“I grew up in a place like this,” Zoya said as they entered the next bleak backwater. “Hopeless. Hungry. Desperation makes people do ugly things, and it is always the girls who suffer first.”
“Is that why you push so hard for the new factories we’re building?”
Zoya gave the barest shrug. “A broad back is needed to lift an axe or move a stone, but it doesn’t take strength to pull a lever or push a button.”
She could sense Nikolai’s scrutiny. “I’ve never known you to have much sympathy for the common people.”
I was common enough once. Liliyana and Lada were common. “It has nothing to do with sympathy. For the Grisha to thrive, we need a strong Ravka.”
“Ah, so you’re just being practical, of course.”
She could hear the skepticism in his voice, and she didn’t appreciate it one bit. But it was hard not to look at these muddy streets, the gray houses with their warped roofs and slanting porches, the tilting spire of the church, and not think of Pachina, the town she’d left behind. She refused to call it home.
“Do you know what changed everything in my village?” She kept her eyes on the road, rutted with holes and broken rocks from the previous night’s rain. “The draft. When the war was so dire that the crown was forced to start taking girls as well as boys to fight.”
“I thought the draft was seen as a curse.”
“For some,” Zoya conceded. “But for others of us it offered an escape, a chance at something other than being someone’s wife and dying in childbirth. When I was little, before my powers emerged, I dreamed of being a soldier.”
“Little Zoya with her bayonet?”
Zoya sniffed. “I always had the makings of a general.” But her mother had seen only the value in her daughter’s beauty. Zoya’s face had been her dowry at the tender age of nine. If not for Liliyana, she would have been bartered away like a new calf. But could she blame her mother? She remembered Sabina’s raw hands, her tired eyes, the gaunt lines of her body—perpetually weary and without hope. And yet, after all these years, Zoya found no scrap of forgiveness for her desperate mother or her weak father. They could rot. She gave her reins a snap.
Zoya and the rest of Nikolai’s party rode through the barley fields and inspected the new armaments factory, endured the singing of a children’s choir, and then had tea with the local council and the choirmaster.
“You should poison the choirmaster for inflicting that atrocity on us,” Zoya grumbled.
“They were adorable.”
“They were flat.”
Zoya was forced to put on a little demonstration of summoning for the local women’s group and resisted the urge to blow the town magistrate’s wig off his head.
At last they were permitted to ride out with the governor and see the great swath of forest that had supposedly been felled in a single night. It was an eerie sight. The smell of sap was heavy in the air, and the trees had fallen in perfect lines all the way to the crest of a hill that overlooked a tiny chapel dedicated to Sankt Ilya in Chains. The trees all lay in the same direction, like bodies laid to rest, as if pointing them west toward the Fold. They’d let Yuri emerge from the coach to stretch his legs and see the supposed miracle site, Tolya towering over him like the one tree that had refused to fall. According to Tolya, they’d begun to piece together a text that might well be the original description of the obisbaya.
“Has it ever occurred to you,” Zoya said, watching the skinny monk talk animatedly to a beleaguered-looking Tolya, “that this is all contrivance? That the Apparat and the monk are not enemies at all? That they both wanted you away from the safety of the capital, and that they’ve gotten just that for their trouble?”
“Of course it has,” said Nikolai. “But such displays are beyond even the Apparat’s considerable reach. It pains my pride to say it, but there may be something at work here that’s bigger than both of us.”
“Speak for yourself,” she said. But looking out at the felled trees, she felt as if an invisible hand were guiding them, and she did not like it. “I don’t trust him,” Zoya said. “Either of them.”
“The Apparat is a man of ambition, and that means he can be managed.”
“And our monk friend? Is Yuri easily managed as well?”
“Yuri is a true believer. Either that or he’s the greatest actor who ever lived, which I know isn’t possible.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I managed to smile through that choir concert, so clearly I am the greatest actor who ever lived.” Nikolai nudged his horse with his heels. “On to the next town, Nazyalensky. We hope or we falter.”
* * *
Zoya was grateful when they rode into Adena, their last stop before the Fold. Soon they would have answers or they would be headed home. At least she’d be free of the anticipation and the fear of what they might find when they reached the Unsea.
The village was like all the others except for the pretty lake it overlooked. This time they’d been greeted by an off-key band and a parade of livestock and giant vegetables.
“That squash is as wide as I am tall,” Nikolai said beneath his breath as he smiled and waved.
“And twice as handsome.”
“Half as handsome,” he protested.
“Ah,” said Zoya, “but the squash doesn’t talk.”
At last they rose from their seats on the bandstand and made their way to the church. For once, the locals did not follow. Zoya, Nikolai, Yuri, and the twins were left to walk the path out of town with only the local priest for company.
“Are there no pilgrims?” Tolya asked him as they left the outskirts of town.
“The pilgrims are kept to the confines of the village,” said the priest. He was an older man with a tidy white beard and spectacles much like Yuri’s. “Visitors are only permitted access to the site under supervision and at certain hours. The cathedral is being repaired, and we wish to preserve Sankta Lizabeta’s work.”
“Is it so very fragile?” asked Yuri.
“It is extraordinary and not something to be picked apart for souvenirs.”
Zoya felt a chill creep over her. Something was different in the air here. The insects had gone silent. She heard no call of birds from the surrounding trees as they moved through the cool shadows of the wood and farther from the town. She met Tamar’s gaze and they exchanged a nod. Even at a supposed holy site, the king could be at risk of assassination.
They emerged at the top of a high, mounded hill next to a cathedral surrounded by scaffolding, its golden domes gleaming in the late-afternoon sun. A statue of Sankta Lizabeta stood before the entrance. A riot of red roses had burst through the stone, cracking open her veiled skull. The flowers tumbled over the statue in wild profusion, surrounding its marble skirts in a wide circle like a pool of blood. Their sweet smell pulsed in a thick, syrupy wave that seemed to glow with summer heat.
Yuri’s face was ecstatic. “I wanted to believe. I did believe, but this…”
Zoya realized he was weeping. “Be silent,” she bit out. “Or I’ll stuff you back into the coach myself.”
“Look,” said Tolya, and she heard new reverence in his voice.
Black tears ran from Lizabeta’s eyes. They gleamed hard as obsidian, as if they’d frozen there or been cast in stone themselves.
In the valley below, Zoya could just glimpse the sprawl of Kribirsk in the distance and the glimmer of the dead white sands that had once been the Shadow Fold beyond. They were close.
Nikolai hissed in a breath, and Zoya looked at him sharply. The others’ eyes were locked on the statue, but before Nikolai could yank the cuff of his glove back into place, Zoya glimpsed the dark veining at his wrist pulse black, as if … as if whatever was inside him had recognized something familiar here and woken. Part of her wanted to draw away, afraid that she would see the demon emerge, but she was a soldier and she would not waver.
“What was Lizabeta’s story?” Nikolai asked. His voice was taut, but th
e others didn’t seem to notice.
“It is both beautiful and tragic,” Yuri said enthusiastically.
Zoya wanted to knock him into the roses. “Aren’t all martyrdoms built to look that way?”
But Yuri ignored her or simply didn’t hear. “She was only eighteen when raiders came to West Ravka’s shore, pillaging and burning every village they encountered. While the men of her town cowered, Lizabeta faced the soldiers in a field of white roses and begged them to show mercy. When they charged her, she fell to her knees in prayer, and it was the bees that answered, rising from the blossoms to attack the soldiers in a swarm. Lizabeta’s town was saved.”
Zoya folded her arms. “Now tell our king how the people rewarded young Lizabeta for this miracle.”
“Well,” Yuri said, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve. “The villagers to the north demanded Lizabeta repeat this miracle and save their town too, but she could not.” He cleared his throat. “They had her drawn and quartered. It was said the roses turned red with her blood.”
“And this is the woman who is supposed to be answering the people’s prayers.” Zoya snapped a rose from its stem, ignoring the horrified gasp of the local priest. Its scent was cloying. Everything about this place set her teeth on edge. It felt as if something was watching her from the domes of the cathedral, from the shadows of the trees. “Why must all of your Saints be martyred?”
Yuri blinked. “Because … because it shows a willingness to sacrifice.”
“Do you think Lizabeta was willing to be pulled apart? How about Demyan when he was stoned to death? Or Ilya, chained and thrown into a river to drown?” She was tired of these miracles, tired of the dread riding with her daily, and utterly sick of stories that ended in suffering for those who dared to be brave or strange or strong. “If I were Lizabeta, I wouldn’t waste my time listening to the whining of—”
Movement on the roof of the cathedral caught Zoya’s eye. She looked up in time to see something massive rushing toward her. It smashed through Lizabeta’s statue, sending petals and shards of stone flying. Huge hands grasped Zoya’s shoulders, digging into her flesh, lifting her from the ground. She kicked her feet, feeling the terrible sensation of nothing beneath her.
Zoya screamed as she was pulled skyward, the rose still clutched in her hand.
12
NIKOLAI
“ZOYA!”
Something had hold of her—something with wings, and for a moment Nikolai wondered if somehow the demon had leapt from his very skin. But no, her captor’s wings were vast mechanical marvels of engineering that beat the sky as they rose higher.
Another winged soldier was wheeling toward Nikolai—this one female, black hair bound in a topknot, biceps armored in bands of gray metal. Khergud. The Shu had dared to attack the royal procession.
Tolya and Tamar stepped in front of Nikolai, but the soldier’s target was not the king—she had come for the king’s Heartrender guards. She had come to hunt Grisha. In a single movement the khergud released a metallic net that glittered in the air, then collapsed over the twins with enough weight to knock them to the ground. The khergud dragged them over the earth, gathering speed to lift them skyward.
Nikolai didn’t hesitate. There were times for subtlety and times when there was nothing to do but charge. He ran straight for the khergud, clambering over the struggling bodies of Tolya and Tamar, who grunted as his boots connected. He opened fire with both pistols.
The khergud barely flinched, her skin reinforced with that marvelously effective alloy of Grisha steel and ruthenium. Nikolai would solve that problem later.
He cast his weapons aside but did not let his stride break. He drew his dagger and launched himself onto the khergud’s back. The soldier bucked with the force of a wild horse. Nikolai had read the files. He knew strength and gunpowder were no match for this kind of power. So precision it would have to be.
“I hope some part of you is still flesh and blood,” Nikolai bit out. He seized the khergud’s collar and aimed the dagger into the notch between the soldier’s jaw and throat, praying for accuracy as he drove the blade home.
The khergud stumbled, losing momentum, trying to dislodge the dagger. Nikolai did not relent, twisting the blade deeper, feeling hot blood spurt over his hand. At last the soldier collapsed.
Nikolai didn’t wait to see Tolya and Tamar free themselves; he was already searching the skies for Zoya and her captor.
They were locked in a struggle high above the earth as Zoya kicked and fought the khergud who had hold of her. The soldier wrapped a massive arm around her throat. He was going to choke her into submission.
Abruptly, Zoya went still—but that was too fast for her to have lost consciousness. Nikolai felt the air around him crackle. The khergud had assumed Zoya was like other Grisha, who couldn’t summon with their arms bound. But Zoya Nazyalensky was no ordinary Squaller.
Lightning crackled over the metal wings of the Shu soldier. He shuddered and shook. The khergud’s body went limp. He and Zoya plummeted to the ground. No no no. Nikolai raced toward them, his mind constructing and casting aside plans. Useless. Hopeless. There was no way to reach her in time. A snarl ripped from his chest. He leapt, the air rushing against his face, and then he had her in his arms. Impossible. The physics wouldn’t permit …
Nikolai glimpsed his own shadow beneath him—too far beneath him, a dark blot bracketed by wings that curled from his own back. The monster is me and I am the monster. He flinched, as if he could somehow escape himself, and watched the monster’s shadow twitch.
“Nikolai?” Zoya was looking at him, and all he saw on her face was terror.
“It’s me,” he tried to say, but only a growl emerged. In the next second a shock was traveling through his body—Zoya’s power vibrating through his bones. He cried out, the sound a ragged growl, and felt his wings curl in on themselves, vanishing.
He was falling. They were both going to die.
Zoya thrust her free arm down, and a cushion of air pillowed beneath them, halting their momentum with a jolt. They rolled off it and hit the ground in a graceless heap. In a breath, she was scrambling away from him, arms raised, blue eyes wide.
He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “It’s me,” he repeated, and when he heard the words emerge from his lips, human and whole, he wanted to weep with gratitude. He’d never tasted anything so sweet as language returning to his tongue.
Zoya’s nostrils flared. She turned her attention to the khergud soldier who had attacked her, looming over his body, looking for a place to unleash her fear. The fall should have killed him, but he was already pushing to his feet. Zoya flipped her palms up and thunder boomed, lightning sparking at her fingertips. The strands of her hair writhed like a halo of serpents around her face. She slammed her hands down on the soldier’s chest. He convulsed as his flesh turned red and smoke rose from his torso, his body catching fire as it burned from within.
“Zoya!” shouted Nikolai. He lurched to his feet, but he didn’t dare touch her, not with that kind of current running through her. “Zoya, look at me, damn it.”
She raised her head. Her skin was pale, her eyes wild with rage. For a moment, she didn’t seem to recognize him. Then her lips parted, her shoulders dropped. Zoya pulled her hands away, and the khergud’s charred body collapsed. She sat back on her knees and drew in a long breath.
The smell emanating from the khergud’s roasted corpse was sickly sweet. So much for an interrogation.
Tolya and Tamar had freed themselves from the net. They stood with Yuri, who was trembling so badly Nikolai thought he might be having some kind of seizure. Had the boy never seen combat? It had been a brutal exchange but a brief one, and it wasn’t as if he’d been a target. Then Nikolai realized …
“You … he…” sputtered Yuri.
“Your Highness,” said Tolya.
Nikolai looked down at his hands. His fingers were still stained black, curled into talons. They had torn through his glove
s. Nikolai took a deep breath. A long moment passed, then another. At last, the claws receded.
“I know, Yuri,” he said as steadily as he could manage. “Quite a party trick. Are you going to faint?”
“No. Possibly. I don’t know.”
“You’ll be all right. We all will.” The words were so patently untrue that Nikolai had to struggle not to laugh. “I need you to keep silent. Tolya, Tamar, you’re uninjured?” They both nodded. Nikolai forced himself to look at Zoya. “You’re not hurt?”
She drew in a shuddering breath. She nodded, flexed her fingers, and said, “A few bruises. But the priest…” She bobbed her chin toward where the man lay, blood trickling from his temple into his snowy beard. He’d been knocked unconscious by a piece of Lizabeta’s stone veil.
Nikolai knelt beside him. The priest’s pulse was steady, though he probably had a bad concussion.
“No outcry from the village,” said Tamar as she used her power to check the priest’s vitals. “No alarm. If someone spotted the khergud, they would have come running.”
Hopefully the attack had been far enough from town to avoid drawing notice.
“I don’t want to try to explain soldiers with mechanical wings,” said Nikolai. “We’ll have to hide the bodies.”
“Give them to the roses,” said Tamar. “I’ll send two riders back to get them out after sunset.”
When the corpses were hidden from view in the heaps of Lizabeta’s red roses, they staged the area around the statue to their liking, and then Tamar brought the priest back to consciousness. As always, taking some kind of action helped to ease the tension thrumming through Nikolai. But he knew he couldn’t rely on this illusion of control. It was a balm, not a cure. The monster had come calling in broad daylight. And it had allowed him to save Zoya. Nikolai didn’t know what that meant. He hadn’t commanded the demon. It had pushed to the fore. At least he thought it had. What if it happens again? His mind felt like enemy territory.
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