“In a sense. I’m the dim-witted one, Nyja. I don’t know what to do anymore.”
She looks at the ceiling with an exasperated expression, then back at me. “I’ll get my best nawka generals and one of the old warriors. Czech, maybe. Or Rus. She’s right in one thing—we need to try something new. You, too. Win her over in a way you haven’t tried yet.”
She turns into a flock of birds and disappears with a flutter of wings. I am alone with Jaga, who settles on the opposite short end of the table, watching me across the expanse of obsidian.
“Are you avoiding me again? Coward,” I taunt, glaring at her, because the pain makes me want to be mean.
“I am a coward and accept it,” she says with a shrug. “At least I’m only afraid of two things at this point. How many fears do you have?”
I shiver, images flashing through my head. Mokosz jerking me off while she sticks needles in my eyes. Perun telling me I’ll never win. Chors desiccated and weak every new moon. Jaga buried. Jaga dead. Jaga hating me and holding my heart. Jaga gone. With another man. Having his children.
“Too many to count,” I admit as wind blows through the Hall, making the flames flutter like war banners.
They arrive: all my allies, Wiosna, a couple of older nawka soldiers, and a few souls who are still here and cognizant enough to take part. Most souls choose to depart into an eternal sleep when they tire of existing, usually after a hundred years or so. Not many old ones are still around.
When everyone sits down, they look at me, but I watch Jaga. This is her council, not mine. After a moment, she realizes I’m waiting for her to start and sends me a dirty look.
“What, you want me to do the work for you? Lazy god,”she sneers.
“Yes, please. My obnoxious queen.”
She clears her throat, and when that doesn’t give her the others’ attention since they still look expectantly at me, she stands up, her ruby chair scraping the floor. I grit my teeth against the pain.
“How do we defeat Perun?”
Her voice rings sharp and confident, but I can tell this is all pretense. Jaga is wary and uncomfortable, and as everyone turns to her, she straightens her spine and looks down on them with haughty coolness meant to disguise her discomfort.
I pull her pain closer, anchoring it within myself. She’s having a hard time as it is.
“We do what the prophecy says,” Nyja answers after a pregnant pause, rolling her eyes. “You can’t run from it. The only way to defeat Perun is if you give yourself to Weles.”
“Then it’s a lost cause,” Jaga says with a shrug, her eyes narrow and spiteful. “I’ll never give my soul to anyone. This war will go on forever. Unless we come up with another way.”
“There is no other way!” Nyja slams her fist into the table, and a spiderweb of cracks races toward the middle from the point of impact. “I told you already, a prophecy has to come true one way or another. This one says you will be claimed by the one who wins. Stop playing with the fate of Slawa and do the right thing!”
“But how do I know what the right thing is? I won’t do it,” Jaga growls, her eyes glittering like jewels. “My life isn’t your plaything.”
Strzybog, who sits next to Nyja, puts his palm on top of her fist. She sneers at him, baring her sharp teeth, and he grins.
“Is there a way to make Jaga comply?” he asks.
My poppy girl hisses angrily, and he shrugs, bold as brass as he faces her. “What? I want to win, just like everyone at this table. Ifyou won’t cooperate, we will force you. It’s a reasonable solution. You would have done the same thing.”
“She can only be his if she willingly surrenders,” Nyja says, eyeing me coldly. “Or if he makes her pregnant and she gives him a child.”
Strzybog claps his hands, delighted. “Great, problem solved! Do you want me to hold her down for you, Weles?”
Jaga takes two steps to the nearest pillar and holds out her hand. Diamonds and rubies tear off from the wall, floating to her cupped palm. Everyone watches, intrigued, as gems fall with soft tinkles. When she has a nice pile, she clenches her hand into a fist, opening it a moment later. It’s empty.
Strzybog coughs. A tiny ruby falls onto the table with a clink. He coughs again, then again, spluttering as his face grows red and sweaty. A bloodied diamond falls out of his mouth, followed by more gems.
“Naughty. He’s your ally,”I chide Jaga, though personally, I’m quite enjoying the show. Strzybog had it coming.
The others murmur and whisper to each other, some laughing, others shooting Jaga unfriendly looks. She stands tall and proud, a queen of ice in leather, and I can only imagine how fragile she must feel.
This is her worst nightmare, after all. People hating her for who she is. I used it against her last year, and I still remember how broken and hurt she was.
And so, before our allies become convinced Jaga is the enemy, I act. I stand up slowly, mindful of the pain, and send my shadows into Strzybog’s open mouth. I retrieve all of the gems he hasn’t coughed out yet and swipe the mess away, including his blood, which I’ll store in a vial for later. One never knows. It might come in handy.
