Rule of Wolves

by Leigh Bardugo

  The Darkling looked only bemused. “If Ravka is so strong, why is Fjerda attacking? Why are the wolves at the door once more? Do you really believe these cubs can lead a nation?”

  “Safety for the Grisha. A united Ravka. What if they are the ones to give this dream to us? Why does it have to be you? Why do you have to be the savior?”

  “I am the man best suited to the job.”

  But there was something in the Darkling’s voice that made Zoya wonder if he was quite as sure as he had been before he’d taken tea with a Saint.

  The Darkling’s shoulders lifted. “It has always been easier to see me as the villain, I know. But for a moment, can you imagine that I have only ever tried to do what is best for my country and my people?”

  “I can,” said Alina. “Of course I can.”

  “Don’t say that!” Misha cried, his face flushed. “He never cared about any of us!”

  “Tell me you regret some of it,” Alina said softly. “Any of it.” Her voice was gentle, coaxing. Hopeful. Zoya knew that hope. When you’d followed someone, believed in someone, you didn’t want to think you’d been a fool. “It’s not too late for you.”

  “I didn’t come here to speak lies,” said the Darkling.

  Alina blew out a disgusted breath, but Zoya could only shake her head.

  “Do you really believe this is the life you were meant for?” the Darkling asked. “Powerless and pathetic? Wiping the noses of children who will forget you? Telling them bedtime stories that will never come true?”

  But this time Alina smiled. She reached for Mal’s hand. “I am not powerless. Those stories tell us the only people who matter are kings and queens. They’re wrong.”

  The Darkling sat forward, but suddenly Zoya wasn’t looking at the Darkling at all. It was Yuri’s bony, desperate face that stared out at her, Yuri’s frightened voice that shouted, “He’s going to—”

  The Darkling seemed to be falling forward onto his knees. He reached out and seized Alina’s and Mal’s clasped hands. The samovar clanged to the floor.

  Zoya stood, knocking her chair backward, but it was already too late.

  “No!” Alina shouted. Oncat hissed.

  Shadows flooded the room. Zoya couldn’t see, couldn’t fight. She was lost in the dark.

  15

  NIKOLAI

  THE MORNING OF THE WEDDING, Nikolai dressed with care. Zoya should be here, he thought as he pinned a sprig of blue hyacinth to his lapel. This was a momentous day, a turning point for Ravka, the culmination of careful planning and a potential diplomatic disaster. But what possible good could come from Zoya being with him today? She would see him in his fancy new clothes?

  It still didn’t sit right. They had traveled together for months, endured hardships, witnessed miracles. She had become his closest confidante and most trusted adviser. And he’d sent her away. Not just away, you podge. He’d sent her on an impossible quest with their most deadly enemy. Well, one of them. Truth be told, it was hard to keep track of who was deadliest these days—the Fjerdans with their war machines and Grisha prisoners, the Kerch with their unparalleled navy and bottomless coffers, the blight slowly devouring the world, the Shu who were currently arriving at their door.

  Nikolai’s flyers had been tracking Queen Makhi’s airship from a distance, and he’d received word when the party arrived. They’d docked at Poliznaya, where they’d unloaded horses, carriages, and a large retinue of servants, including twelve Tavgharad in black uniforms. General Pensky had greeted them in full military dress, and his soldiers had escorted them on to Os Alta. Nikolai had made sure that the crowds assembled in the streets were watched over by First Army soldiers and Grisha Heartrenders, prepared to drop the pulses of anyone who wanted to make trouble. Though they hadn’t been at war with the Shu in several years, there was still plenty of anti-Shu sentiment, and he didn’t want this day to be more fraught than it had to be.

  Tolya knocked at the door to Nikolai’s dressing room and leaned in. “They’re at the gates. You’re making ships again. That nervous?”

  Nikolai looked down at the little wire boat in his hand. It was an old habit from childhood, fashioning bits and pieces into the shapes of animals or objects.

  “You’re not worried about this whole madcap endeavor?” Nikolai asked.

  “I am,” Tolya said grimly. “But this is the right choice. I know it.”

  “Saints, are you wearing a kefta?”

  Tolya and Tamar usually favored the olive drab of First Army soldiers. They had rejected the trappings of the Second Army from their earliest days at the Little Palace. But now here Tolya was, filling the doorway in Heartrender red, his sleeves heavily embroidered in black and his long hair bound tightly at the nape of his neck.

  “Today we stand with Ravka’s Grisha,” said Tolya.

  Zoya was going to be very sorry she missed this.

  Nikolai took a last glance in the mirror, his medals affixed to the pale blue sash across his chest. He touched his fingers to the blue velvet ribbon tucked into his pocket.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “The sooner we start this day, the sooner it will be over.”

  “It’s almost as if you don’t like weddings,” Tolya said as they made their way out of the palace.

  “I’m very fond of weddings, particularly the part where I can start drinking. I’m amazed they had a kefta in your size.”

  “The Fabrikators made it for me. They had to sew two together.”

  They descended the steps, where the royal guard had already positioned themselves in front of the remaining members of the Grisha Triumvirate. The white stone stairs had been scrubbed clean of any sign of the violence that had been done there only a short time ago, and every balustrade and balcony had been festooned with clouds of hortensia in the pale blue and green of Ravka and the Shu Han. If only it were so easy to bring two countries together.

  “Tolya!” Genya exclaimed as they joined her and David on the steps. “Red suits you.”

  “Don’t get used to it,” Tolya grumbled, but he couldn’t stop from preening like a heavily muscled peacock at the compliment.

  Genya wore a kefta of shimmering gold, her red hair braided with slender strands of river pearls, and David’s hair had been properly cut for once.

  “You both look splendid,” said Nikolai.

  David took his wife’s hand in his and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Genya’s cheeks flushed pink with pleasure. Nikolai knew David’s gesture had been learned. The Fabrikator wasn’t given to spontaneous demonstrations of affection, but they made his wife happy, and he loved to see his wife happy. Then David reached out and rubbed a piece of her silky red hair between his fingers. Genya blushed even more deeply.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “Studying something beautiful,” he said without the faintest hint of flattery, as if he truly were trying to find the formula for the woman before him.

  “Stop making moon eyes at each other,” Nikolai said, not meaning a word of it. They deserved to be happy. Lucky bastards.

  A rider appeared on the main drive to tell them the Shu had reached the double-eagle gates, and a plume of dust from the road announced their presence a moment later.

  The Shu carriages were of exquisite make, the black lacquer shimmering green in the sunlight like a beetle’s back, their doors bearing the two crossed keys of the Shu flag emblazoned in gold.

  The Tavgharad rode in processional beside the carriages, their horses as black as their uniforms and their caps set at a sharp angle on their heads. On these very steps, their sisters had died mere weeks before. By order of their queen. And Nikolai knew that these women would set themselves alight just as fast should Makhi command it.

  The lead coach rolled to a stop and Queen Makhi emerged. She was tall and lean, and though there was some resemblance to Princess Ehri, Makhi looked like an artist’s illustration of a queen come to life—her toffee-brown eyes luminous, bronze skin without flaw, black hair falling
in lustrous waves to her waist. She wore silks of leaf green, a pattern of silver falcons taking flight from the hem, and a crown of massive green stones that would have put the Lantsov emerald to shame. She was quickly flanked by two ministers in dark green.

  The Taban queens didn’t take husbands but had multiple male consorts, so no man could claim any child as his nor make any bid for the throne. Makhi would never wed, but her sisters would. For alliance.

  Nikolai bowed deeply. “Queen Makhi, we welcome you to the Grand Palace and hope you will find it to your liking.”

  The queen glanced around, the faintest sneer on her lips. This was her first opportunity to insult his country.

  “The celestial throne of the Shu and wearer of the Taban crown greets you. We are most grateful for your hospitality.” At least they were beginning well.

  Nikolai offered her his arm. “It would be my honor to escort you to the royal chapel. Or perhaps your party would like a chance to rest themselves and have some refreshment?”

  The queen glanced at her ministers, who remained stone-faced. She gave a brief sigh and slid her hand into the crook of Nikolai’s elbow. “Best this distasteful business was done quickly.”

  Nikolai led her down the path, and in a great wave of velvet, silk, and sparkling gems, their party processed toward the royal chapel, which lay almost exactly halfway between the Grand Palace and the Little Palace.

  “The chapel is said to have been built on the site of Ravka’s first altar,” said Nikolai. “Where the first Lantsov king was crowned.”

  “Fascinating,” she said, then added beneath her breath, “Are these niceties strictly necessary?”

  “No, but I find they help ease the way when meeting with a woman who tried to engineer my death and the overthrow of my rule.”

  Makhi’s hand tensed slightly against his arm. “Where is my sister? I would speak to her before the ceremony.”

  No doubt, but there would be none of that. Nikolai ignored her.

  The chapel had been carefully restored after the Darkling’s attack, and Fabrikator craft had ensured that its dark beams and golden dome had been made even lovelier than what had come before. The whole place smelled of wood polish and sweet incense. Its pews were packed with guests in their finest: Ravkan nobility in fashionably cut coats and gowns, Grisha in their jewel-hued kefta.

  “Who will perform this travesty of a ceremony?” Makhi asked, peering down the aisle at the gilded altarpiece of thirteen Saints. “I hear your priest is occupied elsewhere. To imagine my sister will marry a bastard.”

  It seemed Makhi’s supply of civility was expended. “I didn’t think the Taban queens gave much care to whether a child was born out of wedlock.”

  Makhi’s brown eyes flashed. “Did you read that in a book? Marriage is a pretense. But bloodline is everything.”

  “Thank you for explaining the distinction. Vladim Ozwal will perform the ceremony.”

  The young priest already stood at the altar, wearing a long brown cassock emblazoned with a golden sun. He was one of the Soldat Sol who had abandoned their service to the Apparat to follow Alina Starkov. He had fought beside the Sun Saint on the Fold and had received her powers, and if Zoya’s story was true, he bore the handprint of the Sun Summoner as a brand upon his chest. When the Apparat had slithered off to Fjerda, Ravka’s priests had scrambled to appoint a new head of the church who would serve as spiritual counselor to the king. There had been older, more experienced candidates, many of whom were little more than the Apparat’s cronies. But in the end, the new guard had won out and Ozwal had been chosen. Apparently, it was hard to argue with a man who bore the fingerprints of the Sun Summoner seared into his own flesh.

  “I can barely see,” said Queen Makhi. “We should be at the front of the chapel.”

  “Not just yet,” said Nikolai. “Ravkan tradition.”

  Adrik and Nadia rose and faced the guests, side by side in their blue kefta, their cuffs embroidered in Squaller silver, Adrik’s bronze arm polished to a high shine. They began to sing in close harmony. It was an old Ravkan folk song about the first firebird and the sorcerer who had tried to capture her.

  David and Genya had already begun their slow walk down the aisle. Genya had chosen an extraordinarily long train.

  “Who are these people?” Makhi asked. “Where is my sister?”

  “They are two members of the Grisha Triumvirate, David Kostyk and Genya Safin.”

  “I know who they are. What are they doing here? I will march to the front of this chapel and stop this whole proceeding if—”

  Nikolai rested a hand on Makhi’s silk sleeve, then removed it at her glare.

  “Do not think to lay a hand on this, the most holy body of Queen Makhi Kir-Taban.”

  “My apologies. Truly. But I do think it would be best not to make a scene.”

  “Do you think I care about creating a spectacle?”

  “No, but you should. I don’t think you want all these people to know where your sister is.”

  Makhi tilted her head back, looking down her nose at Nikolai. He felt less victorious than wary. This queen was ruthless and brilliant and very dangerous when cornered. But corner her he must.

  “David and Genya were wed with little pomp on a rather hasty trip to Ketterdam,” Nikolai said. “They never had a chance to exchange their vows in Ravka.”

  But they were speaking them now.

  “Here, witnessed by our Saints and our friends,” Genya said, “I speak words of both love and duty. It is not a chore but an honor to swear faith to you, to promise love to you, to offer my hand and my heart to you in this life and the next.” They were the traditional Ravkan words, spoken at the weddings of nobleman and peasant alike.

  The Grisha vows were very different.

  “We are soldiers,” David recited, low and shaky. He was unused to speaking in front of a crowd. “I will march with you in times of war. I will rest with you in times of peace. I will forever be the weapon in your hand, the fighter at your side, the friend who awaits your return.” His voice grew stronger and louder with every word. “I have seen your face in the making at the heart of the world and there is no one more beloved, Genya Safin, brave and unbreakable.” The vow rang through the chapel. Genya’s face was shining, as if those words had kindled some secret light.

  Tolya, towering over the bride and groom, set a thorn-wood crown upon David’s head and then one upon Genya’s, as Vladim said the blessings. Nikolai would have liked to be a part of the ceremony, to stand with his friends in this moment of happiness when there was so much uncertainty before them. But this wedding had been constructed for the benefit of Queen Makhi, and there was no way he was leaving her side.

  “You will answer my questions,” Makhi hissed. “We were brought here for your wedding to my accursed sister.”

  “I don’t recall the invitation saying any such thing.”

  Queen Makhi’s cheeks were red with indignation. “A royal wedding. It said a royal wedding.”

  “And here we are in the royal chapel.”

  “Where is Princess Ehri? Is she imprisoned? Has the wedding already taken place?”

  “Now what good would a quiet ceremony do me? And who would marvel at my glorious new suit?”

  “Where is my sister?” she whispered furiously.

  Vladim was finishing the ceremony. David leaned forward to kiss Genya. He smiled, taking that same auburn strand of hair between his fingers. The guests burst into applause.

  Now it was Nikolai’s turn to speak.

  “She is home, Your Highness. In Ahmrat Jen. In Shu Han.”

  Makhi blinked slowly. “Home,” she repeated. “In Shu Han.”

  “Yes,” said Nikolai. “She and a regiment of Grisha guards and First Army soldiers departed via airship two days ago along with Tamar Kir-Bataar.”

  “Tamar Kir-Bataar is a mongrel and a traitor.”

  “Mongrels and bastards make fine companions. She is also one of my most trusted advisers and f
riends, so I will respectfully ask you to watch your tongue. Princess Ehri will have landed and spoken to your other ministers by now.”

  “My … my ministers? Are you mad?”

  “She will tell them of the plot you hatched to assassinate me and have her killed for the sake of invading Ravka and starting a war with Fjerda—a war your subjects would never want without good reason, like the slaying of Princess Ehri Kir-Taban, beloved of the people. It must be galling to know how much your younger sister is adored.”

  Makhi laughed, and Nikolai had to admire her poise. “You expect Ehri to make this case? Shy, retiring, sweet-natured Ehri? She will crumple under questioning. She is no politician, no ruler, and there is no way she can persuade—”

  “She is in the company of Mayu Kir-Kaat.”

  Queen Makhi was too practiced a politician to show her distress. Her eyes widened only slightly.

  “Yes,” said Nikolai. “Your assassin lives. Mayu Kir-Kaat will corroborate Ehri’s story and explain the instructions you sent to your Tavgharad.”

  “It was a line of poetry.”

  “Even if your ministers do not know their verses, I imagine your court is full of learned men and women who will understand its meaning, just as your guards did, just as Mayu did.”

  Makhi sniffed. “Let them make their case. Let them shout it to the heavens. I am the queen, and that cannot be changed or altered. Only a Taban queen can name a Taban queen.”

  Nikolai almost felt bad for the blow he was about to deal. But this was for Ravka. And for Isaak too.

  “Very true. But I believe your grandmother still lives, tending to her rosebushes at the Palace of the Thousand Stars. I’ve always wanted to see it for myself. She is still very much a Taban queen and can take her crown back with a single command.”

  A second loud cheer went up from the crowd, and David and Genya began their trip down the aisle in a shower of quince blossoms, Tolya trailing behind them with a huge grin on his face and Genya’s train in his hands.