But getting close to the truth, to Elzbieta, was a problem of access. Her movements were already scrutinized, her every interaction noted by the ever-present holy guards assigned to her duchy. She was a saintess, yes, but a monitored one.
Days later, the clover in her experimental plot was recovering, a vibrant green against the churned earth saved by the laborers’ swift action and her own frantic efforts. Danica surveyed it, a small satisfaction battling the larger frustration of her imposed immobility. A shadow fell across the rows of plants. Lady Zofia Rostova stood at the edge, her customary impeccable robes slightly rustled by a breeze. Her expression was unreadable, a familiar blend of piety and sharp intellect. Danica braced for another veiled accusation, another thinly disguised threat.
“Lady Danica,” Zofia began, her voice crisp. “Your crop endures. A surprise to many.”
“My methods are sound,” Danica replied, turning fully to face her. The mud had been washed from her skin and clothes, but a faint scent of damp earth clung to her, a subtle defiance to Zofia’s pristine appearance.
Zofia took a step closer, her gaze sweeping over the revitalized clover. “Indeed. But what of the storm? Our scriptures speak of divine displeasure manifesting in nature’s wrath, yet that deluge felt… wrong. The sky was unnaturally dark, the rain heavy with a strange acrid scent, and the swiftness with which it vanished was unlike any tempest I have ever witnessed in Olenya.” She paused, her eyes narrowing. “And the sentries assigned to watch your plot, those venerable men of the Order of the Sacred Seed? They were conveniently absent, weren’t they? Called away to ‘urgent prayer,’ a curious coincidence given the events.”
Danica felt a flicker of surprise. Zofia, the High Priestess’s protegee, was questioning the priesthood's narrative? “You noticed that too,” Danica said, a cautious hope stirring. “The water that flooded my plot was laced with the same alchemical caustic agents found in the sanctuary's ‘blessed’ water. Only in a far more concentrated form.”
Zofia’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. Her lips thinned, lines deepening beside her mouth. “Poison? In the holy water? That is… blasphemy. An abomination against the Soil and Sky.” Her voice carried the conviction of a woman whose entire life was built upon the sanctity of those beliefs. “If what you say is true, this is no mere accident, nor divine judgment. This is a deliberate act of sabotage, against you, and against the land itself.” She looked at Danica, a new intensity in her gaze. “Show me the channel. Show me where this… blasphemy entered your crop.”
Side by side, an unlikely pair, they walked to the damaged irrigation channel. The workers had already begun repairs, shoring up the banks, but the faint oily residue still marked the earth, a dark stain against the lighter soil. Danica pointed to a section where the bank had clearly been deliberately broken, not merely eroded by the floodwaters. “Here. They created a breach, then diverted the contaminated runoff.”
Zofia knelt, examining the soil with a reverence Danica recognized, albeit for different reasons. Her fingers, usually adorned with silver rings, sifted through the damp earth. “The ground here is still slick. The scent… it is faint now, but I remember it from the storm. It was not the fresh smell of rain.” Her gaze sharpened as she pushed aside a clump of weeds near the break. Something glinted. “What is this?”
Danica leaned closer. Half-buried in the mud, a small, silver locket lay exposed. It was tarnished, but its intricate engraving was still visible: a soaring falcon, wings outstretched, clutching a sheaf of wheat. The crest of House Rostova. Zofia’s own family.
Zofia snatched it up, her hand trembling slightly. Her face, usually so controlled, paled. “This… this is impossible.” Her fingers traced the falcon, her eyes wide with a dawning horror. “This is my family’s mark. A locket of this design… it is not commonly distributed. Only those of direct lineage, or the most trusted of retainers, would carry such an item.” She looked from the locket to Danica, a raw vulnerability in her expression. “A conspirator is attempting to implicate me. To tie my House to this… this profanity.” Her voice dropped low and harsh. “Or worse, a traitor within my own household is involved. This is not just against you, Lady Danica. This is against me, and all that I hold sacred.” The shift in her stance was immediate, rigid with purpose. The rivalry, the suspicion, it all dissolved, replaced by a shared, burning anger. “We must find out who did this.”
Danica nodded, a grim satisfaction settling within her. An ally. An influential, devout ally. “We will. But our movements are watched. We need information that cannot be traced back to us.”
Just as Danica pondered how to gather the necessary intelligence without alerting Elzbieta, a message arrived the following evening. A small, nondescript scroll, delivered by a stable hand with surprisingly agile fingers. It bore no seal, but Danica recognized the subtle, almost imperceptible scent of a rare spice that Radoslav Bazyli often carried. He wanted to meet, discreetly, after moonrise, at the old millhouse on the edge of the Volos lands.
Danica arrived cloaked, Zofia beside her, similarly disguised. The moon cast long, dancing shadows through the broken windows of the mill. Radoslav Bazyli stood in the center, a solitary figure, his posture relaxed yet alert. He acknowledged Zofia with a slight inclination of his head, his gaze lingering on Danica’s face for a fraction longer than necessary. “My ladies,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the cavernous space. “I trust you found my summons… expedient.”
“What news do you have, Lord Bazyli?” Danica cut to the chase. “We have reason to believe the sabotage was orchestrated by an agent close to the high altar.”
Radoslav’s eyes, glinting in the dim light, held a knowing quality. “Indeed. My network has been… active. Such a large-scale operation, even disguised, leaves faint trails.” He produced a small, rolled parchment from his tunic. “Over the past six months, there have been unprecedented purchases of certain raw materials. Quantities far exceeding any known industrial demand within Olenya.” He unrolled the parchment, revealing a ledger in a precise, almost elegant script. “Specifically, immense volumes of refined sulfur and quicklime. Ingredients, I am reliably informed, crucial for the creation of potent alchemical caustic agents.”
Danica's breath caught in her throat. This was the proof. “And who made these purchases?”
Radoslav’s finger traced a line on the ledger. “The transactions were routed through a series of shell companies, newly established, with no clear ownership. But my agents, tenacious little moles, managed to unearth the underlying financial flow.” He paused, his gaze sweeping between Danica and Zofia. “All payments, every single coin, ultimately originated from a single, undeniable source. The Grand Sanctuary's own treasury. Specifically, the accounts overseen directly by High Priestess Elzbieta herself.”
The air in the millhouse grew heavy under the sudden silence. Zofia’s hand flew to her mouth, her stare locked in horrified comprehension. The truth, stark and undeniable, stood before them. Elzbieta, the revered High Priestess, was not just aware of the blight; she was the architect of it. The ‘divine blight’ was a meticulously planned poisoning, designed to starve the kingdom into submission and consolidate Elzbieta's power, and Zofia’s own family had been set up to take the fall. The implications were staggering, reaching into every corner of the kingdom, threatening to unravel the very fabric of their society. Danica looked at Zofia, then at Radoslav, the shared purpose now a tangible force between them. The fight was no longer just for her survival; it was for the very soul of Olenya. And they were just beginning to understand the true depth of the darkness they faced.
“This… this changes everything,” Zofia breathed, her voice filled with a terrible, righteous anger. “We must expose her.”