Chapter 32 #2
Ksenia grimaced at the popping of his joints as he adjusted to hear her whispered words.
Petra’s hand quickly shot out and grabbed the obsidian beads around his neck with a tug.
The clasp broke, and the beads struck the marble with sharp, crystalline tinks as they scattered across the floor.
Petra’s giggle contrasted with Serafin’s raspy growl as his hand grasped the empty air where the child once stood.
Her footfall was light as she sprinted toward the side door, bursting out onto the balcony overlooking the waterfalls.
The wind howled through the church, rippling the open tomes on lecterns, sending loose sheafs flying.
Serafin lurched in pursuit, robes billowing, his jaundiced face flushed with a purplish red. His brass staff clanked heavily on the floor as he moved.
Ksenia loosened the breath from her lungs, stepping from the shadows.
Her fingers closed around the obsidian medallion pendant that lay forgotten on the floor, tucking it into her pocket.
She slunk onto the exterior balcony and eased the door closed.
The balcony jutted behind the church, suspended over the ravine where the waterfall plunged into darkness below. Ghostly mist caught the peeking moonlight—drifting over the stone balustrade and dampening her entire body.
A pair of stone pillars held large iron braziers, their flames hissing as the spray reached them. Hidden behind one, Ksenia could just make out an impish smile and golden-yellow hair.
The roar of falling water was a constant thunder that resonated through the floor beneath her feet, and the damp air tasted of minerals and moss, icy in Ksenia’s lungs.
A path of obsidian beads scattered across the slick stone floor and sparkled like dark stars in the firelight as the archbishop struggled to collect each one in his stiff, bony hands.
Her pupils were blown wide with predatory focus as she watched him from the darkness.
She held the stamped end of her maker’s mark at the edge of the brazier, letting the flames lick the metal.
“Forgive me, Archbishop Serafin…”
Serafin’s ancient head turned like an owl’s on thin, scrawny shoulders at the direction of Ksenia’s voice.
His shriek was thin and raspy as she slammed the metal brand upon his wrist.
He retreated closer to the balcony edge with a hiss, clutching his burn.
“For I have sinned”—she drew Caromir from her hip—“and I am about to sin again.”
“I should have expected such treachery from a harlot.” His heavily lidded eyes pulled wide open in their deep sockets. His staff trembled in his pallid grip as he brandished it at Ksenia, who stepped back, amused.
He had seemed tall and imposing at the final challenge, but now, Ksenia realized he was just a frail man with a cane.
His waterlogged robes dragged over his feet as he tried to swipe at Ksenia’s head, every movement requiring great effort.
She watched, bemused, as he defended himself.
Caromir emitted a feverish whine as Ksenia drove it deep into Serafin’s ribs, puncturing his lungs. A heady, dizzying rush of power surged from the center of her being, spreading like wildfire through her veins to her fingers and toes.
Her eyes fluttered shut, lost in the intoxicating inferno.
His wheeze was papery, thin. “To hell with you, harlot!”
Her eyes snapped open as cold, bony fingers grasped the front of her cloak, yanking her forward.
Wind whipped at his tall body, catching in his robes, his feet unsteady on the wet stone. His sunken eyes were wide with fury and desperation as his clawed grip tightened, pulling her over the edge.
“Senka!” Petra’s voice cut through the roar of water.
The girl darted between them, small hands prying at Serafin’s, trying to break his grip on Ksenia.
His cold, sunken eyes darted between Ksenia and the girl.
Serafin’s clawed fingers released her cloak and latched onto Petra’s instead.
“No!” Ksenia lunged forward, the corner of Petra’s dress slipping between her fingers.
His weight dragged the girl over the balustrade into the abyss, his sunken eyes locked on Ksenia’s as his mouth pressed into a wide smile.
No. No. No. Not Petra—Ksenia dove into the falls.
The roar swallowed Ksenia’s scream as the wind tore at her clothes, and her hair whipped behind her. The abyss wasn’t empty after all. Instead, it was a surge of violent, dark water.
It hit her like a wall, choking her breath and shocking her lungs into paralysis, pulling her under the weight of the waterfall overhead.
She couldn’t decipher which way was up in the whitewater chaos.
The current yanked her body in multiple directions at once, tumbling, spinning, slamming her leg against an unseen rock.
Her lungs screamed, icy water forcing itself down her throat and up her nose.
She broke the surface of the roiling, frigid water, gasping for air.
Her throat was too ragged to do anything but cough before she was dragged under again.
She forced her eyes open as Archbishop Serafin was battered on a rock, his robes weighing him down to the bottom.
She honed in on a spot of gray, the limp body face down in the rapidly flowing current.
Petra.
She swam perpendicular to the flow, grasping for the young girl who was drifting just out of reach. The water rushed around them, carrying them down the ravine that surrounded Hearth.
Choking and spitting, Ksenia’s hand finally closed around Petra’s woolen tunic, and she fought to turn the girl over.
Water flooded into Ksenia’s mouth with each breath she tried to take, and she focused on bringing Petra’s head above the surface.
Her legs felt numb and unresponsive as she forced them to kick and kick, until they were released into a swirling eddy that allowed her to drag them both to shore.
Ksenia’s face pressed into the mud as she sucked in deep lungfuls of air and coughed out water in equal measure. Her head was throbbing with white-hot pain, but she scrambled to Petra’s body and shook her thin shoulders.
Nothing. Petra’s face was gray, her eyes closed and her bluish-white mouth gently parted as water streamed out.
No. She couldn’t let her die.
She lay her down and pressed her lips to Petra’s mouth, willing her lungs to take air.
Minutes passed.
Tears sprang to Ksenia’s eyes, hot and cruel as reality sank in.
The sobbing started quietly at first, but then became full-blown wails as Ksenia hugged the small, drowned body to her chest.
“Petra…” she whispered between labored breaths as she rocked them back and forth on the muddy bank.
A twig snapped a few paces away.
Her spine went rigid.
A single crystalline tone pierced through her mind, like marble and silver combined.
She could feel his shadow pressing over her and hear the scrape of his boot on the wet river stone.
“Lady Sevrant…What are you doing here?”
Ksenia cursed, her face buried against Petra’s hair.
She had allowed Petra to put herself in danger.
She should have never kept up their friendship after rescuing her from the hedge maze.
Because now, Petra was dead in her arms.
Bohdan kept his sword drawn, pointed at Ksenia. If he killed her now, she would consider it divine retribution.
Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she dragged in a shuddering breath. Petra’s death would be for nothing if she lost the game now. If not for her, she would’ve never gotten so far.
Without Petra, she would’ve never stolen the sword from the armory.
Without Petra, she would’ve been caught by the castle guard in the hedge maze.
Without Petra, she would’ve been drowned by Archbishop Serafin.
Ksenia’s eyes were haunted as she looked up at Bohdan, following the silvery shaft of his blade to his cold green eyes.
His gaze swung to the small figure she clutched at her chest. He swallowed, his brows drawn together.
“Explain yourself.”
Tell only little pieces of the truth, instructed Vornaya.
Seconds stretched into minutes before Ksenia spoke, low and hollow. “I was here for service, and for confession—but I heard a commotion outside.”
Bohdan kept his blade level, his jaw tight.
“I arrived outside to see that Archbishop Serafin was wounded and falling, and he pulled Petra over in his panic.”
“Who wounded him?” His dark green eyes searched hers with an intensity that could have broken a normal person.
“I didn’t see. I dove in to try to save them.” Her body trembled harder as a frigid breeze swept through the ravine, her clothes frozen to her skin along with Petra’s rapidly cooling body.
She swallowed the bitterness in her throat at the lie she had spun.
“Petra…” His voice was soft and somber as he closed the distance between them and laid a hand on the small girl’s head.
A rustle of wool. A warm sensation settled on her shoulders as he cloaked her with his own garment, his hand lingering on her back a moment longer than usual.
Her chest tightened, but she kept her eyes forward.
“Why were you here?” She masked the undertone of suspicion in her voice with chattering teeth.
“I was at the bridge when I saw Archbishop Serafin fall, his suspected killer diving in with a bloodied dagger in their hand.” Caromir. “Head to the infirmary,” he commanded. “I’ll stay and investigate the crime scene.”
The hellbound dagger was blessedly missing from her side, but she couldn’t let him find it.
“And I’ll see to it that Petra is taken care of.” Bohdan’s voice was soft.
Ksenia’s arms tightened. Handing Petra off, to be carried away by guards, laid on cold stone in the bowels of the castle which had already robbed so much from her—
“I’ll take care of her.”
Bohdan looked at her for a long moment, then gave a single nod.