A few hours later, Kaz sits in the living room with his back toward the wall and a plush chair beneath him, aching leg supported on an ottoman, trying not to fall asleep. There’s a fire blazing in the hearth, warming the room and offering orange light to counteract the damp, muffled gray of the outside world. It’s warm enough—and safe enough, even with Ms. Hendriks quietly painting in one corner—that he’s nearly lulled into dozing twice before he realizes what’s happening and hurriedly shuffles a little more upright.
Nina is incredibly bad at stifling her amused snort, and Kaz sends her a rude gesture that has her clutching at the chest of her low cut dress in mock horror.
Kaz rolls his eyes right back.
Wylan, watching the two of them with consternation, hurries to break up the back-and-forth of petty, teasing rivalry.
“Nina,” he says, looking torn between amusement and faint horror, the latter fading as the years go by. “You were talking about a saint yesterday before Kaz and Jesper came in. Sankt…?”
“Sankt Vaska,” Nina says, brightening, and Wylan not-so-subtly sighs in relief. “They’re one of the lesser known saints,” she explains to Jesper and Kaz. “The patron saint of balance, generally, but they’re also seen as the patron saint of ingenuity and wild forests by some people.”
“What about you?” Inej asks, feet tucked under herself. “I never asked you yesterday. What do you see them as?”
“All three,” Nina grins, green eyes twinkling at the young woman sharing the couch with her. “After all, they all fit Sankt Vaska so perfectly. Why would you ignore such important parts of their story just to end up with a saint that's the patron of less than they should be?”
Inej glances around the room and hides a smile behind her hand. “I think only you and I know what you mean, Nina.”
“I’d like to know,” Wylan offers. “You brought that book of saints with you to Fjerda when—”
Silence spreads throughout the room, uncomfortable and thick. Despite the years since the heist and Matthias’ death it still hurts to think about him. To think about losing him.
“I’ll go get my copy of the Istorii Sankt’ya,” Nina says, and quietly ducks out of the room.
It doesn’t take long for Nina to return, thankfully, the silence thick and awkward, and when she does return she returns with most of her signature flair.
“So!” Nina says, flipping through the pages of a well worn copy of the Istorii Sankt’ya as she sits down again. “Sankt Vaska, Sankt Vaska… there they are.” Nina clears her throat, green eyes scanning the room and the occupants. Her voice, normally exuberant, fills with admiration and reverence. “Like many stories of the saints and their martyrdoms, this one starts small.
“A small village in Ravka, surrounded by deep and old forests, began cutting their beautiful trees down so that they could expand their homes and advance in industry. They kept cutting and cutting, and soon the animals ran away, the soil cracked and grew pale, and the river dried up. Yet still they expanded, toiling day and night to build new buildings. Some spewed smoke into the sky, and some drank greedily from the ever-dwindling river.”
“That sounds a lot like Ketterdam, when you think about it.”
“Don’t interrupt her, Jesper,” Inej says, amused. “Go on, Nina, keep going.”
Nina snorts, smiling at the two of them with a fondness that tugs at Kaz’s heart, but keeps reading.
“One young person who lived in the village was named Vaska, and every day they would see the smoke rising above their home and worry. One day they had worried enough, and told the mechanics and architects that industry was killing their village. But the mechanics looked at Vaska’s cleverly crafted metal hands, and the architects looked at the small yet beautiful home Vaska lived in with their two mothers, and they turned away from Vaska’s plight.
“So Vaska traveled to a nearby town, bought as many saplings as their mothers’ horse and cart could carry, and returned to their village as the sun set. Instead of going home after a day of bartering and buying they brought the horse and cart to the fields where the forest had been not so long ago, the earth dry and cracked from the drought and the remaining stumps dead and roughly hewed. The sight filled Vaska with deep sadness, but their task was here and no one would help ease the burden from their shoulders, for their mothers were too weak from the drought and their friends all laughed at their pleas.”
Kaz understands this part of the story, whether it’s real or fictitious. Perhaps he understands it a little too well. But he can dwell on that later.
Kaz settles back, trying to wring that last stubborn drop of comfort out of his seat, and does his best to let the story take him where it may.
“It took many hours of moonlight for Vaska to plant their saplings one by one, but they handled each one with great care and tenderness. They watered each with a watering can, whispering gentle praises and prayers to them between cupped metal hands, and hoped that the moon would listen. If she didn’t, Vaska’s work would have to be enough.”
Inej picks the story up from there after a brief, silent conversation with Nina. “The next day Vaska awoke in their soft bed to yelling in the village square. When they ran out to see the commotion they were astonished to find that there was rain flooding through the gutters alongside the streets and that the entire village was out and about, all shouting and arguing with one another.
“‘What happened?’ Vaska asked one of their neighbors.
“‘The rain washed away our new buildings and inventions!’ said their neighbor. ‘But don’t fear, young Vaska, there’s wood left in the forest. Our woodsmen will bring us more strong trees and we can easily rebuild what we lost.’”
“I don’t know, I would listen to the huge storm.”
“Jesper.”
“Right. Sorry, Inej. Go on.”
“So Vaska followed the woodsmen out of the town with a heavy heart, a crowd of villagers following too, all hoping to see the last of the great woods that used to surround the village.
“When Vaska and the others arrived at the fields of stumps they were amazed to find that they were no longer barren and dry but covered in a forest even larger and more beautiful than the first. There were flowers blooming in the gaps between the healthy canopy and the sound of sweet birdsong filled the air around the villagers.
“The woodsmen were not as pleased by this as Vaska. ‘What witchcraft is this?’ demanded the leader. ‘There were no trees here two days ago, no underbrush nor dirty forest animals.’
“‘Vaska has fought against our expansion for months,’ a villager said. ‘They’re selfish and unfeeling to the prosperity of this town.’
“‘What prosperity is there without green things and life?’ Vaska demanded.”
What prosperity is there without Wylan making faces at Jesper to help keep his mind focused on the story while Nina beams at Inej and her storytelling? Kaz thinks. Then he dashes the thought away for inspection after the story.
“‘Men,’ the leader of the woodmen said over Vaska, ‘these trees are a blessing from the saints, a bounty of strong wood for us to hew. We’ll cut them down now with our village behind us.’
“The other woodsmen agreed, as did the villagers, and Vaska watched them ready their axes.
“On the first blow, the leader’s axe shattered. The bark of the beautiful tree was unharmed, and the villagers cried out in dismay around Vaska as they felt their heart soar in disbelief and hope. Another woodsman struck a tree and the same happened, then the same with a third.
“‘Witchcraft!’ the leader shouted, watching his men’s axes break one by one. ‘These woods are sorcery!’
“Then he turned to the villagers. ‘The vile spells on this forest were cast by one of you,’ he said. ‘Reveal yourself!’
“‘It was Vaska!’ A man shouted. ‘Look at their hands! Look at their boots!’
“It was true. The seams of Vaska’s clockwork hands were packed with dirt from a long night planting and their boots were covered in mud from the watered field. When the leader of the woodsmen saw this he raised his broken axe toward Vaska, making them fear for their life.
“So Vaska ran. They didn’t run back to their village, to their loving mothers, but into the forest their prayers and the power of their hands had created. The woodsmen and villagers found the way difficult and dangerous, while Vaska found every deer path and thornless clearing. Deeper and deeper they ran, away from the other Ravkans, welcomed by the woods that grew from their tender love.
“Some say Vaska still roams the forest to this day, fed and protected by the trees they grew, and that you should remember Sankt Vaska's story when balance is hard to find. This is why they are the patron saint of balance, ingenuity, and the wild forests, and they are honored by planting saplings in summertime.”
The Istorii Sankt’ya closes, and Kaz blinks out of his invested haze, focusing on Inej and Nina as they exchange a smile. He didn’t notice becoming lulled by the story, but it must have happened regardless. The feeling, warm and gentle, is strange. It isn’t new, but for the first time in a long time Kaz doesn’t feel like wondering if these friends of his measure up to his long-gone family.
Does he love them too?
It’s a startling thought, but not nearly as much as Kaz would have expected; He can see, when he thinks about it, how he’s been slowly approaching this conclusion for over a year. Over two, if he’s honest with himself, although he isn’t sure if he was capable of love without some ulterior motive back then.
He’s changed a lot since the heist at the Ice Court, since Inej’s kidnapping and the auction and Matthias’ death.
They all have.
Kaz is drawn out of his sudden, not-so-sudden revelation by Jesper saying, “That was a great story, you two. Kaz, what did you think?”
Suddenly, there’s a decision in front of Kaz.
One the one hand, he could break the story apart piece by piece until all that’s left is broken, blackened rubble and hurt, betrayed looks from Inej and Nina.
One the other hand, if he loves these people, these friends of his, loves them like his dead mother and father and brother, then he can try to be kind to them like he was when he was a child.
“All I see,” Kaz says from his chair, “is a smart Ravkan and a good story. The rest is irrelevant with the Saints.”
In that moment he could swear the sun finally dropped below the clouds to split itself between Nina and Inej’s smiles. Nina’s is a grin, a little surprised as she looks at Kaz with an old-new light in her eyes. Inej’s is brilliant like the sun-bright waves, small and gentle.
Kaz Brekker isn’t gentle. He doesn’t know how to be that strange word anymore, if he ever even was in the first place.
Not yet, at least.
He thinks he’s going to try.
Vaska, the name of the saint Nina and Inej tell the story of, is a diminutive of the Russian Vasily (masculine) and the Macedonian, Serbian, and Bulgarian Vasilija (feminine). Given the traditionally masculine AND feminine Slavic roots, the name felt fitting for a nonbinary Ravkan saint. Both Vasily and Vasilija are forms of the English name Basil in their respective languages.