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Chapter Three

Third Sister Cathedral

Cobetsnya, Kolakolvia

Kristoph Vals


Spring in Cobetsnya. A time of hope. Rebirth. The perfect time to begin anew. When progression under the Tsar’s reign seemed like a possibility.

A lie.

But . . . It was the perfect time to perform an interrogation.

Kristoph Vals—one of the highest-ranking agents in Kolakolvia’s Secret Police Unit, the infamous Section 7 of Military Directorate S—took the time to appreciate the breathtaking artistry of Third Sister Cathedral. Vals wasn’t particularly religious, unless the brutal methods of Section 7 were considered a religion. Maybe they are after a fashion, he thought, a smile touching his lips. Because in that case, he would be a bishop.

The cathedral was dedicated to the Lost Sister, who had been murdered in a fit of jealousy by her two older sisters. It was one of the foundational stories of the Tsarist Communion—the official state religion of the ever-expanding Empire of Kolakolvia, yet this particular center of worship wasn’t very popular. There was an underlying superstition about attending a church dedicated to the Third Sister. No one even knew her name, and what if—Heaven forbid—the other two sisters took offense? If the immortal beings had been so jealous of their sister that they had taken her life . . . well, what did that mean for those poor souls who worshipped the dead sister ahead of them? The followers of the other sisters looked upon those who worshipped her as fools, who brought bad luck and curses down upon all their heads.

Kristoph almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

Still, the building was beautiful. All polished marble, arches, carved reliefs depicting the Third Sister in supposed holy poses. He’d had a good chance to study the architecture, since he had been waiting across the street from the entrance for the better part of an hour, watching the traffic in and out. Only one family had entered—an old woman and her even older husband—and they’d since left.

Perfect.

He pressed his knuckles until they cracked, then nodded to himself. Yes, today would be . . . enjoyable.

Kristoph looked over his shoulder toward where Vasily stood in the shadows. Well, the thing that had once been Vasily at least. He was now one of the Cursed, one of the Chancellor’s many experiments.

“Let’s go,” he said to the monstrosity. Even in the early spring chill, the Cursed was shirtless, every vein glowing red beneath the skin. A letter was etched into Vasily’s forehead. A piece of the old Prajan phrase to summon a golem. Such a thing had never been meant to be used on flesh, but the Chancellor had a gift for finding new ways to use old magic.

Kristoph started across the street, trusting Vasily to follow behind him. The Cursed never spoke. He wasn’t even sure how they saw, since they all wore tattered blindfolds over their eyes, but they all moved with an eerie grace.

A man was about to head into the cathedral, but when he saw Kristoph approaching with the abomination at his back, the would-be churchgoer made the sign of the cross and hurried away. It was probably for the best. Third Sister worshippers were a persecuted minority, but Kristoph still wanted to keep the body count low this afternoon.

Pushing open the double doors, he liked how quietly they moved on their hinges. A testament to the care provided by the local flock. Inside, the cathedral was shockingly simple. He supposed all the tithes taken from the parishioners must have been used on the outside. A row of pews lined either side of the chapel, the aisle between them narrowing as it approached the altar at the front. The altar itself was a simple stone table, behind which stood a statue of the Third Sister. She clutched the knife embedded in her chest, while her gaze searched skyward for help from her Father and Brother in Heaven. Kristoph found the sculpture ghastly.

How do I best approach this? Kristoph strived for originality. Anyone could be arrested, taken to Section 7 headquarters, locked in a room, beaten, starved, and then questioned. But there was no artistry in that simple process. No spectacle. He looked around the room and spotted the confessional box. Ah, yes. This will do nicely.

He motioned for Vasily to move around to the priest’s side of the confessional, then entered the penitent’s side. He pulled a bright yellow handkerchief from his pocket—a memento from nearly a decade earlier—and laid it out on the bench. Who knew what decrepit citizen had sat here before him?

The priest must have heard him enter, because the wooden slat slid open between them. They were separated by a delicate latticework, to keep the confessor’s identity a secret. Kristoph scoffed. What did these amateurs know of keeping secrets?

“You have come for confession, child?”

Kristoph suppressed a smile. He could hear it in a person’s words when they smiled. “I’m afraid I’m rather out of my depth here, Father. I’m unsure what I am supposed to do here.”

The man on the other side of the latticework wood screen chuckled. “That’s quite alright. You are not a member of my congregation.”

“How can you tell?”

“I know the voices of all my flock. They are not many.”

“Ah. Well you are correct. I am not a member of your flock. Nor of any flock, really.” Kristoph was far more a wolf than a sheep.

“Since you don’t know the new ways,” the priest said, “can I assume you are a follower of the old ways?”

“No,” Kristoph replied. “Though, I have seen fae creatures. I know they exist. Great or small. Savage or seductive. But are they powerful to the extent the paganists say? Were they truly here before us? On that I’m not so sure.”

“So,” the priest asked, confusion in his voice, “why then have you come?”

“I seek understanding.”

“Wonderful. I can most certainly help with that. What do you wish to know?”

“I seek education about sins, Father. Hence my choice of location for our conversation.”

“I see. The confessional is a place for you to unburden yourself of your transgressions. I hear them in God’s stead so that you may seek absolution. Have you sinned in your past?”

This time, Kristoph couldn’t keep down the laugh. “Don’t we all?”

“Tell me of yours.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I must decline that invitation. We would be here for days. I have murdered—so many I’ve lost count—I’ve lied, bore false witness, let good men die, let bad men live, broken promises, broken hearts, gambled—with money and lives—stolen, cheated, spoken blasphemy, slept with other men’s wives. My list goes on and on.”

“I don’t understand. What sort of understanding do you seek?”

“Of sins,” Kristoph said again. “Though I suppose I could be more specific. I am in need of education on your sins.”

The moment of silence stretched. Then finally: “That is . . . I mean to say . . . I don’t—”

“Let me help you, Father,” Kristoph said. “Is stealing, for example, a sin?”

“Yes . . . of course.”

“Good, good. I certainly think so. Now, let’s say you associate with thieves, and you help them. Does this make you an accessory to the sin, and therefore a sinner yourself?”

“Yes.” The priest’s voice was soft.

“Does it matter what you steal? Is the value of the item relational to the severity of the sin?”

“No. Stealing is stealing.”

Kristoph shook his head, but then wondered if the other man could see the gesture. “Not so, Father. Not so. If you steal a kiss from your beloved, I hardly consider that the same as, say, stealing bread to feed your family. But what of stealing magic from the Tsar’s army and smuggling it to rebels?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Of the stealing of kisses? Doubtless.”

“No, I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” Kristoph interrupted. “And you’re lying. Another sin, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Sir, I’m terribly sorry, but I have an appointment. I really must be going.”

Kristoph sighed. Not out of disappointment, but in contentment. Had the priest simply admitted to everything, it would have ruined his day. There were benefits to violence.

And Kristoph had a reputation to maintain.

“Father, have you ever seen one of the Cursed up close?”

“What? No. They are an abomina—”

Kristoph snapped his fingers.

Vasily ripped the entire wall off the confessional. The priest shrieked as he was effortlessly yanked out. The Cursed were terrifyingly strong.

Kristoph stood, retrieved the yellow handkerchief, and exited the booth. He walked to the opposite side where Vasily held the priest aloft, the little man’s legs kicking frantically. Kristoph took a moment to appreciate the humor of the spectacle, then he gestured to the stone table and Vasily slammed the priest down on it and pinned his arms.

With a disappointed sigh, Kristoph said, “Now, Vasily, no need to get overzealous. I still need to question the man. Apologize.”

The blindfolded monster was utterly silent.

“Worth a shot,” Kristoph said as he patted the priest on the cheek. “The Cursed don’t talk, you know. I keep trying, but I fear it’s a hopeless quest. This is Vasily. Ironically, this isn’t the first time Section 7 has assigned him to be my partner. We served together when we were both young agents. Only he did some bad things and nearly got himself killed, but the Chancellor made an example out of him. A tiny fragment of the magical phrase that gives life to a golem does great and terrible things when merged with human flesh. Now here he is, united with me once more. Biggest difference I’ve found, Vasily has even less mercy for criminals now than he used to.”

The priest was obviously terrified, but Kristoph kept his voice kind, even cheerful. He found politeness punctuated with moments of sudden brutality to be very effective in unnerving his subjects.

“You are Father Cevastol, yes?”

“I am, and I’ve done nothing wrong!”

Kristoph had been informed there was only the one priest he was looking for here today, but it was still good to confirm his identity before hurting him too much. The church was subservient to the state, but there were still some bishops with influence sufficient to have the Chancellor’s ear. Though it was doubtful any of them would speak up on a traitor’s behalf, especially one who served a disliked religious minority.

“Now, Father, I’m going to need you to try very hard to speak only the truth. Tell me where you have stashed the stolen goods your compatriots entrusted to your care.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Strange. That’s not what they told me during their torture sessions. Let’s see, there was the baker, Hans. He pointed me to a seamstress by the name of . . . oh what was her name? Vasily, do you remember? Of course you don’t. Oh! Susana. I think you know her. The widow who has three children? Play your cards right, and you may have a shot with her.”

“She’s . . . she’s married . . . and she has five children!”

Kristoph winked. “Not anymore. How else could I persuade her to give you up? Like I said, she is primed for a comforting shoulder. That could be you.”

The priest struggled against Vasily’s grip to no avail.

“Now, the interesting thing about your comment, is your admission to being her acquaintance. If you like, I can send Vasily to bring her and her remaining children here as a means of motivation.”

The priest began weeping. It was a pitiful sound, but also a reward for an interrogation going the right direction.

“Where are the goods?”

Father Cevastol went rigid, and his face went flat. “No.”

Kristoph began laughing, and continued laughing, as he pulled out a long knife from beneath his coat. With his free hand, he wiped at imagined tears at the corners of his eyes. “Again, you misunderstand. You telling me is inevitable. The only variable is time.” He spun the knife so it was blade down, then looked up at the statue of the Third Sister. “Let’s see if we can’t make you a living representation of this statue. Looks like the blade enters just below the collarbone . . . ”

The knife was only a finger’s width from the priest’s skin when the front door to the church opened, and the head of a young man peeked in.

“Father Cevastol, I’m back—oh!” When he saw the Cursed, he ran.

“Who was that?” Kristoph asked, not looking away from the priest’s pleading eyes. He withdrew the knife and placed its point under Cevastol’s chin.

“The presbyter. My assistant. He’s not involved.”

“Vasily, bring him to me.”

The Cursed leapt over the rows of benches in a single bound, ripped the door off its hinges, and vanished outside. Vasily returned a moment later, teenager held under one arm.

“Don’t do this,” the priest begged. “Please.”

“You confuse me, Cevastol. Do you want to help me or not?”

“He knows nothing about this.”

“Doubtful. Rebellion taints everything around it. Vasily, when I get to ten, break the boy’s neck. One . . . ”

“Please, don’t!”

“ . . . two, three, four . . . ”

The assistant screamed in terror, until his voice was cut off by Vasily’s grip.

“ . . . five, six, seve—”

“I’ll talk! I’ll talk . . . ”

“Tell me where to look. Eight.”

Cevastol’s eyes went wide.

“Nine.”

“Under the altar! There’s a hidden trap door.”

“Thank you, Father.” Kristoph looked at the squirming boy. Collateral damage wasn’t ideal, but a message had to be sent. “Vasily?”

The Cursed turned its blindfolded head in Kristoph’s direction.

“Ten.”

The altar moved easily, revealing a ladder descending into a small room. He climbed down and found that it housed a trove of stolen goods. Exactly what Kristoph had been hoping for.

Vasily was upstairs making it clear the cathedral was closed for the time being.

There were rifles, uniforms, and canned food, all clearly stolen from the military district, but such mundane things were inconsequential compared to the treasure he was seeking. A small crate filled with straw held a dozen letters harvested from fallen golems.

Kristoph himself did not understand magic, though he wanted to know more. Knowledge was a key that opened all doors. All he knew so far about this particular magic was when the complete word was inscribed on a golem’s head, it was given life. Golems were creatures capable of incredible destruction. A single one could rout a small army. Directorate agents scoured old battlefields searching for fallen golems, because any letters of the summoning word recovered still held incredibly powerful magic.

The Chancellor had not yet managed to create an actual golem, but had discovered other uses for the fragments. Kristoph couldn’t grasp how the trapped magic worked. Yet. A complete phrase had never been found, and he doubted ever would be. But a single piece of a letter—or rune, as some called them—could power giant suits of armor when used on metal, or create a Cursed like Vasily when used on flesh.

The Chancellor would be most pleased by the recovery of these tiny pieces of stone and clay. Perhaps even pleased enough to convince his superior that Kristoph didn’t need a Cursed abomination looking over his shoulder all day. It was Section 7 policy that agents of his rank be given a Cursed companion, ostensibly because they were so intimidating that rebels quailed before them. Except Kristoph had never needed help striking fear into the hearts of the Tsar’s enemies.

Kristoph hated the Cursed, and his assigned monster specifically. Vasily was a constant reminder of his failure years ago. He didn’t trust the Chancellor’s puppets. He couldn’t prove it, but he had a feeling that the real purpose of their Cursed companions was to serve as a spy to watch the watchers.

There were many letters and documents in the secret room. They would need to be checked carefully to gather evidence against other criminals. There was no room in the empire for disloyalty. He picked up a stack of papers, going through them one by one. Most of them were detailing supply lines for the Kolakolvian military. None of it was hidden knowledge, but a good indicator of what other supplies the rebels planned on robbing.

Buried in the pile was an envelope addressed to Father Cevastol.


My dearest friend,

I hope your congregation is treating you well and this letter finds you in good health. I write you from my newest calling, a prison in the ruins of Transellia. I’m not sure if Almacia or Kolakolvia are in control here. Perhaps neither. It is a lawless land. Our world does not make sense sometimes. So I am in a lawless country but in a place dedicated to imprisoning those who broke the law.


Kristoph began to skim as the missionary spoke of his travails. A secret policeman did not have time for matters of the spirit, but it would be just like a rebel to encode important intelligence among all the boring preaching.


In my time here I’ve been able to help several of the prisoners attain a measure of peace. I have been blessed to help so many. Yet I must seek your wisdom about one prisoner in particular. He is an Ashkenaz and I know you have spent time among that tribe. I very much wish to reach him, for unlike most of the men here, who are stiff-necked and hard-hearted, he is a kind spirit, a healer, and a scholar. He is a political prisoner, but I’m not sure anyone knows who he is, or why he is actually here. He won’t speak of his crimes. It was only on what he thought was his death bed, delirious with fever, that he ever said aloud his given name, Amos Lowe.


Kristoph stopped reading. It couldn’t be.

Amos Lowe was a name known by every agent of Section 7. Searching for him was the very first assignment given by the Chancellor when their secretive organization had been formed, and it was repeated to every new recruit. Find Amos Lowe and bring him to me alive. That was their top priority. More important than recovering runes. More important than rooting out traitors and spies. They had been on the lookout for the man for decades with no luck.

Amos Lowe had been the Chancellor’s childhood friend and competitor at the prestigious religious academy in the city-state of Praja. Their work on golem magic had been groundbreaking. Kristoph didn’t know the whole tale, as the Chancellor never shared it, but there had been some manner of falling out and the two of them had been exiled by the Prajans. The Chancellor had come to Kolakolvia and become an advisor to the Tsar. Lowe had never been seen again.

Why Lowe was so important remained the Chancellor’s secret. All he would tell them was the knowledge in Lowe’s head could change the balance of power forever.

Could this letter be a trick? A rebel fraud? Except who outside Section 7 would know to use that name? Plus the description matched the few things the Chancellor had told them about their target. It could not be coincidence.

If this letter was accurate, Amos Lowe was in a political prison. It was dated only a few months ago. Though the writer of the letter was unsure of the current occupying force, Kristoph knew the tiny neighboring country of Transellia was currently under Almacian control, and far behind enemy lines.

He looked at the crate of recovered summoning runes. For the first time, perhaps in Kolakolvian history, they were not the most valuable thing in the room. Vasily was out of eyesight, so Kristoph folded the letter and hid it inside his coat, then hurried up the ladder. The letter would be his secret for now.

Poor Father Cevastol. He’d gone mad at the death of the boy and Vasily had broken his legs so he couldn’t run away. The priest didn’t even seem to feel the blade when Kristoph cut his throat and left him there. His parishioners—were there any guilty among them—needed to know the consequences of stealing from the Tsar, and more importantly, from the Chancellor.

And with the priest dead, Kristoph Vals was now the only person in Cobetsnya who knew the location of the most wanted man in the world.


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