But I mustn’t. Weles must fight his own fights, or he’ll never believe in himself again. And for a god, belief is all-important.
This is how I know I am not a goddess, despite everything he tells me. No one believes in me. I have no faithful priests, no worshippers, no shrines. No prayers float my way, whispered pleas and murmured thanks. And yet, I am one of the most powerful beings in Slawa.
I can snuff out a soul with a breath.
“Jaga, what if we try a few more…”
I shush him with a kiss, a soft, friendly one—which is as much as I will allow myself. He buries his fingers in my hair, pulling me instantly closer, a ravenous, insatiable god, but I push him away.
“Stay or leave. It’s your choice.”
Weles sighs with frustration and steps away, conjuring himself a black throne made of bones, in which he gracefully sits. I close my eyes and spread my arms, listening to the world around me. Time ticks and flows within me, my heart its drumbeat, my thoughts its melody.
I dance.
The first sequence is laughably easy, even though it had seemed so insurmountable a few months ago. But I’ve danced this dance hundreds of times, suffering the bittersweet pleasure of Weles’ touch, and I feel him now, the memory of his hands, the weight of his gaze.
He is with me every step of this dance, his phantom fingers brushing mine when I arch my arm to the heavens, his lecherous gaze on my hips as I shimmy them, flowing from one step to another, and another, and another.
It takes me only half of the sequence to hear the music.
When we practiced at first, I begged Weles for a drum, a bell, maybe even the tapping of his foot against the floor to aid me. I kept losing my rhythm in the silence. Dancing without music seemed so utterly pointless.
But he kept reminding me that if I followed the beat of drums, I wouldn’t hear that other, subtler melody. Now I do, and the dance becomes easy, graceful and simple, and I think Weles sighs somewhere behind me, watching it with awe.
I follow the rhythm of time, every step meticulous, my fingers bent, then straight, toes pointed as I leap, and the music swells, louder and more poignant, until I drown in it.
Until it’s time.
I stop moving and only listen to the music, pushing my thoughts toward that day. Images flash through my mind, my legs running through the gloom, Daga’s face twisted in hate, Miroslaw afraid, oak leaves murmuring above me as I lie in the moss.
The knife in my gut. I wince as that pain echoes through me, my scar growing hot all the way through, burning right under Woland’s mark that I still wear and would hate to part with, though I’ll never tell him.
My first move is jagged and hard. I stab my abdomen with my empty hand, then pull it away with a flourish. My feet step back, eight steps and a half, quick, on tiptoes. I stop, turning left. My eyes are closed, but I hear the music, and it forges a path, a glimmer of sound so sweet and tinkling, my heart aches with the need to follow it.
My arms lift, then lower, as I dance and leap, becoming a leaf carried by the wind, a petal blown into frost, a bird trilling in its nest at night, afraid of lynxes and lichos.
The rhythm grows faster, and the melody swells. I am ever closer, pulled by pure instinct, magic frothing at my fingertipsas I jab them into the air. Oh, there is violence, notes of discord spoiling the melody. Fate cheated, fate brought around, it was never supposed to happen, this girl bleeding out, she was meant for other things, better things, greater things.
The spirits of time carry me through, and I lift myself into the air, my dance becoming aerial, twisting in tight circles, throwing my arms wide, shooting up and diving fast, never opening my eyes. I’m not afraid of crashing into the floor, because there is no floor anymore, only the melody and the air, and me, righting the wrongs.
I was always meant to do this.
The melody stops on a jagged note, cut off with a knife. I float to the ground, my feet landing softly, and don’t move. With a shaking hand, I point ahead, making a doorway.
Its fire flickers through my closed eyelids, and I remember looking into this door from the other side. It was filled with flames. Young Jaga couldn’t see this room, but I seeherwhen I open my eyes.
My voice gets stuck in my throat. There’s a soft sound behind me, and I know Weles watches, but this doorway is mine alone, and he cannot go through.
On the other side, Jaromir gapes, terrified beyond terror. Miroslaw turns to run. I shoot out whips of fire, wrapping them around my would-be killers, and brace my shoulders.
It’s time.
“Avenge her well,” Weles whispers behind me, but I ignore him, stepping through the flames, first my leg, careful on the moss, then the rest of me. Young Jaga watches me with wide, uncomprehending eyes, terrified and awed. When our eyes meet, hers widen, and I remember with a start what she thought at that moment.
That maybe she is the devil’s spawn after all.
I cackle with glee, because it’s so outrageous she would think that. We aretooalike to be mother and daughter. We are better.
