Page 73 of Devil's Doom

I think it wouldn’t hurt so much if he were away for good, but I know he visits the rebel base every day, checking on his people and giving new orders.

He just never has time to see me.

“Again. I’ll be quiet this time, and you should focus on aiming. And during the next round, I’ll tell you some more, and I’ll still expect you to land at least four hits. Go.”

I banish Woland from my mind and focus my entire attention on the dummy. My magic trills under my skin, eager to help, but I push it down. Apparently, I make the mistake most novices do, which is relying on magic for everything I can’t do on my own. I have to control this instinct if I want to learn.

The knives cut through the air, five of them hitting the dummy. Two land close to the heart, for which I aimed. Lutowa nods.

“Better. Get them, and let’s see how you do when I talk.”

When I throw, she tells me more about time magic. “Some types of bies, like the licho, can create an illusion of time stopping. They can lock someone in a loop, so that person will walk in circles and the time of day won’t change for them. But that’s not real time magic, more like a mind game the lichos play to make their victims desperate.”

Three knives hit the target. I retrieve them, and Lutowa keeps talking, while I do my best to absorb each word.

“The way gods stop time works differently. The master uses shadow magic to do it, while Swarog hammers out a perimeter of hot sparks. People trapped inside can’t cross it. Mokosz uses vegetation. The person she wants to trap in a timeless circle is surrounded by a maze of plants they cannot exit until she releases them. And Chors’ is the most beautiful. When he stops time, the entire area is bathed in silver moonlight.”

She stops and we regard my result. One knife hit the dummy’s thigh.

I groan and stomp over to get my blades, while Lutowa sighs heavily, looking up as if in prayer for patience.

“How do you know all that?” I ask her, taking my stance again.

“From other people who were trapped by the gods at one point or another. Some of them like to play, and what better way than to lock their victim in a place without time?”

“Even Chors?” I ask after my knife embeds in the dummy’s shoulder.

“He is rarely cruel,” Lutowa admits. “But he likes to learn. I know of a wila Chors locked in his circle of moonlight only to ask her odd questions about why she combed her hair three times every night and how her menstrual cycle worked. She got the impression he knew little about people and spent a lot of time watching them at night.”

Three knives hit the dummy. I’m hungry and irritable, but I don’t complain. Lutowa doesn’t have to train me, and I see how much it costs her not to lash out when I fail to show improvement. I’m grateful for her instruction, so I keep my temper on a leash, too.

When I finally manage to get five knives in while listening to her, she calls it a day, and we have lunch. I eat in haste. Nienad expects me an hour after noon, and I make a point to always be on time. He hates tardiness and numerous other things.

“Good, you’re here,” the healer says, looking up from a potion he’s brewing on a stone workbench in the sick chamber. “We have one new patient. He is your fault, so you’ll have the pleasure of treating him. He got here about two hours ago.”

I clean my hands with a harsh solution of vodka and herbs Nienad demands I use. The sick chamber is not really one room, but a maze of small and large caves. I have access to the common spaces, like patient rooms and Nienad’s workshop, which is always filled with the sounds and scents of foul medicines bubbling in cauldrons.

There is an entire section where I cannot go. Nienad claims he works on dangerous substances that I have no business touching.

My hands cleaned, I stop in front of his workbench, glancing inside the cauldron. He’s making cough syrup.

“How is the patient my fault?” I ask, just as a male moan of pain drifts in through the open door of the nearest patient room.

Nienad harrumph, his bushy, silver eyebrows furrowing. He doesn’t even spare me a look. “Because the master cursed him for taking too long to move out of his way. If you did a good job as his consort, he wouldn’t take his frustration out on people.”

I clench my fists and teeth. Nienad blames me for every victim of Woland’s, which I find extremely unfair. Firstly, because I have absolutely no control over the devil, and secondly, because how am I supposed to ease his frustration if he avoids me?

But I’ve fought with Nienad about this, and he told me he wouldn’t teach me if I whined about every little thing. So I refrain from saying what I want.

“Why haven’t you treated him if he’s been here for two hours?” I ask, my voice low with anger.

“The curse is timebound,” the healer says, measuring out three spoons of honey into the cauldron. “It will only be treatable after sunset.”

I throw my hands in outrage but stay silent, breathing hard until I calm down enough to speak. Nienad has taught me a great deal, and even had the grace to tell me I am the brightest of his students, but he’s sometimes impossible to be around.

“How do you expect me to help the patient if his curse is untreatable?” I ask, forcing myself to sound respectful.

“Figure something out. And if you can’t, silence him, will you? His whining makes me irritable.”

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