Page 76 of Devil's Doom

Lutowa pulls a goblet of mead closer and straddles the bench to face me when I sit next to her.

“There is one very old, forgotten, even forbidden, tale about a god going back in time. I had to rummage in my mind for a while to uncover it. I don’t think anyone but the oldest of us remembers it anymore.”

I nod sharply, doing my best to keep my expression neutral. It’s difficult. All I can think is,finally.Finally, I’ll have a solid clue about how to rescue my younger self. Finally, it will all pay off.

“Do you know the real story about how the first mortals were made?” Lutowa asks, quirking an eyebrow. “Not the one Perun wants us to believe.”

I nod. “It’s Weles, not Perun, who gave mortals the breath of life. Perun spoiled his brother’s creation.”

The bieda nods, her black eyes serious.

“Yes. There is that story, very old, probably not true. It says Weles was so distraught by his brother’s cruel tampering, he did everything in his might to repair the harm. Weles loved mortals like a father. He wanted them to thrive, and what Perun did hurt him to the depths of his soul. But nothing Weles did to save them worked—so one day, he decided to devise a way to go back to that very moment time was born and stop Perun from blowing into the mortals’ mouths.”

I am so still, all my muscles are rigid with tension. When Lutowa reaches for her goblet to drink, I’d like nothing more than to shake her, but I hold myself back. She’ll tell me in a moment. What’s one moment compared to all the time I’ve spent seeking this answer?

“Legend has it, he succeeded,” the bieda continues, wiping her mouth. “He went back to that day by the lake when Perun grabbed the newly made mortals and forced their mouths open to receive his violating breath. Weles tried to stop his brother. They fought, and Weles lost. He crawled back to his natural time and mourned. That’s the tale, anyway. I don’t know how much truth there is to it.”

Slowly, as if in a dream, I reach for a goblet. My hands shake just a little, but I manage to be inconspicuous about it as I drink deeply to cover my excitement. It’s not that I don’t trust Lutowa—I do—but this is my most important secret that I can’t share with anyone. It’s already bad enough Woland knows about my need to travel in time.

Lutowa has no idea how significant her story was. All my vague hopes suddenly coalesce into solid, realistic plans. I know what to do, and there is no more space left for doubts.

At night, I barely sleep, tossing and turning in the clean sheets that smell only of me. My vipers, fed mice by a friendly kobold I asked for this favor, hiss and slither, and I stare at the dark ceiling and think. I devise a plan upon plan, each more complex than the last, until the entire construction falls in my mind, and I go back to the simplest idea.

The next morning, I get up before Draga. When she comes in to wake me, my bag is already packed, a supply of charged eggs, food, drink, and a change of clothes ready for the road. I strap my ungainly knife, the one I made with my magic, to my belt.

“Not today,” I tell my surprised trainer. “I have an errand to run.”

For a moment, I think she’ll stop me. A shadow passes across her face, and I brace myself for a fight, but Draga only smiles, bidding me to come back for our session next morning.

I promise her I will, even though it’s a lie.

As I make my way through the tunnels, I expect to be stopped time and again, because I never fully trusted Woland's promise that I was free. The few people who mill around at this hour glance at my bag and comfortable travel clothes, but nobody says a word.

I reach the door out, the one in the big cavern where I threw Wera against the wall. A guard mans it at all times, and when I approach, he opens the door for me with a small bow. It’s an enormous relief, because it means Woland meant what he said—I am free, and he won’t punish my friends when I leave.

Though I couldn’t care less about Lech right now. It’s Rada and Dar I am worried about.

The climb up hundreds of stairs winds me, but barely. I’ve grown stronger during this month of grueling training and eating well every day. When I emerge out of the boarded up house by the river, dawn colors the sky gold. It’s a cold autumn day, but Dadzbog shines bright.

As I walk down the slope, I marvel at how the world has changed. Trees have shed their leaves, and their remains litter the cobbles, covered with a crunchy layer of frost. The city is still asleep, people biding their time until the toll hits.

I stop at a small roadside shop offering steaming chicory brew and kolaches, the breakfast costing me one soft-boiled egg. It’s not what Draga would have had me eat, but I enjoy my bit of freedom, stuffing myself full with the warm, sweet dough. It’s filled with hot plums.

The milk bar is quiet and serene as I pass it, the doors closed, and I feel relieved that it still stands. Draga knows Zlotomira, and she would have told me if anything happened to the place, but it’s reassuring to see it. During my month downstairs, Perun sent two storms to ravage the city.

And that’s without any provocation from the rebels, apparently. Lutowa joked he probably found Mokosz fucking some hapless bies in their marital bed and lost it.

Her infidelity is a standing joke. She is the most powerful goddess, though, and thus, the only consort Perun will deign to have. He cares about absolute domination, so he would scorn a weaker wife.

When the cobbles end, the walk becomes far less pleasant. The frost melts long before noon, turning the roads wet and soft. I navigate down muddy pathways, jumping over puddles. My boots sink in mud. Heaps of trash flank the road, stinking and shaking with movement. Rats and other vermin are shameless, rummaging in the waste in broad daylight.

Here, more people are out, working their gardens if they have them, or hanging tattered, graying laundry out on ropes stretched between houses. I stop when I see a begging woman, her face covered with sores, the sweet aroma of decomposition sitting around her like a cloud.

She gives me a look of utter despair when I take a step closer. She sits on the ground, her legs covered by her dirty skirts, but I just see some puss escaping down the side. It seems like she’s sitting in a puddle of it. She has the rot, then.

“An egg, miss, I beg you,” she says, her voice sounding wet and slurping, as if her voice organs are turning liquid. “Just a small egg to help me through another day.”

I already know it’s hopeless. There is still no cure for the rot, and when I asked Nienad if he had plans to work on it, he told me tersely to mind my own business. This woman will die, rotten from the inside, completely alone, because others will avoid her for fear of catching it. It’s a horrible death.

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