“The creation of the khergud…” She hesitated. “It’s a process of trial and error. The Grisha they bring to the labs are referred to as volunteers, but…”
“We know better,” Tolya growled.
“We do,” said Tamar. “The choices the Grisha are presented with are impossible ones. The power the Taban government wields is too absolute.”
“So it’s not a choice at all,” said Genya.
Tolya shrugged. “It’s the same way the Darkling built the Second Army.”
Zoya bristled at that. “The Second Army was a refuge.”
“Maybe for some,” said Tolya. “The Darkling took Grisha from their parents when they were only children. They were taught to forget the places they came from, the people they knew. They served the crown or their families suffered. What kind of choice is that?”
“But no one experimented on us,” said Zoya. And some of us were perfectly happy to forget our parents.
“No,” said Tolya, resting his huge hands on his knees. “They just turned you into soldiers and sent you out to fight their wars.”
“He’s not wrong,” said Genya, looking down at her wine. “Don’t you ever think about what life you might have led if you hadn’t come to the Little Palace?”
Zoya leaned her head back against the silk of the couch. Yes, she wondered. As a little girl, the thought had haunted her dreams and hounded her into waking. She would close her eyes and find herself walking down the aisle. She would see her aunt bleeding on the floor. And always, her mother was there, coaxing Zoya forward, reminding her not to trip on the hem of her little golden wedding dress, as Zoya’s father sat silent in the pews. He’d hung his head, Zoya remembered. But he hadn’t said a word to save her. Only Liliyana had dared to speak. And Liliyana was long dead. Murdered by the Fold and the Darkling’s ambition.
“Yes,” said Zoya. “I think about it.”
Tamar ran a hand through her short hair. “Our father promised our mother that we would have a choice. So when she died, he took us to Novyi Zem.”
Would that have been the better thing? Should Liliyana have put her on a ship to cross the True Sea instead of bringing her to the palace gates to join the Grisha? Nikolai had abolished the practice of separating Grisha from their parents. There was no mandatory draft to pull children from their homes. But for the Grisha who had no homes, who had never felt safe in the places they should feel safe, the Little Palace would always be a refuge, somewhere to run to. Zoya had to preserve that sanctuary, no matter what the Fjerdans or the Shu or the Kerch threw at them. And maybe, somewhere on the other side of this long fight, there was a future where Grisha wouldn’t have to fear or be feared, where “soldier” would just be one of a thousand possible paths.
She stood and shook out her cuffs. She wanted to sit by the fire, argue with Tolya, look at Genya’s sketches, watch Nikolai frown into his tea. And that was exactly why she had to leave. There could be no rest. Not until her country and her people were safe.
“Your Majesty?” she said. “We’ve put this off long enough.”
Nikolai got to his feet. “At least I don’t have to drink any more tea.”
“Do you want company?” Genya asked.
Zoya did. She wanted an entire army at her back. But she saw the way Genya clutched the papers in her hands, the way David’s gaze snapped to his wife, the desire to protect her the one thing that could draw him from his work.
“When you’re ready,” Zoya said quietly. “And not before.” She cracked her knuckles. “Besides,” she drawled as she sailed from the room, “that dress needs a proper train. Let’s not have the Shu queen thinking we’re peasants.”
* * *
“That was good of you,” Nikolai said as they crossed the palace grounds to the old zoo. A full moon was rising.
Zoya ignored the compliment. “Why can’t it be as simple as war? One enemy facing another in honest combat? No, now we have some kind of monstrous blight to face.”
“Ravka likes to keep things interesting,” said Nikolai. “Don’t you enjoy a challenge?”
“I enjoy a nap,” said Zoya. “I can’t remember the last time I was allowed to sleep in.”
“None of that. A full night’s sleep might put you in a good mood, and I need you at your most disgruntled.”
“Keep spewing inanities and you may see me at my worst.”
“All Saints, are you saying I haven’t seen you at your worst?”
Zoya tossed her hair. “If you had, you’d be under the covers, gibbering prayers.”
“A unique way of getting me into bed, but who am I to question your methods?”
Zoya rolled her eyes, but she was grateful for the distraction of this easy back-and-forth. This was safe, simple, nothing like the quiet of his bedchamber, his hand tight in hers. And what would she do when Nikolai was married and propriety rose like a wall between them?
She straightened her spine and tightened the ribbon in her hair. She would get by just fine, as she always had. She was a military commander, not a simpering girl who wilted from a lack of attention.
The old zoo was located in the wooded area on the eastern end of the palace grounds. It had been abandoned generations ago, but somehow it still smelled of the animals that had been caged there. Zoya had seen the weathered illustrations: a leopard in a jeweled collar, a lemur wearing a velvet waistcoat and performing tricks, a white bear imported from Tsibeya that had mauled three different keepers before escaping. It had never been caught, and Zoya hoped it had somehow found its way home.
The zoo was built in the shape of a large circle, the old cages facing outward and overgrown with brambles. At the center was a high tower that had once housed an aviary at the top. Now it was home to a different animal.
As Zoya climbed the stairs behind Nikolai, she felt the ancient intelligence inside her rouse—thinking, calculating. It always seemed to come alive with her anger or her fear.
The Fold is expanding. Nikolai had said the words so easily, as if remarking upon the weather. I hear there will be rain tomorrow.
The calla lilies are in bloom again.
The world is being devoured by nothingness and we have to find a way to stop it. More tea?
But that was always the way. The world might crumble, but Nikolai Lantsov would be holding up the ceiling with one hand and plucking a speck of dirt from his lapel with the other when it all went to ruin.
He and Zoya had built this prison carefully, leaving only the skeleton of the aviary. Its walls were now made entirely of glass, letting light in throughout the day. At night, Sun Soldiers, heirs to Alina Starkov’s power, many of whom had fought against the Darkling on the Fold, kept the light alive. They had all been sworn to secrecy, and Zoya hoped that vow would hold. The Darkling had emerged into this new life without his powers—or so it seemed. They were taking no chances.
When the door opened, their prisoner rose from where he’d been sitting on the floor, moving with a kind of grace Yuri Vedenen had never possessed. Yuri, a young monk who had preached the gospel of the Starless Saint, had led the cult dedicated to worship of the Darkling. They believed the Starless One had been martyred on the Fold and that he would return. And to Zoya’s great surprise, Yuri and the rest of the addlepated zealots clad in black and chanting for a dead dictator had been right: The Darkling had been resurrected. His power had poured into Yuri’s own body and now … now Zoya wasn’t sure who or what this man was. His face was narrow, his pale skin smooth, his eyes gray beneath dark brows. His long black hair almost brushed his collarbones. He wore dark trousers and nothing else, his chest and feet bare. Vain as always.
“A royal visit.” The Darkling sketched a short bow. “I’m honored.”
“Put on a shirt,” said Zoya.
“My apologies. It gets quite warm in here with the relentless sunlight.” He shrugged into the rough-spun shirt Yuri had worn beneath his monk’s robes. “I’d invite you to sit, but…” He gestured to the empty room.
&
nbsp; There was no furniture. He had no books to occupy him. He was let into the neighboring cell only to wash and relieve himself. Another two heavily padlocked doors stood between that cell and the stairs.
The Darkling’s new residence was empty, but there was quite a view. Through the glass walls, Zoya could see the palace grounds, the rooftops and gardens of the upper town, lights from the boats drifting on the river that ringed it, and the lower town below. Os Alta. This had been her home since she was only nine years old, but she’d rarely had the chance to see it from this angle. She felt a rush of dizziness, and then she was remembering. Of course. She knew this city, the countryside that surrounded it. She had flown over it before.
No. Not her. The dragon. It had a name, one known only to itself and long ago to the others of its kind, but she couldn’t quite remember what it was. It was right on the tip of her tongue. Infuriating.
“I am eager for company,” said the Darkling.
Zoya felt a sudden rush of his resentment, his rage at this captivity—the Darkling’s anger. The dragon’s presence in her head had left her vulnerable. She drew in a breath, grounding herself, here, in this strange glass cell, the stone floor beneath her boots. What might you learn—Juris’ voice, or was it her own?—what might you know, if only you would open the door?
Another breath. I am Zoya Nazyalensky and I am getting truly sick of the cocktail party in my head, you old lizard. She could have sworn she heard Juris chuckle in reply.
Nikolai leaned against the wall. “I’m sorry we don’t visit more often. There’s a war on and, well, no one likes you.”
The Darkling touched a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”
“All in due time,” said Zoya.
The Darkling raised a brow. A faint smile touched his lips—there in that expression, there was the man she remembered. “She’s afraid of me, you know.”
“I’m not.”
“She doesn’t know what I may do. Or what I can do.”
Nikolai gestured to one of the Sun Soldiers for chairs to be brought in. “Maybe she’s afraid of being spoken of as if she’s not standing right in front of you.”
They all sat. The Darkling somehow managed to make his rickety old chair look like a throne. “I knew that you would come.”
“I hate to be predictable.” Nikolai turned to Zoya. “Maybe we should go? Keep him on his toes?”
“He knows we won’t. He knows we need something.”
“I’ve felt it,” said the Darkling. “The blight coming on. The Fold is expanding. And you feel it too, don’t you, Lantsov? It’s the power that resides in my bones, the power still seeping black in your blood.”
A shadow passed over Nikolai’s face. “The power that created the Fold in the first place.”
“I’m told some people consider it a miracle.”
Zoya pursed her lips. “Don’t let it go to your head. There are miracles everywhere these days.”
The Darkling tilted his head to the side, watching them both. The weight of his gaze made Zoya want to leap through one of the glass walls, but she refused to show it. “I’ve had a lot of time to think in this place, to look back on a long life. I made countless mistakes, but always I found a new path, a new chance to work toward my goal.”
Nikolai nodded. “Until that little bump in the road when you died.”
Now the Darkling’s expression soured. “When I look back on where things went wrong, where my plans all unraveled, I can trace the moment of disaster to the trust I placed in a pirate named Sturmhond.”
“Privateer,” said Nikolai. “And I wouldn’t know, but if the privateer you’ve hired is entirely trustworthy, he’s probably not much of a privateer.”
Zoya couldn’t just brush past with a joke. “That’s the moment? Not in manipulating a young girl and trying to steal her power, or destroying half a city of innocent people, or decimating the Grisha, or blinding your own mother? None of those moments feel like an opportunity for self-examination?”
The Darkling merely shrugged, his hands spread as if indicating he had no more tricks to play. “You list off atrocities as though I’m meant to feel shame for them. And perhaps I would, were there not a hundred that preceded those crimes, and another hundred before those. Human life is worth preserving. But human lives? They come and go like so much chaff, never tipping the scales.”
“What a remarkable calculation,” said Nikolai. “And a convenient one for a mass murderer.”
“Zoya understands. The dragon knows how small human lives are, how wearying. They are fireflies. Sparks that dwindle in the night, while we burn on and on.”
There were not enough deep breaths in the world to keep a leash on Zoya’s anger. How did Nikolai maintain that air of glib composure? And why did they bother trying to prick the Darkling’s conscience? Her aunt, her friends, the people he had sworn to protect meant nothing in the long expanse of his life.
She leaned forward. “You are stolen fire and stolen time. Don’t look to me for support.” She turned to Nikolai. “Why are we here? Being around him makes me want to break things. Let’s take him to the Fold and kill him. Maybe that will set things right.”
“It won’t work,” said the Darkling. “The demon lives on in your king. You’d have to kill him too.”
“Don’t give her ideas,” said Nikolai.
“The only way to heal the rupture in the Fold is to finish what you started and perform the obisbaya.”
Tolya had made the same suggestion. The Ritual of the Burning Thorn. They had been lured into attempting it by Elizaveta, who had only wished to use the opportunity to kill Nikolai and resurrect the Darkling. If they wanted to attempt it again, this would be the time, when the Darkling was still powerless, and the Fjerdans were licking their wounds. But the risk was simply too great. And even if they were willing to take it, they didn’t have the means.
“We have no thorn wood,” said Zoya. “It crumbled to ash when the Saints died and the boundaries of the Fold fell.”
“But we might acquire one,” said the Darkling.
“I see. From whom?”
“Monks.”
She threw up her hands. “Why is it always monks?”
“There was fruit taken from the thorn wood when it was still young. Its seeds were preserved by the Order of Sankt Feliks.”
“And where are they?”
Now the Darkling looked less certain. “I don’t know exactly. I’ve never had need of them. But I can tell you how to find them.”
“I smell a bargain in the works,” Nikolai said, rubbing his hands together. “What will this knowledge cost us?”
The Darkling’s eyes glittered, gray quartz beneath a false sun. “Bring me Alina Starkov and I’ll tell you what you need to know.”
All the humor left Nikolai’s face. “What do you want with Alina?”
“A chance to apologize. A chance to see what became of the girl who drove a knife into my heart.”
Zoya shook her head. “I don’t believe a word that leaves your mouth.”
The Darkling shrugged. “I might not either. But you know my terms.”
“And if we don’t agree to them?” she asked.
“Then the Fold will keep expanding and swallow the world. The young king will fall and I will sing myself to sleep in my prison cell.”
Zoya stood. “I don’t like any of this. He’s up to something. And even if we find the monastery and the seeds, what would we do with them? We would need an extraordinarily powerful Fabrikator to bring forth the thorn wood the way that Elizaveta did.”
The Darkling smiled. “Does this mean you have not mastered all Juris set out to teach you?”
Zoya felt the dam containing her rage give way. She lunged toward the Darkling as Nikolai seized her arms to hold her back. “You do not speak his name. Say his name again and I’ll cut the tongue from your mouth and wear it as a brooch.”
“Don’t,” Nikolai said, his grip strong, his voice low. “He’s not worth your
anger.”
The Darkling watched her as he had when she was a pupil, as if there was something only he could see inside her. As if it amused him. “They all die, Zoya. They all will. Everyone you love.”
“Is that right?” said Nikolai. “How tragic. Can you be still, Zoya?”
Zoya shook Nikolai off. “For now.”
“How she struggles,” the Darkling said, his voice thick with mirth. “Like an insect pinned by her own power.”
“Poetic,” said Nikolai. “You have something in your beard.”
To Zoya’s confusion, the Darkling raised his hand to his smooth chin, then dropped it as if he’d been burned. His gaze lit with something very like hate.
Now it was Nikolai who was smiling. “That’s what I thought,” said the king. “Yuri Vedenen is still there, somewhere inside you. Is that why your powers haven’t returned?”
The Darkling watched the king with narrowed eyes. “Such a clever fellow.”
“That’s why you want us to raise the thorn wood and perform the obisbaya. You could care less what damage the Fold does. You want to purge yourself of Yuri and become host to my demon. You want a way back to your power.”
“I’ve told you what I want. Bring me Alina Starkov. That is the bargain.”
“No,” said Zoya.
The Darkling turned his back on them and looked out over the lights glittering in the city spread below. “Then I can live as a weakling and you can watch the world die.”
10
NINA
NINA WAS AT HANNE’S SIDE in seconds. The prince’s eyes were bulging, his whole body convulsing as his slender chest heaved. Worse was the sound that came from him, a deep, painful rattle. Nina saw Hanne’s hand reach out, even as she sank to her knees beside them. It rested on his chest—as if she couldn’t help herself—and almost instantly the prince’s coughing eased.
“Take my hand,” Nina whispered furiously. “Pray. Loudly.”
She seized the prince’s bony fingers so that they formed a circle of three and chanted with Hanne in staccato Fjerdan, a prayer to Djel, the Wellspring. “As the waters scour the riverbed, let them cleanse me too. As the waters scour the riverbed, let them cleanse me too.”
Rule of Wolves Page 11