Rule of Wolves

by Leigh Bardugo

  Now Brum was dressed in his uniform and had his traveling coat slung over his arm. He’d been preparing to journey to the front. His face was unreadable. Hanne’s mother looked vaguely worried, but that was almost always the case. A fire crackled in the hearth.

  A woman of middle age with dark brown hair in elaborate braids sat erect in one of the cream velvet chairs by the fire, a cup of tea perched on her knee. But this was no Springmaiden. She wore the dark blue pinafore and capelet reserved for the Wellmother, the highest-ranking sister at the convent. Her face was unfamiliar to Nina, and a brief glance confirmed that Hanne didn’t know her either. Hanne had lived at the convent for years, but this woman clearly hadn’t trained as a novice there. So who was she and what was she doing at the Ice Court?

  Nina and Hanne curtsied deeply.

  Brum gestured toward the woman. “Enke Bergstrin has assumed the management of the convent at Gäfvalle since the unfortunate disappearance of the previous Wellmother.”

  “Was she never found?” Nina asked, her tone as blameless as a babe’s first coo. It was good strategy to put Brum on the defensive if he was questioning what had taken place at the convent. Besides, she enjoyed watching him squirm.

  Brum shifted his weight, eyes darting briefly to his wife. “It’s believed she may have been in the fort when the explosions occurred. The convent was taking in laundry for the soldiers.”

  In fact, that task had been mere cover for their real business: tending to the pregnant Grisha addicted to jurda parem on Brum’s orders.

  “But why would the Wellmother go there herself?” Nina pressed. “Why not send a novice or one of the Springmaidens?”

  Brum brushed a speck of lint from his coat. “A reasonable question. It may be she had other business there or had simply gone to supervise the sisters.”

  Or maybe she got dragged into the next world by my undead minions. Who can say?

  “What an inquisitive girl you are,” said the new Wellmother. Her eyes were gray-blue, her brow stern, her mouth hard. Did all Wellmothers emerge from the womb scowling? Or did they just start looking vexed as soon as they took the job?

  “Forgive me,” Nina said, with another demure curtsy. “I was not educated at the convent, and I’m afraid my manners show the truth of it.”

  “You’ve done nothing wrong, Mila,” said Ylva. “We’re all curious.”

  “Regardless of what became of the previous Wellmother,” Brum pushed on, “Enke Bergstrin has taken on her position and is attempting to set the convent to rights after the tragedies at Gäfvalle.”

  “But what is this about, Papa?” asked Hanne.

  “I don’t know,” Brum said, his voice sharp. “The Wellmother has declined to share that without your presence.”

  The Wellmother set down her tea. “In the wake of the destruction of the fort and the rise of irreligious elements in Gäfvalle, the convent has had to take a sterner hand with our students and extend them less privacy.”

  Irreligious elements. Nina savored the words. Gäfvalle had been the first step, the first miracle she’d staged, when Leoni and Adrik had saved the village from poison unleashed from the factory. It had been irresponsible, utterly imprudent—and it had worked like a charm. She had learned the practice of deception from Kaz Brekker himself, and there was no greater teacher. Two Grisha—a Fabrikator and an Etherealnik—had saved those villagers. A miracle? No, just good people trained to use their gifts, willing to expose themselves to persecution and worse for the sake of saving a town. Two people who were now worshipped as Saints in the dark corners and candlelit kitchens of Gäfvalle. Sankt Adrik the Uneven and Sankta Leoni of the Waters.

  “What does this have to do with our daughter?” demanded Brum.

  “In the course of searching the convent we came across all manner of contraband, including painted icons and heathen prayer books.”

  “Surely they are just young,” said Ylva. “I rebelled too when I was that age. It was how I ended up married to a drüskelle.”

  Nina felt an unexpected pang at the warm look Brum and his wife shared. Ylva was Hedjut, considered one of the divine people of the north, from the lost coastline near Kenst Hjerte, the Broken Heart. Had she been like Hanne in her youth—driven by stubborn spirit? Full of love for the land and the open sky? Had Jarl Brum, the military boy from the capital, seemed mysterious and alien? Nina had assumed that Brum had always been a monster, but maybe he’d grown into one.

  “We cannot think that way,” said Brum. “These influences must be rooted out before they take hold or all of Fjerda will lose its way.”

  The Wellmother nodded. “I couldn’t agree more, Commander Brum. That is why I’m here.”

  Ylva sat forward, her face stricken. “Are you saying these items were found in Hanne’s quarters?”

  “We found men’s riding clothes stashed beneath the slate tiles in the chapel. Also, prayer beads and an icon of Sankta Vasilka.”

  Sankta Vasilka. Patron saint of unwed women. She was a Ravkan Saint, said to have become the first firebird.

  “That cannot be,” said Brum, stepping in front of Hanne as if to protect her. “Hanne has had her wilder moments. But she would never give herself over to the worship of abomination.”

  “Never,” whispered Hanne fervently, and no one could doubt the look of sincerity on her face.

  Nina tried not to smile. Hanne would never worship a Grisha because she damn well was one, a Healer forced to hide her powers but who still found ways to use them to help people.

  The Wellmother’s lips pursed. “Then perhaps you think I traveled all this way to tell fanciful tales.”

  The room was silent except for the crackle of the fire. Nina could feel the fear radiating off Ylva, the anger that came from Brum—and the uncertainty in both of them too. They knew Hanne had been disobedient in the past. But how far had she gone? Nina wasn’t sure herself.

  Hanne took a deep breath. “The riding clothes were mine.”

  Damn it, Hanne. What had Nina said? Deny everything.

  “Oh Hanne,” Ylva cried, pressing her fingertips to her temples.

  Brum’s face flushed red.

  But Hanne stepped forward, her chin held high, radiant with the pride and rigid will she’d inherited from her father. “I’m not ashamed.” The sound of her voice was pure and certain. Her eyes met Nina’s, glanced away again. “I didn’t know who I was then or what I wanted. Now I know where I want to be. Here with you.”

  Ylva stood and took Hanne’s hand. “And the icons? The prayer beads?”

  “I don’t know anything about them,” Hanne said without hesi- tation.

  “Were they found with Hanne’s riding clothes?” Nina asked, taking a chance.

  “No,” the Wellmother admitted. “They were not.”

  Ylva drew Hanne close. “I’m proud of your honesty.”

  “Wellmother,” said Brum, his voice icy, “you may have the ear of Djel, but so do the drüskelle. You will think more carefully the next time you come to my home to accuse my daughter.”

  The Wellmother rose. She looked indomitable, not remotely chastened by Brum’s words. “I serve the spiritual well-being of this country,” she said. “The Apparat, a heathen priest, is beneath this roof. I have heard tales of heathen worship in this very town. I will not be swayed in my mission. Still,” she said, and smoothed the woolen skirts of her pinafore, “I am glad Hanne has finally found her way. I will hear her confession before I go.”

  Hanne curtsied, head bowed, the very picture of obedience. “Yes, Wellmother.”

  “And I will hear Mila Jandersdat’s as well.”

  Nina couldn’t hide her surprise. “But I was only a guest of the convent. I was never a novitiate.”

  “And do you not have a soul, Mila Jandersdat?”

  More of a soul than you, you pinch-faced prune pit. But Nina couldn’t protest further, not in front of the Brums. Besides, she was nearly giddy with relief. They hadn’t been found out. And while the idea of
Hanne being accused of false worship was no small thing, it was nothing compared to what the Wellmother might have said. So if Madame Prune Pit wanted her to make up a few good sins, she’d be happy to entertain her for a quarter of an hour.

  “I’ll go first,” she said to Hanne, and cheerfully followed the Wellmother into the small receiving room that had been selected for her confessional.

  It was narrow, with space for little more than a writing desk and a small sofa. The Wellmother took a seat at the desk and lit an oil lamp.

  “The water hears and understands,” she murmured.

  “The ice does not forgive,” Nina said in traditional reply.

  “Close the door.”

  Nina did as she was bid and smiled warmly, showing she was eager to please.

  The Wellmother turned, her eyes the cold color of slate. “Hello, Nina.”

  5

  ZOYA

  IN A HIGH TOWER of Os Kervo’s city hall, Zoya paced the flagstone floor. Hiram Schenck was late, and she had no doubt the insult was deliberate. Once the Kerch government had acquired the secrets of the izmars’ya, Nikolai’s deadly ships that could travel undetected beneath the surface of the sea, Ravka had lost all their leverage with the little island nation and the Merchant Council who ruled it. Schenck just wanted to make sure she knew it.

  She needed to stay calm, be a diplomat, not a soldier. It was that or tear Schenck’s tufty ginger head from his body.

  Through the window, she glimpsed waves crashing against the base of the city’s famous lighthouse. It was said Sankt Vladimir the Foolish had held the ocean at bay while the stones were laid for the sea wall and the great lighthouse. Zoya had a suspicion he’d been nothing more than a powerful Tidemaker. Not that powerful, she considered. He’d drowned in the bay for his troubles.

  She shouldn’t be here. She should be at the front, on the ground with her Squallers. With her king.

  “We can’t risk Fjerda finding out what we’re up to,” Nikolai had said. “You need to meet with Schenck.”

  “And if the Fjerdans attack from the sea?”

  “They won’t break Sturmhond’s blockade.”

  He’d sounded certain, but Nikolai had a talent for sounding sure of himself. Sturmhond, the legendary privateer—and the Ravkan king’s alter ego—had sent a fleet of ships to guard Ravka’s coastline. In theory, the king and the Triumvirate were meant to leave that job to the Ravkan navy. But the navy was too closely tied to West Ravka and their interests for Nikolai’s comfort. They couldn’t be trusted, not when the stakes were so high.

  At least Nina’s message had arrived in time for them to prepare. At least Nina was still alive.

  “Order her home,” Zoya had urged, determined to keep the pleading from her voice.

  But the king had refused. “We need her there.”

  It was true, and she hated it.

  Let the Fjerdans come by sea, Zoya thought, let Jarl Brum and the rest of his bloody witchhunters come to us on the waves. My Squallers and I will give them a warm welcome.

  She rested her head against the cool stone of the window casement. Some part of her had been glad to leave the king. To avoid Tamar’s knowing gaze. She could still hear the Suli woman’s voice, still see her standing fearless beneath the cedar tree. Khaj pa ve. We see you. Zoya was a warrior, a general, a Grisha who wore the scales of a dragon around her wrists. So why did those words fill her with so much fear?

  She consulted the timepiece she wore on a jeweled fob, clipped to the sash of her kefta. It was a gift from the king, the silver lid shaped like a dragon curled around a quince. When she flipped it open, the abalone face caught the light, shimmering with faint rainbows. The silver hands ticked away.

  “He’s late,” she bit out.

  “Perhaps he got lost,” offered Count Kirigin nervously. He was always nervous around her. It was tiresome. But he was very wealthy, and his interminably jolly mood made him a perfect foil. When Kirigin was in the room, it was impossible to take anything too seriously. Besides, his father had been a war profiteer, which made him a villain in Ravka but quite popular among the noblemen of West Ravka who had enriched themselves with the help of the elder Kirigin. “My watch says he’s still got two minutes until he’s strictly considered late.”

  “Our king needs every minute.”

  Kirigin’s cheeks flushed. He tapped his fingers on the table. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  Zoya turned back toward the window.

  She felt his shame, his eagerness, his longing. They came on like a sudden storm, a gust that swept her off solid ground and into free fall. One moment she was standing, sure-footed in a sunlit room in Os Kervo, looking out at the sea. The next she was gazing at a beautiful girl before her, raven-haired, her blue eyes distant. She reached out to touch the girl’s smooth cheek.

  “Zoya?”

  Zoya slammed back into her own consciousness just in time to smack Kirigin’s hand away. “I did not give you leave to touch me.”

  “My apologies,” he said, cradling his hand as if she’d broken one of his fingers. “You just looked so … lost.”

  And she had been lost. She glanced down at the shimmering black fetters on her wrists. They looked like shackles but they felt natural, as if they’d always been meant to lie cool against her skin. Power. The hunger for it like a heartbeat, steady and unrelenting. It was the temptation of all Grisha, and the acquisition of an amplifier only made it worse. Open the door, Zoya.

  She could never be sure if it was her own voice or Juris’ that spoke in her head. She only knew that his presence within her was real. No figment of her imagination could be so irritating. Sometimes, beneath Juris, she could sense another mind, another presence that was not human, had never been human, something ancient—and then the world would shift. She would hear a servant whispering gossip in the kitchens, smell apple blossoms in the orchard at Yelinka—nearly fifteen miles away. All that she could bear, but the emotions, this sudden drop into someone else’s pain or joy … It was too much.

  Or maybe you’re losing your mind, she considered. It was possible. After what she’d seen on the Fold, what she’d done—murdered a Saint bent on destruction, driven a blade into the heart of a dragon, into the heart of a friend. She had saved Nikolai’s life. She had saved Ravka from Elizaveta. But she hadn’t stopped the Darkling from returning, had she? And now she couldn’t help but wonder if there was any chance she could save her country from war.

  “I was lost in thought,” Zoya said, shaking out the sleeves of her blue kefta. “That’s all.”

  “Ah,” said Kirigin. But he didn’t look convinced.

  “You never served, did you?”

  “No indeed,” said the count, seating himself at the end of a long rectangular table engraved with the West Ravkan crest—two eagles bracketing a lighthouse. He was wearing a custard-yellow coat and a coral waistcoat that, in combination with his pallid skin and bright red hair, made him look like an exotic bird seeking a perch. “My father sent me away to Novyi Zem during the civil war.” He cleared his throat. “Zoya—” She flashed him a look and he hastily corrected himself. “General Nazyalensky, I wonder if you might consider a visit to my holdings near Caryeva.”

  “We are at war, Kirigin.”

  “But after the war. In the summer, perhaps. We could go for the races.”

  “Are you so sure there will be an after?”

  Kirigin looked startled. “The king is a brilliant tactician.”

  “We don’t have the numbers. If he fails to stop the Fjerdans at Nezkii, this war will be over before it begins. And to win, we need reinforcements.”

  “And we will have them!” Kirigin declared. Zoya envied his optimism. “One day there will be peace again. Even in a time of war, we might slip away for a moment. For a quiet dinner, a chance to talk, to get to know each other. Now that the king is to be married—”

  “The king’s plans are none of your concern.”

  “Certainly, but I thought that n
ow you might be free to—”

  Zoya turned on him. She felt current crackle through her, felt the wind lift her hair. “Be free to what, exactly?”

  Kirigin held up his hands as if he could ward her off. “I simply meant—”

  She knew what he meant. Rumors had surrounded her and Nikolai for months, rumors she had encouraged to hide the secret of the demon that lived inside him and what it took to keep the monster under control. So why did it make her so angry to hear these words now?

  She took a slow breath. “Kirigin, you are a charming, handsome, very … amiable man.”

  “I … am?” he said, then added with more surety, “I am.”

  “Yes, you are. But we are not suited in temperament.”

  “I think if you just—”

  “No just.” She took another breath and forced herself to rein in her tone. She sat down at the table. Kirigin had been a loyal friend to the king and had put himself at considerable risk over the last few years by letting his home be used as a base for their weapons development. He wasn’t a bad sort. She could try and be pleasant. “I think I know the way you see this playing out.”

  Kirigin flushed even redder. “I highly doubt that.”

  Zoya suspected it involved bodies entwined and possibly him playing her a song on the lute, but she would spare them both that particular image.

  “You will invite me to a fine dinner. We’ll both drink too much wine. You’ll get me to talk about myself, the pressures of my position, the sadness of my past. Perhaps I’ll shed a tear or two. You’ll listen sensitively and astutely and somehow discover my secret self. Something like that?”

  “Well, not precisely. But … yes!” He leaned forward. “I want to know the true you, Zoya.”

  She reached out and took his hand. It was clammy with sweat.

  “Count Kirigin. Emil. There is no secret self. I’m not going to reveal another me to you. I’m not going to be tamed by you. I am the king’s general. I am the commander of the Second Army, and right now my people are facing down the enemy without me there.”

  “But if you would only—”