“No, you shan’t,” I growl before she has a chance to move. “She’ll stay here until she looks at me.”
Chors smiles brightly as he turns to me, and my heart aches with how lovely he is. It’s a full moon tonight, and my beautiful son is at the peak of his power.
“And we’re back to the point I was making,” he says with a quiet confidence I rarely see him display.
He’s usually perplexed by the goings on of gods and men. When he’s certain, it’s time to listen.
“You can’t force her to do as you please anymore, Father. You could at some point, I’m sure. But don’t you see? She’s been through the worst that can happen. There’s nothing you can do that will top that.”
Jaga’s back is to me so I can’t see her face, but her shoulders are relaxed. I realize he’s right. Everything I’ve done was an exercise in futility.
“I just want her to look at me!” I grit out, the words unchecked as frustration spills over. “Is that too much to ask? Just a look. A word, for fuck’s sake!”
He snorts softly and shakes his head with a fond smile. “Haven’t you learned? You can’t break her, you can’t wear her down, you can’t bend her to your will anymore. She’s unbreakable now. You should know.”
I clench my jaw and look away. He’s referring to the centuries I spent chained to the roots of the Great Oak, right at my brother’s feet. When I broke free, I was changed, too. I bent to no one.
Until her.
“Fine. She can go. But I’m coming with.”
I glance at her back to see if she’ll react, but Jaga remains impassive, a waif of a woman with a spine of iron.
“And you’re right,” I say after a moment as if replying to Chors, but the words are meant for her. “I know what it’s like to rot buried in the ground without end in sight. I know how torment molds and reshapes one. I will learn from my past and find a way.”
My words make no impact. Jaga’s eyes slide over me briefly as she turns to take Chors’ arm, and I relish that moment of non-contact between us.
So this is what I’ve become: a man so besotted with a woman, he’ll greedily snatch her smiles meant for another. Pathetic.
“My father’s throne room is exquisite, of course.” Chors begins the tour, waving a graceful hand at the nearest wall that glitters and sparkles with fire reflected in the sharp, multifaceted edges of precious stones.
“He built this after he freed himself from the Great Oak’s roots. The endeavor took years. He hunted down the most perfect stones, working each into a beautiful shape, and set them in the stone walls of this cavern. There isn’t an inch of space between the gems. It’s a masterpiece, and he doesn’t let anyone but his chosen few inside to see it.”
I wait for Jaga to ask a question, any question at all. How did I free myself from Perun’s curse? Why did I turn to workmanship after I was free? Why don’t I let others see this room, even though it’s one of my most delightful creations?
She’s silent.
Chors stops in front of the tall double doors made of wood so old and hard, it’s turned obsidian. There is no keyhole or knob. He flashes me a cheeky look over his shoulder and bends low to whisper in Jaga’s ear like a lover.
I wish to strike him. I don’t.
“Now, the trick to opening these doors is very simple. They only admit people who have been allowed in at least once, like a dog that only lets in those it’s smelled before. Try it. Just stroke the wood and ask it to open.”
She takes a small step forward and runs the pads of her bony fingers down the seam in the wood. Her command is quiet and certain. “Open.”
The doors swing outward with a soft creak, and she snorts under her breath, scornful and unimpressed.
“So easy. And so predictable.”
I close my eyes and grit my teeth. In a fit of rage a few days ago, I screamed that I’d never let her out, that she’d be my prisoner for all eternity. It was a lie of sorts, because yes, she could have left any time. I just never told her.
The promise I made, vowing to never lie to her again, sits heavy in my chest. I’m trying, but it’s not good enough. Not that she cares.
“You remember the rebel base under Slawa, of course,” Chors says, guiding Jaga down a wide corridor lit with fires trapped in crystal globes.
It’s bejeweled, too, but not as densely. There are pockets of darkness between the cold flashes of wealth. Shadows to hide in, pieces of rough, ancient rock to run one’s fingers down in search of grounding.
“My father built the city and he built the tunnels underneath,” Chors continues. His steps land softly on the smooth, black flagstones that reflect the fires.
