NIKOLAI WAS STRUGGLING to acclimate himself to his chambers, to the strange mix of sand and stone. They might have been a well- appointed if antiquated set of rooms in his own palace if not for the lack of color, the uniform texture. It was a place seen distantly through fog. The exception was his bed: an absurdly romantic bower of red roses that he assumed was Elizaveta’s work. He lay down on it, determined to rest, but could not find sleep. If he did, would the monster emerge? Would it try to hunt in this barren place?
Nikolai was deeply tired, and yet it was as if his body had lost any sense of time. It had been late morning when they’d set out for the Fold, but in this permanent twilight, he wasn’t sure if days or hours had passed. He had the sense of time slipping away from him. We don’t eat. We don’t sleep. I don’t remember what it is to sweat or hunger or dream. The Saints—or whatever they were—had been trapped here for hundreds of years. How had they not lost their minds?
Nikolai shut his eyes. Even if he couldn’t sleep, he could attempt to order his mind. The demon gnawed constantly at his sense of control, and the bizarre experience of being plucked out of his reality and thrust into this one wasn’t helping. But he was a king, and he had the future of a country to consider.
Tolya and Tamar had seen Nikolai and Zoya vanish with Yuri in the sandstorm. What would they do? Conduct a search, then create a cover story, stick those junior Squallers somewhere they couldn’t tell tales. The twins would carry word of his disappearance back to Genya and David…
. After that, his imagination failed him. What course of action would they choose? If he’d only had the chance to work with Isaak or one of the other candidates for his stand-in, they might have had an option. But
to attempt such a thing with so little time to prepare? Well, Nikolai might have been daft enough to attempt it, but Genya and the others were far too sensible to court that kind of disaster.
There was still time to salvage the festival, their leverage with the Kerch, all of it—if the Saints made good on their promises. And if Nikolai survived the Burning Thorn. Then he could at least give Ravka a fighting chance. He’d be himself again. His mind would belong to him alone.
He would have to find a bride immediately, make the alliance Zoya had pushed so hard for. Marriage to a stranger. A performance of civility without true companionship. He would be acting for the rest of his life. He sighed. This place was making him morose.
Nikolai sat up straight. He’d heard a noise outside, a soft snuffling. When he opened the door, he saw nothing—until he looked down: A bear cub was tugging gently at his trousers with shiny little claws. His fur was thick and glossy, and where his back legs should have been, he had two wheels, the spokes of which looked distinctly like finger bones. The effect was both enchanting and bizarre.
The cub tugged again, and Nikolai followed, stepping into the central chamber. It was only then that he saw Grigori, his massive, shifting body huddled against the wall.
“Forgive me,” Grigori said, three mouths talking this time, appearing in vague faces and then dissolving. “We have been alone a long time here, and I cannot be comfortable in enclosed spaces.”
Nikolai gestured to the gray sand walls. “Couldn’t you just change them?”
“They are your rooms now. That seems … rude.”
The snuffling bear wheeled around the perimeter, bumping against the doors to Zoya’s and Yuri’s chambers.
“Your minion is charming.”
“I find creation soothing, and I know how much easier it is for otkazat’sya to witness the monstrous in particular forms.”
Nikolai paused, unsure of what protocol was expected around a Saint. “Is that why you’re huddling in the corner?”
“Yes.”
“Please don’t do so on my account. Rumor has it I have a gift for the monstrous myself.”
Grigori’s many heads chuckled softly, a jury of laughing Grigoris. “I
can no longer control the form I take. I was once just myself and the bear, but now a thought enters my mind and my body races ahead to meet it. It is exhausting.”
Grigori shrank, and for a moment, Nikolai glimpsed the shape of a man with gentle eyes and dark curly hair. He wore the skins of a bear around his shoulders, and the bear’s head as a mantle … but then the bear moved, and it was as if man and animal were one, standing together. “I don’t know whether I should mention this,” said Nikolai. “But I’ve been told the pelt of the bear that killed you is in the vault of the royal
chapel in Os Alta. I wore it at my coronation.”
“I’m afraid your priests have been sold a counterfeit,” said Grigori, the image of the mantle flickering over his shoulders again. “That bear never died, much as I never truly died.”
“It became your amplifier?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” said Grigori as he split once again into a larger body, a tide of legs and arms.
“I think I remember your story. You were a healer.” A young healer, renowned for his cures of the most hopeless cases. He had healed the son of a nobleman afflicted with some plague, and the nobleman’s doctor, most likely afraid he was about to be out of a job, had accused Grigori of trafficking in dark magic. Grigori had been sent into the woods to be torn apart by beasts, but he had fashioned a lyre from the bones of those who had trespassed in the wood before and played a song so soothing, the bears of the forest had lain down at his feet. The next day, when Grigori emerged from the woods unharmed, the nobleman’s soldiers bound his hands and sent him back into the forest. Unable to play his lyre, Grigori was savaged by the very bears who had slept at his feet the night before. Bloody reading for a young prince. It was a wonder Nikolai had slept at all as a child.
“I was a healer,” Grigori said, and his many legs bent at the knee as if he might rest many chins on them. “But I did things that perhaps I should not have. I made babies for mothers who had none. I made brides for men who desired them. I made a great soldier, twelve feet tall with fists like boulders, to protect a count’s castle.”
“The stuff of children’s stories,” Nikolai said, remembering his nannies’ tales of witches and gingerbread golems.
“Now, yes. Then … I had no care for the boundaries that governed my power. Merzost was too great a lure. I thought little of whether I should
do a thing but only if I could.”
“That kind of power is unpredictable,” said Nikolai, quoting David.
Grigori chuckled again, the sound rueful and murmuring as a crop of new heads clustered together, their expressions mournful.
“Death is easy. But birth? Resurrection? The work of creation belongs to the First Maker alone. I trafficked in merzost and lost control of my own form. So I became a hermit, at least for a time. Eventually, of course, people sought me out, eager to learn my secrets regardless of how disturbed they were by the way I looked. We are always drawn to the lure of power, no matter the cost. They called me the Bodymaker, and I took on hundreds of students over time. I taught them how to use their gifts for healing and for combat. They went out into the world and they all bore my name, or a form of it.”
“Grisha,” Nikolai said in surprise. Grigori had trained the first Healers and Heartrenders, the first Corporalki. “That was where it all began?”
“Maybe,” said Grigori. “Or maybe that’s just another story. It was all so long ago.” His entire form seemed to slump, a sleeping bear, a weary man, the burden of his imprisonment settling over him. “You will not see much of me in your tenure here. I do not like to be looked at, and I find it hard to bend my hermit’s ways. But if there is anything you need, please do not hesitate to come to my tower. I know it is not a welcoming place, but I assure you, you are welcome.”
“Thank you,” Nikolai said, though he could concede that he had little desire to enter a tower made of bone and gristle.
“Elizaveta can be a harsh teacher, but I hope you will not be swayed from your goal. There is a great deal at stake in your success. For all of us.”
“What will you do when you are free of the Fold?” “You’re so certain you will endure the trial?”
“I like to bet on myself whenever I can. But usually with other people’s money.”
Grigori’s dejected form seemed to regain some of its structure, sprouting into a curved spine and a series of folded arms. He looked like a strange tree, tilting toward the sun. “When my power is gone, when I become mortal, I will once again take on a steady form. Or perhaps I will die. Either way, I will be free.”
“Then I will do my best for all of us.”
Now Grigori leaned forward, a chorus of human heads with dark eyes,
jaws like muzzles full of pointed animal teeth. Nikolai had to force himself not to step back.
“You must, my friend. Everything is connected. The world is changing, and so is Grisha power. If the Fold continues to exist, it will not remain the same either.”
Nikolai had felt it too, this rush toward change. Borders were shifting; weapons were evolving. It was impossible to know what might come next. “Yuri claims we’re about to enter an Age of Saints.”
Grigori sighed, and the sound gusted through the chamber. “Do you know why the monster inside you woke? Why the Darkling’s power was able to emerge after all of this time? It began with the drug parem. It made things possible that never should be. It altered the bounds of Grisha power.”
“Parem?”
“If the drug had been eradicated—” “We tried.”
The teeth in Grigori’s many mouths grew longer. “You did not. You tried to alter it, bend it to your will. That is the lure of power.”
Nikolai could not deny it. He had known that if they did not find a way to harness the power of parem, in time some other country would, even without Kuwei’s knowledge to guide them. But then Ravka’s experiments … “I helped to wake the demon.”
Grigori’s heads nodded. “We are all connected, King Nikolai. The Grisha, the Fold, the power inside you. The Fold is a wound that may never heal. But perhaps it was not meant to. Remember that when you face your trial.”
Nikolai felt he was supposed to say something profound, place his hand over his heart, make a solemn vow. He was saved from such displays by Yuri, who entered the chamber from the hallway. So the monk had not been quietly muttering psalms in his room.
“Sankt Grigori,” he said with a deep bow, his glasses glinting like coins. “Forgive me. I did not mean to interrupt.”
“Not at all,” said the Bodymaker, but Nikolai could already see him shrinking, hands emerging from his own torso to pull him down the corridor, as if herding himself away from the interest of curious eyes. “Best of luck to you, King Nikolai,” he said, and was gone.
“I … I meant no offense,” stammered Yuri. “I fear he thinks he’s the one giving offense.”
“His form is disconcerting, yes, but he is a Saint, a divine being.” “We’re trained to understand the ordinary, to fear difference, even if
that difference is divine.” Nikolai clapped his hands together. “Now, are we ready to figure out how to kill me?”
“Oh, Your Highness, no, no. Certainly not. But I do have some thoughts on the ritual, and Elizaveta—” He hesitated over her name as if even the speaking of it was a holy rite. “Elizaveta wishes to begin your training.”
“She sent word to you?”
“I am to accompany you,” Yuri said proudly.
“Very well,” said Nikolai, straightening his cuffs. “Let’s go get Zoya.” Yuri cleared his throat. “Commander Nazyalensky was not asked for.” “She rarely is, but I’d like her there just the same.” Yuri frowned, but Nikolai knew he was not going to contradict his king in this. “Now we
just have to find her.”
He felt a tug at his trouser leg and looked down. The bear cub on its bone wheels was there. Yuri released a little yelp.
“He’s friendly,” said Nikolai. “I hope.”
Nikolai and Yuri followed the bear down the hall, and as they moved, the walls seemed to ripple, as if in response to their passing. Again Nikolai had the sense of something that was lifelike but lifeless. There was nothing to do but continue on. His world had slid into the strange, and he could adapt or go mad.
They traveled through winding passages and out onto a long, narrow bridge that led them to another of the huge spires—Juris’ domain. The spire was hewn from jagged black rock and gave the impression of old castle ruins he’d seen on the Wandering Isle. Its bulk was pocked with caves and caverns, and its peak looked like a talon, clawing its way toward the sky.
He could see Yuri was ill at ease as they crossed the bridge. “Is it that you don’t like heights or that you don’t approve of Commander Nazyalensky?”
“Your Highness, I would never say I don’t approve.”
“Answer enough. Why don’t you like her?” Zoya didn’t aspire to likability. It was one of her most endearing qualities. Still, he wanted to know.
“Those things she said to the pilgrims …” Yuri shook his head. “I don’t understand her anger. The Darkling’s crimes are many, but she was
one of his favorites.”
It wasn’t something Zoya liked to discuss. She liked to burn her past like the fuse on a stick of dynamite.
“What do you suppose fuels her anger?” said Nikolai. “Hate?”
“Of a kind. All fuels burn differently. Some faster, some hotter. Hate is one kind of fuel. But hate that began as devotion? That makes for another kind of flame.”
Yuri ran a bony hand over the roughspun of his robes. “I’ve read the histories. I know he did wicked things, but—”
“The books do not tell the whole story.”
“I know, of course, yes. Yes. But I find … I find I don’t entirely disagree with his motives.”
“And his methods?”
“They were extreme,” Yuri conceded. “But perhaps … perhaps in some cases necessary?”
“Yuri, if you wish to keep your head attached to your body, I recommend never saying that within Commander Nazyalensky’s hearing. But you’re not entirely wrong.”
Yuri blinked. “I’m not?”
“The Darkling wanted peace. A stronger Ravka. A haven for the Grisha. Those are all things that I’d like to see in my rule.”
“Yes,” said Yuri. “Exactly! He was not a good man, but he was a man of vision—”
Nikolai held up a hand. He doubted Yuri’s mind could be changed, but if he worshipped the Darkling, he should at least do so with open eyes— and there were limits to how equitable Nikolai could be. “There is a difference between vision and delusion. The Darkling claimed to serve Ravka, but that ceased to be true when Ravka failed to serve him. He claimed to love the Grisha, but that love dissolved when they did not choose him as their master. He broke his own rules, and he nearly broke a nation in the process.”
Yuri worried his lip.
“Go on,” said Nikolai. “I can see you have more to say.”
Yuri pushed at his spectacles. “If your father … If the former king had not been so …”
“Weak? Venal? Incompetent?” “Well—”
“I take no pleasure in admitting my father’s mistakes. Or his father’s. Or his father before him. There have been good Lantsov kings and bad. King Anastas gave Ravka its roads but put nearly two thousand men to death for heresy. Ivan the Golden built schools and museums but failed to hold the Sikurzoi against the Shu. My father … I wish I could be proud of my father. The Lantsov line is said to be descended from the firebird, but we are just men and often very weak men. I can’t change what my ancestors did. I can only hope to repair some of the damage and set us on a different course.”
“And what of your son?”
Nikolai grinned. “I may have had a wild youth, but I also had a cautious one.”
Yuri flushed. “I meant your future sons and daughters. Are you so sure they will be suited to rule?”
Nikolai laughed as they passed beneath an arch and into Juris’ spire. “So you’re not only a heretic but a radical?”
“Of course not, Your Highness!”
“It’s all right, Yuri,” he said. “There’s a reason I’ve strengthened the local governors and put more power in the hands of their assemblies. Ravka may not always need a monarch. But change takes time.”
And it may not be possible. He’d meant what he said to Zoya. Ravkans were drawn to figures of power, to strength. They had never been allowed to learn the ways of ruling for themselves because decisions had always been taken from them by kings, Darklings, generals, priests. Over time that might shift. Or maybe I’ll die in this ritual and the country will be plunged into chaos.
He’d left Ravka unforgivably vulnerable. There were ministers who could rule in his stead, but he hadn’t made any order of succession clear. He had no heir. He had no wife to step forward as a rallying symbol. And who would protect her anyway, this imaginary girl he was to wed? The answer was obvious: Zoya Nazyalensky could do the job—assuming she could get free of this purgatory.
He would make her his First Minister and Protector of the Realm, not just the commander of the Grisha forces. If Nikolai died before his heir came of age, she would be there to watch over Ravka and the line of succession. The people had come to trust her—as much as they could trust a Grisha. And despite her dark moods and vindictive heart, he had come to trust her. She was maturing into a steady, confident leader.
Or not, he thought as the bear cub led them into Juris’ inner sanctum and the presence of two fighters locked in combat. Zoya’s teeth were bared, and she wielded twin axes of the type Tamar favored, though these looked older and less refined. Juris was bearing down on her with a huge broadsword.
Yuri tugged nervously at his scrap of beard. “That doesn’t seem at all safe.”
“For either of them,” Nikolai said.
Storm clouds gathered around the fighters, and thunder shook the floor. The bear rolled away, little paws held over its ears as if fleeing the sound.
For a moment, as unlikely as it seemed, they appeared evenly matched. But Nikolai knew Zoya’s talents didn’t lie in this type of warfare, and sure enough, when Juris feinted left, Zoya made the mistake of trying to move with him.
“Guard your flank!” Nikolai shouted.
Juris turned sharply and brought his broadsword down in a sweeping arc. Zoya brought her axes up, and they seemed to glow with blue fire. As the blades met the thrust of Juris’ sword, lightning crackled from the axe blades, and the big warrior roared, smoke rising from his black scale armor.
What had Zoya just done? And how had she withstood the power of Juris’ strike?
“Good!” Juris said as they drew apart. He rolled his shoulders as if nearly being cooked alive was a commonplace experience. Maybe for an ancient dragon it was.
Zoya’s hair was damp with perspiration, her shirt clung to her skin, and her grin was pure exhilaration—a smile he’d never seen from her before. Nikolai found his mood souring.
He cleared his throat. “If you’re done trying to cleave my general in two, I have need of her.”
Zoya whirled, wiping the sweat from her brow with her sleeve. “What is it?” Her eyes were so blue they seemed to glow.
“We’ve been summoned to Elizaveta. I want you there to learn about the ritual.”
The dragon huffed. “Her time is better spent with me. The thorn wood is a path you walk alone, boy king.”
“But it’s a very arduous path,” Nikolai said. “Who will carry my
snacks?”
Juris shook his head and turned to Zoya, who had already hung her axes on the wall. “You waste your time with trifles.”
“My country’s future is not a trifle.” “King and country are not the same.”
Zoya unrolled her sleeves, fastening the buttons at the wrist. “Close enough.”
Juris’ wings spread as his body swelled to its dragon form. Nikolai forced himself to maintain a calm demeanor despite the primal terror the sight created in him. Was that what he looked like when the monster rose?
Again Juris huffed, this time from his huge snout and with enough force to send a whirlwind through the entire chamber. “You will see in time. When he grows old and you grow only more powerful.”
Zoya lifted her shoulder in a disinterested shrug. “And you’ll long be dust in the ground, so you won’t even be here to gloat about it.”
The dragon flew off in a sulk. Nikolai gave him a cheerful wave, but Juris’ words chased Nikolai’s thoughts as he backtracked through the halls with Zoya and Yuri. He was concerned they might lose their way, but the rippling of the walls seemed to be directing them, and they soon found themselves on another bridge, one Nikolai hoped would lead to Elizaveta’s spire.
Nikolai knew that Grisha lived long lives and that the greater their power, the longer they survived. How many years might Zoya live to protect Ravka and the Lantsov line? Could she shepherd Ravka wisely, or would she succumb to the madness of eternity the way the Darkling had? And would Ravka’s people accept her? Or in time, would they deem her unnatural? He’d be dead by then, these problems well beyond his care or control, but that was not a cheerful thought.
Yuri stopped walking so abruptly that Nikolai almost ran into him. “Oh …” he said. “Oh.”
Elizaveta’s spire loomed before them, its amber panels glowing golden in the strange, flat light of the Fold. Nikolai could see the shapes of giant insects frozen within each panel, and the whole structure seemed to hum like a great hive.
“Sankta,” Yuri whispered exultantly.
He hadn’t shown such veneration for the dragon, Nikolai noted, but Juris’ spire had given the impression of a beast’s lair. This place felt like
a temple, terrifying and holy.
“You were wrong about the pyre,” Zoya said to Yuri. “Do we really know anything about what this ritual requires?”
“Only that it’s dangerous,” said Yuri.
“And here I thought the king would just have to eat candy and perform a monologue.”
“I’ve already prepared some selections,” said Nikolai.
As they approached, the panels of the spire shifted and arranged themselves to create an entrance. Inside, the air smelled of roses and honey, and everything shimmered with the buttery light of the gilded hour before sunset. And yet there was no sunset here.
Elizaveta herself seemed cast in gold, surrounded by bees and dragonflies, the roses of her gown blooming and dying and blooming again.
“Welcome,” she said warmly. If she was surprised or displeased to see Zoya, she showed no sign of it. Instead, she smiled at all of them. “My king, shall we see if we can make the monster come when we call?”
Nikolai bowed, and Elizaveta gestured to a table where a small clay pot sat. “When the time comes for the ritual, I will raise the thorn wood from the sands of the Fold.” As she spoke, she fluttered her fingers, and a prickly, iron-colored branch emerged from the pot’s soil. “When it is mature, its thorns will be as long as a cutlass. You will call to the monster, and when it emerges, you will drive a thorn through both of your hearts.”
“Just how is he supposed to survive that?” asked Zoya.
The little thorn tree seemed to swell, its spikes lengthening.
“It is up to the king. We can practice helping him summon and control the monster, but the fight will be his alone. If his will is strong enough, he will survive. If not, the monster will claim him.”
Nikolai found he was rubbing his hand over his chest and forced himself to stop. “My will?”
“The trial is both physical and mental. It is meant to separate man from beast and beast from man. The pain will be unlike anything you’ve ever known, but worse will be facing the monster.”
“What exactly is it?” asked Nikolai.
This time Elizaveta’s smile was pitying, as if she could sense the fear that Nikolai carried inside him, the anger and confusion that had plagued him since the demon had taken hold. “A remnant of the Darkling’s
power. A sliver of his own intent and ambition. Beyond that, I cannot be sure. The monster does not want to be driven out. It will try to confuse you to keep you from completing the ritual and using the thorn. If that happens, it will take you over completely. Do you think you can win?” she asked gently.
“We beat the Darkling once before.” “Alina beat him,” corrected Zoya.
An expression of distaste crossed Elizaveta’s face. “The Sun Saint,” she sneered. “How desperate the people are for miracles. How low they will stoop.” Nikolai saw Zoya’s eyes narrow and laid a hand on her arm. They weren’t here to champion Alina’s legacy.
“But it is not the Darkling you will face,” Elizaveta continued. The thorn tree shot upward. The pot cracked as the tree’s roots burst through the clay in questing tendrils. “Not exactly. This is a creature animated by the Darkling’s will, just as it animated his shadow soldiers, the nichevo’ya. But it has lived inside you for over three years. It has shared your thoughts and desires, and it will marshal them against you. It will be fighting for its life just as surely as you are fighting for yours.”
Nikolai supposed he was meant to be cowed. A wise man probably would think twice about being impaled on a giant thorn, but he felt nothing but anticipation. The idea that this was a thing he could face and conquer, or even be destroyed by, was so much easier to accept than the notion of a nightmare he would have to endure forever. He’d begun to believe this thing would be with him always. There were parts of himself he despised—the endless ambition, the self-serving streak Alina had noted so accurately—and if Elizaveta was right, the monster would bring those weapons and worse to bear in the fight against him. So let it. He knew his desire for life would prove greater in the end.
“When the time comes,” Nikolai vowed, “I’ll be ready.”
The tree suddenly leapt from the table, its stalk thick and pulsing, its thorns like iron daggers. It shot over the floor and stopped a bare breath from Nikolai’s chest, the lethally pointed tip of a long thorn poised directly above his heart.
“I hope so,” said Elizaveta. “We have waited an eternity for you, Nikolai Lantsov. It would be a shame if you failed us now.”
Nikolai exchanged a glance with Zoya. Yuri was gazing at Elizaveta with naked adoration. Helpful as always.
“I’m fairly sure you’re trying to frighten me,” said Nikolai, reaching
out a finger to touch the tip of the thorn. “I’m not sure why, but may I suggest a spider wearing a suit?”
“Why a suit?” asked Zoya, frowning. “Why not just a spider?” “Where did he get the suit? How did he fasten the buttons? Why does
he feel the need to dress for the occasion?”
Elizaveta was studying them. She flicked her fingers and the thorn tree receded. “I had intended to torture the monk to force your darkness to the fore,” she said contemplatively. “But best to cut to the chase.”
She lifted a hand and the floor rose around Zoya, encasing her in glistening panels of amber.
Zoya shouted, her face startled and frightened before her instincts took hold. She threw her hands out, buffeting the luminous walls with the force of her power. A golden substance began to rise from her feet, filling the chamber.
Nikolai reached for Zoya, but the thorn wood grew up between them in a wild, impenetrable tangle. There were thorns all around him, a wall of deadly gray spikes.
“Stop this, Elizaveta,” he shouted, though he could no longer see the Saint.
He heard Zoya scream.
“I know you’re not going to kill her,” he said, though he knew no such thing. “Juris needs her.”
Elizaveta appeared from the thicket surrounded by a bloom of roses. “Do you think I care what Juris needs? It’s freedom I require. And if losing her will drive you to act, that seems a small price.”
Nikolai lunged at her, but Elizaveta vanished into the thorn wood. He leapt onto the brambles, ignoring the pain as the thorns jabbed at him through his clothes. They were wickedly sharp, sinking into his flesh like teeth.
“You will have to fly, my king,” said Elizaveta’s voice. “Or you will never be free, and neither will we.”
Zoya’s screams rose.
From somewhere in the thicket, Yuri cried, “Oh no! Please, you must not. I beg you.”
Nikolai forced his eyes shut. Come on, you bastard, he implored the monster. You want to spread your wings? This is your chance. I’ll even let you gnaw on that so-called Saint as a thank-you.
But if the monster was listening, it must be laughing too. Whatever
dark thing resided within him had no interest in playing this game.
The Saint will not harm her, Nikolai told himself. It’s a ploy. And then Zoya’s screams stopped.
Yuri was sobbing.
“Zoya?” Nikolai shouted. “Zoya!”
He hurled himself against the barbed thicket. “Zoya!” he yelled, but it emerged as a snarl.
This time he felt the creature inside him drag its way to the surface as if its talons were scraping against his chest cavity.
No. He did not want this, did not want to give the monster control. But another voice within him hissed, Yes.
Remember, he told himself, remember who you are.
He felt his claws emerge, felt his teeth grow long.
I am Nikolai Lantsov, privateer and king.
He screamed as the wings burst through his back and he rose up over the thorn wood, into the high cavern of the tower. Remember who you are.
Elizaveta gazed up at him, her face triumphant. Yuri wept. Beside them Zoya floated in a golden sarcophagus, like an angel caught in amber, her eyes closed, her body still.
He did not recognize the sound that tore from his throat as he hurled his body at Zoya’s prison. He struck it with a bone-crunching thud, but it did not budge.
He turned on Elizaveta, snarling. I am the monster and the monster is me. He could feel the demon fighting for control even as it lent him its strength. But Elizaveta only smiled, gentle, beneficent. With a wave of her hand, the amber walls containing Zoya collapsed and the thorn wood wilted into the floor.
He seized Zoya’s limp body before it could fall. She was covered in golden sap. Elizaveta closed her fist and Zoya began to cough. She opened her eyes, lashes thick with resin, blinked in confusion, then her face flooded with terror and she began to thrash in his arms.
He wanted to soothe her. He wanted to … The smell of her fear mingled with the sap. It made him feel drunk. It made him feel hungry.
All he wanted was to dig his claws into her flesh. All he wanted was to consume her.
Remember, he demanded. Remember who you are.
Nikolai Lantsov. Ruler of Ravka. Privateer. Soldier. Second son of a
disgraced king.
A growl of pure appetite rumbled through him as Zoya tried to scramble away, her movements stunted by the weight of the sap.
Remember who she is. Zoya sitting beside him writing correspondence. Zoya glowering at a new crop of students. Zoya holding him in the confines of a coach as he shook and shook and waited for the monster to leave him.
He clung tightly to the recollection of that sensation, that terrible trembling. Go, he demanded. Go.
Grudgingly, haltingly, the monster sank back into whatever dark place it resided, leaving the acrid taste of something burning in Nikolai’s mouth.
He collapsed, shaking, to his knees.
He couldn’t bear to look at Zoya’s face and see the disgust there. There would be no coming back from this. He felt her hands on his shoulders and forced himself to meet her gaze.
She was beaming.
“You did it,” she said. “You called him up and then you sent him packing.”
“You were almost killed,” he said in disbelief. She grinned wider. “But I wasn’t.”
Elizaveta tapped the table. “So I am forgiven, Squaller?”
“That depends on how hard it is to get this stuff out of my hair.”
Elizaveta raised her hands, and the sap slid from Zoya in golden rivulets, returning to the floor, where it solidified.
Yuri wiped the tears from his face. “Will … will Commander Nazyalensky have to endure this ordeal every time?”
“I’ll do it if I have to.”
Elizaveta shrugged. “Let us hope not.”
Zoya offered him her hand. “You opened the door.”
Nikolai let her help him to his feet, forced himself to celebrate with the others. But he’d felt the will of the monster, and he wondered, when the time came, if he’d be able to match its ferocity.
He’d opened the door.
He doubted it would be so easy to close the next time.
