The grass withers, and I bare my teeth in triumph, but only half of the work is done. These trees are old and powerful, well fed on magic harvested through Perun’s tolls. I brace myself and push out more death, a flood of it, until my chest gapes empty.
Jaga sends me more magic, unasked. I welcome the soft glow of her in my mind with a shaky breath, her power shining so much brighter in the emptiness.
“And now we wait. Thank you for your gift. I’ll need it should something go wrong.”
“If he destroyed your temple, it’s only right that you do the same to him.”
“Oh, Jaga, it was so beautiful. I built it out of moonstone and obsidian. Fires burned inside, and there were sculptures, and poisonous vines climbing the walls, growing flowers that only bloomed when a blood sacrifice was made.
“Each bies I’ve created had their little altar, and it gave them pride to be so included. Biedas were respected back then, strzygas and planetniks—revered. I shall have a temple again, one day. And the biggest altar will be yours.”
Deep shudders race up the thick trunks of the oaks. Jaga is silent, and we both watch as the trees sicken, their boughs growing brittle, leaves raining down. I rise higher in the air, obscuring myself with Jaga’s magic, because I can’t be seen doing this.
Though, maybe it’s not necessary. Mokosz said Perun won’t bother to look for witnesses. In a sense, both of them are too self-absorbed to notice subtle signs. If I play it right, Perun won’t even suspect a ruse. He’ll go off in a rage, his thunderous impulsivity leading him right into my trap.
With a mighty creak, the nearest oak falls. It’s a slow, majestic death, and as the desiccated canopy shakes on the ground right below me, I cannot hold back a laugh.
“That’s it. Bow before your master. Good tree.”
The others follow soon after, the mighty grove falling as one, right until the tallest, oldest oak falls—the one Perun planted in the ashes of my temple when they were still warm. It is so rightthat I am the one to make it fall since my defeat nourished it back then, centuries ago.
“You did it,”Jaga murmurs, neither impressed nor scornful. Her voice is carefully even.
“And now for the master stroke. A proof to Nyja and to you, but most importantly, to me. Old Weles is still here, plotting and scheming. He might be rusty, but he won’t give in.”
I reach into my shadow realm, a space only I have access to, and pull out three beehives I’ve set aside in preparation. I place them carefully between the fallen trees, which keep rotting, the leaves now black, their bark slimy with spores.
When Perun gets here, hopefully hours from now, all will be rotten through.
And three golden, buzzing beehives will stand among the carnage. A clear declaration of war, but not from me.
“Beehives?”Jaga has no idea what I’m doing, and I laugh under my breath, letting my shadows swallow me.
I emerge in my throne room, right at the foot of the dais. She sits on my throne, a cup of wine in her hand. Her eyes flick to me without surprise, and I bow elegantly.
“Your Lowness.”
She bursts out laughing, then stops sharply, pressing her hand to her mouth as if she’s said something indecent. I shake my head with pity.
“We are allies, remember? You’re allowed to laugh at my jokes.”
“Why the beehives?” she asks, letting her wine cup hover in the air as she folds her arms on her chest with a faint creak of leather.
“You remember the King of Bees, don’t you? Powerful, fuzzy, not right in the head. Well, he doesn’t like the company of gods and bieses, and I’d be hard-pressed to get him to join me. But if Perun attacks him first, he’ll fight.”
“Oh. I see.”
She studies my face with vicious attentiveness, and I straighten to show my body off to its full advantage for her perusal. My tail flicks with tension. Jaga is devoted to honesty, and my underhanded methods might earn her disapproval.
So when she smiles, shaking her head, I breathe with relief.
“Are you certain it will work, though?” she asks, taking a sip of her wine. It colors her lips, and I yearn, that thirst for her kisses and blood darkening my mind.
“I’m not. We’ll have to wait and see. What have you done with the dragons?”
“I gave Foss to Nyja and infected Igor with the rot. I needed a new subject after I sort of killed Nienad. It was an accident.”
I laugh, loud and throaty, and give her another bow, this one deep and partly mocking. Oh, why can’t she see how perfect she is for me? So vindictive, so cruel, such a lovely poppy girl.
