Rule of Wolves

by Leigh Bardugo

  But Zoya hadn’t been pressing an advantage with Mirov. She was running away. She hadn’t wanted that Suli woman to confront her, and that wasn’t like his general. At least, it hadn’t been. Since she’d lost Juris, since their battle on the Fold, Zoya had changed. It was like he was viewing her from a distance, like she’d taken a step away from everyone and everything. And yet she was sharp as always, armor firmly in place, a woman who moved through the world with precision and grace, and little time for mercy.

  He turned his attention to the Suli. “For your safety, it might be best if you moved on tonight.”

  Their leader bristled. “Whatever this horror is, we had nothing to do with it.”

  “I know that, but when night falls, cooler heads may not prevail.”

  “Is this what protection from Ravka’s king looks like? A command to scurry into the shadows?”

  “It’s not an order, it’s a suggestion. I can station armed men here to defend your camp, but I don’t think you’d welcome their presence.”

  “You would be right.”

  Nikolai didn’t want to leave these people with no place to shelter. “If you’d like, I can send word to Countess Gretsina to open her fields to you.”

  “She would welcome Suli on her lands?”

  “She will or she won’t get any of the new threshers we’re distributing to farms.”

  “This king deals in both bullets and blackmail.”

  “This king rules men, not Saints. Sometimes more than prayer is required.”

  The man released a huff of laughter. “On that we can agree.”

  “Tell me,” said Nikolai to the woman beside the Suli leader, attempting to keep his voice casual. “You said something to General Nazyalensky.”

  “Nazyalensky,” she said with a laugh.

  Nikolai’s brows rose. “Yes. What did you say to her?”

  “Yej menina enu jebra zheji, yepa Korol Rezni.”

  The Suli man laughed. “She said her words were for the general and not for you, King of—”

  “I understood that part just fine,” said Nikolai. Korol Rezni. King of Scars. Of the many things he’d been called, it certainly wasn’t among the worst, but at the sound of those words, the demon in him stirred. Easy now, we’ve reached an understanding, you and I. Though the demon wasn’t much for logic.

  Over the next hour, Nikolai and Tamar interviewed the Suli who were willing to describe the blight to them, then reconvened with Tolya and Zoya.

  “Well?” he asked, as they rode back to the hilltop.

  “Same as near Balakirev,” said Tolya. “A blot of shadow rolling over the countryside, like night coming on too quickly. Everything the shadow touches succumbs to blight—livestock, property, even people dissolve into smoke, leaving behind nothing but barren earth.”

  “Pilgrims came through only a day ago,” said Zoya. “Followers of the Starless One. They claim this is punishment for the reign of a faithless king.”

  “How unfair. I have plenty of faith,” Nikolai objected.

  Tolya raised a brow. “In what?”

  “Good engineering and better whiskey. Did Mirov and his friends break bread with the pilgrims and give them a fair hearing for their treason?”

  “No,” Zoya said with some satisfaction. “Enough of them remember the war and the Darkling’s destruction of Novokribirsk. They chased those black-clad fanatics out of town.”

  “They do love a mob in Yaryenosh. What did that woman say to you?”

  “No idea,” said Zoya. “I don’t speak Suli.”

  Tamar peered at her. “You looked like you understood her. You looked like you couldn’t wait to be out of her sight.”

  So Nikolai hadn’t been the only one to notice.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Zoya said. “There was work to be done.”

  Tolya bobbed his head at Nikolai. “The Suli aren’t fond of you, are they?”

  “I’m not sure they have reason to be,” said Nikolai. “They shouldn’t have to live in fear within our borders. I haven’t worked hard enough to secure their safety.” Another item to add to his list of failures. Since taking the throne, he’d contended with too many enemies on the field—the Darkling, the Fjerdans, the Shu, jurda parem, the damned demon living inside him.

  “We all live in fear.” Zoya nudged her horse into a gallop.

  “I guess that’s one way to change the subject,” said Tolya.

  They followed in her wake, and as they crested the hill, Tamar looked back at the wound the blight had left on the fields. “The Starless are right about one thing. There’s a connection to the Darkling.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Nikolai. “We’ve all seen the sands of the Fold. Dead and gray. Just like the areas struck by this blight. I thought that when the Shadow Fold collapsed and the darkness was dispelled, the land it covered might heal itself.”

  “But nothing has ever grown there,” said Tolya. “It’s cursed land.”

  For once, Nikolai couldn’t brush away that word as mere superstition. The Tula Valley had been the site of some of the holiest land in Ravka, where Sankt Feliks had supposedly cultivated his orchard—or the thorn wood, depending on which story you believed. It was also the location of the first obisbaya, a ritual meant to separate beast from man. But the Darkling had tainted all that. His attempt to create his own amplifiers and his use of merzost to do it had made a mockery of his power, twisting it into a dark territory crowded with monsters. Sometimes Nikolai wondered if they’d ever be free of that legacy.

  Not if you don’t face your part in it. It was time they acknowledged the ugly truth of what this blight meant.

  “There’s no other explanation,” he said. “The Fold is expanding. And we caused it.”

  “You don’t know that—” Tamar began.

  “We do,” said Zoya. Her voice was cold.

  Nikolai remembered the earthquakes that had been felt throughout Ravka and beyond when the boundaries of the Fold had ruptured. Elizaveta had been defeated. Three Saints, Grisha of infinite power, had died violently. Nikolai’s attempt to endure the obisbaya and rid himself of his demon had failed. The Darkling’s power lived on inside him, and now the man himself walked the earth once more. Of course there were bound to be consequences.

  “We’ll take soil samples,” he continued. “But we know what’s happening here.”

  “Fine. You’re to blame,” said Tamar. “How do we stop it?”

  “Kill the Darkling,” said Zoya.

  Tolya rolled his eyes. “That’s your answer to everything.”

  Zoya shrugged. “How do we know if we don’t try?”

  “And what about the demon trapped inside the king?” asked Tamar.

  Zoya scowled. “Details.”

  “We could attempt the obisbaya again,” Tolya suggested. “I found a new text that—”

  “It nearly killed him last time,” Zoya snapped.

  “Details,” said Nikolai. “We’ll have to consider it.”

  “After the wedding,” said Zoya.

  “Yes,” said Nikolai, trying to summon some enthusiasm. “After the wedding.”

  With her eyes on the horizon, Zoya said, “Please tell me you’ve made progress with Princess Ehri.”

  “Contemplating jabbing a thorn through my heart again is easier than wooing a princess.”

  “It certainly requires more finesse,” Zoya said. “Which you have in abundance.”

  “That doesn’t quite sound like a compliment.”

  “It isn’t. You have more charm than sense. But while that makes you irritating, it should also be of use in delicate matters of diplo- macy.”

  “Honestly, I’ve barely had a chance to speak with her.” He’d meant to invite her to his Saint’s day feast, but somehow he’d never gotten around to it. Nikolai knew he should talk to her. He must if he had any hope of seeing his plans for the future come to fruition. But he’d been avoiding spending time with the princess since that disastrous night when Isaak had
died and the woman everyone had believed to be Ehri was revealed as an assassin. Since then, the real Princess Ehri had been sequestered in luxurious quarters that were still very much a prison. Her Tavgharad guards had been kept in the most hospitable part of the dungeons beneath the old stables, and the assassin—the girl who had driven a knife into Isaak’s heart, thinking she was killing a king—was under lock and key, still healing from her wounds. As for Nikolai’s other prisoner? Well, he had a very unique cell of his own.

  “Ehri is softening,” Nikolai continued. “But she’s stubborn.”

  “A good trait for a queen,” said Zoya.

  “Do you think so?”

  Nikolai watched Zoya’s face. He couldn’t help watching. Her glance at him was so swift he might have imagined it, a flash of blue, the sky glimpsed through trees. And the meaning of that glance? Something. Nothing. He’d have more luck trying to tell his fortune in the clouds.

  Zoya kept her reins in one hand as she adjusted her gloves. “In less than a month, Queen Makhi will arrive, expecting a grand celebration. Without the presumed bride’s cooperation, you’re going to find yourself in the middle of an international incident.”

  “He may well anyway,” said Tamar.

  “Yes, but if the wedding doesn’t happen, Nikolai won’t have to worry about the Fjerdans or the Shu or the Fold.”

  “I won’t?”

  “No, because Genya will have murdered you. Do you have any idea how much work she’s put into planning this grand event?”

  Nikolai sighed. “It will happen. I’ve already had a new suit made.”

  “A suit,” Zoya said, casting her eyes heavenward. “You’ll be very well-dressed at your funeral. Talk to Ehri. Charm her.”

  She was right, and that vexed him more than anything. He was grateful to see a rider approaching from camp, though the messenger’s grim expression instantly set Nikolai’s heart racing. No one ever rode that fast when the news was good.

  “What is it?” Nikolai asked as the rider drew alongside them.

  “A flyer arrived from Os Alta, Your Majesty,” the messenger said on a gasp. “We’ve had a message from the Termite.” He handed Nikolai a sealed missive.

  He saw Zoya lean forward in her saddle and knew she wanted to snatch the paper right out of his hands. Nina Zenik’s code name was Termite.

  Nikolai’s eyes scanned the page. He had hoped they’d have more time. But Nina had at least given them a fighting chance.

  “We need to get back to camp. Ride ahead and have them ready two of our flyers,” Nikolai told the messenger, who vanished in a cloud of dust.

  “This is it, isn’t it?” asked Zoya.

  “Fjerda is on the march. Tamar, you’ll need to get word to David and our Fabrikators, and I’ll send a flyer to our contacts in the west as well.”

  “The missiles aren’t usable yet,” said Tamar.

  “No,” said Nikolai. “But the Fjerdans aren’t going to wait.” He turned to Zoya. “Hiram Schenck is in Os Kervo. You know what to do. We have only one chance to get this right.”

  “Are we ready?” Tolya asked.

  “Hardly,” said Tamar. “But we’ll give them hell anyway.”

  The demon in Nikolai roused at the thought. War was like fire—sudden, hungry, and easiest to stop before it had taken hold. He would do all he could to contain this blaze. He feared for his country and for himself. He’d be a fool not to. But some part of him, maybe the privateer, maybe the demon, maybe the prince who had clawed his way to the throne, was itching for a fight.

  “Think of it as throwing a party,” he said, giving his reins a snap. “When the guests show up, you find out who your real friends are.”

  4

  NINA

  NINA WOKE TO HANNE at her bedside, shaking her arm. Her heart pounded in her chest and she realized her sheets were soaked with sweat. Had she been talking in her sleep? She’d been dreaming of the ice, of Matthias’ wolf. Trassel had been eating from her hand, but when she looked closer, she saw that his white muzzle was covered in blood and that he was feasting on a corpse.

  “Someone’s here,” Hanne said. “Someone from the convent.”

  Nina sat up, the night air cooling the perspiration on her body. She was instantly awake, and now the thunder in her heart had nothing to do with a muzzy dream. Hanne had been a student at the convent in Gäfvalle, where she and Nina had uncovered Brum’s horrific scheme involving the Springmaidens and a nearby military fort. They’d put a stop to it and rescued the Grisha they could, and Nina had sent the Wellmother to her death with no regrets.

  “Who is it?” she whispered, wrapping herself in a high-necked wool robe and cinching it tight. She pushed her feet into her slippers. At least the floors of the White Island were heated.

  “I don’t know. My mother sent for both of us.”

  “Sweet Djel, put a robe on. Aren’t you freezing?” Hanne was dressed in nothing but her cotton nightgown, the light of the oil lamp in her hand gleaming off the ruddy stubble on her shorn head.

  “I’m too terrified to be cold,” said Hanne, and they bustled through the dressing room that connected Nina’s smaller chamber to Hanne’s bedroom.

  The fort at Gäfvalle had been destroyed in an explosion Nina’s team had set, and in the chaos that followed, Hanne and Nina had been able to plead innocence in the whole affair. Jarl Brum had no idea who Nina really was or that she had been responsible for destroying his laboratory and his program of torture. He had welcomed Mila Jandersdat into his household believing, quite accurately, that she had helped his daughter save his life. Of course, he didn’t know that if she’d had her way, Nina would have put an end to him once and for all.

  At the time, Hanne and Nina had believed they’d gotten away with all of it. Maybe they hadn’t. When the dust had cleared, maybe someone from the convent had put together some part of their ruse. Maybe the Springmaidens had found the drüskelle uniform Hanne had stolen. Maybe someone had seen Hanne and Nina dragging Jarl Brum’s unconscious body out of the wagon.

  “Here,” Nina said, holding out Hanne’s robe so that she could shrug into it. In the Fjerdan way, it was made of plain slate-gray wool but lined with luscious fur, as if anything that might hint at luxury or comfort should be hidden.

  “What do we do?” Hanne asked. She was shivering.

  Nina turned her around and tied the sash on her robe. “We let them do the talking.”

  “You don’t have to play lady’s maid to me,” said Hanne. “Not when we’re in private.”

  “I don’t mind.” Hanne’s eyes looked like molten copper in this light. Nina made herself focus on tying the sash into a neat bow. “We present the picture of innocence and virtue, find out what they know, deny everything. If it comes down to it, I was the ruthless spy who entangled you in my web.”

  “You need to stop reading novels.”

  “Or you need to read more of them. Your hands are ice cold.”

  “All of me is cold.”

  “That’s the fear.” Nina cupped Hanne’s hands, rubbing heat into them. “Use your power to slow your pulse a bit, ease your breathing.”

  “Hanne?” Ylva’s voice came from down the hall.

  “Coming, Mama! Just getting dressed!” She lowered her voice. “Nina, I made my own choices. I’m not letting you take the fall for me.”

  “And I’m not letting you get hurt because you got wrapped up in my trickery.”

  “Why must you be so stubborn?”

  Because Nina could be reckless and foolish and sometimes that meant the wrong people got hurt. Hanne had been hurt enough in her life.

  “Let’s not be so bleak,” Nina said, avoiding the question. “Maybe the Springmaiden came to give us a nice present.”

  “Of course,” said Hanne. “Why didn’t I think of that? I hope it’s a pony.”

  The walk down the narrow hall felt like a march to the gallows. Nina carefully adjusted a pin in her hair. In Fjerda, unmarried women didn’t appear in public
without their hair bound in braids. All the propriety had given Nina a permanent headache. But her role as Mila Jandersdat had put her at the heart of the Ice Court, the perfect base from which to stage her miracles.

  Hanne had seemed less sure after their stunt in the marketplace.

  “Is it worth it?” Hanne had asked her that night in the privacy of their rooms. “There will be consequences for those townspeople. My father won’t stand for this kind of heresy. He’ll take more drastic measures and innocent people will pay the price.”

  “Innocent people are already paying the price,” Nina had re-minded her. “They’re just not Fjerdans.”

  “Be careful, Nina,” Hanne had said as she’d climbed beneath the covers. “Don’t become what my father claims you are.”

  Nina knew she was right. Zoya had scolded her for recklessness too. The problem was that she knew what they were doing was working. Yes, there were plenty of fanatics like Brum who would always hate Grisha—and plenty of people happy to go along with them. But the cult of the Sun Saint had found followers years ago when Alina Starkov had risen to destroy the Shadow Fold and been martyred in the process. That was a miracle Brum couldn’t deny. Then there were the miracles reported from all over Ravka just in the past year—weeping statues, bridges made of bones. On both sides of the border, there were whispers that an age of Saints was beginning. The movement had been building for a long while, and Nina just needed to keep nudging it along.

  Besides, if she hadn’t been here at the Ice Court, Ravka would have no knowledge of the invasion the Fjerdans were planning.

  But at what cost?

  She suspected she was about to find out.

  The central room of their dwelling on the White Island was a grand affair—soaring walls of white marble, a vaulted ceiling, and a great stone hearth built to look as if it were framed by the twisting branches of Djel’s sacred ash. All of it a testimony to Commander Jarl Brum’s standing—something he’d had to fight to regain after the Ice Court had been breached and he’d been humiliated by a certain Grisha on the docks.