Page 65 of Devil's Doom

Her offer is cautious, expression wary. When I nod with a smile, instantly accepting her help, she relaxes.

“Thank you. I’ll deal with my enemies on my own, but I’ll take advice and secrets. Do you happen to know where one might get some fresh belladonna root around here?”

She laughs, her eerie grin more like a grimace than a smile. I join in, holding her nightmarish gaze without fear. I know what it’s like to be feared and avoided out of prejudice, and I will not treat her that way.

“I’ll show you the herbal workshop and teach you how to grow some poison,” she says once she stops laughing. “I assume it’s for bedbugs or such?”

I imagine Woland sprawling seductively in his bed. “Yes. Bedbugs.”

Lutowa devours another slice of bread and wipes her mouth with the back of her skeletal hand. Her fingers are long, their thickest parts the joints. Even when she presses them together, light shines through the gaps.

“Belladonna won’t be enough to kill most people in Slawa,” she says, abandoning the joke. “But it’s an excellent choice if you want to cause hallucinations and unfounded fears. Kobolds react especially badly.”

“Oh, I don’t intend to kill anyone,” I say airily. “I just want to show someone my heartfelt appreciation. And Lutowa? Thank you for offering to show me the herbs. I’d like to return the favor if you need anything.”

She shrugs and licks butter off the knife. “I only need company. It gets boring between attacks. I enjoy cursing dragons just as the next person, but when weeks pass without entertainment, I get restless.”

When she guides me to the herbal workshop, the difference in how I’m treated in her company is striking. People avoid our eyes and scurry out of the way. I understand what she said about fear being power, though it’s a different kind from what Woland enjoys. He has true respect and worship. Lutowa only has the terror, but the frantic energy of people getting out of her way is palpable. It feels shockingly thrilling.

“It’s like you’re a walking plague,” I murmur when a young man with pimply cheeks gasps and stumbles in his effort to get away. “It’s sort of funny. Look, he almost fell, he’s so terrified of you. Do you sow terror on the battlefield, as well?”

She chuckles, pointing me toward a wide corridor lit with amber orbs. “I do. Even some dragons avoid me in fights, especially those that know me. Normally, I like my curses to work slowly, but I can cast fast ones, too. My enemies grow desiccated within minutes if they don’t know how to counter my magic. It’s terrifying to watch, and everyone who sees it once will fear biedas forever. But it’s a lonely existence, Jaga.”

“Don’t you have other biedas to keep you company?” I ask, remembering I saw a few of them already, one in the forge just this morning.

“We don’t always see eye to eye. They are younger than me. I am the oldest bieda in Slawa, and I’ve seen and heard things others refuse to accept.”

I cast her a surprised look. “The oldest? You must have so many stories to tell.”

“Oh, I do. It sometimes takes me a while to remember, since my head is a burial place for millions of memories. But it’s all in here.”

She taps her temple, stopping under an archway leading into a bright, narrow space filled with tables and crates. The light here is the strongest I’ve seen in the tunnels, maybe even brighter than outside. There’s a faint sound of trickling water. I squint, following Lutowa inside.

Two short, bald men, maybe as tall as my waist, are at work filling squat pots with black soil from a sack. They stand on crates to reach the table. When they see Lutowa, their eyes grow wide, and they abandon their work, leaving in haste.

She looks after them with a placid expression, then shrugs. “Oh, well. We’ll have privacy at least. Now, the first thing you must do is find the belladonna seeds. Try that crate.”

The bieda points at a big wooden box marked with the sign of Weles. “He’s the god of poisons, too?” I ask, grateful for the excuse to talk about him.

“Oh, yes. Poisons, curses, droughts, floods, fires, snakes, evil magic—that’s all Weles. In the olden times, he was the god of wisdom, healing, deepest knowledge, and the circle of life. There was that saying, no one remembers it anymore. ‘Weles giveth, Weles taketh.’ It meant he was the one who gave life, and he also took it away. He was the most revered among gods. Perun turned him into a scapegoat for everything bad and unlucky.”

I pull the crate closer, my abused arms twinging with pain. Inside are dozens of sacks filled with seeds of various kinds. Some I recognize, such as hemlock or foxglove. One sack contains lily of the valley pips, their thin structures protected by some kind of charm that buzzes against my fingers.

Finally, I find the belladonna seeds that look like tiny brown pebbles.

“Get a fresh pot,” Lutowa says, pointing at a large heap of earthenware in the corner. “And soil. You can take the sack the banniks left behind.”

I bring a large pot to the table. It’s quite heavy, but I need to give the plant a lot of room to grow its roots, since they are the most potent poison.

“Those were banniks, then?”

Banniks are house spirits that protect and clean outdoor baths. Some wealthy people in my village had bath outhouses, with big vessels to bathe in and fireplaces to keep them warm. I, like the rest of poor folks, had to do with a simple basin in my cottage, or the river.

Lutowa nods. “Useless lot. They have just enough magic to clean a few rooms a day. But I suppose everyone has their use in this world.”

I shoot her a quick look. It seems Lutowa is proud of her power and thinks those who have less magic are beneath her. It makes sense, considering how everyone treats her. Loneliness and pride often go hand in hand.

“Fill the pot with soil. Check under the table for tools if you’re afraid of worms.”

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