Siege and Storm gt-2

by Leigh Bardugo

  I took a breath and tried to focus. The hardest part of the meeting was still to come. As much as I just wanted to curl up somewhere quiet and dark, there were things that needed to be addressed.

  I looked around the table and said, “You need to know what we’re up against.”

  The room fell silent. It was as if a bell had rung, as if everything that had come before was mere playacting, and now the real meeting had begun.

  Piece by piece, I laid out what I knew about the nichevo’ya, their strength and size, their near invulnerability to bullet and blade, and most important, the fact that they did not fear sunlight.

  “But you escaped,” Paja said tentatively, “so they must be mortal.”

  “My power can destroy them. It’s the one thing they don’t seem able to recover from. But it isn’t easy. It requires the Cut, and I’m not sure how many I can handle at once.” I didn’t mention the second amplifier. Even with it, I knew I couldn’t withstand the onslaught of a fully formed shadow army, and the fetter was a secret I intended to keep, at least for now. “We only escaped because Prince Nikolai got us outside the Darkling’s range,” I continued. “They seem to need to be close to their master.”

  “How close?” asked Pavel.

  I looked to Mal.

  “Hard to say,” he replied. “A mile. Maybe two.”

  “So there’s some limit to his power,” Fedyor said, with no small amount of relief.

  “Absolutely.” I was glad to be able to relate something that wasn’t completely dire. “He’ll have to enter Ravka with his army to get to us. That means we’ll have warning and that he’ll be vulnerable. He can’t summon them the way he summons darkness. The effort seems to cost him.”

  “Because it’s not Grisha power,” David said. “It’s merzost.”

  In Ravkan, the word for magic and abomination was the same. Basic Grisha theory stated that matter couldn’t just be created from nothing. But that was a tenet of the Small Science. Merzost was different, a corruption of the making at the heart of the world.

  David fiddled with a loose thread at his sleeve. “That energy, that substance has to come from somewhere. It must be coming from him.”

  “But how is he doing it?” asked Zoya. “Has there ever been a Grisha with this kind of power?”

  “The real question is how to fight them,” said Fedyor.

  Talk turned to defense of the Little Palace and the possible advantages of confronting the Darkling in the field. But I was watching David. When Zoya had asked about other Grisha, he’d looked directly at me for the first time since I’d arrived at the Little Palace. Well, not at me exactly, but at my collar. He’d gone right back to staring at the table, but if possible, he seemed even more uncomfortable than before. I wondered what he might know about Morozova. And I wanted an answer to Zoya’s question, too. I didn’t know if I had the training or the nerve to attempt such a thing, but was there a way to summon soldiers of light to fight the Darkling’s shadow army? Was that the power the three amplifiers might give me?

  I meant to try to talk to David alone after the meeting, but as soon as we adjourned, he shot out the door. Any thoughts I had of cornering him in the Materialki workshops that afternoon were squelched by the piles of paper waiting for me in my chambers. I spent hours preparing the Grisha pardon and signing countless documents guaranteeing funds and provisions for the outposts the Second Army hoped to reestablish on Ravka’s borders. Sergei had tried to manage some of the Darkling’s duties, but much of the work had simply gone unattended.

  Everything seemed to be written in the most confusing way possible. I had to read and reread what should have been simple requests. By the time I’d made a small dent in the pile, I was late for dinner—my first meal in the domed hall. I would have preferred to take a tray in my room, but it was important that I assert my presence at the Little Palace. I also wanted to make sure my commands were being followed, and that the Grisha were actually mixing the Orders.

  I sat at the Darkling’s table. In an effort to get to know some of the unfamiliar Grisha and to avoid giving them any excuse to form a new elite, I’d decided that different people would dine with me every night. It was a nice idea, but I had none of Mal’s easy way or Nikolai’s charm. The conversation was stilted and pockmarked with awkward moments of silence.

  The other tables didn’t seem to be faring much better. The Grisha sat side by side in a jumble of red, purple, and blue, barely speaking. The clink of silverware echoed off the cracked dome—the Fabrikators had not yet begun their repairs.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. It was as if I’d asked them to take supper next to a volcra. At least Sergei and Marie seemed content, even if Nadia looked like she wanted to disappear into the butter dish as they cuddled and cooed beside her. I was happy for them, I supposed. And maybe a little jealous, too.

  I made a silent count—forty Grisha, maybe fifty, most of them barely out of school. Some army, I thought with a sigh. My glorious reign was off to a miserable start.

  * * *

  MAL HAD AGREED to join the hunting party, and I rose early the next morning to see him off. I was beginning to realize that we would have less privacy at the Little Palace than we’d had on the road. Between Tolya and Tamar and the constantly hovering servants, I’d started to think we might never get a moment alone.

  I had lain awake the previous night in the Darkling’s bed, remembering the way Mal had kissed me at the dacha, wondering if I might hear his knock at my door. I’d even debated crossing the common room and tapping at the guards’ quarters, but I wasn’t sure who was on duty, and the thought of Tolya or Tamar answering made me prickly with embarrassment. In the end, the fatigue of the day must have made the decision for me, because the next thing I knew, it was morning.

  By the time I reached the double eagle fountain, the path to the palace gates was swarming with people and horses: Vasily and his aristocrat friends in their elaborate riding regalia, First Army officers in their sharp uniforms, and behind them, a legion of servants in white and gold.

  I found Mal checking his saddle near a group of royal trackers. He was easy to pick out in his peasant roughspun. He had a gleaming new bow on his back and a quiver of arrows fletched in the pale blue and gold of the Ravkan king. The formal Ravkan hunt forbade the use of firearms, but I noticed that several of the servants had rifles on their backs, just in case the animals proved to be too much for their noble masters.

  “Quite a show,” I said, coming up beside him. “Just how many people does it take to bring down a few boar?”

  Mal snorted. “This is nothing. Another group of servants left before dawn to set up the camp. Saints forbid a prince of Ravka should be kept waiting on a hot cup of tea.”

  A horn blew and the riders began to fall into place in a clatter of hooves and clanking stirrups. Mal shook his head and gave a firm tug on the cinch. “Those boar had better be deaf,” he grumbled.

  I glanced around at the glittering uniforms and high-polished boots. “Maybe I should have outfitted you in something a little more… shiny.”

  “There’s a reason peacocks aren’t birds of prey,” he said with a grin. It was an easy, open smile, the first I’d seen in a long time.

  He’s happy to be going, I realized. He’s grumbling about it, but he’s glad. I tried not to take it personally.

  “And you’re like a big brown hawk?” I asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “Or an overlarge pigeon?”

  “Let’s stick with hawk.”

  The others were mounting up, turning their horses to join the rest of the party as they headed down the gravel path.

  “Let’s go, Oretsev,” called a tracker with sandy hair.

  I felt suddenly awkward, keenly aware of the people surrounding us, of their inquisitive stares. I had probably breached some kind of protocol by even coming to say goodbye.

  “Well,” I said, patting his horse’s flank, “have fun. Try not to shoot anyone.�
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  “Got it. Wait, don’t shoot anyone?”

  I smiled, but it felt a bit forced.

  We stood there a moment longer, the silence stretching out between us. I wanted to fling my arms around him, bury my face in his neck, and make him promise to be safe. But I didn’t.

  A rueful smile touched his lips. He bowed.

  “Moi soverenyi,” he said. My heart twisted in my chest.

  He climbed into the saddle and kicked his horse forward, disappearing in the sea of riders flowing toward the golden gates.

  I made the walk back to the Little Palace in low spirits.

  It was early, but the day was already growing warm. Tamar was waiting for me when I emerged from the wooded tunnel.

  “He’ll be back soon enough,” she said. “No need to look so glum.”

  “I know,” I replied, feeling foolish. I managed a laugh as we crossed the lawn down to the stables. “At Keramzin, I had a doll I made out of an old sock that I used to talk to whenever he was away hunting. Maybe that would make me feel better.”

  “You were an odd little girl.”

  “You have no idea. What did you and Tolya play with?”

  “The skulls of our enemies.”

  I saw the glint in her eye, and we both burst out laughing.

  Down at the training rooms, Tamar and I met briefly with Botkin, the instructor tasked with preparing Grisha for physical combat. The old mercenary was instantly enchanted with Tamar, and they yammered away at each other in Shu for nearly ten minutes before I managed to raise the issue of training the Fabrikators.

  “Botkin can teach anyone to fight,” he said in his thick accent. The dim light gave the ropy scar at his throat a pearly sheen. “Taught little girl to fight, no?”

  “Yes,” I agreed, wincing at the memory of Botkin’s grueling drills and the beatings I’d taken at his hands.

  “But little girl is not so little anymore,” he said taking in the gold of my kefta. “You come back to train with Botkin. I hit big girl same as little girl.”

  “That’s very egalitarian of you,” I said, and hurried Tamar out of the stables before Botkin decided to show me just how fair-minded he could be.

  I went straight from the stables to another war council meeting, then I just had time to tidy my hair and brush off my kefta before heading back to the Grand Palace to join Nikolai as the King’s advisers briefed him on Os Alta’s defenses.

  I felt a bit like we were children who had intruded on the adults. The advisers made it clear that they felt we were wasting their time. But Nikolai seemed unfazed. He asked careful questions about armaments, the number of troops stationed around the city walls, the warning system that was in place in case of attack. Soon the advisers had lost their condescending air and were conversing with him in earnest, asking about the weaponry he’d brought with him from across the Fold and how it might be best deployed.

  He had me give a short description of the nichevo’ya to help make the case for arming the Grisha with new weapons as well. The advisers were still deeply suspicious of the Second Army, but on the walk back to the Little Palace, Nikolai seemed unconcerned.

  “They’ll come around in time,” he said. “That’s why you need to be there, to reassure them and to help them understand that the Darkling isn’t like other enemies.”

  “You think they don’t know that?” I asked incredulously.

  “They don’t want to know it. If they can maintain the belief that the Darkling can be bargained with or brought to heel, then they don’t have to face the reality of the situation.”

  “I can’t say I blame them,” I said gloomily. It was all well and good to talk about troops and walls and warnings, but I doubted it would make much difference against the Darkling’s shadow soldiers.

  When we emerged from the tunnel, Nikolai said, “Walk with me down to the lake?”

  I hesitated.

  “I promise not to drop to one knee and start composing ballads to your beauty. I just want to show you something.”

  My cheeks went red, and Nikolai grinned.

  “You should see if the Corporalki can do something about that blush,” he said, and strolled off around the side of the Little Palace to the lake.

  I was tempted to follow just for the pleasure of pushing him in. Although… could the Corporalki fix my blushing? I shook the ridiculous thought from my head. The day I asked a Corporalnik to tend to my blushes was the day I’d be laughed out of the Little Palace.

  Nikolai had stopped on the gravel path, halfway down to the lake, and I joined him there. He pointed to a strip of beach on the far shore, a short distance from the school. “I want to construct a pier there,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “So I can rebuild the Hummingbird.”

  “You really can’t keep still, can you? Don’t you have enough on your plate?”

  He squinted out at the glittering surface of the lake. “Alina, I’m hoping we can find a way to defeat the Darkling. But if we can’t, we need a way to get you out.”

  I stared at him. “What about the rest of the Grisha?”

  “There’s nothing I can do for them.”

  I couldn’t quite believe what he was suggesting. “I’m not going to run.”

  “I had a feeling you’d say that,” he said with a sigh.

  “And you?” I said angrily. “Are you just going to fly away and leave the rest of us to face the Darkling?”

  “Come now,” he said. “You know I’ve always wanted a hero’s funeral.” He looked back at the lake. “I’m happy to go down fighting, but I don’t want my parents left to the Darkling’s mercy. Will you give me two Squallers to train?”

  “They’re not gifts, Nikolai,” I said, thinking of the way the Darkling had made a present of Genya to the Queen. “But I’ll ask for volunteers. Just don’t tell them what it’s for. I don’t want the others to get discouraged.” Or start vying for places aboard the craft. “And one more thing,” I said. “I want you to make room for Baghra. She shouldn’t have to face the Darkling again. She’s been through enough.”

  “Of course,” he said, then added, “I still believe we can win, Alina.”

  I’m glad someone does, I thought dismally, and turned to go inside.

  CHAPTER 16

  DAVID HAD MANAGED to slip away again after the last council meeting, and it was late the following evening before I had a free moment to corner him in the Fabrikator workrooms. I found him hunched over a pile of blueprints, his fingers stained with ink.

  I settled myself on a stool beside him and cleared my throat. He looked up, blinking owlishly. He was so pale I could see the blue tracery of veins through his skin, and someone had given him a very bad haircut.

  Probably did it himself, I thought with an inward shake of my head. It was hard to believe that this was the boy Genya had fallen so hard for.

  His eyes flicked to the collar at my neck. He began to fidget with the items on his worktable, moving them around and arranging them in careful lines: a compass, graphite pencils, pens and pots of ink in different colors, pieces of clear and mirrored glass, a hard-boiled egg that I assumed was his dinner, and page after page of drawings and plans that I couldn’t begin to make sense of.

  “What are you working on?” I asked.

  He blinked again. “Dishes.”

  “Ah.”

  “Reflective bowls,” he said. “Based on a parabola.”

  “How… interesting?” I managed.

  He scratched his nose, leaving a giant blue smudge along the ridge. “It might be a way to magnify your power.”

  “Like the mirrors in my gloves?” I’d asked that the Durasts remake them. With the power of two amplifiers, I probably didn’t need them. But the mirrors allowed me to focus and pinpoint light, and there was something comforting in the control they gave me.

  “Sort of,” said David. “If I get it right, it will be a much bigger way to use the Cut.”

  “And if you get it wrong?”
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  “Either nothing will happen, or whoever’s operating it will be blown to bits.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  “I thought so too,” he said without a hint of humor, and bent back to his work.

  “David,” I said. He looked up, startled, as if he’d completely forgotten I was there. “I need to ask you something.”

  His gaze darted to the collar again, then back to his worktable.

  “What can you tell me about Ilya Morozova?”

  David twitched, glancing around the nearly empty room. Most of the Fabrikators were still at dinner. He was clearly nervous, maybe even frightened.

  He looked at the table, picked up his compass, put it down.

  Finally, he whispered, “They called him the Bonesmith.”

  A quiver passed through me. I thought of the fingers and vertebrae lying on the peddlers’ tables in Kribirsk. “Why?” I asked. “Because of the amplifiers he discovered?”

  David looked up, surprised. “He didn’t find them. He made them.”

  I didn’t want to believe what I was hearing. “Merzost?”

  He nodded. So that was why David had looked at Morozova’s collar when Zoya asked if any Grisha had ever had such power. Morozova had been playing with the same forces as the Darkling. Magic. Abomination.

  “How?” I asked.

  “No one knows,” David said, glancing over his shoulder again. “After the Black Heretic was killed in the accident that created the Fold, his son came out of hiding to take control of the Second Army. He had all of Morozova’s journals destroyed.”

  His son? Again, I was faced with the knowledge of how few people knew the Darkling’s secret. The Black Heretic had never died—there had only ever been one Darkling, a single powerful Grisha who had ruled the Second Army for generations, hiding his true identity. As far as I knew, he’d never had a son. And there was no way he would destroy something as valuable as Morozova’s journals. Aboard the whaler, he’d said not all the books prohibited the combination of amplifiers. Maybe he’d been referring to Morozova’s own writings.