.
“Perun hates disruptions. To him, mortals and bieses are like cattle. In Slawa, he has only one use for people—to harvest their magic. Mortals are important for their beliefs and the power they give him. But if there was a hero or a heroine, say, or a powerful witch who conversed with gods and bieses, well, that might put a snag in his plan. Powerful people sway crowds. Heroes are worshipped.”
“So he makes sure there are no heroes,” Jaga whispers, her eyes widening in indignation. “But—how?”
“The rodzanicas. They decide the fate of every newborn, do they not? If they sense a great destination awaiting a soul, they are ordered to change that fate to early death. At least, according to rumor. Perun won’t let them speak of it.”
Jaga’s lip curls with loathing. She shakes her head, her fingers so tight around her wine cup, her knuckles are white.
“So if someone dares to be more than average, if they are destined for greatness and power—he has them killed as a child? Oh, it makes so much sense. I believe it.”
She shakes, a faraway look in her eyes, like she’s lost in a memory. Her gaze is unguarded. I force myself to stand up and walk far away, because the temptation of forcing my way into her mind is too great.
The lengths she makes me go to. I’ve never sacrificed so much for another, and she dares to scorn my love.
I let my shadows swallow me and become Weles. This way, at least, I won’t scream at her for denying me after the torture she made me go through. As Weles, I am polite. I have decorum.
“So if not for Perun, I might have had a long, good life as a mortal?” Jaga asks, her voice shaking from suppressed rage.
I chuckle under my breath, rounding the table so she sees me. Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t ignore me, at least.
“Jaga, love, if not for Perun, you would have been a formidable witch and I would have taught you myself. Witches are my people, those I hold dearest. We might have fallen in love peacefully then. He hurt us both, didn’t he?”
“Treacherous, silver tongue,” she mutters, looking away.
“But it’s the truth. Woland’s blood is my blood. You bind me, too.”
She gulps her wine and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Her eyes are purposeful when they settle on my face. She means to say something, but the door clangs open, and Chors strides in, resplendent in a silver shirt that seems to be woven from moonlight itself.
Jaga smiles with genuine affection, and I fight the urge to throw out my beloved son. So much for that moment of reconciliation in his cave during the new moon. My jealousy churns like a parasite in my guts.
“Would you care to join me for a walk outside?” he asks, his eyes sparkling with power.
And of course, she agrees.