Shadow and Bone (Grisha Trilogy)

by Leigh Bardugo

  I undressed, hung my uniform neatly on a peg behind the star-speckled screen, and placed my shiny new boots beneath it. I rubbed the brushed wool of the coat between my fingers, hoping to find some sense of familiarity, but the fabric felt wrong, too stiff, too new. I suddenly missed my dirty old coat.

  I changed into a nightdress of soft white cotton and rinsed my face. As I patted it dry, I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass above the basin. Maybe it was the lamplight, but I thought I looked even better than when Genya had first finished her work on me. After a moment, I realized I was just gawking at myself in the mirror and had to smile. For a girl who hated looking at herself, I was at risk of becoming vain.

  I climbed onto the high bed, slid beneath the heavy silks and furs, and blew out the lamp. Distantly, I heard a door closing, voices calling their goodnights, the sounds of the Little Palace going to sleep. I stared into the darkness. I’d never had a room to myself before. In Keramzin, I’d slept in an old portrait hall that had been converted into a dormitory, surrounded by countless other girls. In the army, I’d slept in the barracks or tents with the other Surveyors. My new room felt huge and empty. In the silence, all the events of the day rushed in on me, and tears pricked my eyes.

  Maybe I would wake tomorrow and find that it had all been a dream, that Alexei was still alive and Mal was unhurt, that no one had tried to kill me, that I’d never met the King and Queen or seen the Apparat, or felt the Darkling’s hand on the nape of my neck. Maybe I would wake to smell the campfires burning, safe in my own clothes, on my little cot, and I could tell Mal all about this strange and terrifying, but very beautiful, dream.

  I rubbed my thumb over the scar in my palm and heard Mal’s voice saying, “We’ll be okay, Alina. We always are.”

  “I hope so, Mal,” I whispered into my pillow and let my tears carry me to sleep.

  CHAPTER 8

  AFTER A RESTLESS NIGHT, I woke early and couldn’t get back to sleep. I’d forgotten to close the curtains when I went to bed, and sunlight was streaming through the windows. I thought about getting up to close them and trying to go back to sleep, but I just didn’t have the energy. I wasn’t sure if it was worry and fear that had kept me tossing and turning, or the unfamiliar luxury of sleeping in a real bed after so many months spent on wobbly canvas cots or with nothing but a bedroll between me and the hard ground.

  I stretched and reached out to run a finger over the intricately carved birds and flowers on the bedpost. High above me, the canopy of the bed opened to reveal a ceiling painted in bold colors, an elaborate pattern of leaves and flowers and birds in flight. As I was staring up at it, counting the leaves of a juniper wreath and beginning to doze off again, a soft knock came at the door. I threw off the heavy covers and slid my feet into the little fur-lined slippers set out by the bed.

  When I opened the door, a servant was waiting with a stack of clothing, a pair of boots, and a dark blue kefta draped over her arm. I barely had time to thank her before she bobbed a curtsy and disappeared.

  I closed the door and set the boots and clothing down on the bed. The new kefta I hung carefully over the dressing screen.

  For a while, I just looked at it. I’d spent my life in clothes passed down from older orphans, and then in the standard-issue uniform of the First Army. I’d certainly never had anything made for me. And I’d never dreamed that I would wear a Grisha’s kefta.

  I washed my face and combed my hair. I wasn’t sure when Genya would be arriving, so I didn’t know if I had time for a bath. I was desperate for a glass of tea, but I didn’t have the courage to ring for a servant. Finally, there was nothing left for me to do.

  I started with the pile of clothes on the bed: close-fitting breeches of a fabric I’d never encountered that seemed to fit and move like a second skin, a long blouse of thin cotton that tied with a dark blue sash, and boots. But to call them boots didn’t seem right. I’d owned boots. These were something else entirely, made of the softest black leather and fitted perfectly to my calves. They were strange clothes, similar to what peasant men and farmers wore. But the fabrics were finer and more expensive than any peasant could ever hope to afford.

  When I was dressed, I eyed the kefta. Was I really going to put that on? Was I really going to be a Grisha? It didn’t seem possible.

  It’s just a coat, I chided myself.

  I took a deep breath, pulled the kefta off the screen, and slipped it on. It was lighter than it looked, and like the other clothes, it fit perfectly. I fastened the little hidden buttons in the front and stepped back to try to look at myself in the mirror above the basin. The kefta was deepest midnight blue and fell nearly to my feet. The sleeves were wide, and though it was a lot like a coat, it was so elegant I felt as if I were wearing a gown. Then I noticed the embroidery at the cuffs. Like all Grisha, the Etherealki indicated their designation within their order by color of embroidery: pale blue for Tidemakers, red for Inferni, and silver for Squallers. My cuffs were embroidered in gold. I ran my finger over the gleaming threads, feeling a sharp twinge of anxiety, and nearly jumped when a knock sounded at the door.

  “Very nice,” said Genya when I opened the door. “But you would have looked better in black.”

  I did the graceful thing and stuck my tongue out at her, then hurried to follow as she swept down the hallway and descended the stairs. Genya led me to the same domed room where we had gathered the previous afternoon for the processional. It wasn’t nearly as crowded today, but there was still a lively buzz of conversation. In the corners, Grisha clustered around samovars and lounged on divans, warming themselves by elaborately tiled ovens. Others breakfasted at the four long tables arranged in a square at the room’s center. Again, a hush seemed to fall as we entered, but this time people at least pretended to carry on their conversations as we passed.

  Two girls in Summoners’ robes swooped down on us. I recognized Marie from her argument with Sergei before the processional.

  “Alina!” she said. “We weren’t properly introduced yesterday. I’m Marie, and this is Nadia.” She gestured to the apple-cheeked girl beside her, who smiled toothily at me. Marie looped her arm through mine, deliberately turning her back on Genya. “Come sit with us!”

  I frowned and opened my mouth to protest, but Genya simply shook her head and said, “Go on. You belong with the Etherealki. I’ll fetch you after breakfast to give you a tour.”

  “We can show her around—” began Marie.

  But Genya cut her off. “To give you a tour as the Darkling requested.”

  Marie flushed. “What are you, her maid?”

  “Something like that,” Genya said, and walked off to pour herself a glass of tea.

  “Far above herself,” said Nadia with a little sniff.

  “Worse every day,” Marie agreed. Then she turned to me and beamed. “You must be starving!”

  She led me to one of the long tables, and as we approached, two servants stepped forward to pull out chairs for us.

  “We sit here, at the right hand of the Darkling,” said Marie, pride in her voice, gesturing down the length of the table where more Grisha in blue kefta sat. “The Corporalki sit there,” she said with a disdainful glance at the table opposite ours, where a glowering Sergei and a few other red-robed figures were eating breakfast.

  It occurred to me that if we were at the right hand of the Darkling, the Corporalki were just as close to him on the left, but I didn’t mention that.

  The Darkling’s table was empty, the only sign of his presence a large ebony chair. When I asked if he would be eating breakfast with us, Nadia shook her head vigorously.

  “Oh no! He hardly ever dines with us,” she said.

  I raised my eyebrows. All this fuss about who sat nearest the Darkling, and he couldn’t be bothered to show up?

  Plates of rye bread and pickled herring were placed in front of us, and I had to stifle a gag. I hate herring. Luckily, there was plenty of bread and, I saw with astonishment, sliced plums that must ha
ve come from a hothouse. A servant brought us hot tea from one of the large samovars.

  “Sugar!” I exclaimed as he set a little bowl before me.

  Marie and Nadia exchanged a glance and I blushed. Sugar had been rationed in Ravka for the last hundred years, but apparently it wasn’t a novelty in the Little Palace.

  Another group of Summoners joined us and, after brief introductions, began peppering me with questions.

  Where was I from? The North. (Mal and I never lied about where we were from. We just didn’t tell the whole truth.)

  Was I really a mapmaker? Yes.

  Had I really been attacked by Fjerdans? Yes.

  How many volcra had I killed? None.

  They all seemed disappointed by this last answer, particularly the boys.

  “But I heard you killed hundreds of them when the skiff was attacked!” protested a boy named Ivo with the sleek features of a mink.

  “Well, I didn’t,” I said, and then considered. “At least, I don’t think I did. I … um … kind of fainted.”

  “You fainted?” Ivo looked appalled.

  I was exceedingly grateful when I felt a tap on my shoulder and saw that Genya had come to my rescue.

  “Shall we?” she asked, ignoring the others.

  I mumbled my goodbyes and quickly escaped, conscious of their stares following us across the room.

  “How was breakfast?” Genya asked.

  “Awful.”

  Genya made a disgusted sound. “Herring and rye?”

  I’d been thinking more about the interrogation, but I just nodded.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Vile.”

  I eyed her suspiciously. “What did you eat?”

  Genya looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was within earshot and whispered, “One of the cooks has a daughter with terrible spots. I took care of them for her, and now she sends me the same pastries they prepare for the Grand Palace every morning. They’re divine.”

  I smiled and shook my head. The other Grisha might look down on Genya, but she had her own kind of power and influence.

  “But don’t say anything about it,” Genya added. “The Darkling is very keen on the idea that we all eat hearty peasant fare. Saints forbid we forget we’re real Ravkans.”

  I restrained a snort. The Little Palace was a storybook version of serf life, no more like the real Ravka than the glitter and gilt of the royal court. The Grisha seemed obsessed with emulating serf ways, right down to the clothes we wore beneath our kefta. But there was something a little silly about eating “hearty peasant fare” off porcelain plates, beneath a dome inlaid with real gold. And what peasant wouldn’t pick pastry over pickled fish?

  “I won’t say a word,” I promised.

  “Good! If you’re very nice to me, I might even share,” Genya said with a wink. “Now, these doors lead to the library and the workrooms.” She gestured to a massive set of double doors in front of us. “That way to get back to your room,” she said, pointing to the right. “And that way to the Grand Palace,” she said, pointing to the double doors on the left. Genya started to lead me toward the library.

  “But what about that way?” I asked, nodding to the closed double doors behind the Darkling’s table.

  “If those doors open, pay attention. They lead to the Darkling’s council room and his quarters.”

  When I looked more closely at the heavily carved doors, I could make out the Darkling’s symbol hidden in the tangle of vines and running animals. I tore myself away and hurried after Genya, who was already on her way out of the domed hall.

  I followed her across a corridor to another set of enormous double doors. This pair had been carved to look like the cover of an old book, and when Genya pulled them open, I gasped.

  The library was two stories high, its walls lined from floor to ceiling with books. A balcony ran around the second story, and its dome was made entirely of glass so that the whole room glowed with morning light. A few reading chairs and small tables were set by the walls. At the room’s center, directly beneath the sparkling glass dome, was a round table ringed by a circular bench.

  “You’ll have to come here for history and theory,” Genya said, leading me around the table and across the room. “I finished with all that years ago. So boring.” Then she laughed. “Close your mouth. You look like a trout.”

  I snapped my mouth shut, but that didn’t stop me from looking around in awe. The Duke’s library had seemed so grand to me, but compared to this place it was a hovel. All of Keramzin seemed shabby and faded viewed beside the beauty of the Little Palace, but somehow it made me sad to think of it that way. I wondered what Mal’s eyes would see.

  My steps slowed. Were the Grisha allowed guests? Could Mal come visit me in Os Alta? He had his duties with his regiment, but if he could get leave … The thought filled me with excitement. The Little Palace didn’t seem quite so intimidating when I thought of walking its corridors with my best friend.

  We left the library through another set of double doors and passed into a dark hallway. Genya turned left, but I glanced down the hall to the right and saw two Corporalki emerge from a large set of red-lacquered doors. They gave us unfriendly looks before they disappeared into the shadows.

  “Come on,” Genya whispered, grabbing hold of my arm and pulling me in the opposite direction.

  “Where do those doors lead?” I asked.

  “To the anatomy rooms.”

  A chill rippled through me. The Corporalki. Healers … and Heartrenders. They had to practice somewhere, but I hated to think what that practice might entail. I quickened my steps to catch up with Genya. I didn’t want to get caught by myself anywhere near those red doors.

  At the end of the hallway, we stopped at a set of doors made of light wood, exquisitely carved with birds and blooming flowers. The flowers had yellow diamonds at their centers, and the birds had what looked like amethyst eyes. The door handles were wrought to look like two perfect hands. Genya took hold of one and pushed the door open.

  The Fabrikators’ workshops had been positioned to make the most of the clear eastern light, and the walls were made up almost entirely of windows. The brightly lit rooms reminded me a bit of a Documents Tent, but instead of atlases, stacks of paper, and bottles of ink, the large worktables were laden with bolts of fabric, chunks of glass, thin skeins of gold and steel, and strangely twisted hunks of rock. In one corner, terrariums held exotic flowers, insects, and—I saw with a shudder—snakes.

  The Materialki in their dark purple kefta sat hunched over their work, but looked up to stare their fill at me as we passed. At one table, two female Fabrikators were working a molten lump of what I thought might become Grisha steel, their table scattered with bits of diamond and jars full of silkworms. At another table, a Fabrikator with a cloth tied over his nose and mouth was measuring out a thick black liquid that stank of tar. Genya led me past all of them to where a Fabrikator hunched over a set of tiny glass discs. He was pale, reed-thin, and in dire need of a haircut.

  “Hello, David,” said Genya.

  David looked up, blinked, gave a curt nod, and bent back to his work.

  Genya sighed. “David, this is Alina.”

  David gave a grunt.

  “The Sun Summoner,” Genya added.

  “These are for you,” he said without looking up.

  I looked at the disks. “Oh, um … thank you?”

  I wasn’t sure what else to say, but when I looked at Genya, she just shrugged and rolled her eyes.

  “Goodbye, David,” she said deliberately. David grunted. Genya took my arm and led me outside onto an arched wooden arcade that overlooked a rolling green lawn. “Don’t take it personally,” she said. “David is a great metalworker. He can fold a blade so sharp it will cut through flesh like water. But if you’re not made of metal or glass, he isn’t interested.”

  Genya’s voice was light, but it had a funny little edge to it, and when I glanced at her, I saw that there were bright spots of color
on her perfect cheekbones. I looked back through the windows to where I could still see David’s bony shoulders and messy brown hair. I smiled. If a creature as gorgeous as Genya could fall for a skinny, studious Fabrikator, there might be hope for me yet.

  “What?” she said, noticing my smile.

  “Nothing, nothing.”

  Genya squinted suspiciously at me, but I kept my mouth shut. We followed the arcade along the eastern wall of the Little Palace, past more windows that looked into the Fabrikators’ workshops. Then we turned a corner and the windows stopped. Genya quickened her pace.

  “Why aren’t there any windows?” I asked.

  Genya glanced nervously at the solid walls. They were the only parts of the Little Palace I’d seen that weren’t covered in carvings. “We’re on the other side of the Corporalki anatomy rooms.”

  “Don’t they need light to … do their work?”

  “Skylights,” she said. “In the roof, like the library dome. They prefer it that way. It keeps them and their secrets safe.”

  “But what do they do in there?” I asked, not entirely sure I wanted to hear the answer.

  “Only the Corporalki know. But there are rumors that they’ve been working with the Fabrikators on new … experiments.”

  I shivered and was relieved when we turned another corner and the windows began again. Through them I saw bedrooms like my own, and I realized I was seeing the downstairs dormitories. I was grateful that I’d been given a room on the third floor. I could have done without all those stairs to climb, but now that I had my own room for the first time, I was glad that people couldn’t just walk by my window.

  Genya pointed to the lake I’d seen from my room. “That’s where we’re going,” she said, pointing to the little white structures dotting the shore. “To the Summoners’ pavilions.”

  “All the way out there?”