Rule of Wolves

by Leigh Bardugo

She shrouded them both in mist as they approached Leviathan, but absolute chaos had erupted aboard the base and there was plenty of cover. She saw rafts and boats arriving and departing in swarms as officers, soldiers, and medical personnel traveled to and from the mainland. The battle had come to a standstill for now; Zoya knew that didn’t mean peace.

  Saying goodbye to Nina again wasn’t easy, but Zoya wasn’t going to stand in the way of her decision. If she really believed she could resume her cover as Mila Jandersdat, then she could still be a valuable asset and feed vital information to Ravka. But there was more. Zoya sensed the pull of Nina’s longing toward … someone vibrant, bright as a new sun, warm and coppery. The girl couldn’t stay away from Fjerdans, it seemed. Zoya wondered if she should warn her against falling in love, against the danger it could put her in undercover. But it was foolish to think she could contain Nina Zenik’s heart.

  “I have to warn you,” said Nina as they set down near one of the piers. “Tell the king we can’t rely on Prince Rasmus. Hanne still has hope for him, but he’s not who we thought he was. Not at all.”

  One less ally. The prince had let his country’s hatred choose his road.

  I’ll create a distraction so you can rejoin the soldiers on base without notice.

  Nina grinned. “That shouldn’t be much of a challenge.”

  Zoya bumped Nina with her snout. It was a gesture more intimate than she ever would have been tempted to make in her human body. Stay as safe as you can.

  Nina set a hand on Zoya’s scales. She rested her cheek briefly against Zoya’s head. “Thank you,” she whispered, and then she was vanishing up a ramp and into the bustle of the base.

  Zoya wondered if she would ever see Nina Zenik again.

  She set out over the waves, then whirled back around, exploding through the mist as she arced over the naval base. She heard screams from below, felt the Fjerdans’ terror like an icy wave, and reveled in it. Fear was a language universally understood. She drew in a breath and released a crackling burst of lightning, then banked to the left and headed back to the mainland, her wings spread wide, feeling the salt spray against her belly, as she coasted low over the water. She could still sense Nina’s powerful heart, the steady beat of her courage.

  When you are tied to all things, there is no limit to what you may know.

  And apparently to what she would have to feel. All this emotion was exhausting. She was Zoya and she was the knight known as Juris and she was the dragon he had once slain.

  She circled the battlefield, noted the Fjerdans in retreat. It was hard to see so many bodies on the ground, feel the grief emanating from soldiers as they tended to their wounded and mourned their dead. But she could find no sign of the Starless Saint or his followers. The Darkling had been the first to kneel, though she had no illusions that he’d suddenly come around to their side. He wasn’t done, and yet she couldn’t guess his intent. His presence on the battlefield had been like a gap in all that life and fear, a deep well of eternity.

  Zoya turned toward the village of Pachesyana, where the Ravkan forces had set up their headquarters. The soldiers’ camp came into view and then the royal command tent. She knew she needed to focus to manage a landing in this small space, but she was more tired than she’d realized. She’d done too much, too fast. She could feel her control over the dragon’s shape slipping, and then she wasn’t flying, she was falling.

  A gust of air caught her, buffering her descent. When she struck the earth, the impact was gentle, but it still came as a surprise, knocking the breath out of her. Some part of her wanted to just give in to her fatigue and slide into unconsciousness.

  She felt arms encircle her and lift her head.

  “Zoya?” Nikolai’s voice. The voice of a king. The voice of a brilliant, creative boy, left alone with his books and inventions, forever roaming an empty palace. His hurt and worry washed over her. “Please,” he whispered. “Please.”

  The dragon’s mind receded, leaving her mind blessedly empty of any thoughts but her own. Zoya forced herself to open her eyes. Nikolai’s lip was bloodied. There was soot in his hair. But he was alive and for this brief moment, he was holding her. She wanted to curl into him and let herself cry. She wanted to lie beside him and just feel safe for an hour. She had so much to say to him and she didn’t want to wait.

  Zoya made herself sit up. “The Fjerdans?”

  “Careful,” he said, still helping to support her. “Nadia broke your fall, thank the Saints, but you hit the ground hard.”

  “The Fjerdans,” she repeated. “They retreated?”

  “We’ve called a truce.”

  Zoya saw Tolya with his big brow furrowed, Tamar biting her lip, Nadia with her goggles around her neck, Leoni holding tight to Adrik’s arm, Genya with a hand pressed to her mouth. Relief flooded through her and she wanted to pull them all close. Instead she said, “We’ll get no help from Fjerda’s crown prince. Nina seems to have overestimated her influence.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Tamar mused. “An entire battlefield just declared you a Saint.”

  “Actually, the Darkling declared you a Saint,” Nikolai corrected.

  “Turning into a dragon probably helped,” added Tolya.

  “Did you know you could do this?” Genya asked. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

  Zoya shook her head. She felt impossibly cold, as if now that the dragon’s fire had banked inside her, she would never be warm until it was kindled again.

  “There were khergud on the battlefield,” she said, remembering. They’d flown beside Nikolai’s demon.

  “It’s all right,” Tolya said, squatting down. “They fought on our side. But they had to disappear for a while. They couldn’t risk questions.”

  “They don’t exist,” said Tamar. “At least according to the Shu queen.”

  “You’re back,” Zoya said.

  Tamar winked. “You think I’d miss a fight?” She offered Zoya her hand and helped her to her feet.

  Nikolai’s eyes widened. “You are wearing the most extraordinary armor.”

  Zoya looked down at herself. Her roughspun peasant clothes were gone. Her body was covered in a snug tunic and breeches made of metallic black scales that shimmered blue in the sun. She recognized this armor. It was what Juris had worn in human form, and it fit like a second skin. Her vanity didn’t mind the effect, but she’d bloody well better be able to take it off.

  Leoni cocked her head to one side. “Is it comfortable?”

  “It’s heavy,” Zoya said, offering up her arm so the Fabrikator could feel the metal.

  “It will make quite the impression in Os Kervo,” said Nikolai. “Fjerda has called for talks.”

  “Vadik Demidov is in Os Kervo too,” said Tolya. “The Fjerdans are in retreat for now, but they’ve switched tactics.”

  Tamar grunted in disgust. “They couldn’t beat us on the field, so they’re pushing the issue of succession. They’ve called for an assembly of Ravka’s highest-ranking nobles.”

  Zoya couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Our nobles? They have no right to command our people.”

  “We can stop them,” said Genya. “We’ll block the assembly.”

  Nikolai tugged on a pair of calf-leather gloves. In the time since the battle, he’d changed into an immaculate field uniform. “On the contrary,” he said. “I’ve ordered airships sent for them. They’ll be here in a few hours.”

  “For Saints’ sake, why?” asked Zoya. If the man could make something more difficult, he would.

  “Because the longer we give them to plot and scheme, the worse it will be. Right now, West Ravka is grateful to us and angry with Fjerda for their betrayal. Genya, I’ll need you to see to my cut-up lip and make me look less the rogue and more the respectable monarch. Bastard or not, if I have any hope of keeping the throne, this is it.”

  An uncomfortable silence followed.

  Tamar broke it with a click of her tongue. “Bastardy is the least of y
our worries.”

  “They know what you are now,” said Zoya. She left for a few days and everything went to hell. He’d released his monster onto the field. He’d shown all of Ravka the demon king.

  “True,” said Nikolai. “But they know what you are too, Sankta Zoya.”

  “Do not call me that.”

  “It has a nice ring to it,” said Tamar.

  “Our Lady of Dragonfire?” suggested Nadia.

  “Sweet scaly vengeance?” said Genya.

  Zoya turned her back on all of them and strode toward the tents. “I’m going to go live in a cave.”

  44

  NINA

  WITH EACH STEP NINA took on the naval base, she wondered if she’d hear a voice telling her to halt. She flinched at every shout, sure she was about to feel the sting of a drüskelle whip around her arms or that a squad of the Apparat’s men would rush at her.

  But the Fjerdans only had eyes for the dragon soaring above them.

  “It’s back!” someone shouted. “Take cover!”

  Nina had to remind herself to duck down and find shelter behind a grounded flyer. “What is that thing?” she asked the pilot staring up at the sky.

  “I don’t know,” he said, voice shaking. “I saw it before. It destroyed the eastern tower and then just flew away.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t hungry then,” Nina offered helpfully.

  The pilot whimpered and curled more tightly to the side of the flyer.

  She made her way back to the Brums’ cabin slowly, taking in the tumult around her, and giving herself time to concoct a story. The naval base had moved north to join in supporting the battle at Arkesk. Now Fjerdan medical units were being deployed to attend to soldiers and to bring bodies back from the front. Nina could sense the change that had come over these men. They had entered one battle but had been forced to fight another. Even those who had considered the possibility of defeat hadn’t thought it would come this way—courtesy of a dragon and a squadron of flying Shu warriors. No one could have imagined Fjerdan soldiers kneeling before a Grisha. If Nina’s thoughts still felt like a slippery plate of dumplings, she couldn’t begin to guess at what the people around her must feel.

  Assuming no one had gotten a clear view of her during the battle, she only had to account for where she’d been over the last few hours. She would say that she’d needed time to recover from what she’d seen during the sea invasion, that she’d been more disturbed by it than she’d realized, and that once the base had joined the northern assault, she’d simply tried to stay out of the way.

  And if the Apparat had managed to survive and attempted to expose her? She didn’t know what proof the priest might have of her true identity, but she doubted it would matter. The Fjerdans would throw her in a cell and ask questions later. Nina was not going to let that happen. The Apparat’s men had taken the bones from her sleeves. That might have left her vulnerable, but there was death all around, corpses on shore and on base, all of whom could become her soldiers. She just needed to find Hanne and get them both out of here.

  But the Brums’ quarters were empty. There was no sign of Ylva or Hanne to be found.

  Nina changed out of her soaked clothes and into the rose wool dress she’d worn the previous day. She rebraided her hair and headed out onto the deck. Could Hanne still be with the prince in the western tower?

  She was only a few yards from the command center when she heard a woman sobbing. It sounded like Hanne. Nina broke into a run and saw a group of soldiers gathered around someone or something. Jarl Brum stood off to the side, arguing with a group of royal guards. He had dirt on his face, the muck and blood of battle staining his uniform. She pushed through the circle of soldiers and sailors, fighting to get closer, and then stopped dead.

  It wasn’t Hanne crying. It was Ylva. Sobbing over her daughter’s broken body.

  Nina’s mind tilted, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. That wasn’t right. It couldn’t be.

  Hanne lay on her stomach in a pool of blood, her body bent at an impossible angle, her face turned to the side. Her profile looked wrong, her rosy freckles, her full lips. Nina fell to her knees, reaching for her. Hanne’s blood had soaked Ylva’s skirt. Her body was cold.

  “The prince,” Ylva cried between sobs. “The prince … said she fell.”

  Nina looked up, up to the western observation tower where Hanne had gone to watch the battle with Prince Rasmus.

  Not Hanne. Not her Hanne. It was happening all over again. She was kneeling in the streets of a foreign city. She had Matthias’ blood on her hands. Was this what her love did? Did it murder everything it touched? Nina wanted to scream and so she did, unable to stop the anguish that tore through her.

  Hanne wouldn’t jump, would she? They’d had hope for the future, hope for escape. But Nina thought of Hanne sitting on the edge of her bed, how lost she’d looked, how scared. If he asks for my hand, I cannot deny him. But Nina … Nina, I can’t say yes. Two nights ago. An eternity away. A moment when Nina had still believed in possibility.

  Maybe I can’t be happy at all, Hanne had said.

  Nina saw Joran watching, his face ashen, stricken by what looked like grief.

  She lurched to her feet and seized him by the fabric of his vile drüskelle jacket. “What happened?” Her voice was shrill, sharp as broken glass. “What happened to her? What did you do to her?”

  “I didn’t see,” he protested, then yanked her close, wrapping his arms around her. “You must be still. You must calm yourself.” But in her ear he whispered, “I don’t know what happened. There was an argument. The prince struck her, only a slap, but then he was taken with some kind of fit. Hanne told me to get help, and when I returned—”

  Nina shoved away from him. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Hanne. Hanne. Hanne. Her name a blessing, an incantation, a curse. The prince had hurt her. Maybe it had just been a game to him, like the one he’d played with Joran, testing his control, a chance to see how far he could push his rivalry with Brum. He was taken with some kind of fit. Hanne had lashed out. She probably hadn’t meant to. She’d been frightened and she’d used her power on the prince.

  And then what? What had happened between them when Joran had left them alone?

  “He did this!” she spat. “Prince Rasmus. Where is he? Hanne didn’t just fall and there’s no way she would jump. Where is he?”

  Jarl Brum was suddenly beside her.

  “Be silent,” he growled. He clapped his big hand over her mouth. His eyes were chips of ice.

  Nina thrashed in his arms, tried to bite his fingers.

  Brum only squeezed tighter, startled by her strength. “You will not say such things.”

  Nina couldn’t breathe. She looked into Brum’s hateful eyes, his pupils like pinpricks, and she knew then what a coward he was. He’d lost control of his drüskelle on the battlefield. The invasion had collapsed. He was desperately hanging on to his position and couldn’t afford any hint of treason. Even with his daughter dead at his feet.

  Nina stopped moving. Slowly, cautiously, Brum released her.

  “You know he did this,” she said plainly. “You know what he is.” And Nina had known too, but she’d let Hanne face him alone. Had Hanne admitted she was Grisha? Had she rejected his proposal? Stung his pride? Or had he simply wanted to hurt Brum and show that he was the one who truly held the power?

  Ylva let loose a broken moan. “I never should have let her go with him. I never should have let her enter Heartwood.”

  Nina knelt and threw her arms around Hanne’s mother. She could feel sobs shaking both of their bodies.

  “I will kill him,” Nina said. “I swear it.”

  “That won’t bring her back.”

  Nina didn’t care. She’d lost too much. She had spared Joran. She had begged Zoya to spare Fjerda’s soldiers. Mercy, mercy, always mercy. But what good was mercy when the world took the best people from it? Matthias gone. Hanne gone.

  Save some mercy for my p
eople.

  Maybe the Fjerdans deserved forgiveness, but their leaders—Brum, this monster prince—did not. She and Hanne had dared to dream of a new world, but they’d put their trust in the wrong people.

  A clarion horn rang out over the deck. The prince was coming.

  “Mila, you must control yourself,” Ylva pleaded. “There may be an explanation.”

  “He killed her, Ylva. I know it and so do you.”

  A hand gripped the back of Nina’s neck hard.

  “You will be silent or I will silence you,” Brum snarled.

  Nina stood, breaking Brum’s hold. The wild hysteria that had gripped her was gone, and only fury remained. She met his gaze and Jarl Brum—commander of the drüskelle, architect of torture, Fjerda’s scythe—took a step back.

  She knew she was at risk of blowing her cover. She knew that Mila—sweet, meek, doting Mila—would never dare look Brum in the eye, would never show him this clean, unclouded glimpse of her rage.

  “You are a coward,” she said, her voice low in her throat. It was an animal growl. She spoke for Matthias, for Joran, for Hanne, for the Grisha, for everyone whose roots had been forced to drink the poison of this man’s hate. “You are the lowest form of man. Without honor, without integrity. Djel djeren je töp.” Djel turns his back on you.

  “Mila!” Ylva gasped.

  Brum’s lips flattened. “You are no longer welcome in our home.”

  Nina laughed. “I don’t keep company with vermin. My place is with the wolves.”

  Brum could see it now, that she was not what she had pretended to be. But the other generals were approaching, the royal ministers.

  “Enke Jandersdat,” Joran said urgently. “Mila, you must listen. The prince has commanded that—”

  But Rasmus’ voice cut past the crowd. “Come, Enke Jandersdat.” He stood surrounded by guards and nobles, waving her over with a lazy flick of his hand. His face was golden, glowing, warm and alive. He finally looked like a Grimjer. It was as if he’d stolen Hanne’s life and swallowed it. “I must travel to Os Kervo for these peace talks, and I would have you beside me. We should be together in our grief.” She heard no remorse in his words. If anything, he sounded even more vicious and amused, as if he once again held the crop in his hand. Rasmus at his worst.