Nina’s gut twisted. Maybe she was jealous. The idea of Hanne being paired off with some nobleman or military commander tied her stomach in knots. But what if Hanne could be happy here, happy with her family, with a husband to love her? What if she could finally find the acceptance she’d sought for so long? Besides, it wasn’t as if she and Nina were going to have a future together, since Nina had every intention of murdering her father.
“You look so fierce,” Brum said with a laugh. “Where do your thoughts carry you?”
To your prolonged humiliation and early death. “I hope she finds someone worthy of her. I only want the best for Hanne.”
“As do we both. And we shall have some new dresses cut for you as well.”
“Oh no, that isn’t necessary!”
“It is what I wish. Would you deny me?”
I would push you into the sea and do a jig as you drowned. But Nina turned her eyes up to him, wide and thrilled, a young woman flustered and overwhelmed by a great man’s attention. “Never,” she said on a breath.
Brum’s eyes strayed slowly over her face, her neck, and lower. “Fashion may favor a trimmer figure, but men do not care for fashion.”
Nina wanted to crawl right out of her skin, but she knew this game now. Brum wasn’t interested in beauty or desire. All he cared about was power. It excited him to think of her as prey, pinned by his gaze as a wolf might trap a lesser creature with its paw. It pleased him to think of offering Mila gifts she could never afford, of making her grateful.
So she would let him. Whatever it took to find Vadik Demidov, to help the Grisha, to free her country. A reckoning was coming. She was not going to forgive Brum for his crimes even as he sought to commit new ones. Whatever she might feel for Hanne, she intended to see Brum dead, and she doubted Hanne would be able to forgive her for that. The divide was too great. The Shu had a saying, one she’d always liked: Yuyeh sesh. Despise your heart. She would do what had to be done.
“You are too good to me,” she simpered. “I am not deserving.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“They’re beginning!” said Ylva giddily, oblivious to the overtures her husband was making mere feet from her. Or was she? Maybe she was glad to have Brum’s attention elsewhere. Or maybe she’d overlooked the man’s flaws for so long that it had become a well-worn habit.
Nina was glad for the interruption. It gave her a chance to assess the crowd in the ballroom as one by one the girls approached the fountain at the center of the room, where they were met by the crown prince. Prince Rasmus was of average height for a Fjerdan, but eerily gaunt, his face a portrait in angles, the cheekbones high and sharp. He had only just turned eighteen, but his slight build and the tentative way he moved gave him the look of someone much younger, a sapling that wasn’t quite used to the weight of its branches. His hair was long and golden.
“Is the prince ill?” Nina asked quietly.
“Every day of his life,” Brum said with contempt.
Redvin shook his grizzled head. “The Grimjers are a warrior’s line. Only Djel knows how they shat out a weakling like that.”
“Don’t say that, Redvin,” said Ylva. “He endured a terrible illness when he was a child. It was a blessing he survived.”
Brum’s expression was unforgiving. “It would have been a greater mercy if he’d perished.”
“Would you follow that boy into battle?” Redvin asked.
“We may have to,” said Brum. “When the old king passes.”
But Nina didn’t miss the look that Brum exchanged with his fellow drüskelle. Would Brum consider colluding against the prince?
Nina tried not to look too interested and kept her attention on the processional of young women. Once each girl reached the fountain, she curtsied to the royal family observing from the dais beyond, and then curtsied again to the prince. Prince Rasmus took a pewter cup from a tray held by a servant beside him, dipped it into the fountain, and offered it to the girl, who drank deeply of Djel’s waters before returning the cup, curtsying once more, then backing down the aisle the way she’d come—careful never to turn her back on the Grimjer royals—where she was greeted by family and friends.
It was an odd little ritual, meant to mark Djel’s blessing over the season of balls and dances to come. But Nina’s focus was only partially devoted to the monotonous parade. The rest was given over to the crowd. It didn’t take her long to spot the man she knew must be Vadik Demidov. He stood close to the dais in a position of privilege, and Nina felt a shock of rage when she saw he wore a sash of pale blue and gold emblazoned with the Ravkan double eagle. The Little Lantsov. He bore a striking resemblance to the portraits she’d seen in the halls of the Grand Palace. Maybe too close a resemblance. Had they found a Grisha Tailor to make him look like Nikolai’s father? And if so, who was he really? Nina was going to have to get close enough to him to find out.
Her gaze moved on and met another pair of eyes staring directly at her—their irises so dark they seemed almost black. A chill spread over Nina’s body. She forced herself to ignore the Apparat’s piercing stare, to keep her attention roving over the crowd, an interested bystander and nothing more. But she felt as if a cold hand had closed over her heart. She knew the priest had come to the Fjerdan court, that he had forged an alliance to back Vadik Demidov, but she hadn’t expected to see him here. There’s no way for him to recognize you, she told herself. And yet his gaze had certainly felt knowing. She had to hope his interest was only in Brum’s household.
Ylva’s slender fingers dug into Nina’s arm. “It’s time!” she whispered excitedly. Hanne was next to make the walk down the aisle. “Her dress is perfect.”
It was—a high-necked gown of copper beads and long strings of rosy river pearls that ideally suited Hanne’s coloring. Hanne’s shorn head was shocking, but they’d chosen not to hide it with a scarf or headdress. Between the decadent gown and the austere beauty of Hanne’s features, the effect was striking. She looked like a statue cast in molten metal.
As Hanne waited for the previous girl to finish her return, her eyes flickered around the room in panic. Nina wasn’t sure if Hanne could actually see her in the crowd, but she concentrated on her friend, sending every bit of strength her way.
The smallest smile touched Hanne’s full lips, and she glided forward.
“Ulfleden,” Ylva said. “Do you know what that means?”
“Is it Hedjut?” Nina asked. She’d never learned the dialect.
Ylva nodded. “It means ‘wolf-blooded.’ It’s a compliment among the Hedjut, but not so much here. When a child is odd or behaves strangely, they say ‘her place is with the wolves.’ It’s a kind way of saying she doesn’t belong.”
Nina wasn’t sure how kind it was, though it made a sort of sense for Hanne, who would always be happiest beneath a wide sky.
“But Hanne has found her place here now,” said Brum proudly, watching her measured steps along the gray carpet.
When she reached the fountain, Prince Rasmus handed her the pewter cup and smiled. Hanne took it; she drank. The prince coughed, hiding his face in his sleeve—and kept coughing.
The queen shot up from her throne, already shouting for help.
The prince crumpled. Guards were moving toward him. There was blood on the prince’s lips; a fine spray of it spattered over Hanne’s beaded gown. She had him in her arms, and her knees buckled as they fell to the floor together.
8
NIKOLAI
ONCE THE ANTIDOTE HAD been delivered to Poliznaya, Nikolai and the others said goodbye to the Zemeni forces and began the ride to Os Alta. Adrik and Nadia would remain at Nezkii for a time.
“To enjoy the scenery,” Adrik had said, gesturing at the muddy, miserable landscape.
But Nikolai wanted a chance to think and their flyers needed repairs, so he, Tamar, and Tolya would ride. Messages were waiting for him on base at Poliznaya, confirming what his early scouts had reported: With the help of the Zemeni, Gene
ral Raevsky had routed Fjerda at Ulensk. Ravka’s northern shipyards and bases had taken the brunt of the damage from Fjerda’s bombings. Thankfully, Fjerdan flyers were too heavy and too fuel-hungry to venture farther south, so many of Ravka’s potential military targets remained out of range.
Victory at Nezkii and Ulensk had bought them a chance, time to get their missiles working, build up their fleet of flyers, and most importantly, deal with the Shu. The upcoming nuptials would help to stave off Queen Makhi, and maybe, if he could finesse this elaborate bit of diplomacy, make them allies. The price would be steep, but for Ravka, he would pay it.
Nikolai was dictating a reply to General Raevsky, and trying to ignore the noise of Tolya and Tamar sparring outside the stables, when he sensed her. What they had endured on the Fold had connected them in some way, and he knew he would see Zoya when he turned—yet the sight of her struck like a sudden change in the weather. A drop in temperature, the crackle of electricity in the air, the feeling of a storm coming on. The wind lifted her black hair, the blue silk of her kefta whipping around her frame.
“Your heart is in your eyes, Your Highness,” murmured Tamar, wiping the sweat from her brow.
Tolya poked his twin in the arm with a sparring sword. “Tamar knows because that’s the way she looks at her wife.”
“I am free to look at my wife any which way I please.”
“But Zoya is not Nikolai’s wife.”
“I’m standing right here,” said Nikolai. “And there is nothing in my eyes except the never-ending dust you two kick up.”
He was glad to see his general. There was nothing out of the ordinary about that. Her presence brought a perfectly understandable relief, a feeling of calm that came with knowing that whatever the problem was, they would best it, that if one of them faltered, the other would be there to drag them along. That comfort was not something he could afford to get used to or rely on, but he would enjoy it while he might. If only she weren’t wearing that damned blue ribbon again.
“I hear someone tried to kill you,” Tamar called as Zoya drew near.
“Neither the first nor the last,” Zoya said. “One of the assassins is still alive. I’ve had him sent along to Os Alta for questioning.”
“He’s one of the Apparat’s?”
“That’s my guess. I hear we won.”
“I’d call it a draw,” said Tolya.
Nikolai signaled for another horse to be brought around. He knew the mare Zoya preferred, a swift-hooved creature named Serebrine. “The Fjerdans are not currently marching toward our capital,” he said. “I’ll call it a victory.”
“Then enjoy it,” Tolya said, climbing atop his huge gelding.
“People only say that when they know it won’t last.”
“Of course it won’t last,” said Zoya. “What does?”
“True love?” suggested Tamar.
“Great art?” said Tolya.
“A proper grudge,” replied Zoya.
“We’ve bought time,” admitted Nikolai. “Not peace.” They had to neutralize Queen Makhi before Fjerda chose to act again. And Fjerda would, Nikolai had no doubt of that.
When Zoya had mounted, they joined their armed escort and rode out of the gates. For a while, they took to the roads in silence, not speaking, only the sound of the wind and their horses’ hooves to keep them company. They slowed when they reached a creek to let their mounts drink and stretch their legs. Then it was back onto the road at a trot. They were all eager to reach the capital.
“We have an advantage and we should press it,” said Zoya when she couldn’t contain herself anymore. Nikolai had known this was coming. “Fjerda didn’t expect us to push back so hard. We should keep up the pressure while their forces are scrambling.”
“Are you so eager to see good men die?”
“If it will save the children of those men and countless others, I’ll lead the charge.”
“Give me a chance to build this peace,” said Nikolai. “I have a gift for folly—let me indulge it. We have daily sorties flying along the border and we’ve bolstered our forces there. This invasion was meant to be the tip of the arrow for Fjerda. Now that arrow is broken and they’ll have to rethink their approach.”
Fjerda had two great advantages: the size of their army and the speed at which they were able to turn out tanks. Nikolai could admit the tanks were well built too. They had a bad tendency to explode due to the fuel they used, but they were sturdier and faster than those his engineers had managed, even with Grisha Fabrikators in the lab.
“David’s mines will only buy us so much time,” said Tamar. “Once they’ve figured out how to track the metals, they’ll be sweeping the border.”
“It’s a long border,” noted Tolya.
“True,” said Nikolai. “And it has more gaps than my aunt Ludmilla’s teeth.”
Zoya shot him a dubious glance. “Did you actually have an aunt Ludmilla?”
“I did indeed. Hideous woman. Prone to stern lectures and handing out black licorice as a treat.” He shuddered. “May the Saints watch over her.”
“The point is we only have a short amount of time,” said Tolya.
Tamar clicked her tongue. “Hopefully enough time to forge this alliance with the Shu.”
Nikolai didn’t like to think of everything that might go wrong in the meantime. “Let us all pray to our Saints and the spirits of our bilious aunts.”
“If we could get more flyers in the air, none of it would matter,” said Tamar.
But like everything, that took money. They also had a shortage of trained pilots.
Zoya scowled. “None of it will matter if we have to fight a war on two fronts. We need a treaty with the Shu.”
“The wheels are already in motion,” said Tamar. “But if Princess Ehri isn’t willing—”
“She’ll be willing,” Nikolai promised with more surety than he felt.
“The Fjerdans could rally more quickly than we think,” said Tamar. “And West Ravka could still move to secede.”
She wasn’t wrong. But maybe their successes on the border would help West Ravka remember that there was no east or west, only one country—a country with friends and resources.
Tolya looped his reins over the horn of his saddle so that he could tie back his black hair. “If the Fjerdans do make a rash move, will the Kerch back them?”
They all looked to Zoya.
“I think the Merchant Council will be divided,” she said at last. “Hiram Schenck was feeling very smug about Kerch’s neutrality, and they’ve always preferred covert operations to outright war. But when the full breadth of our betrayal regarding the Zemeni becomes clear—”
“‘Betrayal’ seems an unfair word,” said Nikolai.
“Double cross?” suggested Tolya. “Deception?”
“I didn’t lie to the Kerch. They wanted technology that would give them dominion over the seas. They said nothing about the air. And honestly, taking two elements for yourself seems a bit greedy.”
Zoya’s brows rose. “You forget that in Kerch greed is a virtue.”
They emerged over a crest and the famous double walls of Os Alta came into view. It was called the Dream City, and when its white spires were seen from this distance, away from the clamor of the lower town and the pretense of the upper town, one could almost believe it.
Tamar stood up in her stirrups, stretching her back. “The Kerch may offer to support Vadik Demidov behind the scenes.”
“The Little Lantsov,” murmured Zoya.
“Is he short?” asked Nikolai.
Tamar laughed. “No one has thought to ask. But he is young. Just turned twenty.”
There was only one real question for Nikolai to ask. “And is he actually a Lantsov?”
“My sources can’t confirm or deny,” Tamar said. She had built up Ravka’s intelligence network, recruiting spies who wished to defect, training soldiers and Grisha who could be tailored to take on covert missions, but there were still plenty of holes i
n their information gathering. “I’m hoping the Termite will have better luck.”
Nikolai saw the way Zoya’s lips flattened at that. She had never quite forgiven him for letting Nina remain at the Ice Court, but she couldn’t argue with the value of the intelligence their spy had delivered.
They passed through the gates and began the slow climb up the hill through the market and on to the bridge that would take them to the fine houses and parks of the upper town. People waved at Nikolai and his guards, shouted “Victory for Ravka!” News of their wins at Nezkii and Ulensk had begun to trickle in. This is only the start, he wanted to warn the hopeful people crowding the streets and leaning out of their windows. But all he did was smile and return their greetings.
“Most of the Lantsov line was wiped out the night of my ill-fated birthday party,” Nikolai said as he waved. He didn’t like to think of the night when the Darkling had attacked the capital. He’d disliked his brother Vasily, but he hadn’t been prepared to watch him die. “Still, there must be obscure cousins.”
“And is Demidov one of them?” asked Tolya.
Tamar shrugged. “He claims he’s from the household of Duke Limlov.”
“I remember visiting there as a child,” said Nikolai.
“Was there a boy named Vadik?” Zoya asked.
“Yes. He was a little shit who liked to taunt the cat.”
Tamar snorted. “It seems he’s taken to hunting bigger game.”
Maybe this boy was a Lantsov. Maybe he was the valet’s son. He might have a claim to the throne or he might just be a pawn. Why should a name give him some right to rule Ravka? And yet, it did. The same was true of Nikolai. He wasn’t a king because he could build ships or win battles. He was a king because of his supposed Lantsov blood. His mother had been a Fjerdan princess, a younger daughter sent far from home to forge an alliance with Ravka that no one intended to adhere to. And Nikolai’s true father? Well, if his mother was to be believed, he was a Fjerdan shipping magnate of common blood named Magnus Opjer—the same man who had recently provided Nikolai’s enemies with his mother’s love letters. It was bad enough Opjer cared nothing for the bastard son he’d sired, but to add insult to injury by trying to deny him a perfectly good throne? It spoke of a fundamental lack of manners.
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