King of Scars

by Leigh Bardugo

  She tilted her head, and for a moment an expression of such sadness flashed across her face.

  “What is it?” he said, wanting only to wipe whatever had caused her pain from her mind.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Only that I wish this moment could last.”

  He wanted to tell her it could, but he didn’t know if that was true. He could offer her nothing. And here was the sticky reality: He had no idea what the Triumvirate truly wanted from him. Would they ask Isaak to play this role forever as they ran Ravka? He’d thought there was no way he could be the king they needed, but when he’d dined with Ehri, he’d started to wonder if maybe, with her by his side, he could. Would Genya and the others ever permit such a courtship? If they refused, would he have the courage to stand against them? And even worse, the thought that had kept him awake since that happy night on the island: What if the real king returned and chose Ehri as his bride? Would Isaak have to watch him court and marry her? Would he stand at attention in the chapel at the royal wedding? Would Ehri ever realize that the man she wed was not the man who had stood here in this conservatory, on this night, with his heart full of longing?

  “I wish it could last too,” he said. “I wish there was no one in the world but you and me, that there were no countries, no kings and queens.”

  He took a step closer, and then she was gliding into the circle of his arms. She was lithe, almost wiry. She was perfect.

  “Ehri,” he said as he drew her to him, as she tilted her beautiful face to his in invitation. “Could you love me if I was not a king?”

  “I could,” she said, and he didn’t understand why her eyes were suddenly full of tears. “I know I could.”

  “What’s wrong?” He cupped her cheek, brushing away the tears with his thumb.

  “Nothing at all,” she whispered.

  He felt a jolt, as if she’d shoved him, and looked down. Something was sticking out of his chest. His mind made sense of the shape as the pain hit. A dagger. The white handle was carved with a wolf. He heard a furious rapping against the glass, as if a bird were trying to get into the conservatory.

  “Why?” he asked as he slid to the ground.

  She fell with him, going to her knees, her tears flowing freely now. “For my country,” she said as she wept. “For my brother. For my queen.”

  “You don’t understand,” he tried to say. A laugh emerged from his lips, but it sounded wrong, like a bubble popping.

  “Forgive me,” she said, and yanked the dagger from his body.

  Pain flooded through him as he felt the warm gush of blood from his wound.

  She pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “My only comfort is that you never could have been mine. But know that I would have gladly been yours.”

  “Ehri,” he moaned as the world began to go dark.

  “Not Ehri.”

  From somewhere he could hear shouting, the sound of hurried footfalls running toward them.

  “Everyone mourns the first blossom,” she recited softly.

  Who will weep for the rest that fall?

  Isaak watched, helpless, as she grasped the dagger and drove the blade into her own heart.

  38

  NINA

  NINA DRESSED WITH CARE. Her gown was palest lavender, modestly cut, perfectly suited to Mila Jandersdat’s coloring and generous figure. She wore no jewelry. What baubles could a poor widow afford? But a Fjerdan woman’s greatest adornment was her virtue. Nina smiled at the girl in the mirror, the expression sweet and guileless.

  She smoothed her flaxen hair into a tidy braided crown that would have made the Wellmother proud and found her way to the solarium. The great glass windows were ringed with frost, and through them she could see the ice moat and beyond it, the glittering spires of the White Island. The Ice Court was as dazzling as she remembered.

  She heard footsteps behind her and turned to see Jarl Brum approaching, his wife on his arm. They were a remarkably handsome couple, tall and fine-boned.

  “Enke Jandersdat,” he said warmly. “My savior. Please allow me to introduce you to my wife, Ylva.”

  Nina curtsied. “It is my greatest honor.”

  Brum’s wife took Nina’s hand. Her thick chestnut hair fell nearly to her waist, and she wore a gown of gold silk that made her brown skin glow like autumn. Nina could see where Hanne had come by her beauty.

  “The honor is mine,” said Ylva. “I understand my husband owes his life to you.”

  Once the wagon was long gone, Nina and Hanne had awakened Brum. They’d told him that they’d come running after the explosion and found his body by the side of the road. He was lucky to have escaped the waters and the disaster at the factory with little more than a bad bump to the head. Whatever suspicions Brum had held regarding Mila Jandersdat, they’d been cured by the fact that she had remained in Gäfvalle when the Zemeni couple and the Grisha prisoners had fled.

  Nina and Hanne had waited patiently at the convent while Brum had returned to the factory to see who had survived and put everything he could to rights—and, Nina suspected, to make sure there was no evidence of his failures. An industrial accident that had resulted in the deaths of valued captives was one thing, but a successful Grisha escape attempt after his humiliation at the Ice Court the previous year would have spelled disaster for his career. And it was very important to Nina that Jarl Brum did not lose his favored position in the Fjerdan hierarchy. For the plan she had in mind, she would need every one of his connections and every bit of his access to highly placed bureaucrats, military commanders, and noblemen.

  “I did nothing,” Nina said to Ylva. “It was Hanne who showed true courage.”

  “And that is another debt we owe you,” Ylva said. “Jarl tells me you are responsible for the remarkable change in our daughter.”

  “I cannot take praise for that! I credit your own influence and the steady tutelage of the Wellmother, may Djel watch over her.”

  The Brums nodded solemnly, then Ylva’s face broke into a wide smile.

  “Hanne!” she exclaimed as her daughter entered the room.

  The truth was that Nina deserved plenty of credit for Hanne’s transformation. She’d taught her to dress to suit her long, lean figure; taught her to stand with her shoulders back and walk with a lady’s grace; and of course, Nina had taught her to act. As for Hanne’s trust, she would find a way to earn it and maybe even be worthy of it. Somehow.

  Ylva embraced her daughter as Brum said to Nina, “Hanne tells me she is at last prepared to put aside her foolish ways and find a husband. I do not know what magic you worked on her, but I am grateful. She is so much changed.”

  She was perfect before, thought Nina. Or would have been if you hadn’t pruned and plucked at her like an overeager gardener trying to mold an unruly shrub.

  Nina smiled. “I think it was only a matter of time before Hanne discovered who she was truly meant to be.”

  “You must learn to take a compliment, Mila.” He pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I hope you will in time.” He clapped his hands together. “Shall we dine?”

  Hanne turned to her father, her face happy and serene. She wore deepest russet, and her freckles looked like pollen on her cheeks. Her hair was still closely shorn.

  “I’m afraid a number of generals have come to discuss boring matters of war. Vadik Demidov himself will be arriving in the capital soon,” said Brum. Nina hoped so. She intended to learn all she could about the Lantsov pretender and Fjerda’s plans for battle. “We will try not to put you ladies to sleep.”

  “We will be happy to talk amongst ourselves, Papa,” said Hanne. “There are new dress designs from Gedringe to discuss.”

  He smiled indulgently at her and took his wife’s arm.

  As soon as his back was turned, Hanne winked at Nina, her gaze snapping fire.

  “Shall we?” she said.

  Nina slid her hand into Hanne’s as they followed Ylva and Jarl Brum into dinner.

  They would build a new world together.<
br />
  But first they had to burn the old one down.

  39

  ZOYA

  ZOYA HEARD THE UPROAR and ran toward it. She’d sensed the wrongness of the night even before she heard Tolya’s shout. She felt it on the air, as if the crackle of lightning she controlled so easily now was everywhere, in everything. It had been that way since she’d claimed Juris’ scales. He was with her, all of his lives, all he had learned, the crimes he’d committed, the miracles he’d performed. His heart beat with her—the dragon’s heart—and she could feel that rhythm linking her to everything. The making at the heart of the world. Had she really believed in it before? Maybe. But it hadn’t mattered to her. Power had been protection, the getting of it, the honing of it, the only defense she could grasp against all the pain she had known. Now it was something more.

  Everything was different now. Her vision seemed sharper, as if light limned each object. She could smell the green grass outside, woodsmoke on the air, even the marble—she’d never realized marble had a scent. In this moment, running down these familiar halls toward the clamor in the conservatory, she didn’t feel fear, only a sense of urgency to make some kind of order out of the trouble she knew she’d find.

  But she couldn’t have anticipated the mess awaiting her. She closed the doors to the conservatory behind her and clouded the glass with mist in case of passersby. Security had fallen to pieces without her here. No surprise.

  Tamar knelt beside a Shu girl with a dagger in her chest. Genya was crying. Tolya, David, and Nikolai, still dressed in his prisoner’s shroud, stood around another body—a corpse that looked very much like the king. Everyone was shouting at once.

  Zoya silenced them with a thunderclap.

  As one the group turned to her, and instantly they had their hands up, ready to fight.

  “How do we know it’s really you?” said Genya.

  “It’s really her,” said Nikolai.

  “How do we know it’s really you?” Tamar growled, not interrupting her work on the Shu girl. It seemed a hopeless cause. The girl still had color in her cheeks, but the dagger looked as if it had pierced her heart. Zoya refused to look more closely at the other body. It was too hard not to think of Nikolai pinned to the thorn wood, his blood watering the sands of the Fold.

  “Genya,” said Zoya calmly. “I once got drunk and insisted you make me blond.”

  “Intriguing!” said Nikolai. “What were the results?”

  “She looked glorious,” said Genya.

  Zoya plucked a bit of dust from her sleeve. “I looked cheap.”

  Genya dropped her hands. “Stand down. It’s her.” Then she was hugging Zoya fiercely as Tolya clasped Nikolai in his massive arms and lifted him off his feet. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Nikolai, and demanded Tolya set him down.

  Zoya wanted to hold tight to Genya, take in the flowery scent of her hair, ask her a thousand questions. Instead, she stepped back and said, “What happened here?”

  “The dagger is Fjerdan,” said Tolya.

  “Maybe so,” said Nikolai. “But it was wielded by a Shu girl.”

  “What do you mean?” said Tamar as she worked frantically to restore the girl’s pulse. “She was attacked too.”

  “Is it her heart?” Zoya asked.

  “No,” said Tamar. “That would be beyond my skill. The dagger struck a little too far to the right.”

  “Can you save her?” asked Genya.

  “I don’t know. I’m just trying to stabilize her. It will be up to our Healers to do the rest.”

  “I saw it all happen,” said Nikolai. “She attacked him—me? Him. Then turned the blade on herself.”

  “So the Shu are trying to frame Fjerda?” said Tolya.

  Genya’s tears began anew. She knelt and put her hand to the impostor’s cheek. “Isaak,” she murmured.

  “Who?” said Zoya.

  “Isaak Andreyev,” Nikolai said quietly, kneeling by the body. “Private first class. Son of a schoolteacher and a seamstress.”

  Tolya brushed his hand over his eyes. “He didn’t want any of this.”

  “Can you restore his features?” asked Nikolai.

  “It’s harder without blood flow,” said Genya. “But I can try.”

  “We owe that at least to his mother.” Nikolai shook his head. “He survived the front. He was meant to be past harm.”

  Genya bit back a sob. “We … we knew we were putting him in danger’s way. We thought we were doing what was right.”

  “The princess is breathing,” Tamar said. “I need to get her to the Corporalki in the Little Palace.”

  “This makes no sense,” said Genya. “Why not just murder the king—or the man she believed was king? Why try to kill herself too? And why would a princess sacrifice herself to do the job?”

  “She didn’t,” said Nikolai. “Get me fresh clothes. I’ll return to the party to close out the festivities. I want to have a word with Hiram Schenck. He’s the highest-ranking member of the Kerch Merchant Council here, yes?”

  “Yes,” said Genya. “But he isn’t happy with you.”

  “He’s about to be. For a time. Keep the doors to the conservatory locked, and leave Isaak’s body here.”

  “We shouldn’t—” Tolya began, but Nikolai held up a hand.

  “Just for now. I swear he will have the burial he deserves. Bring the Shu delegation to me in my father’s rooms in one hour’s time.”

  “What if Princess Ehri’s guards raise the alarm?” asked Genya.

  “They won’t,” said Zoya. “Not until they know their plan has succeeded and the king is dead.”

  Nikolai rose, as if his wounds no longer pained him, as if the horrors of the last few days had never been, as if the demon inside him had been conquered after all. “Then long live the king.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, the festivities had dwindled to a few happy drunks singing songs in the double-eagle fountain. Most of the guests had gone to their beds to sleep off their indulgences or had snuck off to some quiet corner of the gardens to indulge in more.

  Zoya and the others had returned to the conservatory, and when Nikolai entered he was dragging along a terrified-looking Shu guard. She had a pinched, homely face and wore the uniform of the Tavgharad, her long black hair tied in a topknot.

  “Mayu Kir-Kaat,” said Tamar. “What is she doing here?”

  At the sight of the body on the floor beside the lemon trees, the guard began to shake. “But he…” she said, staring at the dead king and then back at Nikolai. “But you—where is the princess?”

  “What a fascinating question,” said Nikolai. “I assume you’re referring to the girl we found with a dagger in her chest just half an inch shy of her aorta—due to luck or a lack of follow-through, you be the judge. She is currently recovering with our Healers.”

  “You must return the royal princess to our care,” sputtered the guard.

  “She is no such thing,” said Nikolai sharply. “And the time has come and gone for such deceptions. An innocent man died tonight, all so you could start a war.”

  “Is he going to explain any of this?” whispered Genya. Zoya was wondering the same thing.

  “Gladly,” said Nikolai. He gestured toward the guard. “I’d like all of you to meet the real Princess Ehri Kir-Taban, favored daughter of the Shu, second in line to their throne.”

  “Lies,” hissed the guard.

  Nikolai seized her hand. “First of all, no member of the Tavgharad would allow a man to snatch her wrist like the last sugared plum.” The guard gave a belated tug to try to get her hand free. “Second, where are her calluses? A soldier should have them on the pads of her palms, like Isaak. Instead, they’re on the tips of her fingers. These are the calluses you would get from playing—”

  “The khatuur,” said Zoya. “Eighteen strings. Princess Ehri is a master.”

  “So they planted an assassin in place of the princess in order
to get close to the king,” said Tamar. “But why would she try to kill herself off too?”

  “To cast more suspicion on the Fjerdans?” asked Genya.

  “Yes,” said Nikolai, “and to give the Shu a reason to go to war. Ravka’s monarch dead, a member of the Shu royal family slain. The Shu would have every excuse they needed to march their armies into our leaderless country and use it as a base to launch an attack on Fjerda’s southern border. They would arrive in force with no intention of ever leaving.”

  Now the guard—or rather the princess—closed her eyes as if in defeat. But she did not weep and she did not tremble.

  “What was to become of you, Princess?” Nikolai asked, releasing her hand.

  “I was to have a new name, a quiet life in the countryside,” she said softly. “I have never cared for politics or life at court. I would be free to pursue my music, fall in love where I wished.”

  “What a lovely picture you paint,” said Nikolai. “Were it not a danger to my country’s future, your lack of guile would be charming. Did you really believe your sister was going to leave you to rusticate in some mountain village? Did you actually think you would survive this plot?”

  “I have never wanted the crown! I am no threat to my sister.”

  “Think,” Zoya snapped, losing patience. “You are popular, adored, the daughter everyone wants on the throne. Your death is the thing meant to rally an entire nation to war. How could your sister let you live and risk discovery? You would be nothing but a liability.”

  The princess lifted her pointed chin. “I do not believe it.”

  “Your guards have been secured,” Zoya said. “I suspect one of them had orders to make you disappear before you ever made it to your pastoral retreat. You can question them yourself.”

  Ehri somehow lifted her chin higher. “Will I face trial or simply be executed?”