ZOYA ROSE WHEN THE SKY WAS STILL DARK. She would see to
the morning’s business before she made the walk to the Grand Palace to unlock Nikolai. A week had passed since they’d arrived back at the capital, and to her relief, the king’s monster had made no more appearances.
Tamar and Nadia were already waiting in the common room outside her chambers, seated at the round table that had once belonged to the Darkling’s personal guard. Nadia was still in her blue dressing gown, but Tamar was in uniform, arms bare, axes glinting at her hips.
“Reports of two more khergud attacks,” said Tamar, holding up a sheaf of papers covered in tight scrawl.
“I need tea,” said Zoya. How could the world be falling apart before sunrise? It wasn’t civilized. She poured herself a glass from the samovar and took the documents from Tamar’s hand. There were more spread across the table. “Where did they strike this time?”
“Three Grisha taken from Sikursk and eight more south of Caryeva.”
Zoya sat down hard. “So many?” The Shu had used their stores of jurda parem to develop a new kind of warrior: soldiers tailored by Grisha Fabrikators, honed to greater strength, given wings, weighted fists, unbreakable bones, and heightened senses. They called them khergud.
“Tell her the rest,” said Nadia.
Zoya’s gaze locked on Tamar. “There’s more?”
“This is Ravka,” said Tamar. “The Grisha near Sikursk were traveling undercover. Either the Shu knew about the mission—”
“Or Nina was correct and these new soldiers really can somehow sniff out Grisha,” finished Nadia.
“Nina warned us,” said Tamar.
“She did, didn’t she?” said Zoya bitterly. “How fortunate, then, that our good king sent our chief source of information on these Shu soldiers thousands of miles away.”
“It was time,” said Tamar. “Nina was lost in her grief. It will do her good to be of use.”
“What a consolation that will be when she’s captured and executed,” Zoya retorted. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “The Shu are testing us, pushing farther into our territory. We have to push back.”
“With what?” Nadia asked. “A stern warning?”
“It would be one thing if we could target them at home,” said Tamar. “But my sources have had no luck discovering the locations where they’re creating and training the khergud soldiers.”
Zoya’s stomach knotted when she thought of those bases, of the Grisha “volunteers” the Shu had addicted to parem to create these monstrosities. She reached for another file. “Are these the dissections?” Tamar nodded. The bodies of two khergud soldiers had been retrieved from Ketterdam and brought back to the Little Palace for study. Tolya had objected, claiming it was wrong to “desecrate” a fallen soldier’s body. But Zoya had no patience for fine feeling when their people were being stolen from within their very borders.
“This metal,” Zoya said, pointing to the notes David had made in the margin of one of the detailed anatomical sketches created by the Corporalki. “The one they’re using to plate the bones. It’s not just Grisha steel.”
“It’s an alloy,” said Nadia. “They’re combining Grisha steel with ruthenium. It’s less malleable but more durable.”
“I’ve never heard of it before.”
“It’s extremely rare. There are only a few known deposits around the world.”
Tamar leaned forward. “But the Shu are getting it from somewhere.”
Zoya tapped her finger to the file. “Find the source. Track the shipments. That’s how we’ll figure out where the khergud are being made.”
Tamar ran her thumbs over her axes. “When we do, I’m leading the attack.”
Zoya nodded. “I’ll be right beside you.”
Nadia grinned. “And I’ll be watching your back.”
Zoya hoped it would be soon. She was itching for a fight. She glanced
at the clock on the mantel. It was time to wake the king.
A cold mist had crept over the grounds in the night, covering the trees and stone paths in a veil of cloud. She passed through the woods, beneath a canopy of twisting branches. They would bloom white, then pink, then red as blood when spring came, but for now they were only gray wood and thorns. She emerged to the manicured hedges and sprawling lawns that surrounded the Grand Palace, lanterns casting light over the still-dark grounds in muzzy halos. The palace looked like a bride before her wedding, its white stone terraces and golden statues cloaked in mist. It should have been peaceful, this soft gray hour before dawn. But all she could think of was the khergud, the Zemeni, the Fjerdans, the Kerch.
Each day she worked with new recruits at the Little Palace and managed the affairs of the Second Army. It had grown under her command, slowly recovering from the wounds the Darkling had dealt them—wounds that had almost been death blows. How could he do it? She still wondered. The Darkling had built up the strength of the Second Army over generations, adding to its numbers, improving its training, solidifying his own influence. He had cultivated the talents of young Grisha, helped them to develop their skill. He had raised them like children. And when his children had misbehaved? When his coup attempt had failed and some of the Grisha had dared to stand with Alina Starkov against him? He’d murdered them. Without hesitation or remorse. Zoya had watched them fall. She’d almost been among them.
Almost, she reminded herself as she climbed the palace steps. But I survived to lead the army he built and nearly destroyed. Zoya had vowed to make the Second Army a power to be reckoned with again. She’d gone deeper within the borders of Fjerda and the Shu Han, pierced the shores of the Wandering Isle and the frontiers of Novyi Zem in search of Grisha who might wish to learn to fight and who might give their allegiance to Ravka. She was determined to capitalize on that growth, to assemble a force greater than what even the Darkling had raised. But that wouldn’t be enough. She intended to find a way to protect Grisha throughout the world so no one would ever have to live in fear or hide their gifts again—a governing body with representatives from every nation to hold their countries accountable, a guarantee of rights and of punishment for anyone who tried to imprison or harm her kind. For that dream to be anything more than a pleasant fantasy, Ravka would have to
be strong—and so would its king.
As Zoya strode through the Grand Palace halls to Nikolai’s chambers, she cast a look at two servants lingering outside his door that sent them shrinking up against the wall like frightened anemones.
She knew the way they sighed over their poor king. He’s never been the same since the war, they whispered, swooning and dabbing their eyes whenever he was near. She couldn’t blame them. Nikolai was rich, handsome, and beset by a tragic past. Perfect daydream fodder. But with her luck the king would ignore the suitable prospective brides she’d found, fall for a common housemaid, and insist on marrying for love. It was just the kind of contrary, romantic nonsense he was prone to.
She greeted Tolya, rang for a breakfast tray, then entered the king’s bedroom and threw open the curtains. The morning light had turned pale and rosy.
Nikolai cast her a baleful glare from his place among the pillows. “You’re late.”
“And you’re chained to a bed. Perhaps not the best time to be critical.” “It’s too early in the morning to threaten a king,” he said grumpily.
She sank down beside him and began the work of unshackling him. “I’m at my most murderous on an empty stomach.”
Zoya was grateful for the chatter. It was meaningless, but it filled the silence of the room. They’d slipped back into an easy routine after the near disaster in Ivets, but she could never quite accustom herself to this intimacy—the dawn quiet, the rumpled sheets, the tousled hair that made Nikolai look less a king than a boy in need of kissing.
Entertain me with lively tales of your childhood, he’d said to her. Zoya doubted the king would be amused by her stories. Should I tell you about the old man my mother wanted to marry me off to when I was nine years old? Should I tell you what happened on my wedding day? What they tried to do to me? The damage I left in my wake?
Zoya finished the business of freeing him from his bonds, taking care to touch his sleep-warmed skin as little as possible, then left the king to wash and dress.
A moment later a knock sounded on the sitting room door and a servant entered with hot tea and a tray of covered dishes. Zoya didn’t miss the furtive glance in her direction as he scurried away. Perhaps she should simply give in to the rumor that she was Nikolai’s mistress and let people talk. At least then she could skip the predawn trek from the Little
Palace and sleep in.
Nikolai sauntered into the sitting room, golden hair combed neatly, boots shined, impeccably attired as always.
“You look well rested,” she said sourly.
“I barely slept, and I woke with a crick in my back that feels like Tolya played lawn tennis with my spine. But a king does not hunch, Zoya dear. Are you eating my herring?”
She popped the last bite into her mouth. “No, I have eaten your herring. Now—”
Before Zoya could begin to address the business of the day, the door flew open and Tamar entered, followed by her brother, golden eyes glinting, both of them fully armed.
“Tell me,” Nikolai said, all hint of his easy manner gone.
“There’s trouble with the pilgrims camped outside the city walls. The Apparat doesn’t like anything this new cult has to say. He’s called the Priestguard to the lower town.”
Zoya was on her feet in an instant. The Apparat was meant to serve as spiritual counselor to the king, but he was a traitor and a troublemaker through and through.
Nikolai took a quick swig of his tea and rose. “Are our people in position?”
Tolya nodded. “We have Heartrenders in plain dress interspersed throughout the crowd and snipers in position along the walls and the nearest hillside. There’s not much cover, though.”
“You knew this would happen?” Zoya asked Nikolai as she followed him and the twins back through the palace corridors.
“I had a feeling.”
“And you made no move to stop him?”
“How?” said Nikolai. “By barricading him in the chapel?” “I’ve heard worse ideas. He has no standing.”
“But he has the means, and he knows I won’t challenge him outright with armed troops.”
Zoya scowled. “The Priestguard should have been disbanded long ago.” They were warrior monks, both scholar and soldier, and there was no question their loyalty lay with the Apparat, not their king.
“Unfortunately, that would have caused riots among the common people, and I’m not keen on riots. Unless they involve dancing, but I believe those are usually referred to as parties. What kind of party is this,
Tamar?”
“We’ve had our people circulating with the pilgrims every day and reporting back. They’ve been mostly peaceful. But this morning one of their preachers got them riled up, and the Apparat must not have liked what he heard.”
The king’s soldiers were waiting by the double-eagle fountain with additional horses in tow.
“No uniformed soldiers will move past the lower wall without my say- so,” Nikolai commanded. “The Grisha are only there for crowd control unless I give the signal. Keep the snipers in position, but absolutely no one is to act without direct orders from me, understood?”
The king had the right to command his forces as he saw fit, and Zoya trusted the twins to make the best possible use of their Heartrenders to protect the crown, but Zoya’s temper still bristled at the fact that they’d been put in this position. Nikolai was too fond of compromise. The Apparat had betrayed everyone who’d ever been foolish enough to trust him. He was a snake, and if she’d had her way, he and his Priestguard lackeys would have been offered two choices after the civil war— execution or exile.
They mounted and were headed through the gates when Nikolai said, “I need you calm, Zoya. The Apparat isn’t fond of the Grisha Triumvirate to begin with—”
“I weep.”
“And outright hostility from you won’t help. I know you don’t approve of allowing the priest to remain in the capital.”
“Of course you should keep him here. Preferably stuffed above my mantel.”
“A stirring conversation piece, no doubt, but we can’t afford to make him a martyr. He has too much sway among the people.”
Zoya ground her teeth. “He is a liar and a traitor. He was instrumental in deposing your father. He tried to keep Alina and me captive beneath the earth. He never lent you support during the war.”
“All true. If I ever need to study for a history exam, I know who to come to.”
Why wouldn’t he listen? “The priest is dangerous, Nikolai.”
“He’s more dangerous if we can’t see what he’s doing. His network is far-reaching, and his sway with the people is something I can do nothing to combat directly.”
They passed through the gates and on to the streets of the upper town. “We should have held a trial after the war,” Zoya said. “Made his crimes known.”
“Do you really believe it would have mattered? Even if Alina Starkov herself rose from the Fold ensconced in sunlight to denounce him, the Apparat would still find a way to survive. That’s his gift. Now put on your most devout face, Zoya. You make a darling heretic, but I need you looking pious.”
Zoya ordered her features into a facsimile of calm, but the prospect of dealing with the Apparat always left her caught between rage and frustration.
Nikolai had rebuilt the royal chapel on the palace grounds after the war and had it consecrated by the Apparat himself—a gesture of reconciliation. It was the site of Nikolai’s coronation, where the Lantsov crown had been set upon his head and the moth-eaten but supposedly sacred bearskin of Sankt Grigori had been laid upon his shoulders. The painted triptych panels of the Saints had been pulled from the rubble and refurbished, the gold of their halos burnished brightly—Ilya in Chains, Lizabeta of the Roses. Alina had been added to their number with her white hair and antler collar so that now fourteen Saints watched over the altar, assembled like a serene choir.
Zoya had barely made it through the coronation. She couldn’t help but think of the night the old chapel had fallen, when the Darkling had slaughtered most of the Second Army, the very Grisha he had spent his life claiming he would protect. If not for Tolya and Tamar, the war would have ended that night. And Zoya could admit that the Apparat’s forces had played their part too, holy warriors known as the Soldat Sol, young men and women dedicated to the worship of the Sun Saint, many of whom had been endowed with her power in the final battle with the Darkling on the Shadow Fold. That little miracle had cemented Alina’s legacy—and unfortunately bolstered the power of the Apparat as well. It was hard not to suspect he had something to do with the bone bridge at Ivets and the spate of strange happenings throughout Ravka.
As they passed over the bridge and into the streets of the lower town, Zoya could hear the crowds outside the double walls, but it was only when they’d dismounted and reached the top of the battlements that she got a good look at the people gathered below. She heard her own gasp, felt shock travel through her like a slap. These were not the ordinary
pilgrims who journeyed across the country to pay homage to their Saints; they were not the sun cult that had grown up around Alina Starkov and that often came to the palace walls to honor her. These people wore black. The banners they raised were emblazoned with the sun in eclipse
—the Darkling’s symbol.
They’d come here to praise the man who had torn Zoya’s life apart.
A young cleric stood on a rock. He had the long, wild hair of the Priestguard, but he wore black, not brown. He was tall and bony, and she doubted he could be much older than twenty.
“We begin in darkness,” he cried to the swaying crowd, “and it is to darkness we return. Where else are the rich man and the poor man made equal? Where else is someone judged for nothing but the purity of his soul?”
“What is this drivel?” Zoya demanded.
Nikolai sighed. “This is the Cult of the Starless Saint.” “They worship—”
“The Darkling.”
“And just how many followers do they have?”
“We’re not sure,” said Tamar. “There have been rumblings of a new cult but nothing like this.”
The Apparat had caught sight of the king and was making his way along the battlements. Zoya could see the Priestguard arrayed behind him, wearing robes bearing Alina’s golden sun—and armed with repeating rifles.
“Better and better,” muttered Zoya.
“Your Majesty.” The Apparat bowed deeply. “I am honored you would make time to lend me your support. I so rarely see you in the chapel. I sometimes fear you have forgotten how to pray.”
“Not at all,” said Nikolai. “Just not much for kneeling. Plays havoc on the joints. You’ve brought armed men to the city walls.”
“And you can see why. You’ve heard this blasphemy? This vile heresy? They want the church to recognize the Darkling as a Saint!”
“Who is this new cleric to you?” Zoya said, striving to keep her tone even. “Was he a member of the Priestguard?”
“He is the lowest form of traitor.”
You would know, she thought grimly. “So that’s a yes?”
“He’s a monk,” confirmed Tamar. “Yuri Vedenen. He left the Priestguard a year ago. My sources don’t know why.”
“We can discuss the boy’s provenance another time,” said Nikolai. “If you let the Priestguard loose, you risk causing a bloodbath and making a whole slew of new martyrs, which will only validate their cause.”
“You cannot ask me to permit this heresy—” Nikolai’s voice was cold. “I ask nothing.”
The Apparat’s already waxen face paled further. “Forgive me, Your Highness. But you must understand, this is not a matter for kings to decide. It is a battle for Ravka’s very soul.”
“Tell your men to stand down, priest. I will not have more blood shed in the capital.” Nikolai did not wait for the Apparat’s reply but descended the battlements. “Open the gates,” he commanded. “The king rides out.”
“Are you sure this is wise?” murmured Tamar. “I’ve heard the talk in this camp. These pilgrims aren’t fond of you.”
“Perhaps they just haven’t gotten to know me. Stay close. Tolya, you make sure those Priestguard don’t get any ideas. Try to keep them separated from my soldiers. I don’t need to cause a riot of my own.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Zoya.
Nikolai cast her a long look. “I’m all for reckless choices, Zoya, but this is a delicate matter. You will have to bite your tongue.”
“Until it bleeds.” She wanted a closer look at the people gilding the Darkling’s memory. She wanted to remember each of their faces.
The gate rose and a hush descended as the king rode out of the city and into the crowd. The pilgrims might not care for Ravka’s young ruler, but there were plenty of people who had come to the capital on other business, to trade or visit the lower town. To them, Nikolai Lantsov was not just a king or a war hero. He was the man who had restored order after the chaos of the civil war, who had granted them years of peace, who had promised them prosperity and worked to see it done. They went to their knees.
Re’b Ravka, they shouted. Korol Rezni. Son of Ravka. King of Scars.
Nikolai raised his gloved hand in greeting, his face serene, his bearing erect, sliding from the role of commander to born nobility in the blink of an eye.
Some of the black-clad pilgrims knelt with the rest of the crowd, but a few remained standing, gathered around their bony prophet, who stood defiant upon an outcropping of rock. “Traitor!” he shouted as Nikolai approached. “Pretender! Thief! Murderer!” But his voice trembled.
“I’ve certainly been busy,” said Nikolai. They rode closer, forcing the pilgrims to move aside until the monk stood alone atop the rock to face Nikolai.
Maybe younger than twenty, Zoya thought. The monk’s narrow chest rose and fell rapidly. His face was long, his skin pale except for two hectic spots of color on his cheeks that gave him the look of a boy with a fever. His eyes were a melancholy green at odds with the fervor in them.
“What is on his chin?” Zoya whispered to Tamar. “I believe he’s trying to sprout a beard.”
She peered at his long face. “He’d have better luck trying to grow a horn in the middle of his forehead.”
The monk flapped his black sleeves like a crow about to take flight. “Tell your false priest to do what is right and recognize the Starless One as a Saint.”
“I’ll consider it,” Nikolai said mildly. “But first I must ask that you join me for breakfast.”
“I will not be wooed! I will not be bribed!”
“Yes, but will you have tea or coffee?” A titter rose from the crowd, the smallest release of tension.
The boy raised his hands to the skies. “The Age of Saints has come! The signs appear from the permafrost to the Sikurzoi! Do you think I will be swayed by your glib words and friendly demeanor?”
“No,” said Nikolai gently, and dismounted. Zoya and Tamar exchanged a glance. If this was all some elaborate setup for an assassination attempt, then the king was playing his part very well. “May I join you?”
The young monk blinked, flustered. “I … I suppose?”
Nikolai hoisted himself onto the rock. “I don’t expect you to be wooed or bribed or swayed by my admittedly winning demeanor,” he said so quietly that only the monk and Zoya and Tamar could hear. “But you may be swayed by the sniper stationed behind that gentle knoll—do you see it? Excellent spot for picnicking—with orders to burst your head like a summer melon if I lift my right hand.” Nikolai raised his hand and the boy flinched, but the king merely adjusted the lapel of his coat.
“I would gladly be martyred—”
“You won’t be martyred … Yuri, is it? You’ll be a mistake. That bullet will graze my shoulder and I’ll make sure to fall very dramatically to the ground. The shooter will confess to being an assassin who wished to
murder the Lantsov king. Maybe he’ll even say he was loyal to the cause of the Starless Saint.”
“But that … that’s preposterous,” the monk sputtered.
“Is it more preposterous than the king of Ravka putting himself in the path of a sniper’s bullet in order to rid the kingdom of an upstart monk? Because that, my friend, is quite a story.” Nikolai extended his hand. “Come to breakfast. My cook makes a marvelous pork loin.”
“I don’t eat meat.”
“Of course you don’t,” Zoya said. “It’s animals you object to killing, not people.”
“The Darkling—”
“Spare me your sermons,” she hissed. “It is only my loyalty to the king that keeps me from pulling the air from your chest and crushing your lungs like hollow gourds.”
“I’ve seen her do it,” said Nikolai. “Makes a funny sound.” “Kind of a pop?” said Tamar.
“Wetter,” Nikolai said. “More of a squelch.”
“I’ll go,” said the monk. “But if I am not returned to my followers safe and unharmed, there will be blood in the streets. There will—”
“Please let me do it,” said Zoya. “No one will miss him.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Nikolai. “I’m sure he has a mother. Right, Yuri?
Nice woman. Lives in Valchenko?”
Yuri touched his hand to his chest as if the king had struck him. Apparently Tamar’s spies had gathered plenty of intelligence on this boy. “I know,” said Nikolai, patting the monk on the shoulder. “Most disconcerting to realize you’re gambling with lives other than your own.
Shall we?”
Yuri nodded and Nikolai turned to the crowd.
“We will meet,” he declared, voice booming. “We will talk.” He shrugged. “Perhaps we will argue. But Ravkans need agree on nothing more than the drinking of tea.”
A ripple of laughter passed through the people, still kneeling but grateful now, relieved. Tamar gave the monk her horse and they rode back through the gates.
As soon as they were inside, the Apparat rushed toward them, flanked by Priestguards. “We will take him into custody. I have many a question for this heretic—”
“Yuri Vedenen is my guest,” said Nikolai pleasantly.
“I insist that I be present at his interrogation.” “What a peculiar name for breakfast.”
“You cannot possibly mean to—”
“Tolya,” Nikolai said, “take our guest to the Iris Suite and make sure he is adequately fed and watered. I’ll join you shortly.” They waited for the monk to be escorted away. It was clear the Apparat was desperate to speak, but before he could open his mouth, Nikolai swung down from his horse. “Priest,” he said, and now his voice held the low, angry thrum of a temper barely leashed. “Do not think that because I’ve let you live this long, I cannot change my mind. Accidents happen. Even to men of faith.”
“Forgive me, Your Highness. But … a creature like this cannot be trusted.”
“Pray go on,” said Zoya. “I’d like to see if an excess of irony can actually kill a man.”
“Why did the monk abandon the Priestguard?” asked Nikolai.
“I don’t know,” admitted the Apparat. “He was a scholar, a good one. Better than that. His theories were unorthodox but brilliant. Then a year ago he vanished without explanation. Until he reappeared on our doorstep preaching this absurd gospel.”
“Do we know where the cult originated?”
“No,” said the Apparat. He sighed. “But I think it was inevitable the people would seek to make the Darkling a Saint.”
“Why?” said Zoya. “The common people had no love for him.”
“In life, no. In death, a man may become anything at all. He possessed great power and died grandly. Sometimes that is enough.”
It shouldn’t be. After everything he did.
“Very well,” said Nikolai. “We will grant the monk an audience and see what he has to say.”
The Apparat’s eyes protruded almost comically from his head. “You cannot mean to speak with him, to lend his cause such credibility! It is the height of recklessness!”
Though Zoya might well have agreed with the priest, she still wanted to seize his filthy robes and shake him until he recognized he was talking to his king and not some supplicant. Not that she was particularly compliant when it came to Nikolai, but it was the principle of the thing.
Nikolai remained unruffled, his temper forgotten. “Calm yourself, priest. I have no intention of seeing the Darkling called a Saint. But if we
can make a friend of this boy, we should, and I intend to get all of the information I can from him in the process.”
“My followers will not like it,” said the Apparat with false regret. “I, of course, understand the need for diplomacy, but they may fear the spiritual corruption of their king.”
“What a tragedy that would be. Perhaps there is a way to appease them and compensate you for this difficult day.”
The Apparat bristled. “The Saints have no need of gold.” Nikolai looked scandalized. “Nothing so crass.”
“Well,” said the Apparat, making a great show of thinking. “Ulyosk and Ryevost are in need of new churches. The people need to know the king shares their faith, and such a gesture will help strengthen their faith in their ruler.”
After a long moment, Nikolai bobbed his chin. “You will have your churches.”
“They are the Saints’ churches, Your Highness.” “Then please inform the Saints.”
“Does a king bow so easily to a man with no title?” Zoya asked as they rode away. She had said she would bite her tongue, and she had, but it had left her temper boiling. “You are helping the Apparat build his network of spies. You are making him stronger.”
“At some point, you might consider treating me as something other than a fool. Trust me, Zoya. You may come to enjoy it.”
“That’s what Tamar said about absinthe.” “And?”
“It still tastes like sugar dipped in kerosene.”
Zoya cast a glance over her shoulder and saw the priest watching them from the city gates, his eyes as dark as pits. Nikolai might joke all he liked, but every concession they made to the Apparat felt like a misstep. The old king, the Darkling, Alina Starkov—they’d all bargained with the priest, and all of them had paid in blood.
Zoya spent the rest of her day overseeing a new squadron of Squallers and sending orders to the outposts along the southern border. She hoped the Grisha forces there would be able to guard against a possible Shu attack. She dined in the Hall of the Golden Dome beside Genya and David, listening with one ear to Genya’s plans for the arrival of their international guests as she thumbed through a summary of David’s work
with Kuwei Yul-Bo. The young Inferni sat at a table surrounded by other young Grisha. His late father had created parem, and Kuwei had done his best to share his knowledge of that work with David and the other Fabrikators attempting to alter the addictive side effects of the drug. But he was less a scientist than a soldier. Though Genya had tailored him slightly, Kuwei’s gifts as an Inferni were his greatest disguise; no one in the Shu Han had known of his abilities. He had chosen a new name when he’d come to the Little Palace: Nhaban. It meant “rising phoenix” in Shu. The boy was as pretentious as he was gifted.
After dinner she managed another hour of work before she ventured to the Grand Palace to lock Nikolai in for the night and then allowed herself to retire to her chambers. They had once belonged to the Darkling. Genya and David had refused them when they’d assumed their duties in the Triumvirate, but Zoya had gladly occupied the spacious rooms. She was happy to take anything that had once been his, and she had swung the first hammer when it was time to tear down the old furnishings and remake the space to her liking. A gesture. She wasn’t about to let her hands get calloused and had left the real effort to the workmen. It had taken long months and considerable Fabrikator craft to fashion the rooms to her taste, but now the domed ceiling showed a sky thick with cloud, and the walls had been treated to look like a storm-swept sea. Few people noticed the little boat that had been painted into one of the six corners, or the flag it flew with two tiny stars. And no one who did would have known what it meant.
Zoya washed and dressed for bed. There had been a time when she had been able to sleep deeply beneath the domes of the Little Palace, but that was before the Darkling’s coup. He had shattered her belief that nothing could touch this place, this home that had once been a haven. Now she slept lightly—and woke instantly at the sound of a knock on her chamber door.
The monk, she thought. I knew we shouldn’t have let him into the palace.
But as soon as Zoya slid the bolt and opened the door, Tamar said, “Nikolai is out.”
“Impossible,” Zoya protested, though she was already reaching for her boots.
Tamar’s brows rose as Zoya tossed a coat over her nightdress, cobwebs of silver silk that flickered like lightning in a storm cloud when
the lamplight struck the sheer fabric just right. “Who did you dress for tonight?” she asked.
“Myself,” snapped Zoya. “Do we know where he headed?” “Tolya saw him fly west toward Balakirev.”
“Anyone else?”
“I don’t think so. No alarm sounded. But we can’t be sure. We’re lucky this didn’t happen in the summer.”
When the sun never properly set and anyone would be able to see a monster in the skies.
“How?” Zoya asked as she nudged a panel in the wall and it slid open to reveal a long flight of stairs. When she’d had her chambers refurbished, she’d had a tunnel dug to connect it to the network of passages beneath Os Alta. “Those chains are reinforced with Grisha steel. If he’s gotten stronger—”
“They weren’t broken,” said Tamar from behind her. “They were unlocked.”
Zoya stumbled and nearly toppled down the stairs. Unlocked? Then someone knew Nikolai’s secret? Had sought to sabotage their work to keep it undiscovered? The implications were overwhelming.
Long moments later they were pushing into the basement of the Convent of Sankta Lizabeta. Tolya waited in the gardens with three horses.
“Tell me,” Zoya said as she and Tamar mounted.
“I heard glass breaking,” Tolya replied. “When I ran inside, I saw the king take flight from the window casement. No one had come or gone through his door.”
Damn it. Then had the monster somehow managed to pick the locks? Zoya kicked her horse into a gallop. She had a thousand questions, but they could worry about how Nikolai had gotten free once they’d retrieved him.
They rode hard over the bridge and through the streets of the lower town. At a signal to the guards, they thundered through the gates and Os Alta’s famous double walls. How far had Nikolai gotten? How far would he go? Better that he flew away from the city, away from anywhere heavily populated. Zoya reached for the invisible currents that flowed around them, higher and higher, seeking the disruption on the wind that was Nikolai. It was not only the weight and size of him but the very wrongness of him that brushed against her power. Merzost. Abomination.
The taint of something monstrous in his blood.
“He’s still headed west,” she said, feeling his presence bleed across her senses. “He’s in Balakirev.” A pretty little spot. One of the favored places for Grisha to visit for sleigh rides and festivals in better times.
They slowed their horses as they approached the outskirts of town and the dirt roads gave way to cobblestones. Balakirev slept, its windows dark and houses quiet. Here or there Zoya saw a lantern lit through the glass, a mother tending to a fussy infant, a clerk working late into the predawn hours. She turned her awareness to the skies and gestured the twins forward. Nikolai was moving toward the town center.
The main square was silent, lined by the courthouse, the town hall, the grand offices of the local governor. Stone paths radiated from a large fountain, where Zoya knew the women would come to do their washing. A statue of Sankt Juris stood at its center, his lance piercing the heart of a great dragon as water cascaded from the back of the beast’s wings. Zoya had always hated that particular story. The great warrior Juris seemed like a big bully.
“The roof,” she whispered, pointing to the town hall. “I’ll watch the perimeter.”
Tamar and Tolya slipped silently from their horses, shackles in hand, and disappeared into the building. If Nikolai took flight, she could try to bring him down or at least track him. But dawn was coming on. They had to move quickly.
She waited in the shadows, eyes trained on the spires of the town hall. The night felt too still. Zoya had the uncomfortable sense that she was being watched, but the shops and buildings surrounding the square showed no signs of life. High above, the roofline of the town hall seemed to shift. A shadow broke from the roof, wings spread against the moonlit sky. Zoya lifted her hands and prepared to bring Nikolai down, but he circled once, then settled on the towering spike of the church’s bell tower.
“Damn it.”
Tolya and Tamar would be racing up the stairs of the town hall only to find their quarry escaped. If Zoya attempted the church stairs, Nikolai could well make another leap and be long gone before she reached the top. The sky was already turning gray, and if he broke for open countryside they might never catch him. There was no time to hesitate.
She eyed the open notches in the stonework of the bell tower. Even
with her amplifier, she’d never managed the control necessary for flight. Only Grisha flush with the effects of jurda parem could accomplish that feat.
“This is going to hurt,” she muttered, and spun her hands in tight circles, summoning the current, then arced her arms. The gust hit her from behind, lofting her upward. It took all her will to resist the urge to pinwheel her arms and let the wind take her higher. She thrust her hand forward and the gust threw her toward the gap in the stone—too hard, too fast. There was no time to adjust her aim.
Zoya covered her head and face, then grunted as her shoulder cracked against the edge of a column. She tumbled to the floor of the bell tower in a graceless heap and rolled to her back, trying to get her bearings.
There, high above, perched in the eaves, she caught the glint of the monster’s eyes in the dark. She could just make out his shape. His chest was bare, his torn trousers slung low on his hips. His taloned feet curved over the beams of the bell tower.
A low growl reached her, seemed to reverberate through the floorboards. Something was different tonight. He was different.
Oh Saints, she realized. He’s hungry.
In the past Zoya had been slower to find Nikolai, locating him after he had hunted and fed. He’s never killed a human before, she reminded herself. Then amended, That we know of. But she felt, in her bones, that tonight she was the prey.
Like hell.
She pushed to her feet and hissed in a breath at the throb in her shoulder. She’d dislocated it, maybe broken the bone. Pain rolled through her in a wave that set her stomach churning. Her right arm was useless. She’d have only her left arm to summon with, but if Adrik could do it, so could she.
“Nikolai,” she said sternly.
The growl stopped, then picked up again, lower and louder than before. A tendril of fear uncurled in her belly. Was this what it was to be a small creature pinned helpless in the wood?
“Nikolai,” she snapped, not letting her terror enter her voice. She thought it might be a very bad thing if he knew she was afraid. “Get down here.”
The growl rippled and huffed. Almost like a laugh.
Before she could make sense of that, he launched himself at her.
Zoya threw up her hand and a blast of wind pummeled the creature, but her attempt had only half the strength of her usual summoning. It drove him backward and he struck the wall, but with little force.
She saw the monster register her injury, her weakness. It drew in a long breath, muscles tensing. How many nights had she kept it from its fun? How long had it been waiting for a chance to hurt her? She needed help.
“Tolya!” she shouted. “Tamar!” But could they even hear her at such distance? Zoya eyed the bell.
The monster lunged. She dove right and screamed as her injured shoulder hit the slats, but threw her other arm up with all the force she could muster, begging the storm to answer. Wind seized the bell and sent its massive metal shell swinging. The clapper struck, a reverberant clang that shuddered through her skull and made the monster snarl. The bell struck a second time, far more weakly, before it slowed its arc.
Zoya was sweating now, the pain turning her vision black at the edges.
She dragged herself toward the wall.
Nikolai—the monster—was prowling toward her in a low crouch, its clawed feet silent over the slats of the floor, the movement eerily inhuman. It was Nikolai and yet it was not Nikolai. The elegant lines of its face were the same, but its eyes were black as ink. The shadows of its wings seemed to pulse and seethe.
“Nikolai,” she said again. “I’m going to be furious if you try to eat me.
And you know what I’m like when I’m mad.”
Its lips drew back in a smile—there was no other word for it— revealing needle-sharp fangs that gleamed like shards of obsidian.
Whatever was stalking her was not her king.
“Captain,” she tried. “Sturmhond.” Nothing. It stalked closer. “Sobachka,” she said. Puppy, the nickname he’d had as a child, one she’d never used with him before. “Stop this.”
From somewhere far below she heard a door slam. Tolya? Tamar? It didn’t matter. They weren’t going to make it in time. Zoya could summon lightning, but without both arms to control the current, she knew she would kill him.
She raised her arm again. The gust drove the creature back, but its claws gripped the wooden floor and it plowed forward, wings pinned tight to its body, dark gaze focused on her.
It batted her good arm aside, hard enough that she thought it might
have broken that bone too. The wind fell away and the monster’s wings flared wide.
It opened its mouth—and spoke. “Zoya.”
She flinched. The monster did not speak. It could not. But it wasn’t even the shock of speech coming from the creature’s lips that so frightened her. That was not Nikolai’s voice; it was soft, cool as glass, familiar.
No. It couldn’t be. Fear was clouding her mind.
The creature’s lips parted. Its teeth gleamed. It seized her hair and yanked her head back as she struggled. It was going to tear her throat out. Its lips brushed the skin of her neck.
A thousand thoughts crowded into her mind. She should have brought a weapon. She shouldn’t have relied on her power. She shouldn’t have believed she wasn’t afraid to die. She shouldn’t have believed that Nikolai would not harm her.
The door to the bell tower slammed open and Tamar was there, Tolya behind her. Tamar’s axes flew. One lodged in the creature’s shoulder, the other in the meat of one of its wings. The thing turned on them, snarling, and Tolya’s hands shot out.
Zoya watched, torn between lingering dread and fascination as the creature’s legs buckled. It growled, then fell silent as Tolya slowed its heart and sent the monster into unconsciousness.
Zoya rose, cradling her dislocated arm, and looked down at the thing on the floorboards as its claws receded, the dark veins retracting and fading, its wings dissolving into shreds of shadow. The king of Ravka lay on the bell tower floor, golden hair disheveled, boyish and bleeding.
“Are you all right?” asked Tamar. “Yes,” Zoya lied.
Zoya. The sound of his voice in that moment, smooth as glass, neither human nor inhuman. Did that mean that whatever was inside him was not the mindless monster they’d assumed? It hadn’t just been hungry; there had been something vengeful in its desire. Would Nikolai have woken with her blood on his lips?
“You know what this means,” said Tamar.
They couldn’t control him. The palace was no longer safe, and Nikolai was no longer safe in it. And right now, ambassadors, dignitaries, noblemen, and wealthy merchants were packing their best clothes and
preparing to travel to Os Alta—to say nothing of the eligible princesses and hopeful noblewomen who accompanied them.
“We’ve invited emissaries from every country to witness this horror,” said Tolya. To watch Nikolai descend into bloodlust, to play audience as a king became more monster than man.
Zoya had given her life to the Second Army, to a dream that they could build something better. She had believed that if her country was strong enough, the world might change for her kind. Now that dream was collapsing. Zoya thought of the stories Nina had told them of the prison at the Ice Court. She thought of the khergud emerging from the skies to steal Grisha from the safety of their lands. She remembered bodies littering the grounds of the Little Palace the night of the Darkling’s attack. She would not let it happen again. She refused.
Zoya took a breath and slammed her shoulder back into place, ignoring the jolt of nausea that came with the pain.
“We find a cure,” she said. “Or Ravka falls.”
