“David,” Genya said, her skin pale beneath her scars. “Is that possible? Could it be getting stronger?”
David brushed his shaggy brown hair back from his eyes. “It shouldn’t be,” he said. “Not after it was dormant for so long. But the power that created the presence inside the king wasn’t ordinary Grisha power. It was merzost.”
“Abomination,” murmured Tolya.
“Are we calling it a presence now?” asked Nikolai. “I preferred ‘monster.’ Or ‘demon.’ Even ‘fiend’ has a nice ring.” The monster is me and I am the monster. And if Nikolai didn’t laugh at it, he was fairly sure he’d go mad.
“We can name it Maribel if it suits you,” Zoya said, pushing away her empty cup. “It doesn’t matter what we call it, only what it can do.”
“It matters if we’re misunderstanding its nature,” said David. “You’ve read Grisha theory, Morozova’s journals. Grisha power cannot create life or animate matter, only manipulate it. Every time those limits are breached, there are repercussions.”
“The Shadow Fold,” said Nikolai. The swath of darkness crawling with monsters had split Ravka in two, until Alina Starkov had destroyed it during the civil war. But the wound remained—a wasteland of dead sand where nothing green took hold, as if the Darkling’s power had leached the very life from the land. Merzost had created the Fold, the creatures inside it, as well as the Darkling’s shadow soldiers—and it was the same power that the Darkling had used to infect Nikolai.
David shrugged. “That power is unpredictable.”
“We don’t know what may happen next,” said Nikolai. “Usually a thrilling proposition, less so when a demon may take over my consciousness and try to rule Ravka by gnawing on my subjects.” How did the words come so easily—even as he contemplated losing his mind and his will? Because they always had. And he needed them. He needed to build a wall of words and wit and reason to keep the beast at bay, to remember who he was.
To rid himself of the monster, Nikolai had allowed himself to be subjected to extreme heat and cold. He had brought in bewildered Sun Summoners to use their power on him with no discernible result except the sensation that he was being gently roasted from the inside. His agents had scoured libraries the world over and retrieved the journals of the legendary Fabrikator Ilya Morozova after months of excavation in the rubble of the Spinning Wheel—all with nothing to show for it but frustration. That frustration had led him to Ivets, to the bone bridge, in some futile attempt to draw a connection between the darkness within him and the strange happenings around Ravka. Maybe he’d been hoping the Saints would present him with a miracle. But thus far, divine intervention had been in short supply.
“So you see the problem,” he said now. “I cannot travel without risking exposure, but I cannot stay in hiding at the capital without drawing suspicion and risking Ravka’s future with the Zemeni and the Kerch. Did I not promise particularly delicious trouble?”
“I’m sorry,” said Genya. “Exactly what is delicious about this?”
“The way we’re going to get out of it.” Nikolai slouched back in his chair and stretched his legs, crossing them at the ankle. “We’re going to throw a party.”
“I see,” said Zoya. “How drunk am I expected to get before this all starts looking better?”
“I fear there isn’t enough wine in all of Kirigin’s cellars,” conceded Nikolai. “And I regret to say we’ll need to be sober for this. The Kerch, the Zemeni, the Fjerdans, and the Shu—we’re going to bring them all here. We’re going to stage a little performance so that they know Ravka and its king are in perfect health.”
“Is that all?” said Zoya. “Will you be taking up juggling as well?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Nikolai replied. “I already know how to juggle. Literally and figuratively. We’ll renew our alliance with the Zemeni—”
“But the Kerch—” Genya began.
“And we’ll give the Kerch a secret look at our prototype of the izmars’ya.”
“We will?” asked David.
“It will be an utter catastrophe, of course. Perhaps a nice explosion, some flying metal. Maybe we can pretend to drown a few sailors. Whatever will convince the Kerch our sharks aren’t seaworthy and buy us the most time.” Nikolai could almost feel the demon recede, feel its claws retract, driven back by the prospect of a course of action. “We’re going to get all of those diplomats and merchants and politicians under our roof. We get everyone talking, and then we listen. Zoya, we’ll need your Squallers to create an acoustic map so we have ears everywhere.”
“I don’t like that,” said Tolya.
“I knew you wouldn’t,” said Nikolai.
“It isn’t ethical to spy on one’s own guests.”
“And that is why your sister is the head of my intelligence network. Kings need spies, and spies can’t afford to fiddle about with ethics. Do you have a problem with overseeing an eavesdropping campaign, Tamar?”
“Not in the least.”
“There you have it.”
Tamar considered. “I like the idea of tackling them all at once, but what possible reason could we have for bringing our enemies and allies beneath this roof that won’t draw even more suspicion?”
“We could celebrate your Saint’s day,” said Genya enthusiastically. “Sledding, bonfires—”
“No,” said Nikolai. “I don’t want to wait for the Feast of Sankt Nikolai.” He certainly couldn’t count on the demon to delay. “The party will take place six weeks from now. We’ll call it … the Festival of Autumn Nonsense or something like that. Celebrate the equinox, gifts of the harvest, very symbolic.”
“Six weeks?” exclaimed Genya. “We can’t possibly organize an event of that size in such a short time. The security concerns alone—”
Nikolai winked at her. “If I had anyone but Genya Safin in charge, I might be worried.”
Zoya rolled her eyes. “She doesn’t need your flattery. She already thinks enough of herself.”
“Let him go on,” said Genya. “David never gives me pretty compliments.”
“Don’t I?” asked David. He patted his pocket absently. “I have the list of your good qualities you gave me somewhere.”
“You see what I endure.”
“I need to keep Genya happy,” said Nikolai, “or she may turn on me.”
“I may turn on you,” said Zoya.
“Oh, that’s unavoidable. But you’re immune to compliments.”
Zoya lifted a shoulder. “Then I suggest gifts of jewels and cash.” She rose, and he could see her mind at work, the general contemplating her attack. She paced slowly before the map, the Fold appearing and disappearing behind her. “If we’re going to bring these powers here, we need to have a better reason than a festival of gourds and wheat sheaves.”
“Zoya,” Nikolai warned. He knew exactly what she was thinking.
“This is the perfect opportunity for you to find a bride.”
“Absolutely not.”
But Zoya had the smug look of a woman who had won an argument before it had begun. “As you said, you can no longer travel, so it’s essential that prospective brides come to you.”
He shook his head. “I cannot take a bride. The risks are too great.”
“That’s exactly why you must,” said Zoya. “We can bring these powers together. I even believe you have the charm and guile to outmaneuver our enemies. But how much time can you buy us? Six months? A year? Then what, Your Highness?”
“It is an ideal reason to bring them all here,” said Genya.
Nikolai grimaced. “I knew you would turn on me. I just didn’t think it would be so soon.”
“Nikolai,” Zoya said quietly, “you said the monster is getting stronger. If that’s true, this may be your best chance.”
Your only chance. The words hung unsaid.
Ravka needed a queen. Nikolai needed an heir.
And yet every part of him rebelled at the thought of marriage. He did not have time to pro
perly court someone with so much work to be done. He did not want to wed someone he barely knew. He did not dare reveal his secrets to a stranger. The danger to the woman he chose would be too great. All good reasons. All convincing excuses. But the monster had set the clock ticking.
Nikolai looked around the room. These people knew him as no one else did. They trusted him. But the demon lurking inside him might change all that. What if it grew stronger and continued to erode his control, to eat at the will that had guided him for so long? Abomination. He remembered the way Genya had shuddered. What if he was the drowning man and it was Ravka he would drag down with him?
Nikolai drew in a long breath. Why put off the inevitable? Surely there was something to be said for the firing squad instead of slow torture. “We’ll need to come up with a list of candidates,” he said.
Zoya grinned. “Done.” She really was ready to be rid of him.
“You’re going to manage this like a military campaign, aren’t you?”
“It is a military campaign.”
“My ministers and ambassadors will have their suggestions too.”
“We’ll invite them all,” said Genya, drawing pen and ink toward her, unable to disguise her excitement. “We can house everyone at the palace. Just think of all the dinners and teas and dancing.”
“Just think of all the dinners and teas and dancing,” said David glumly.
Genya set her pen aside and seized his hands. “I promise to let you hide in your workshop. Just give me five events and one banquet.”
“Three events and one banquet.”
“Four.”
“Very well.”
“You’re a dreadful negotiator,” said Nikolai. “She would have settled for two.”
David frowned. “Is that true?”
“Absolutely not,” said Genya. “And do shut up, Your Highness.”
“We’ll need to run additional checks on all palace security,” Nikolai said to Tolya. “Anticipate that every servant, every guard, every lady-in-waiting will be a potential spy or assassin.”
“Speaking of which,” said Tamar. “Dunyasha Lazareva is dead.”
The Lantsov pretender. “Who got her?”
“Not one of ours. All I know is they found her splattered on the cobblestones outside the Church of Barter after the auction.”
Troubling. Had she been in Ketterdam to hunt him? She wasn’t the only pretender to the Lantsov throne. Every few months it seemed a new person cropped up to declare that they were a lost Lantsov heir, someone who insisted they’d escaped the Darkling’s slaughter of the royal family, or who claimed to be a by-blow of Nikolai’s father—which, given the old king’s behavior, was entirely plausible. Of course, Nikolai might very well have less right to the Ravkan throne than half of them. He was the greatest pretender of them all.
“There will be another,” said Zoya. “Someone else to claim the Lantsov name. All the more reason to produce an heir and secure the throne.”
“I said I would choose a bride, and I will,” Nikolai said, trying not to sound quite as petulant as he felt. “I’ll even get down on one knee and recite some love poetry if you like.”
“I could make some selections,” offered Tolya, looking genuinely happy for the first time since they’d gone underground at the Gilded Bog.
“An excellent idea. Keep it short and make sure it rhymes.”
Nikolai looked again at the old map of Ravka—violent, hopeless, unappeasable in its constant need. Ravka was his first love, an infatuation that had begun in his lonely boyhood and that had only deepened with age. Whatever it demanded, he knew he would give. He’d been reckless with this country he claimed to love, and he could no longer let his fear dictate Ravka’s future.
“Send the invitations,” he said. “Let the great royal romance begin.”
* * *
The rest of the day was spent in meetings with ministers, making plans for roads and aqueducts they could not afford, writing letters to the Kerch to request extensions on their loans, and finishing correspondence with everyone from the ruling Marchal of the Wandering Isle to the admirals in his navy requesting funds for repairs to the existing Ravkan fleet. All of it required concentration, finesse, and infinite patience—and all of it was less onerous than the work of finding a queen. But eventually evening came and Nikolai was forced to face Zoya and her army of prospective brides.
Nikolai and his general worked alone in his sitting room, a fire crackling in the tiled grate. The chamber still bore his father’s stamp—the double eagle wrought in gold, the heavy carpets, the curtains so laden with brocade they looked as if they could be melted down and pressed into coins.
Zoya’s list went on and on, girl after girl, a march of willing maidens.
“The brides are meant to be cover for our meetings with the Kerch and the Zemeni,” he said. “Perhaps we could make this an opening gambit, less an engagement than a prelude to an engagement.”
Zoya straightened the papers before her. “Two birds with one stone, Your Highness. It’s a matter of efficiency. And expectation. You need a bride, and right now, you’re still a worthy prospect.”
“Right now?”
“You’re still young. You have all of your teeth. And Ravka’s military hasn’t yet been trounced into the ground. Your hesitation is distinctly unkingly. It isn’t like you.”
It wasn’t. He excelled at decisions. He enjoyed them. It was like clearing the deadfall from a forest so that you could see an open path. But when he thought of choosing a wife, the branches crowded in on him and he found himself glad to be left alone in the dark. Perhaps not alone, precisely. He very much enjoyed the quiet of this room, the warmth of the fire, and the steel-spined harpy seated across from him.
Zoya snapped the paper she was holding to get his attention. “Princess Ehri Kir-Taban.”
“Second in line for the Shu throne, yes?”
“Yes, and one of our most ideal prospects. She’s young, amiable, and wildly popular among her own people. Very gifted on the khatuur.”
“Twelve strings or eighteen?”
“Why does it matter?”
“It’s important to have standards, Nazyalensky. Are you so sure the Shu will send her?”
“The invitation will be to the royal family. But given the way the people adore Princess Ehri, I suspect her older sister wouldn’t be sorry to see her out of the country. If they send one of the younger sisters…” She shrugged. “We’ll know they aren’t serious about an alliance. But a Shu bride would free us from the need for Kerch gold.”
“And how long do you suppose Ravka would remain independent after such a marriage? The Shu wouldn’t need to invade. We’d be hand-lettering an invitation.”
“There is no perfect choice,” said Zoya.
“Who’s next?”
She sighed and handed him another dossier. “Elke Marie Smit.”
Nikolai glanced down at the file. “She’s barely sixteen!”
“She’s from one of the most powerful families in Kerch. Besides, Alina was only a few years older when you threw away the Lantsov emerald on her.”
“And so was I at the time.” Thinking of Alina always smarted. He knew he’d been a fool to propose to her. But at the time he’d been more in need of a friend than a political ally. Or at least it had felt that way.
Zoya leaned back and cast him a long look. “Don’t tell me you’re still mourning the loss of our little Sun Saint?”
Of course he was. He’d liked Alina, maybe he’d even started to love her. And maybe some arrogant part of him had simply expected her to say yes. He was a king, after all, and a passable dancer. But she’d known the Darkling better than anyone. Maybe she’d sensed what was festering inside him. Years had passed, and yet her rejection still stung.
“Never had a gift for pining,” Nikolai said. “Though I do like to show off my profile by staring mournfully out of windows.”
“Elke Marie Smit’s parents will still marry her off, probab
ly to some merchant. I’m sure she’d be better pleased with a king.”
“No. Next?”
“Natasha Beritrova,” said Zoya.
“The Baroness Beritrova?”
Zoya looked studiously at the paper. “That’s the one.”
“She’s fifty.”
“She’s a very well-off widow with lands near Caryeva that could prove essential in any southern campaign.”
“No, Zoya.”
Zoya rolled her eyes but picked up another paper. “Linnea Opjer.”
“No.”
“Oh, for all the Saints and their suffering, Nikolai. Now you’re just being difficult. She’s twenty-three and, by all accounts, beautiful, even-tempered, has a talent for mathematics—”
Nikolai flicked a piece of lint from his cuff. “I’d expect nothing less of my half sister.”
Zoya stilled. She glowed like a painted icon in her kefta, the firelight clinging to her like a halo. He swore no woman had ever looked better in blue. “So it’s true, then?”
“As true as any story,” Nikolai said. The rumors of his bastardy had circulated since well before his birth, and he’d done his best to make peace with them. But he’d only ever spoken the truth of his parentage to one person—Alina Starkov. Why was he telling Zoya now? When he’d told Alina, she’d reassured him, said he would still make a great king. Zoya would offer no such kindness. But still he unlocked the top of his desk and removed the miniature his mother had passed along to him. She’d given it to him before she’d been forced into exile, when she’d told him who his father really was—a Fjerdan shipping magnate who had once served as emissary to the Grand Palace.
“Saints,” Zoya said as she stared down at the portrait. “The likeness—”
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