Chapter 5: - Steps in the Past

  The idiot Volkov had given Exia his gloves; that was his first mistake. He had given him them to encourage spending what little time he had training. Exia’s first thought had been to kill the traitorous bastard the moment he’d gotten the chance. But deep down, somewhere he could never truly admit, he knew that something about that man scared him—terrified him so deeply that he couldn’t bring himself to engage Volkov in a battle to the death. No matter how much he wanted to.

  He beat father after all.

  He hadn’t even thought it possible for anyone to best his father, he had been chosen of Zcigmagus and a Mage of the ninety-ninth Magnitude. But it was done, and by a commoner no less. A commoner also of the ninety-ninth. Fate had broken precedent with Volkov’s birth, broken everything.

  No, surely there was trickery afoot. But whatever secret pacts with demons, dealings in the occult, or general mischief the man was capable of, if it was great enough to best his father then Exia had no hope of even beginning to see through it.

  So all he could do was wait—wait until he was older, and then strike the monster down.

  What he wanted today, however, was something he didn’t need to wait for.

  He was hungry, and he would not be denied food. Not today. Not ever again. He was the king; this was his castle—and whatever was held within its walls would be his to claim.

  Exia walked over to the mirror and slipped on his gloves. He’d rifled through the laundry and acquired servant-boy clothes for himself to wear. They were ill-fitting, tight in all the wrong places, and bleeding with a repulsive odour.

  How did anyone live in this—much less work in them?

  He looked at himself, and Exia reckoned he made a fine impression of a servant boy. The attire was mud-brown, with a shirt, jacket, and knee-length trousers. He hid his royal-black hair beneath a tight-fitting cap and wore worn sandals instead of shoes.

  As for his eyes—well, he would just have to keep them hidden from sight as he made his way through the castle, lest he be identified for who he truly was.

  A King dressed as a servant.

  It was a humiliation. But Exia had faced so many in such a short period of time that he had begun to find it harder and harder to care.

  His stomach grumbled.

  At least this humiliation would get him what he desired.

  Exia made his way to his window and climbed up onto the railing. Below was a three-storey drop, but Exia wasn’t interested in taking a fall; his focus was on what lay above.

  The roof.

  He pushed his mind into that space between reality and imagination where he knew all magic lay: the Beyond.

  I call on my gift, The Hand of Zcigmagus.

  A single blue tentacle, no greater than the length of his middle finger, emerged from a swirling void that lay in his palm.

  Exia looked to his left; perched on a pillar was the statue of a hideous nosferatu. He willed the tentacle into action and it extended from the swirling blue like the limb of some great beast rising from the ocean.

  The limb wrapped tight around the creature’s neck, and once Exia was certain it was secure, he leapt from his balcony and hoped for the best.

  The best was found wanting.

  His swing brought him slamming directly into the wall with what he knew would have been a painful thud had magic not been bolstering his physicality.

  He’d misjudged his angle somehow, he knew, but now was not the time to dwell on mistakes. He focused his mind on more immediately practical things. Exia shrunk the length of the tentacle, and in doing so rose himself up to the statue’s neck.

  He wrapped his arm around the statue’s neck, dismissed his magic and brought himself into a crouching position on its shoulder.

  From there it was a rudimentary affair to crawl up and roll onto the palace roof.

  Exia gazed down, and from this height he could see the entire estate. The forest where he used to hunt with Father, the fountain that Mother scolded him for pissing in, and the fields where he rode Silverhide.

  Volkov had shipped Silver off to war; he said he was too well trained a steed to be wasted in a stable.

  Exia had roared, screamed and kicked, but in the end all he could do was pray his friend was okay.

  He kept his eyes away from the north of the estate, for he knew only bad memories lay there—memories of Father, Mother. Dead.

  Exia squeezed his hand tight until his knuckles shook with exertion.

  The King of Bessmertnyy will not cry…

  Many of the sights were already tainted by the Republic filth which walked upon its lands. Their red and greys dotted the landscape like open sores upon noble skin.

  Volkov’s Mages

  Filthy fucking traitors that should have a pole rammed up each of their arses and pushed out through their wretched oath-breaking mouths.

  Exia tore his eyes away from the people and walked on across the roof. Unless Volkov had changed the cook’s station just to fuck with him personally, then the kitchen should be on the ground floor of the palace’s southern section.

  Exia stopped once he got to the southern edge of the roof, leaned over to gaze down.

  More soldiers dotted the ground, but Exia doubted he’d be caught; Father had told him that people rarely ever did look up above them, and most of the soldiers weren’t even looking at the palace but away from it.

  Their duty was likely to stop people from entering the building. Volkov likely hadn’t even considered that Exia would sneak off on his own.

  It felt good to get one up on the bastard, however small, however little—it was proof.

  Proof that he isn’t untouchable. That when I’m older, bigger and stronger, I can make him pay.

  Below, he had no limit in options regarding what he might grab to make his descent, and Exia made quick work of them.

  He extended the tentacle outwards, wrapped it around the railing of a balcony and leapt down.

  Exia summoned another from his left palm and fastened it on a statue, then the ledge of a window, and on and on. He was descending quickly, catching himself after every half-second of a drop and swinging onto another thing.

  The world was a blur of colours and shapes that swirled around whatever he’d decided his new target was. In between catches, the wind sang in his ear to the tune of his beating heart.

  It was exhilarating, exciting, fun—so much fun.

  It took everything in his will not to break out into triumphant laughter.

  Edges, corners and even pottery, Exia extended his magic outwards and grabbed onto all to aid him in his descent.

  Wait, pottery?

  The Vase slipped from the window as he grabbed it, leaving Exia to tumble earthwards like a bird shot out of the sky.

  He extended his blue limb outwards to wrap around a statue, but he was too hasty, it slipped and Exia’s back met the ground with a harsh thud.

  He felt pain, that was good. That meant those parts of his body still worked. The amount of pain that his body told him that with, however, was something Exia deemed somewhat unnecessary.

  Body aching and clothes covered in dirt, he scrambled behind a bush just in time to see a guard in the beginnings of a turning motion.

  Exia kept his form perfectly still for the several moments that it screamed at him to groan and cough. He peeked out of the bush to find the Mage looking back at the world beyond the palace.

  He hadn’t been spotted.

  Good.

  Exia took off his gloves, stuffed them into his pocket, settled into a crouch, and looked up.

  Above him was the window to the kitchen.

  Locked.

  He crawled to the next one—locked—and the one after—locked, locked, locked—open.

  Aha!

  Exia hauled himself up and rolled into the coaxingly sweet aroma of the kitchen.

  It was empty, but he knew it wouldn’t be so for long.

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  Something boiled on the fire, and an assortment of bread rested on a large counter in the centre of the room.

  Exia resisted the strong urge to scarf it all down right then and there. The cook would be back soon, and he couldn’t afford to be caught.

  Still boiling was a pot of bubbling soup, Exia ladelled some of that into a flask and sealed it, then wrapped the bread in clean rags and stuffed both into a bag he found in the pantry.

  He snuck out after that, climbing out of the window and making his way back into the palace on foot. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t risk climbing his way back up. His attempt at simply getting to the roof had told him that it was much harder and longer to make his way along the side of buildings while working against gravity than with it. Launching himself with Zcigmagus’ magic was, likewise, something he had not yet mastered. Efforts to do so tended to have all too little precision, and rather too much power.

  Painful lessons, but ones he needn’t learn twice.

  So Exia walked.

  He slipped his way back into the building and silently headed up the stairs, dodging maids, cooks, and butlers as they threatened to expose him with one wrong glance at the servant boy that creeped along the palace.

  He wasn’t spotted, however, and it made him think that perhaps he should have used the same route down.

  Exia dismissed the idea—it took way too long to do and frankly, it wasn’t even half as fun.

  Or as painful, he thought as the throbbing in his mid-back reminded him.

  He’d made it to the hallways leading to his room when the anticipation began to build. He’d done it— he’d fucking done it—fuck Volkov and his stupid mustache, and his stupid rules and his stupid, stupid fucking captain.

  That was of course when he heard footsteps approaching from the other end of the hallway.

  Icy tendrils sank into his heart and Exia quickened his pace.

  Whoever was coming hadn’t turned the corner that would allow them see him yet; if he could just get to his room before then…

  Exia broke into a sprint as the steady foot steps continued. The wind screamed in his ears as he moved, sounding just as terrified as he felt.

  He couldn’t be seen; if he was seen then Volkov would know, and Volkov would do gods knew what.

  He urged himself faster as the footsteps grew louder.

  He could see the shadow of the person cast against the far side of the wall.

  He recognised that shadow.

  Captain Morozova.

  Shit!

  Almost there.

  Almost there.

  Yes!

  Exia gripped the doorknob.

  Twisted it and…

  It didn’t budge.

  It didn’t fucking budge.

  He tried again.

  No luck.

  He’d locked it, he’d locked the door before leaving through the window.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, you fucking moron, idiot, cow, pig, stupid fucking piece of shit!

  One more footstep and Morozova emerged from the corner.

  Big, muscular, and covered in just as many scars as before, if not, somehow, more.

  They locked eyes.

  The giant paused.

  Exia froze.

  Morozova moved first, he walked over, calm as a killer and grabbed the bread from Exia’s hand.

  A sudden madness overcame Exia, one that had been building, lurking, and waiting to come out since the day he’d been made to starve in his own home. Since the day this gorilla had made it its life’s goal to make his mornings miserable.

  Exia snarled, and pulled back against him. “Give me that—it’s mine, it’s mine, you bastard. I’m the prince, I am your prince!”

  He put every fibre of his being into the struggle—slapping, spitting, biting, and scratching. But one shove from Morozova and he went stumbling back and landing on his arse.

  The Captain picked the flask up from the ground—Exia must have dropped it in the struggle. They locked eyes once more, his still cold and icy—they dared him to stand and fight again, but Exia backed down like a coward.

  Like a child.

  Morozova turned and carried on down the hallway atop heavy legs. Exia watched him, because that was all he could do. He watched him and watched him, and when the man was about to turn the corner, Exia followed.

  He didn’t know why he did. Perhaps he wanted to see this through, or perhaps he wanted to have another go. All he knew was that his legs were moving and he didn’t think to stop them.

  He kept far behind as the man made his way through the manor, silent as always, still as death itself. Exia doubted the Captain was unaware that he was being followed. He probably just didn’t care, after all what was the presence of a rat to the tiger?

  And I’m no more than a rat to him.

  Captain Morozova stopped in front of Volkov’s office. An icy cold squeezed the air out of Exia’s lungs. He knocked, twisted the door knob and entered.

  ###

  “I apologize for the King’s behaviour, Governor.” Sasha said.

  “Don’t be sorry when a pig shits itself. Just do your best to ensure you’re not in the splash zone,” Governor Dalinevsky replied. His eyes bled with heat as he glared at the spot where King Exia had once been. “If anything, my generation should apologize for not ridding this country entirely of Vanfoster blood,” he hissed, hands near vibrating with rage.

  From what Sasha knew of the man’s past she could not say she was entirely surprised, and she certainly sympathised as well.

  For all the victories of the Republic, King Exia Vanfoster—last heir of the Vanfosters—still slept at home and at peace in a castle larger than several town halls put together.

  If Sasha set her mind on all the lovely ways her country was unfair, however, then she’d get nothing done. She focused instead on the job she was sent here to do.

  “So, my theory is that these copycat killings are done by people who knew the murderers personally.” Sasha said. “Perhaps a recently released convict.”

  Dalinevsky’s head snapped towards her as if she’d just popped into existence at the periphery of his view. “What—Oh.” So focused on the cunt of a king, he’d forgotten she was here. “And what makes you say that?” He asked, recovering quickly.

  “I’ve looked into the records. Several key details were never released to the public, such as the specific method in which their victims are branded,” She explained.

  The Quadrivium of Axalog was what they were called—once-sainted priests of Gorodlzhi who thirty years ago decided that the best way to please the gods and bring more fairies upon Bessmertnyy was through human sacrifice.

  As the story went, they would find a victim and carve the names of their gods into the unfortunate’s body—over and over—until they died from the blood loss. Two details that were never made public, however, were the fact that the names were written in the god-script and the carving was done while using elements unique to each of the four Mages.

  They were caught of course, but never faced the ultimate punishment, as the King decided that an execution of named saints would be blasphemous.

  Instead, they were stripped of their gloves and locked away in the dampest cell the city had to offer, where they likely had ample opportunity and all the time in the world to spread their ideology to fellow inmates.

  Inmates, who, now released, were reenacting their killings

  She doubted the late King knew what his decision would eventually bring down upon the citizens of Gorodlzhi, but she also doubted he would have lost any sleep over it. He’d have likely thought it was not his problem.

  He’d have been right, it wasn’t—it was hers. And Sasha had to fix it. The first step of which would include talking to a group of murderous religious zealots.

  “I’ll need your written approval for me to speak with the Quadrivium at Pokoritel prison,” Sasha said.

  The Governor already didn’t look convinced of her theory, so she wasn’t surprised when he didn’t seem willing to cooperate. The reason he gave, however, was what needled Sasha to her very bones. “Are you sure it’s safe for a fair specimen such as yourself to be exposed to such broken minds?”

  Ah, there it was.

  The Governor, for his part, wasn’t trying to belittle her—she could tell from his tone that he really was concerned about her well being. In the reality he’d sculpted for himself, he was a good man, a protector of women.

  In her reality—the one that actually mattered—he was an obstacle standing in the way of an investigation. She could show anger and frustration, perhaps even call him out on his behaviour, but all of that would just be ‘further proof’ that a sex with such little control over their emotions should never have been given Mage gloves in the first place.

  Instead she chose to be a soldier, not a person, because the person she was was not the kind he respected. “Sir, I have orders to see this investigation through till the end, regardless of the consequences to myself.”

  There—no contradictions, no hostility, just pure patriotism.

  Dalinevsky hesitated a moment before nodding.

  ###

  Her first interview was with Fyodor Amfitheatrof. Sixty-five years of age. Magnitude Fifty. He was a Fire Mage like her—had the burn marks at the edges of his fingers to prove it too.

  The pair were seated in a cold dark room, with one window, one door, and nothing but a flickering lightbulb to poorly illuminate the place.

  Fyodor looked his age plus a decade—his pale skin was wrinkled like scrunched-up paper, brown hair grew in heterogeneous patches, and his teeth were brown and yellow with rot.

  Bound in chains and hunched over in his chair, and with eyes that looked lost, it was hard to believe this was the same man who’d terrorised this city all those years ago.

  “Do you know anything about what’s been happening in Gorodlzhi lately? I have reasons to believe you may be related to the killers,” Sasha asked.

  Fyodor’s eyes rolled up, met hers, and then kept on rolling, until he looked to be somewhere between reality and a trance. “The gods will dance upon the graves of the unholy,” he whispered, voice soft like a sinister wind. “They will feast upon your hearts as you have feasted upon those of their angels. Burn. Burn. Burn. Burn. Burn.”

  “Priest Amfitheatrof—”

  —“Burn! Burn! Burn! Burn! Burn! Burn!” his voice intensified now, slamming against the walls of the room like a wild storm. His head thrashed back and forth like a puppet pulled by geriatric fingers.

  There was no getting to him now and Sasha knew it. The doors swung open a moment later, and the guards of the mad-house flooded in. They dragged Amfitheatrof out of the room and, she guessed, back to his cell.

  The screaming echoed, faded, disappeared, and then, finally, Sasha was left alone with her thoughts.

  Priest Agrikolyansky, Fayzulin and Donchenko. Those were the three other interviews she had to deal with. She could only hope they went better than this one did.

  They did not.

  Agrikolyansky spat on her, Fayzulin was non-verbal—something she actually found herself thankful for, given the rest—and Donchenko called her a whore. Neat.

  “Pardon my bafflement, it’s just funny really,” Donchenko continued speaking. Of the four, he seemed the most coherent—least insane, well groomed, and with brown eyes that bled with a focus that matched hers. If she saw him outside, she doubted she’d have thought him mad. That sanity, however, now was put to taunting, like a cat’s gaze on the mice. “In my days,” Donchenko continued, “if a woman came into our barracks, asking to wear a glove, we would hold her down, put on our gloves and—”

  Sasha punched him in his stupid fucking face.

  Donchenko’s head snapped back, his seat lurched backwards, and he clattered to the ground in a sea of groans and not-very-nice words.

  Sasha hadn’t been thinking when she did that really. She just had the novel realization hit her, that while this was a man who was being a cunt to her—a routine occurrence—he was also one she could actually retaliate against without facing any consequences. Neat.

  Donchenko wasn’t going to willingly give her any information, she knew as much, but the bits she’d managed to gather in between being shouted at, spat on, and leered at, were plenty valuable already.

  The priests knew about the killings; they wouldn’t be so hostile otherwise. Neither would they have been unsurprised to be questioned. They were expecting this, and Sasha needed to figure out exactly why that was.

  It seemed however, that she would be getting no help with that. Not from the Priests, and not from the Mage King himself. Angry, frustrated, and with no exact sense of direction, Sasha headed for the door.

  “You want to know something funny...” Donchenko called out, voice nasally—a sign that he’d broken his nose when he accelerated it so suddenly into her fist.

  Sasha turned around for no particular reason. She saw Donchenko on his feet, blood running out his recently misshapen nose, and fury in his eyes.

  “A Captain was here.” He was grinning ear to ear as he spoke now, relishing each and every bit of her attention. Perhaps he saw the way Sasha tensed at his words, perhaps he didn’t. It didn’t matter, he had her attention now, and he would milk all he could of it. “About a month ago now, I think.” He added. “Like you, he had all sorts of questions…And then he disappeared. I look forwards to you disappearing, Captain Sasha Osin. I look forwards to it very, very much.”

  “Well,” Sasha inhaled, “at least I didn’t get punched in the face by a girl.”

  “You fucking W—”

  —“I’m done here,” she called out over his words, and the door swung open behind the rather furious man. He hurled perhaps every variation of a slur against women that he could think of as he was dragged out, and Sasha beamed sweetly at him while he did. That didn’t seem to please him however, which was odd, as she thought men liked it when she smiled more.

  Soon she was alone again, and with her thoughts. This time they were far more chilling than before. She turned and made her way down the hallway, heading straight for the exit.

  Morosova was here. And he disappeared.

  Sasha was here. And it seemed like she would be disappearing soon too.

  Following the same steps as Morosova seemed the best way to find him. But if she missed the tripwires along the way, she wouldn’t just lose her path—she’d lose her chance to ever meet her father.