Page 22 of Devil’s Doom (Jaga and the Devil #2)

Chapter twenty-two

Poison

My good mood lasts for another ten minutes, at which point the sheer amount of unfriendly looks and derisive comments finally gets to me. As I walk through the widest, most commonly used corridors, everyone seems to look at me. Crowds pass this way and that, people carrying things or making them float in front of them, baskets filled with food, loads of laundry, or even cages containing chickens, ducks, and geese.

Warriors dressed similarly to Draga in shirts, trousers, and weapon-laden belts walk fast, hurrying from task to task. The tunnels are like arteries, the people the lifeblood of the rebellion. Everyone seems to have a purpose—apart from me.

All I do is attract hate. People call me “traitor” and “whore” when they pass, the words too quiet to draw attention, their passage too fast for me to react.

Overwhelmed and temporarily stripped of my confidence, I duck into a side tunnel that’s currently empty. I wonder what to do. My two hours with Draga have barely put a dent in my day. Up in the city, I used to go shopping or just walk around with Lech when he was available, getting to know Slawa. Here, there is much less to see, though the number of tunnels probably rivals the number of streets above.

After what Lech said yesterday, I’m wary to approach him or Rada. The thought of losing them hurts, so I shove it aside, desperately thinking how to distract myself from dire musings.

I suppose I could go out and come back later, but that doesn’t align with what I want. Everything I need is here, in these tunnels. I just have to figure out how to get it.

My mind made up, I straighten my spine and walk through the maze of orb-lit corridors into the dining room. After all, I’ve earned my breakfast. The vast space is mostly empty, though a table at the far end is laden with food.

As I pass through, the few people seated at the tables shoot me unfriendly looks. I ignore them, keeping my head up. I already know eating in public will be uncomfortable, and I long for the privacy of Woland’s quarters, but I know I must stay.

I learned it long ago in my village. When people saw me regularly, there was less gossip, and I was more welcome due to familiarity. But if I isolated myself for a time, everyone grew more fearful and hostile.

So that’s the goal, I think. To be seen.

“You walk like a queen with rags on her back. She’s poor, she’s humiliated, but she knows in her bones she’s destined to rule.”

The voice is melodic and quiet, but devoid of emotion. I look up from my plate of pork sausages and bread, right into the black, bottomless eyes of a pale, dark-haired woman.

She’s so thin, her bones stick out, her arms even more twiglike than mine. Her tattered gray dress presses to her ribs intimately, revealing every contour of her unhealthy frame. She looks young, but her eyes watch me with the weariness of old age.

“Thank you,” I say after a moment of hesitation. “Would you like to sit?”

She gives me an unsettling smile that reveals two large gaps in her upper row of teeth, and takes a place opposite me. When I see her breakfast, I raise my eyebrows. She has two large plates, each heaped high with the most fattening food options. There are sausages, thick cuts of cheese and pork belly, and a ball of butter as big as my fist sitting by a pile of thick bread slices.

“You don’t know who I am, do you, consort?”

I flinch, looking up. While I studied her food, she scrutinized me, her eyes twinkling with a knowing spark.

“I admit I don’t. And call me Jaga, please.”

Anything but consort.

“My name is Lutowa,” she says with a smile, the thin layer of her skin stretching gruesomely over her cheekbones. “I’m a bieda.”

My lips part with a soft sigh of understanding. So that’s why she looks like she’s starving—because she is. A bieda is a demoness of poverty and starvation, one of the most feared types of bies. In the stories, whenever a bieda moves into someone’s home, that person’s family lose all their wealth and die one by one, finished by cold, lack of food, and illness.

Her name, Lutowa, means “of the winter months”. Winter is the worst time to be poor. In summer, people survive without fire for warmth, and they forage in the forest or hunt for food. But winter kills poor people.

“You’re thinking how to politely tell me to go,” Lutowa says with an amused expression that looks eerie on her skeletal features. “I understand.”

She picks up her plate. My hand shoots out before I think, grabbing her shockingly thin wrist. Her skin is dry and cold, her veins so very blue underneath.

“Don’t go,” I say when she gives me a look of mild surprise. “I’m not afraid of you. And I’d love to have company.”

Especially of someone who calls me a queen, and not a traitor whore. I’ll take allies where I find them.

She nods, her gaunt face softening as she regards me with a quizzical look.

“You truly aren’t afraid. Just like the devil. Do you know most biedas are banished from the city upstairs? Everyone thinks we’re just waiting to steal all their eggs and chickens.”

She laughs listlessly, spreading a generous layer of butter on her bread with a wicked looking knife. Its handle is made of black wood with a strangely rusty tinge that brings to mind blood. The blade is wide and serrated, the teeth narrow.

“But Woland took you in,” I guess. “Are the other rebels afraid of you?”

Her eyes flash at the mention of his name. She takes an enormous bite of bread that she swallows without chewing, watching me closely.

“They are. I am used to that, of course. Fear is respect. It’s power, in the right circumstances. But sometimes, a woman hunkers for a conversation with someone who isn’t focused on thinking how to flee.”

I huff with laughter, cutting off a piece of sausage. She swallows the rest of her slice and butters another one.

“So Woland isn’t afraid you’ll turn him into a pauper?” I ask.

She shakes her head, swallowing an unchewed slice of bacon. “I wouldn’t dare try, but even if I did, he’s too powerful to be threatened by my curses. Besides, I am as loyal as can be. When most people throw stones, you learn to cherish the hand that feeds you.”

She swallows another piece of bread, her stomach seemingly bottomless. My lips stretch in a humorless smile.

“I know something about that.”

Maybe that’s why I cling to everyone who shows me kindness. I’m used to hatred and derision, and yes, I’ve had stones thrown my way, too. Few people cared for me, but every time that happened, I did all I could to protect them fiercely.

When I look up from my food, I find the bieda’s black eyes studying me.

“We barely met,” Lutowa says slowly, as if weighing every word on her tongue, “but you showed me unexpected kindness. I have nothing to do since no one wants me anywhere near their belongings or children. I’m offering you my help. You can ask old Lutowa for advice or curse magic secrets, or if you have an enemy you’d like to suffer, I’ll gladly assist you.”

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.”

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.