“Striking, I know.” Only the eyes were different—tiny daubs of blue instead of hazel—and the beard, of course. But looking at the miniature was like gazing into the future, at a Nikolai grown a bit older, a bit graver, with lines at the corners of his eyes.
Zoya hurled it into the fire.
“Zoya!” Nikolai shouted, lunging toward the grate.
“What kind of fool are you?” she spat.
He reached his hand out, but the flames were too high, and he recoiled, his rage igniting at the sight of the tiny canvas melting in its frame.
He whirled on her. “You forget yourself.”
“That portrait was as good as a loaded gun pointed at your heart.” She jabbed her finger into his chest. “Ravka’s heart. And you would risk it all for what? Stupid sentiment?”
He seized her hand before she could jab him again. “I am not one of your boys to be trifled with and lectured to. I am your king.”
Zoya’s blue eyes flashed. Her chin lifted as if to say, What is a mortal king to a queen who can summon storms? “You are my king. And I wish you to remain my king. Even if you’re too daft to protect your claim to the throne.”
Maybe so, but he didn’t want to hear it. “You had no right.”
“I am sworn to protect you. To protect this realm. I had every right.” She yanked her hand from his. “What if Magnus Opjer came to this palace? Or was invited to some banquet with you in Kerch? All it would take is a single glance for people to know—”
“They already know,” Nikolai said, feeling suddenly weary. “Or they’ve guessed. There have been whispers since before I was born.”
“We should consider eliminating him.”
He clenched his fists. “Zoya, you will do no such thing. I forbid it. And if I find you’ve acted without my consent, you will lose your rank and can spend the rest of your days teaching Grisha children how to make cloud animals.”
For a moment, it looked like she might lift her hands and raise a storm to blow the whole palace down. But then she bobbed a perfect curtsy that still somehow conveyed her contempt. “Of course, moi tsar.”
“Are you really so ruthless, Zoya? He is an innocent man. His only crime was loving my mother.”
“No, his crime was bedding your mother.”
Nikolai shook his head. Leave it to Zoya to cut right to the truth. Of course, he had no way of knowing if there had ever been love between his mother and his true father, but he hoped there had been something more than lust and regret.
He plucked his wineglass from his abandoned dinner tray and drank it to the dregs. “One day you will overstep and I will not be so forgiving.”
“On that day you may clap me in irons and throw me in your dungeons.” She crossed the room, took the glass from his hands, and set it on the table. “But tonight it is you who wears chains.”
Her voice was almost kind.
Nikolai released a sigh. “After the business of this evening, it will be a relief.”
He unlocked his bedchamber. Servants were allowed access to clean only under Tolya and Tamar’s supervision and only once a week. He had no personal valet and attended to his own bath.
Though it had become his nightly prison, the room itself was a sanctuary, maybe the only place in the palace that truly felt like it belonged to him. The walls were painted the deep blue of the sea, and the map above the mantel had been taken from the cabin he’d once occupied as Sturmhond, when he’d disguised himself as a privateer and sailed the world’s oceans aboard the Volkvolny. A long glass stood propped on a tripod by the bank of windows. He couldn’t see much through it—the stars, the houses of the upper town—but even having it there gave him some sense of peace, as if he might one day put his eye to it and see the heaving shoulders of a great gray sea.
“Salt water in the veins,” one of his crewmen had told him. “We go mad if we’re too long onshore.” Nikolai would not go mad, at least not from being landlocked. He had been born to be a king, even if his blood told a different story, and he would see his country to victory again. But first he had to make it through the night.
He sat down at the edge of the bed, removed his boots, and clamped the iron fetters around each of his ankles, then lay back. Zoya waited and he was grateful for it. It was a small thing to be the one to chain himself, but it allowed him to keep control for a short time longer. Only when Nikolai had fastened the fetter to his left wrist did she approach.
“Ready?”
He nodded. In these moments, her ruthlessness made it all a bit more bearable. Zoya would never indulge him, never shame him with pity.
She tugged on the special lock that David had rigged. With a sudden clanking whir, three chains shot across his body at the knees, midriff, and shoulders. He was strong when the beast came upon him, and they could take no chances. He knew this, should be used to the experience of restraint, and still all he wanted was to struggle.
Instead, he kept his easy demeanor and offered up his right wrist to Zoya. “And what are your plans for the evening, darling jailer? Headed to a secret rendezvous?”
Zoya blew out a disgruntled breath as she bent to fasten the last fetter and check the security of the locks. “As if I have the time.”
“I know you go somewhere late at night, Zoya,” he prodded. He was curious but also eager for distraction. “You’ve been seen on the grounds, though no one seems to know where you go.”
“I go a lot of places, Your Highness. And if you keep prying into my personal life, I’ll have some suggestions as to where you can go.”
“Why keep your dalliance a secret? Is he an embarrassment?” Nikolai flexed his fingers, trying to even his breathing. Zoya turned her head and the lamplight caught the crescent of her cheekbone, gilding the dark waves of her hair. He’d never quite managed to make himself immune to her beauty, and he was glad his arms were chained to the bed or he might have been tempted to reach for her.
“Keep still,” she snapped. “You’re worse than a child given too many cakes.”
Bless her poison tongue. “You could stay, Zoya. Entertain me with lively tales of your childhood. I find your spite very soothing.”
“Why don’t I ask Tolya to soothe you by reciting some poetry?”
“There it is. So sharp, so acerbic. Better than any lullaby.” As the last lock clicked home, her sleeve slid back, revealing the silver cuff that circled her wrist, pieces of bone or what might have been teeth fused with the metal. He had never seen her without it and wasn’t even sure if it could be removed. He knew a bit about amplifiers. He had even helped Alina secure the scales of the sea whip, the second of Morozova’s legendary amplifiers. But he could admit there was a whole universe he didn’t know. “Tell me something, Nazyalensky. David said transgressing the boundaries of Grisha power has repercussions. But doesn’t an amplifier do just that? Is parem any different?”
Zoya brushed her fingers over the metal, her face thoughtful. “I’m not sure parem is so different from merzost. Like merzost, the drug requires a terrible sacrifice for the power it grants—a Grisha’s will. Even her life. But amplifiers are something else. They’re rare creatures, tied to the making at the heart of the world, the source of all creation. When an amplifier gives up its life, that is the sacrifice the universe requires. The bond is forever forged with the Grisha who deals the killing blow. It’s a terrible thing, but beautiful as well. Merzost is—”
“Abomination. I know. It’s a good thing I have such a fondness for myself.”
“All Grisha feel the pull toward merzost, the hunger to see just what we might do if we had no limits.”
“Even you?”
A small smile touched Zoya’s lips. “Especially me. Power is protection.” Before Nikolai could ask what she meant, she added, “But the price for that particular kind of power is too high. When the Darkling tried to create his own amplifiers, the result was the Fold.” She held up her arm, the cuff glinting in the lamplight. “This is enough for me.”
“The shark teeth worn by the twins,” mused Nikolai. “Genya’s kestrel bones. I’ve heard the stories behind all of them. But you’ve never told me the tale of the amplifier you wear.”
Zoya raised a brow. In the space of a breath, the contemplative girl was gone and the distant general had returned. “Steel is earned, Your Highness. So are stories.” She rose. “And I believe you’re stalling.”
“You’ve found me out.” He was sorry to see her leave, whatever guise she wore. “Good night, Commander.”
“Good night, King Wretch.”
He would not beg Zoya to stay. It was not in his nature to plead with anyone, and that was not the pact they shared. They did not look to each other for comfort. They kept each other marching. They kept each other strong. So he would not find another excuse to get her talking again. He would not tell her he was afraid to be left alone with the thing he might become, and he would not ask her to leave the lamp burning, a child’s bit of magic to ward off the dark.
But he was relieved when she did it anyway.
7
ZOYA
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 g
reeted 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—”
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