Page 50 of Sanctuary

“Rodion started passing judgements. He killed some people, and he would summon dark things to do his bidding,” Andora said. “The Black Volhv is supposed to intercede on people’s behalf. Instead, he terrorized them.”

“What about Chernobog?”

“He let it happen,” she said.

It was punishment. For their father and for the entire congregation. Chernobog had made his wishes known, and they were ignored. So, he let things take their natural course. He didn’t feed Rodion’s rampage, but he did not restrain it.

“You’re the reason Alyona died—”

“Their father tried to stop Rodion and got hurt. Rodion withdrew to Nav.”

Defiance required penance.

“—you’re like a fucking cockroach that’s too stupid to die—"

“The family called Roman. On this day, twelve years ago, Roman went into Nav and killed his brother.”

The torrent of verbal venom Rodion had leveled at him was still washing over him, but the guilt was no longer there. He still remembered this confrontation in excruciating detail, the fight, the vicious dark magic tainted with the Void that had boiled out of his brother and torn at him with phantom teeth, the black blade that had appeared in his own hand, the hiss it made as it slid into Rodion’s chest, and Chernobog’s voice, which sounded like the end of the world as he said an ancient greeting that was recognition, announcement, and acknowledgement rolled into one.

“GOI ESI, ROMAN, MOY VOLHV.”

Alive you are, Roman, my volhv.

There was no guilt anymore. No pain. Just acceptance. It took five tries, but he finally got the point.

Ha.

“—you were always a shit smear on the family’s name and now you think that by coming here you can do—"

“Look, dickhead,” Roman interrupted. “I’d like to stay and chat, but I have a tree to drag.”

He turned around and walked away.

A wail of rage screeched behind him. He felt the furious darkness streak to him, ready to rip him to pieces. But he was the Black Volhv. Roman waved his hand, not bothering to face the threat. It vanished, snuffed out of existence. The Glades became bright and empty.

He walked over to the fir, slipped the harness back on, and started toward the distant woods. The tree felt so light, it was as if it were floating behind him.

EPILOGUE

The woods parted. A snowy plain unrolled in front of them. A frozen river flowed through it, coiling in a ring, its surface slick like glass and a deep midnight-blue. In the loop of the river, poised against the distant forest and low, snow-capped mountains, a terem rose.

Crafted from pure white snow with huge, oval windows and panels of light blue ice, it perched upon the island like a fantastic, many-tiered wedding cake of a building. Six towers of various heights and widths thrust toward the sky, each more ornate than the last, their cupolas frosted with crushed teal ice and topped with ice spires that looked like sword blades. Lavish balconies with carved rails hugged the towers, snaking between them at different heights. A bridge stretched in a graceful curve across the water to the shore.

Finally. Roman sped up.

The moment his foot touched the bridge, the harness binding him to the tree fell apart in a flurry of snowflakes.

A star detached from the top balcony and sped over their heads to land in the snow. A miniature winter storm swirled where it landed, and from it Morena stepped out. She stood ten feet tall, a woman with the face of a goddess, her skin white as snow, two long braids, black as the winter sky, snaking down her chest. A kokoshnik tiara crowned her brow, glittering with blue and white diamonds. She wore a sarafan, a long dress with a voluminous pale blue skirt, and a shuba, a long winter coat with a white fur collar, cinched to her waist with a silver belt.

Her eyes shone with the blue of the brightest godfire. Looking into them was like being punched off your feet—Winter looked back, merciless, breathtaking, and frightening.

She had gone with the classic image today. First impressions were important. Judging by the look on Finn’s face, it worked. The kid was shocked into silence.

Yes, yes, just wait until you see her earlier iteration, the one with unbrushed hair, wrapped in furs, and devouring raw meat with a mouth full of ice fangs. She didn’t revert to that form too often now, but once in a while, it made an appearance.

Morena raised an arm. The shepherd puppy leapt forward, changing shape in mid-jump. A black swan with glowing ruby eyes landed on Morena’s forearm and rubbed her head against Morena’s shoulder.

The fir tree rose on its own, floated across the lake, and landed on the large crescent balcony, touching down with a peal of thunder. Ornaments sprouted on the branches: small sculptures of animals fashioned from ice with startling accuracy; glittering jewels and treasures from Morena’s vaults; intricate silver chains that only Chernobog could weave; icicles that sparkled like diamonds; bright red berries; golden pinecones; and atop it all, Morena’s sigil encrusted with gems. Little motes of godfire, green, blue, and pink ignited in the branches.

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