King of Scars

by Leigh Bardugo

  “Just how is he supposed to survive that?” asked Zoya.

  The little thorn tree seemed to swell, its spikes lengthening.

  “It is up to the king. We can practice helping him summon and control the monster, but the fight will be his alone. If his will is strong enough, he will survive. If not, the monster will claim him.”

  Nikolai found he was rubbing his hand over his chest and forced himself to stop. “My will?”

  “The trial is both physical and mental. It is meant to separate man from beast and beast from man. The pain will be unlike anything you’ve ever known, but worse will be facing the monster.”

  “What exactly is it?” asked Nikolai.

  This time Elizaveta’s smile was pitying, as if she could sense the fear that Nikolai carried inside him, the anger and confusion that had plagued him since the demon had taken hold. “A remnant of the Darkling’s power. A sliver of his own intent and ambition. Beyond that, I cannot be sure. The monster does not want to be driven out. It will try to confuse you to keep you from completing the ritual and using the thorn. If that happens, it will take you over completely. Do you think you can win?” she asked gently.

  “We beat the Darkling once before.”

  “Alina beat him,” corrected Zoya.

  An expression of distaste crossed Elizaveta’s face. “The Sun Saint,” she sneered. “How desperate the people are for miracles. How low they will stoop.” Nikolai saw Zoya’s eyes narrow and laid a hand on her arm. They weren’t here to champion Alina’s legacy.

  “But it is not the Darkling you will face,” Elizaveta continued. The thorn tree shot upward. The pot cracked as the tree’s roots burst through the clay in questing tendrils. “Not exactly. This is a creature animated by the Darkling’s will, just as it animated his shadow soldiers, the nichevo’ya. But it has lived inside you for over three years. It has shared your thoughts and desires, and it will marshal them against you. It will be fighting for its life just as surely as you are fighting for yours.”

  Nikolai supposed he was meant to be cowed. A wise man probably would think twice about being impaled on a giant thorn, but he felt nothing but anticipation. The idea that this was a thing he could face and conquer, or even be destroyed by, was so much easier to accept than the notion of a nightmare he would have to endure forever. He’d begun to believe this thing would be with him always. There were parts of himself he despised—the endless ambition, the self-serving streak Alina had noted so accurately—and if Elizaveta was right, the monster would bring those weapons and worse to bear in the fight against him. So let it. He knew his desire for life would prove greater in the end.

  “When the time comes,” Nikolai vowed, “I’ll be ready.”

  The tree suddenly leapt from the table, its stalk thick and pulsing, its thorns like iron daggers. It shot over the floor and stopped a bare breath from Nikolai’s chest, the lethally pointed tip of a long thorn poised directly above his heart.

  “I hope so,” said Elizaveta. “We have waited an eternity for you, Nikolai Lantsov. It would be a shame if you failed us now.”

  Nikolai exchanged a glance with Zoya. Yuri was gazing at Elizaveta with naked adoration. Helpful as always.

  “I’m fairly sure you’re trying to frighten me,” said Nikolai, reaching out a finger to touch the tip of the thorn. “I’m not sure why, but may I suggest a spider wearing a suit?”

  “Why a suit?” asked Zoya, frowning. “Why not just a spider?”

  “Where did he get the suit? How did he fasten the buttons? Why does he feel the need to dress for the occasion?”

  Elizaveta was studying them. She flicked her fingers and the thorn tree receded. “I had intended to torture the monk to force your darkness to the fore,” she said contemplatively. “But best to cut to the chase.”

  She lifted a hand and the floor rose around Zoya, encasing her in glistening panels of amber.

  Zoya shouted, her face startled and frightened before her instincts took hold. She threw her hands out, buffeting the luminous walls with the force of her power. A golden substance began to rise from her feet, filling the chamber.

  Nikolai reached for Zoya, but the thorn wood grew up between them in a wild, impenetrable tangle. There were thorns all around him, a wall of deadly gray spikes.

  “Stop this, Elizaveta,” he shouted, though he could no longer see the Saint.

  He heard Zoya scream.

  “I know you’re not going to kill her,” he said, though he knew no such thing. “Juris needs her.”

  Elizaveta appeared from the thicket surrounded by a bloom of roses. “Do you think I care what Juris needs? It’s freedom I require. And if losing her will drive you to act, that seems a small price.”

  Nikolai lunged at her, but Elizaveta vanished into the thorn wood. He leapt onto the brambles, ignoring the pain as the thorns jabbed at him through his clothes. They were wickedly sharp, sinking into his flesh like teeth.

  “You will have to fly, my king,” said Elizaveta’s voice. “Or you will never be free, and neither will we.”

  Zoya’s screams rose.

  From somewhere in the thicket, Yuri cried, “Oh no! Please, you must not. I beg you.”

  Nikolai forced his eyes shut. Come on, you bastard, he implored the monster. You want to spread your wings? This is your chance. I’ll even let you gnaw on that so-called Saint as a thank-you.

  But if the monster was listening, it must be laughing too. Whatever dark thing resided within him had no interest in playing this game.

  The Saint will not harm her, Nikolai told himself. It’s a ploy.

  And then Zoya’s screams stopped.

  Yuri was sobbing.

  “Zoya?” Nikolai shouted. “Zoya!”

  He hurled himself against the barbed thicket. “Zoya!” he yelled, but it emerged as a snarl.

  This time he felt the creature inside him drag its way to the surface as if its talons were scraping against his chest cavity.

  No. He did not want this, did not want to give the monster control.

  But another voice within him hissed, Yes.

  Remember, he told himself, remember who you are.

  He felt his claws emerge, felt his teeth grow long.

  I am Nikolai Lantsov, privateer and king.

  He screamed as the wings burst through his back and he rose up over the thorn wood, into the high cavern of the tower. Remember who you are.

  Elizaveta gazed up at him, her face triumphant. Yuri wept. Beside them Zoya floated in a golden sarcophagus, like an angel caught in amber, her eyes closed, her body still.

  He did not recognize the sound that tore from his throat as he hurled his body at Zoya’s prison. He struck it with a bone-crunching thud, but it did not budge.

  He turned on Elizaveta, snarling. I am the monster and the monster is me. He could feel the demon fighting for control even as it lent him its strength. But Elizaveta only smiled, gentle, beneficent. With a wave of her hand, the amber walls containing Zoya collapsed and the thorn wood wilted into the floor.

  He seized Zoya’s limp body before it could fall. She was covered in golden sap. Elizaveta closed her fist and Zoya began to cough. She opened her eyes, lashes thick with resin, blinked in confusion, then her face flooded with terror and she began to thrash in his arms.

  He wanted to soothe her. He wanted to … The smell of her fear mingled with the sap. It made him feel drunk. It made him feel hungry.

  All he wanted was to dig his claws into her flesh. All he wanted was to consume her.

  Remember, he demanded. Remember who you are.

  Nikolai Lantsov. Ruler of Ravka. Privateer. Soldier. Second son of a disgraced king.

  A growl of pure appetite rumbled through him as Zoya tried to scramble away, her movements stunted by the weight of the sap.

  Remember who she is. Zoya sitting beside him writing correspondence. Zoya glowering at a new crop of students. Zoya holding him in the confines of a coach as he shook and shook and waited for the monst
er to leave him.

  He clung tightly to the recollection of that sensation, that terrible trembling. Go, he demanded. Go.

  Grudgingly, haltingly, the monster sank back into whatever dark place it resided, leaving the acrid taste of something burning in Nikolai’s mouth.

  He collapsed, shaking, to his knees.

  He couldn’t bear to look at Zoya’s face and see the disgust there. There would be no coming back from this. He felt her hands on his shoulders and forced himself to meet her gaze.

  She was beaming.

  “You did it,” she said. “You called him up and then you sent him packing.”

  “You were almost killed,” he said in disbelief.

  She grinned wider. “But I wasn’t.”

  Elizaveta tapped the table. “So I am forgiven, Squaller?”

  “That depends on how hard it is to get this stuff out of my hair.”

  Elizaveta raised her hands, and the sap slid from Zoya in golden rivulets, returning to the floor, where it solidified.

  Yuri wiped the tears from his face. “Will … will Commander Nazyalensky have to endure this ordeal every time?”

  “I’ll do it if I have to.”

  Elizaveta shrugged. “Let us hope not.”

  Zoya offered him her hand. “You opened the door.”

  Nikolai let her help him to his feet, forced himself to celebrate with the others. But he’d felt the will of the monster, and he wondered, when the time came, if he’d be able to match its ferocity.

  He’d opened the door.

  He doubted it would be so easy to close the next time.

  23

  ISAAK

  HE’D MADE IT THROUGH three days of parties, dinners, and meetings, and no one had attempted to murder him again. It was a bit like being on the front. You survived for an hour, then another hour. You hoped to make it through the day. At night, Isaak fell into bed and lay staring at the ceiling, heart pounding, thinking of the many things he’d done wrong and the many more things he was bound to do wrong tomorrow.

  Today, they were to enjoy the morning boating on the lake beside the Little Palace, and then they would picnic on its shores.

  “We’ve arranged for you to spend time with the Shu princess before lunch,” Tamar had told him.

  “And I … do what with her?”

  “Be charming. Ask her about her guards and how long she’s known them. Get us any information you can.”

  “Can’t you and Tolya just bond with the Tavgharad over your Shu childhoods or something?”

  The twins had exchanged a glance. “We’re worse than Ravkans to them,” said Tamar. “We had a Shu father, but we wear the tattoos of the Sun Saint and serve a foreign king.”

  “Why did you choose service to Ravka?”

  “We didn’t,” said Tamar.

  Tolya put his hand to his heart. “We chose Alina. We chose Nikolai. All of this”—he gestured to the palace grounds—“means nothing.”

  Isaak didn’t know what to say to that. He considered himself a patriot, but he could admit that, unlike the king, Ravka had never been particularly kind to him.

  “Chat with Princess Ehri,” said Tamar. “Get her talking.”

  “Hypothetically, if I weren’t possessed of natural charisma and a gift for witty conversation, just how would I do that?”

  Tamar rolled her eyes, but Tolya said, “Compliment her. Express your admiration for Shu culture. You might consider reciting—”

  “Oh, for Saints’ sake, Tolya, that’s the last thing he should do.” Tamar knelt in front of Isaak. “Just listen to her. Ask her questions. Women don’t want to be seduced. They want to be seen and listened to. You can’t do either of those things if you’re thinking up strategies on how to win her over—or reciting the Fourth Epic of Kregi.”

  “There is no Fourth Epic of Kregi,” growled Tolya. “The third was unfinished by the poet Elaan.”

  “Then that’s definitely the one he should recite.”

  Why did the thought of a simple conversation make Isaak’s heart rattle? Possibly because he’d never been good at talking to girls—other than his sisters. But arguing with Belka and Petya over the price of ribbon was a far cry from making small talk with royals. And he was supposed to somehow wheedle information from a princess? He tried to remind himself that he was handsome now—a fact that took him by surprise every time he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. He hadn’t been ugly before, just unremarkable—tidy brown hair that curled if he left it too long, regular enough features, slightly crooked bottom teeth. His mother had told him he was nice looking, but she’d also told his sister she had a lovely singing voice, and that was definitely not the case.

  Now Isaak tried to look at ease as he reclined on a cushioned divan on the royal barge, attempting his best approximation of Nikolai’s relaxed slouch. He’d spent too many years standing at attention. Before him, elegantly decorated sloops and barges dotted the lake like water lilies, banners snapping, awnings striped in Ravkan blue and gold.

  The lake was too cold for swimming, but the Tidemakers had heated its surface so that mist rose from the water in dense clouds, which Squallers manipulated into symbols of various countries and families of standing. Isaak had permitted himself a few sips from a tiny bell-shaped glass of apricot wine to try to soothe his nerves but still remained alert, listening to the conversation as one of the Fjerdan ambassadors asked if they might have a tour of the Grisha school.

  “Of course you may,” said Genya. “It would be our great pleasure.”

  Isaak did not think he imagined the current of excitement that passed between the ambassador and another member of his delegation.

  Genya smoothed her skirts and added, “But I fear you may find it boring. The students are currently traveling with their teachers as part of their instruction.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes,” said Genya. “We find work in the field is so beneficial for a child’s education. And I must say I’m not sorry for the peace and quiet. Young Grisha can be quite high-spirited, as I’m sure you can imagine. We didn’t want them getting underfoot with such important new friends visiting.”

  Isaak had never known the Grisha students to be underfoot. They were kept busy, and the school was isolated enough from the rest of the palace that they would have had trouble getting anywhere without notice. No, they’d been moved for their safety. And the Fjerdans knew it.

  “You evacuated all of them?” the ambassador asked coldly.

  “Evacuated?” said Genya with an amused laugh. “That would imply there was some kind of threat.” She tapped the ambassador on the knee playfully. “A threat! To a group of children who could set fire to this barge and stop the hearts of everyone on it with the sweep of a hand.” She dabbed at her eyes. “It is too droll.”

  Isaak turned to Genya as the Fjerdans walked to the sloop’s railing to enjoy the view and possibly to seethe. “You sent the students away to protect them?”

  “Of course,” said Genya, all mirth gone. “You think we would keep one of Ravka’s greatest assets here when a bomb or poison gas could eliminate an entire new generation of Grisha in moments? But a fearful Fjerdan is one less likely to act, and I just relish the idea of them having bad dreams about a bunch of schoolchildren.”

  Isaak gave a slight shake of his head. “Listening to you talk is like watching a sailor who knows the secret shape of a bay, all of the places where storms strike, and the rocky spots where ships run aground. You navigate these waters with such surety.”

  Genya was quiet for a long time. “I was thrown into the water early,” she said. “The Darkling gave me to the queen of Ravka as a gift when I was just a little girl, a pretty thing who could be of service to her.”

  “Then you knew the king as a boy?”

  “I saw him and his brother in passing. I was a cherished servant, but a servant all the same. They were very loud.” She toyed with one of her topaz earrings. “The household staff used to call them the Tw
o Headaches. How I envied them, the way they were free to run and play and make trouble.”

  “But to be a favorite of the queen,” said Isaak. “That must have been a great honor?”

  Genya popped a slice of plum into her mouth. “For a time, I was the queen’s doll. She would dress me in lovely clothes and brush my hair and let me sleep at the foot of her bed and sit beside her at meals. I watched the sharks and learned. When I grew older, and I had the misfortune of catching the old king’s eye…” Genya wiped her fingers slowly on a linen napkin, the leavings of the plum staining the cloth. “I convinced myself that the suffering I endured was an honor because I was the Darkling’s soldier and his spy. He trusted me above all others, and one day all would know the good I’d done him. He could not have managed his coup so easily without the information I fed him.”

  Isaak stared at her. “You are confessing to treason,” he whispered.

  “Sweet Isaak,” she said with a smile. “Nikolai Lantsov pardoned me long ago, and in that moment he earned my loyalty forever. The Darkling threw me into the water, then watched me drown to serve his own purposes.”

  “So he was as cruel as the stories say?”

  “Cruel? Oh yes. But he didn’t leave me to the king’s predations to punish me. He just never even considered my misery. What was the anguish of one girl if it might help to earn him an empire? He was playing a long and complicated game. It was only when I dared to think for myself, when I interfered with his grand plan, that he set his monsters on me and—”

  A loud splash sounded from somewhere on the lake. They stood in time to see a billow of yellow silk sinking beneath the surface near a barge crowded with members of the Kerch delegation. One of the merchant’s daughters had fallen into the water and was sinking fast.

  “Jump in,” whispered Genya furiously. “Go save her.”

  “There are Grisha—”

  “Nikolai wouldn’t wait for the Grisha.”

  She was right, but … “I can’t swim.”

  “Please tell me you mean that metaphorically.”

  “Afraid not,” he said, panic rising.