Page 66 of Devil's Doom

I snort under my breath and fill the pot quickly, using my bare hands. “I am a whisperer. Worms and darkness don’t scare me.”

“Interesting,” she muses. “Weles was the god of whisperers long ago, when they were allowed to heal using magic. He taught mortals healing spells and herb lore. Of course, much of that knowledge was lost in the mortal world after Perun took over. But what little trickled down to you through the generations of whisperers originally came from him. Put the seeds in the soil and water it generously.”

A small spring spouts from the wall in a corner of the room, filling a deep basin carved right into the floor. I follow Lutowa’s instructions, thinking about Weles.

She is right. The very spell that brought gods to my door that Kupala Night was a prayer to Weles, asking him to keep my flowers fresh. I think about all the herbs Wiosna taught me about and their properties, and how detailed that knowledge was. It’s difficult to fathom that mortal healers discovered those properties over the years, trying herbs at random to treat various ailments.

It makes much more sense that knowledge was given to us—as a gift from our loving creator who delighted in the mortal race.

“Why does Perun hate him?” I ask when my pot is ready.

Lutowa hums in thought. “Some say it’s because of jealousy. Mokosz is Perun’s wife and consort, but she is vain and loves to be admired by men. Weles was the first man she cheated with. But I don’t think that’s the true reason. Mokosz has many lovers, and Perun does his best to ignore them.

“I think the core of Perun’s jealousy is his brother’s creative power and vision. Weles’ creations are so much more delightful and inspired than whatever Perun comes up with. It was Weles who created the most stunning swathes of this world and the mortal one, Weles who made the first man and gave him life. Weles created magic as a tool, and not as a blunt force meant to strike, like Perun’s lightning.”

She falls silent, closing her eyes for a moment, as if in thought. I pat the wet soil in my pot to make it even. When Lutowa opens her eyes, they are sad.

“Weles built this city,” she says with a sigh. “And he can’t even visit now. Not that I’d like him to see it. Perun’s rule has brought this beautiful creation to ruin. Oh, Jaga, you should have seen it before. There was art, laughter, and the streets brimmed with song. The food, the drink… People wanted to live here and were grateful for the privilege. No one had to trap them behind a fence so they would stay. Those were good times.”

“Do you remember that?” I ask, my eyes growing huge. “That was so long ago, wasn’t it?”

She gives me a crooked smile. “I am the oldest bieda, the one who plagued mortal people when they still lived in huts made from clay and straw. Some things I remember myself, others I know from stories I heard. Now, Jaga. Put your hands on the pot, like so, and fill it with magic just like you would an egg. Focus on helping the plants grow.”

I do it under her watchful eye. The belladonna seeds sprout, beautiful green stems pushing out of the soil. As I feed the plant more magic, it grows leaves and stretches out, blossoming in bell-shaped purple flowers that soon turn into berries.

“I think that’s enough,” Lutowa says, pleased with my result. “Do you want to harvest it now?”

I shake my head, still thinking about Weles who created so much of this world and was sent to eternal banishment in his kingdom of the dead underground. I wonder if he has flowers, too. I wonder what he would create if he had his freedom back.

“Thank you for your help. I think I’ll keep it,” I say, smiling at my beautiful plant that grew so big and green—and so very poisonous—thanks to my magic.

Lutowa teaches me how to make my heavy pot float in front of me as I walk back into Woland’s rooms. I promise to meet her again at breakfast, and we part ways.

Woland is still gone when I fall asleep, his scent growing stale in the cold sheets. Yet when I wake up the next morning to Draga’s ungodly banging, I fancy the mattress next to me is warm, the pillows disturbed.

The scent of male musk and earth is rich and fresh again.

Chapter twenty-three

Want

I jerk up with a gasp, looking around. Is he back? My heart pounds with a shameful amount of trepidation and hope, but when I take in the brightly lit space, I see only my merciless trainer.

The sight of her cheerful face makes me realize how much pain I’m in. It feels like every inch of my body is sore, my arms hurting viciously when I bring them up to rub my eyes. I groan, angry with myself for pining after Woland. I also dread today’s training, which makes me feel like a coward.

I fought a werewolf and a poludnica. I died and was remade in bone-splitting agony. I ran through Slawa’s forests, naked and haunted, and survived. And yet, those experiences seem likenothingcompared to spending two hours with Draga.

“Get ready,” she says with a smile that has no right to be so cheerful. “If you’re out in five minutes, you get to run without a sack today. But tarry too long, and I’ll have you carrying stones up those stairs.”

She winks, gives me a friendly wave, and leaves. I roll out of bed with a groan of pain, fumbling for my clothes. I don’t understand how Draga can deliver her cruel instructions with so much cheer unless she enjoys my suffering.

Today’s training is an absolute nightmare. It seems impossible, but I’m even weaker than yesterday, my abused muscles protesting with every move. Draga wields her stick with a smile and is generous with praise every time I complete a task. Unlike yesterday, I finish the session in a foul mood, lying on the floor in a puddle of my own sweat. I don’t even care about all the people who snicker or huff with disgust. I’m spent.

When Wera’s sour face swings into view above me, I almost sob from the sheer unfairness of it all. I can’t fight her today. All I want is to crawl into a hole somewhere and die. I’m sure souls in Nawie never feel this kind of pain.

“There you are,” she says with a sneer. “Get food and be back here in an hour. Master requested that I train you in combat magic. Be late, and he will hear about this.”

Oh gods. I try to sit up, and it takes me three attempts. Wera scoffs, watching me with utter contempt.

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