The Trials of Ascension

Chapter 3 – Wacław

Chapter 3 – WacławXobas is going to be angry.

MY SKIN WAS COLD AND MY MIND DULL by the time I returned to my physical body under an oak. Sosna, our fox companion sent by Dziewanna, was curled alongside me. She yapped at the sight of my open eyes.

At least she’s always happy to see me.

As I rolled over, Dadźbóg’s early light covered the grasses of the steppe, haloing Xobas and Ara. “Quite the welcome party,” I said.

“Thank the gods. We were getting worried,” Ara said with a laugh that sounded more like relief than anything.

Xobas huffed. “You were spotted by a sentry. The marzban and high priestess will ask questions.”

I held my hands to my aching head. That night had been the longest I’d ever been in my soul-form, and as I looked from them to the camp in the valley below, dizziness overtook me. “It is the responsibility of leaders to question strangers. Our own people hate me, so why would the clans be any different?”

“You’re avoiding something,” Xobas said. “Where did you travel last night?”

With a sigh, I pushed myself off the ground and wrapped my cloak over my shoulders, covering Kwiecień. “To Likiec, an Astiwie town west of the mountains. Eryk’s daughter was there, and I had to fulfill my promise to help him free her. Unfortunately, a band of chały had another idea entirely.”

“That would explain the gash on your arm,” Ara said.

I instinctively covered the red stain bleeding through the shirt the Simukie had given me. It was lightweight, and unlike my tunics, it didn’t stretch past my upper thigh. I felt exposed. But the clothes had been a gift—one I had already ruined. “It’ll be hard to come up with an excuse for this.”

She shrugged. “We’ve confronted worse. C’mon, I’ll clean up the wound and then we can help Narcyz tear down the tent before he kills us.”

The camp buzzed with riders patrolling and people preparing for the trek through the Narrow Pass. Though they tried to hide it, I caught their glances. Xobas and Ara may have left the clans, but at least they looked like they belonged, unlike Narcyz and me. Not that lacking the ability to speak the clans’ shared tongue well had stopped Narcyz from pursuing every girl who so much as smiled at him.

He and Bidaês, the high-chinned eldest grandson of Marzban Katiôn of Simuk, were scuffling in the tent when Ara and I arrived. More than one bruise graced Narcyz’s cheek, and Bidaês’s nose was crooked and bloody. At least we’re good at making friends.

I shot between them as Narcyz growled and swung, missing his target but striking my shoulder. Whatever he saw on my face forced him back. Fear replaced his anger, and he stammered before shooting Bidaês a glare. “Sorry…” he said without direction.

“Don’t you have your own preparations for the journey?” Ara asked Bidaês as she tapped her foot.

Bidaês plowed through the tent flap, not bothering to reply. Forcing him away was the wrong call. I had quickly figured out during my negotiations with the clan leaders that Bidaês was interested in nothing but furthering his own ambitions. Regardless of my feelings, though, he was the brother of the Simukie heir—a future commander. We needed his loyalty.

As Ara sat me down and examined the slice from the spirit’s talon on my arm, Narcyz muttered to himself and threw the few things he had left into his bag. Sosna circled him, demanding attention. He gave none.

The past week had taken a toll on Narcyz. I saw it in his sluggish movements, the way he’d avoided me at all costs, and his desperate chase of the clan women. He was lost without a purpose, like I had felt before all of this had begun. This fight against Marzanna wasn’t his, but no matter how much he complained about the journey or me being a demon, I was glad to have him.

Ara applied an ointment she’d likely received from Zakir, the younger and more timid brother of Bidaês. Unlike his brother, the Simukie heir had been a consistent helper and educator with the culture of the clans. Ara couldn’t keep her eyes off him.

When she finished, Ara paced over to her bag, tapping her fingers against her thighs. “Did Eryk offer any way for us to find Otylia?” she asked over her shoulder.

A pang struck my chest as I traced the wound. “No.” Besides dying, none of us had figured out how to reach Nawia—especially doing so before Jaryło used the next Moonblade’s power to recover upon the start of the Maj moon. As a demon, though, even death wasn’t an option for me. Oblivion would be my end.

“We will find a way.” Turning away, she pursed her lips and shook her head, her eyes red. “If anyone knows of one, it would be High Priest Dariusz. I figure he’ll want his daughter back too.” I raised my gaze to her as she sighed. “All right, maybe she’s not technically his daughter, but still… Whether we need to make deals with grumpy priests or your gods, we will get her back.”

“Our gods are the only real ones,” Narcyz said as he threw his pack over his shoulder. “And they don’t like doubters.”

“They don’t appreciate people calling their szeptuchy witches either,” I replied.

Narcyz smirked. “You get a fancy sword and all of a sudden you have a spine. Maybe I’ll stop talking if you let me hold it. I can’t imagine the look on Father’s face when he sees that blade. It’s any smith’s dream to see a god’s sword.”

I flicked my cloak to the side and slid Kwiecień from its leather sheath. For a moment, I studied the golden blade and the engravings on its flat before handing it to Narcyz. I assumed the symbols to be the old tongue, but it was impossible to know when only the gods and szeptuchy spoke it. “I still don’t understand how a sword can control whether or not Jaryło can heal and return from Nawia. It seems far too simple.”

Narcyz’s eyes widened as he gripped the blade by its hilt, holding it as if it were a child. “Swaróg’s hammer is powerful if it can make this. That dagger of yours and the Moonblades are impressive.”

“As are all gods and spirits,” Ara added. “There’s so much we don’t understand.”

“Then we will wait until we reach Dwie Rzeki with the clans,” I said. “Dariusz must know more.”

A horn sounded from outside. Time to go. Narcyz returned Kwiecień to me before I tossed my scattered things in my bag and helped the others take down the tent. Less than half an hour later, we mounted our horses and began the march toward the Narrow Pass.

Clan riders surrounded us with all their belongings either in sacks on their horses’ sides or pulled by wooden sleds. The Simukie considered their bond with their mounts inseparably sacred, but High Priestess Rasa Kolah had allowed us to borrow a set of Zurgowie stallions. They were quicker and smoother than my horse back home, Tanek. Still, I wished for a more familiar mount, as this one seemed disappointed by every instruction I gave it.

The grasses parted around us as the steppe slowly gave way to trees, still dark and naked without Dziewanna’s power.

After our journey through the Mangled Woods, I watched each shadow in expectation of Marzanna’s demons or cultists. Our victory over Eryk and Yuliya had only delayed her, and dread never left me, even beyond the reach of that cursed forest. Marzanna was watching. I knew it. The moment I put my guard down, she would strike, but we’d come too far to fail now.

The slope grew and cliffs narrowed the trail on each side as Dadźbóg climbed the sky. Each step towards the sun brought his fire closer, but an uncomfortable, dry warmth was better than a chill. My frostbitten fingers throbbed each day, reminding of me the sacrifices we’d made to stay alive—how close both Otylia and I had come to death because of Marzanna. In the end, she’d taken Kuba anyway, and Otylia was a realm away.

Ever since my žityje ritual with Otylia nearly a moon before, a tether had connected us in our most dire moments. At times, her pain was mine, as if we were joined by some force neither of us understood. Our bond had become faint since her descent to Nawia, but I could still feel her fear and anger. Those same emotions stirred within me, trying to lure me into their embrace. I refused. This emptiness was better than confronting that pain… I shut my eyes and took a breath. We’ll find answers in Dwie Rzeki.

It was midday when Xobas found me among the crowd, his mount much more controlled than mine. “The marzban wishes to speak with you.” He lowered his voice. “I believe now is the time to tell him the truth of your power. He is a level-headed man, a potential ally, and he may know more of the Frostmarked Horde than he has said.”

“Can we trust his discretion? Even if he can help, I would prefer all of Jawia not know about my… condition.”

“Katiôn neither trusts High Priestess Rasa nor does he break a vow. Your secret will be safe with him.”

I nodded. “If he’s earned your respect, then he deserves mine. Lead the way.”

Marzban Katiôn had been the more reasonable of the clan leaders during our negotiations. When Rasa had refused to settle her zealous clan in the same territory as the Simukie, Katiôn chose the more vulnerable eastern lands of the southern hills. The man was principled and wanted what was best for his people. Unlike our own tribe’s chiefs, though, he understood not everything could be accomplished with brute force.

Dust filled the air as we trotted through the parade of riders. Even with the incline, the horses were unbothered and mine seemed to enjoy the opportunity to stretch his legs, if only for a minute.

From atop a long-legged chestnut stallion, Katiôn’s skin gleamed with sweat beneath the steppe sun. Despite being of middle age, he had fewer wrinkles than most men in their twenties. His thoughtful glances and the tan cape draped from his right shoulder, however, gave him a calm, regal presence.

He turned to us when he heard our approach, sending his pony tail whipping through the air behind him. “Ah, Wacław. I’m glad to see you are getting on better with your horse after last night’s incident.”

I raised a brow at Xobas, who flashed a grin before nodding to the marzban. “Yes…” I said, guessing at Xobas’s explanation for my injury. “I rode in my village, but it’s safe to say my skills are not as fresh as your own riders’.”

With his face to the sun, Katiôn chuckled. “I imagine not. To ride is to live for our people. When one is separated from their horse, they are separated from their own spirit.” He gripped his reins and sighed. “I wished to ask you about the lands that await us—as well as your people.”

“Of course. The territory that will be yours is as alien to you as the steppes are to me.”

The sun descended toward the horizon as he asked many questions about our lands’ fertile areas, rivers, animals, and the people of Krowik, Astiw, and Solga. Xobas added clarity at first before quieting enough for me to forget he was there. Katiôn’s curiosity seemed genuine as he tolerated my explanation of our gods, allowing me to tell even tales I had once thought were meant only for children. Ever since the Drowning of Marzanna, they had become all too real.

“Many of your stories speak of witchcraft and demons,” Katiôn said at a point where the ground leveled to a rocky clearing. “Is this why your people believe the forest between us is so dark and irregular?”

I glanced at Xobas before returning my gaze to the marzban. “There is a lot I haven’t told you. Can I trust that all I’m about to say will remain between us?” My chest tightened as I feared his response to the truth. Xobas trusted him, however, so I would too.

Katiôn studied the trees. This high up, pine had become dominant, and they clung to their needles despite the lingering cold. The deep lines above his brow deepened as he replied, “If we are to have a successful alliance, we must trust each other. Speak candidly.”

“Very well.”

I told him about our journey, Marzanna’s call, and my demonic soul. I told him of Juri and Jaryło, zmory and wiły, and szeptuchy and Frostmarked. If he was to understand the threat we faced, he needed to know everything—everything except Otylia and the Lake of Reflection. That was not my story to share.

Katiôn did nothing but listen and nod, guiding his people forward as the climb began again until Dadźbóg’s light touched the horizon. We’d reached an area where the path widened and the ground was level enough to camp for the night. He ordered the riders to spread the word before dismounting.

“Leave your horse with Xobas and walk with me,” he said. “There seems to be much about the world beyond the mountains that I do not understand.”

I did as he said, offering Xobas a parting nod before he disappeared into the crowd. Despite my old trainer’s silence, his presence had calmed me both now and during the negotiations. Away from him, I realized how unprepared I was to be speaking with a clan’s warlord.

Katiôn led me higher through the thin trees to a ridge along the northern edge of the pass. Here, the light had all but faded as the mountains blocked the sun, leaving nothing but a dark hue over the lands we had traversed in recent days. My pulse raced in anticipation of Katiôn’s reply to my story, but a calm took me at the sight.

Before flying the first time, I had never been at such heights. Jawia’s beauty was incomprehensible from here. Even in the darkness, the hills and cliffs of both gray and brown were nothing but magnificent. They seemed to proclaim Perun’s power over the heights with each slope. Yet, though I tried to let myself enjoy the moment, sorrow washed it away quickly. I saw Eryk’s longing gaze in each cloud, Otylia’s wicked smirk in the earth, and Kuba’s ridiculous theatrics in the trees.

“What lies east of the Anshayman Steppe?” I asked, forcing myself from the silence.

Katiôn held his arms behind his back, standing straighter than any man I’d met. The breeze guided his cape behind him and made the horse emblem upon it seem to gallop. “Mountains far smaller than these but enough to prevent many from passing—until the Horde. Beyond those, I have only heard rumors of a desert where sand serpents roam.”

“Do you believe those rumors?”

He turned to me, and age seemed to weather his face as he sighed. “In time, I’ve learned when a story is true and when it is false. Even among those tales demented by generations or told by liars, there will always be a grain of the truth.”

My hand traced the hilt of Marzanna’s dagger at my side. “And do you believe me to be a liar?”

“If I thought you were a liar, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, but only in the legends have I heard stories like those you told me.” He studied me, his gaze heavy. “Though the Zurgowie have their sorceresses, my people do not differentiate those you call channelers from demons. All who alter the world are harbingers of chaos.”

I swallowed. “Problems have followed me ever since I discovered my power…” Ever since Otylia revealed it. “I would understand if you believed me to be a risk to your people.”

With a deep sigh, he shook his head. “From the moment the Horde arrived on the Anshayman Steppe, we have been in danger. Your arrival has given us hope and a new chance. But show caution. Rasa and her priestesses will either interpret your stories as deceit or will kill you for serving the dark god they call Alunam. We cannot afford a rift between our peoples at such a fragile time.”

The high priestess’s dedication to her gods would have been admirable if it didn’t conflict with everything I had seen in the past moon. Ara and many other refugees had fled the Zurgowie because of Rasa’s zealous wars. To know the truth could ruin all we’d worked for was not a reassuring thought. Luckily, I had spent my life treading lightly around Father’s aggressiveness; though, I hadn’t been all that successful.

“Tell me,” Katiôn continued. “If this goddess, Marzanna, caused the droughts and blizzards that drove people to this Frostmarked Horde, what is stopping her from starving your people? The trees remain barren and the plants withered.”

“She has captured Dziewanna,” I said, “but as long as Marzanna doesn’t hold Jaryło’s Moonblades, she can’t exert complete control without the help of demons. At least for now.”

“And that is why she needs you.”

I stared down at the scar of Marzanna’s Frostmark on my palm. The phantom burn pulsed as if another of her demons were near. “It seems so.”

His hand fell on my shoulder. “I do not envy you, Wacław, but know you shall not carry this burden alone. Though I do not believe this woman to be a goddess, she is a threat to my people. When the time comes for us to face our enemies, we will face them together. Trust me, and trust my grandsons. They will stand by you.”

“Thank you, marzban.” I gripped Dziewanna’s bow. “I pray I will not need your support, but after recent days, I fear there are few gods that would answer my call.”

With a grin, he nodded toward the camp. “This is why we bond with the horse. When we call, they come, and never in their lives will they betray us.”