Chapter 14
Seeking solitude, Ksenia slunk into the library and pulled her half-read tomes and journals from where she’d left them on the shelves. Spines cracked, pages marked.
At the very back, an impressive tapestry was displayed against the stone wall. Stitched upon thick green wool, was a silver- and gold-embroidered tree with names unfurling from top to bottom.
Ksenia drew closer.
The names were listed in a variety of styles and fonts, and appeared to be from different embroiderers over the years.
The golden vein among family members represented the dominant one, and Ksenia noted that Beranek followed the daughters rather than the sons.
She traced her index finger down to eye-level with the latest entrants.
Iskra Beranek, Vezna Beranek
Varka Beranek
No mention of Bohdan. A bitter satisfaction curled in her chest. Apparently, the royal Saranov blood meant nothing here.
The family was clearly run by the matriarchs, with Varka holding the reins now that Iskra and Vezna were gone.
No matter how royal he was, or how many soldiers he commanded, Bohdan belonged nowhere.
Not on the throne, not in this home.
Served him right.
Ksenia scratched her neck as she steered away from the tapestry, depositing the books upon a lacquered desk before striding down a line of shelves.
Overhead, lanterns were strung from chains at varying heights, making them look like floating orbs of light in the darkness.
Metal had been infused into the tallow of the candles, which burned with different shades of blue.
They cast long shadows over her face, and when she caught her reflection in the fogged windows, she noted her cheeks appeared sullen and gaunt.
She had become well familiar with the library, choosing to spend the nights previous to pass the sleepless hours. Hallucinations were easier to deal with when she was awake, and she was pressing the question of how she could minimize her sleep without becoming dysfunctional.
She ran her finger down a row of books on the greater pantheon and mythology, searching for the God of the Crossroads.
The religious texts listed the church’s accepted pantheon, starting with the oldest. Mother of Hours, Green Throat, Hollow King—affectionately called Old Hollow by smiths… On and on, each one with a detailed depiction of their visages, feast days, proper offerings, and more.
But no God of Crossroads. No mention of Vornaya at all.
Ksenia scanned indexes and searched the footnotes of half a dozen more volumes when finally, in a book titled Heretical Practices, she found the first mention.
But it wasn’t directly about Vornaya in name.
Ksenia traced the words with her index finger as she read aloud softly.
“The liminal ones—gods of thresholds, transitions, and spaces between…These deities were said to govern doorways, births, deaths, and all manner of boundary-crossing. Their followers believed they held power over transitions—including the one from life to death. This was deemed heretical thought, claiming only The Six held divine authority over mortal souls...”
Her blood turned to ice in her heart as she reached the final paragraphs.
The Hand that Gives, The Hand that Takes. Those at the brink of death claimed to see her as a woman in a hooded cloak offering second chances, doors reopened that fate had closed. But every agreement came with a price, and the price always devolved into madness.
She went on to read that all of the gods came from men.
Beings who had suffered a trial or tribulation became known for what they were and grew from a small seed of power into flourishing members of the pantheon, albeit not the main ones, through followers, shrines, and the sacrifices they provided.
Ksenia scrubbed the heel of her hand into her eyes until stars spotted behind her lids.
When she blinked them open, the shadowed statue in the alcove before her shifted.
Her hand flew to Caromir.
“Tired of the dinner conversation, already?” Bohdan’s voice was silky, but it cut through the frigid draft.
She cursed as she flinched; a decade of evasion trained that into her.
And from the moment she had encountered him in the forest, it had been reinforced that she was in the presence of someone dangerous. He was power and control incarnate.
Had it not been for her bondsense, she wouldn’t have known he was in the armory last night.
Had it not been for Petra, he would’ve killed her.
His gaze traced the stiff line of her shoulders with barely contained mirth, a smug smile slipping to his full lips.
She swallowed thickly, her ruby choker bobbing, and his eyes caught the sparkle of the jewels.
Ksenia feigned a nonchalant shrug. She clapped the tome in her hands shut, sending a plume of dust into her face, and coughed tactfully.
“Religious texts? I didn’t take you to be a devout woman, Senka.”
“My clientele routinely commissions me for religious jewelry and figurines,” she lied smoothly, slotting the book into the crook of her arm and taking off in a brisk walk.
The soft click of his boots brought him closer. “That doesn’t belong to you.”
Tension snapped down her spine.
“Varka said I was allowed to borrow whatever I wanted. There’s little else to do before the trials.”
She kept her pace even, but her shoulders tightened with every step.
At the edge of her periphery, the family tree begged a question.
“Why isn’t your name on the tapestry?”
That stopped his pursuit.
“The matriarch decides who belongs and who doesn’t.”
Ksenia turned to face him, letting his answer hang in the air. He hooked his hand into the pocket of his slacks and tipped back on his heels.
“You should know something about Varka and my family, though.” His calm voice stiffened her neck. “She gave you that golden token as entry to the trials, but it’s a death sentence for all except the winner. And I’ve gone many years without a Sevrant.”
He slunk closer till she could feel the heat rising from his body and added, “Leave now, while you still can.”
She tilted her face up at him. His gaze was half-lidded—mocking her.
She mimicked his amused hum from dinner.
“Can I ask you something?” Her question made his brow quirk. “Do you ever resent it?”
“Resent what?”
Her smile was small, nasty. The wine had loosened her tongue. “Serving someone who will never make you king?”
The silence that followed was tense enough to cut.
“What do you know about resentment?”
His question flared her anger, driving the dagger she had intended to twist in him back into her gut.
What did she know about resentment? Resentment weighed over her shoulders like a cloak.
She resented his very existence—that he stood there breathing while bondsmiths were killed.
She resented that he’d found her at the forest line and marched her to her death.
She resented that he’d been complicit in her murder and couldn’t recognize her face.
“I can imagine family dinners are awkward.” She ignored his question, drunk with rage.
“Sitting at Varka’s table, barely acknowledged as a brother.
Then going ‘home’ and being addressed as…
” She tapped her finger thoughtfully against her chin.
“I wonder what he calls you. Captain? Prince? Son? Tool?”
“Be careful.” He leaned closer, his voice soft.
Ksenia’s smile didn’t waver.
Nobody. Nobody was that perfect, that still. There had to be a seam in his mask. And she would find it and slip in to see where the real Bohdan lived.
Then she would get her hands on that version of him and squeeze until something gave.
She turned to leave but paused, looking back over her shoulder. “I’m sure the king appreciates your service; your hands are bloody enough.”
I can’t decide whether to call you foolish or bold.
She had no response to Vornaya’s statement.
She left the library, but behind her, and for the second time that night, she felt his eyes burning into her back with spite and something else she couldn’t quite name.
Ksenia wagered that she had now posed an adequate challenge to his impartiality during the trials.
Tomorrow would bring final preparations—Ksenia would absorb whatever wisdom and training Varka wished to impart before nightfall. When the sun set, everything would change. The potential champions would gather in Hearth and officially enter the trials.