"That is not a miracle, Lord Bazyli," Danica said, her voice dropping to match the rustle of dry reed grass. "That is a legume. Its nodules harbor organisms that fix nitrogen into starved ground. It survives because it feeds itself, while your priests pour caustic white salt onto wounds they claim to bandage." Radoslav Bazyli tilted his head, his gray irises catching the moonlight like cold silver coins. A slow, thin smirk parted his lips. "Organisms. Nitrogen. Strange prayers from an anointed Saintess. Yet you are out here with dirt under your fingernails instead of kneeling on marble cushions. I find myself wondering if I should bet on your tongue, Lady Volos, or buy grain futures in the southern march before the kingdom starves." "Keep your coins ready, my lord," she answered quietly, stepping past him into the shadow of the ditch. "You will need them to buy seed." Twelve hours later, the marble beneath her slippers was indeed cold, but she was not kneeling. The solar of the cathedral smelled of crushed myrrh, unburnt beeswax, and dried marsh flowers. High Priestess Elzbieta sat upon the high seat of carven cedar, the gold thread of her mantilla gleaming beneath high, lancet windows. Beside her stood Lady Zofia Rostova, radiant, rigid, her pale hands folded in pious repose over silk dyed the deep indigo of midsummer midnight. "You claim your week of fasting brought visions, child," Elzbieta spoke, her tone rich, rounded, like warm mead poured into a silver goblet. "Yet you return before the seven days have run their course. Do the Deities of Soil and Sky whisper so impatiently to the Verdant Hand?" Danica did not drop her gaze. The courtiers flanking the nave—barons smelling of pomade, royal clerks clutching parchment, and in the rear, Bazyli leaning his broad shoulders against a fluted pillar—watched her like dogs awaiting a dropped scrap of meat. "The gods do not whisper in riddles when the belly is empty, Your Holiness," Danica said clearly, her voice bouncing cleanly against the ribbed vaults. "They showed me that we have misunderstood their gifts. The earth does not ask for empty tears or caustic consecrated waters. It asks for restorative labor." Zofia's chin lifted, a sharp, elegant line of contempt. "Blasphemy dressed in noble arrogance. The earth yields to divine purity, not the meddling hands of those whose favor has withered." Danica turned her full attention upon the younger woman. "Then test your purity against my meddling, Lady Zofia. Right here. In the public eye." A stir ran through the onlookers, silk brushing against wool. "Explain yourself," Elzbieta commanded, her rings clinking against the cedar armrest. "Two plots," Danica said, holding up two fingers. Her voice was steady, the rhythm of a lecturer commanding a skeptical amphitheater. "The blighted terrace beneath the western wall of the city. Two identical strips of dead earth, each forty paces wide. For one month, Lady Zofia and the cathedral acolytes will treat the eastern strip with your holy water, your chants, and your sacred unguents. I will take the western strip." "And what rites will you use, Lady Danica?" Zofia scoffed, stepping down a single marble tier. "Will you sing to the worms?" "I will use fermented vegetation—rotted straw, vegetable skins, and dung. I will crush the charred bones of livestock to restore phosphorus to the soil, and rake wood ash to temper its acid. And I will sow clover and vetch before a single grain of rye touches the furrow." Disgust twisted Zofia’s delicate features. "Filthy peasant superstition! She speaks of offal, muck, and dead beasts within the sanctum! It is an insult to the Soil and Sky, a grotesque desecration meant to drag the mysteries of heaven down into the barnyard!" Murmurs of agreement rippled through the assembled lords. Several noblewomen held scented linen to their noses as though the words themselves carried a stench. Danica did not waver. "If dung and bone offend heaven, Lady Zofia, then why does wheat grow tallest where the wild herd dies? If your prayers are pure, your plot will turn green while mine remains a heap of rotting refuse. What do you fear?" Zofia flushed, stepping forward to retort, but a single raised hand from Elzbieta silenced her instantly. The High Priestess leaned forward. A predatory, razor-thin smile touched her lined mouth. She saw an easy execution, gift-wrapped in Danica's own madness. In one month, the entire capital would watch the fallen saintess wallow in filth and produce nothing. "A splendid devotion," Elzbieta purred softly. "The Deities love a contrite heart that offers proof. Let it be done. The contest shall conclude on the eve of the Royal Harvest Festival. If your plot thrives, we shall acknowledge your... novel interpretation of the rites. But if it lies barren, Danica Volos, you will stand before the pyre as a heretic who traded holy truth for profane deceit." "Agreed," Danica said. Elzbieta turned her eyes away, already dismissing her, but Danica caught the subtle shift of the Priestess’s wrist. As the crowd began to murmur and drift toward the great bronze doors, Elzbieta gestured to Brother Malec, a thin, sallow clerk who stood in the alcove’s deepest gloom. Danica lingered near a pillar, pretending to adjust the hem of her cloak, her pulse ticking behind her jaw. Through the stone archway of the vestry, Elzbieta’s low command drifted, cold and precise. "Take the small vial from the iron chest," the High Priestess instructed the clerk in a hushed tone, handing him a slender glass phial stoppered with black wax. "Pour three drops into the cistern feeding the western ditch each midnight. Ensure the Saintess's plot remains barren. The gods must have their fire." "By your will, Mother," Malec muttered, slipping the poison inside his sleeve. Danica pulled back against the pillar, the skin of her neck prickling. It was not enough that the soil was alkaline and dead; Elzbieta was actively applying arsenic or lye salts to guarantee failure. Before she could take three steps into the sunlight of the outer courtyard, the blast of a brass clarion split the air. Four Royal Guards in scarlet tabards marched onto the stone steps, followed by the King's crier, whose parchment bore the heavy red wax seal of King Branislav himself. The gathering crowd halted. Lord Bazyli stepped out into the courtyard, his cloak drawn back, resting one gloved hand casually on the pommel of his dagger as he watched the crier unfurl the parchment. "By decree of the Crown, in counsel with the High Temple of Olenya!" the crier's voice boomed, rattling the leaded window panes above. "Hear the royal law for the coming harvest!" A hush fell over the courtyard. Peasants pressed against the perimeter wrought-iron fence; nobles paused on the steps. "Whereas the blight upon the land has tested the piety of our realm, all holdings of duchy, barony, and manor must demonstrate the gods' favor. A new levy is instituted forthwith: each noble house shall deliver one-third more bushels of grain per acre than the average of the last five seasons to the royal granaries at the Harvest Festival!" A collective gasp broke from the minor lords. "Madness!" shouted an old baron from the rear. "The fields are half-dead! We cannot even make the old quota!" The crier did not blink. His eyes remained fixed on the ink. "Any lord whose estate fails to meet this higher quota shall be declared derelict in their duty to the Crown and forsaken by the Soil. Their lands shall be immediately forfeit and remanded to the administrative custody of the Grand Temple for purification and redistribution!" Danica felt the ground beneath her slippers turn to glass. One-third more. On poisoned land. It was a clean, bloodless coup. The Temple wouldn't just execute her; they were about to legally swallow the entire Volos duchy, stripping her family of every square foot of soil before she could even sow a seed. Across the plaza, Bazyli’s eyes found hers through the milling, panicked lords. He didn't look amused anymore. He looked like a man watching a burning fuse, waiting to see if she would run or throw water. Danica squared her shoulders, stepped off the sanctuary stairs, and walked straight toward the merchant lord.

A Wager of Ash and Bone