The old audience room, she realized as they walked toward a high-backed throne of alabaster so elaborately carved it looked like sheets of lace. Queen Agathe sat upon it in the same white gown she’d worn at the processional earlier. Her back was straight, her sleek hair the color of pearl, and she wore a circlet of opals on her head.
Nina knew better than to speak first. She curtsied deeply and kept her eyes on the floor, waiting, her mind reeling. Why had she been brought here? What could the Grimjer queen want from her?
A moment later, she heard the doors close with an echoing thud and realized that she had been left alone with Queen Agathe.
“You prayed over my son today.”
Nina nodded, keeping her eyes averted. “I did, Your Majesty.”
“I know Hanne Brum, of course. But I did not know the girl who knelt beside my son and dared to take his hand, who spoke the words of Djel to ease his suffering. So I asked my advisers who you are.” Queen Agathe paused. “And it seems no one knows.”
“Because I am no one, Your Majesty.”
“Mila Jandersdat. Widow of a dead merchant who traded fish and frozen goods.” She said the words as if she thought disdain could cure them of their meaning. “A young woman of humble beginnings who has wormed her way into the house of Jarl Brum.”
“I have been very fortunate, Your Majesty.”
Nina’s cover was designed to withstand scrutiny. There really had been a Mila Jandersdat from a little town on the northern coast. Her husband really had been lost at sea. But when Mila had run off to Novyi Zem to begin a new life with a handsome farmer, her identity had been pilfered by the Hringsa for Nina’s use.
“I have sent my men to inquire about this Mila Jandersdat, to ask what she looks like, to discover if we have a spy in our midst.”
Nina let her head snap up at this, her expression shocked. “A spy, Your Majesty?”
The queen’s lips thinned. “A talented actress.”
“Your men will find I am just who I say I am. I have no reason to lie.” Nina had been tailored to look like Mila. It would do for a description. But if the queen’s investigators brought back any of Mila’s friends or neighbors to confirm her identity, that would be another thing entirely.
The queen studied Nina for a long moment. “My eldest son was not supposed to survive childhood. Did you know that, Mila Jandersdat? I miscarried three times before I bore him. It was a miracle when he took his first breath, when he lived through his first night, his first year. I prayed for him each morning and each evening, and I have done so ever since.” The queen tapped her fingers on the arm of her throne. “Perhaps I won’t wait for my inquisitors to return. My son is vulnerable. You saw that well enough today, and I do not take any threat to him or my family lightly. It might be easier just to send you packing.”
So why haven’t you? Nina waited.
“But I think that might cause him some distress, and … and I want to know what happened today.”
Now Nina understood. Brum hadn’t questioned the prince’s quick recovery, not even Prince Rasmus himself had. But the queen had a mother’s care, a mother’s fear—a mother’s hope.
She’d chosen to interrogate Mila Jandersdat, not Hanne Brum, because she knew Mila was defenseless, without name or status. If Mila wanted the queen’s favor, if she wanted to stay at the Ice Court, and if she knew something about Hanne or what had happened, Mila was more likely to talk.
And Nina intended to do just that.
When she had first heard the voices of the dead, she had shrunk from them, tried to ignore them. She’d been too deep in her grief, too desperate to keep hold of her tie to Matthias. Death had still been the enemy, the monster that could strike without warning and take all you held dear. She hadn’t wanted to make peace with it. She couldn’t. Until she’d laid Matthias to rest. Even now her heart rebelled at the thought that there was no loophole, no secret spell to return him to her, to give her back the love she’d lost. No, she hadn’t made peace with death, but they’d come to an understanding.
Speak. Nina reached out with her power, feeling the cold river of mortality that ran through everyone and everything, letting it carry her to the sacred burial ground that lay in the shadow of the Elderclock only a few hundred yards away. Who will speak the name of Agathe Grimjer, queen of Fjerda?
The voice that answered was loud and clear, a strong soul, recently gone. It had a great deal to say.
“Six miscarriages,” Nina said.
“What?” The word fell like a stone in the old throne room.
“You miscarried six times before you gave birth to Rasmus. Not three.”
“Who told you that?” The queen’s voice was harsh, her cool demeanor shaken.
Linor Rundholm, the queen’s best friend and lady-in-waiting, dead and buried on the White Island.
“You had given up on praying,” said Nina, letting her eyes close, swaying as if she was in a trance. “So you had a Grisha Healer brought from the dungeons to see you through your pregnancy.”
“That is a lie.”
But it wasn’t. Linor had whispered it all. The queen had resorted to what was considered witchcraft.
“You think your boy is cursed.” She opened her eyes and stared directly at the queen. “But he is not.”
Queen Agathe’s slender fingers gripped the arms of her throne like white claws. “If what you were saying were true, then I would have committed heresy. My son would have been born with the demon’s mark upon him, forsaken by Djel. There would be no hope for him, no matter how many prayers I said.”
Nina almost felt sorry for this woman, a helpless mother wanting only to give birth to a healthy child. But once Rasmus had been born and weaned, she’d sent the Grisha Healer who had helped her to her death. She couldn’t risk anyone learning of what she’d done. Only Linor knew, her dear friend, a friend so beloved the queen had refused to let her travel with her husband to the front. I need you with me, Agathe had said, and a queen’s need was as good as a command. Linor’s husband had died on the field of battle and Linor had remained year after year on the White Island, her grief turning bitter as she tended to a selfish queen and her sickly son.
“When I was a little girl,” said Nina, “I fell into a river. It was the dead of winter. I should have frozen. I should have drowned. But when my parents found me lying on the banks nearly two miles from where I’d fallen in, I was warm and safe, my cheeks pink and my heartbeat even. I was blessed by Djel. I was touched by his far-seeing. Ever since then, I have known things I have no right to know. And I know this: Your son is not cursed.”
“Then why does he suffer?” Her voice was pleading, all dignity lost to desperation.
A good question. But Nina was ready. As a Grisha, she’d learned to use the dead as her informants and her weapons. As a spy, she’d learned to do the same with the living. Sometimes all they needed was the right nudge. She spoke the words she knew the queen would want to hear, not because of what the dead had whispered, but because of the need she’d felt when Matthias died, the terrible longing to believe there was a reason for her pain.
“There is a purpose to all of it,” she said, a promise, a prediction. “And to your suffering as well. Djel spoke through the waters today. Your son will heal and grow strong and he will find greatness.”
The queen drew in a long, trembling breath. Nina knew she was struggling to keep tears at bay. “Leave me,” she said, her voice quaking.
Nina curtsied and backed from the room. Before the doors closed, she heard a sound like wailing, as the queen went to her knees, her head in her hands.
11
ZOYA
NIKOLAI AND ZOYA WERE SILENT as they descended the stairs, the gloom heavy after the unnatural brightness of the Darkling’s prison.
Outside, a full moon hung low on the horizon, its light staining the night blue. The white gravel of the path back to the Grand Palace shone bright as spilled stars. They didn’t speak until they were in Nikolai’s si
tting room, the door safely closed behind them.
“He’s fun,” said Nikolai, pouring a glass of brandy. “I forgot how fun he is.”
She took the glass he offered. “It has to be Alina’s choice.”
“You know what she’ll decide when she understands the stakes.”
Zoya took a long sip and crossed the room to the hearth. She set the glass on the mantel. The heat from the fireplace felt like comfort, and the beast within her seemed to sigh with pleasure. “She shouldn’t have to be the hero again.”
“He wants a conversation, not a rematch.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“You’re wearing the watch I gave you.”
Zoya looked down at the little silver dragon. “You should have given me a raise instead.”
“We can’t afford it.”
“Then you should give me a shiny medal. Or a nice estate.”
“When the war is over, you shall have your pick of them.”
Zoya took another sip of her brandy. “I choose the dacha in Udova.”
“That’s my ancestral home!”
“Are you taking back your offer?”
“Absolutely not. It’s too hot in the summer and hell to heat in the winter. Why do you want it?”
“I like the view.”
“There’s nothing to see from that dacha except a broken-down mill and a muddy little town.”
“I know,” she said. She could have stopped at that. Maybe she should have. Instead, she continued, “I grew up there.”
Nikolai did his best to hide his surprise, but Zoya knew him too well. She never spoke of her childhood.
“Oh?” he said too casually. “Do you have family there?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I haven’t spoken to my parents since they tried to sell me off to a rich nobleman when I was nine years old.” She’d never told anyone about what had happened that day. She’d let her life, her family, and her losses stay in the past. But lately it felt hard not to be known, like keeping herself together was all the more difficult without someone to see who she truly was.
Nikolai set down his glass. “That isn’t—that’s not … The laws prohibit—”
“Who enforces the laws?” Zoya asked softly. “Rich men. Rich men who do what they wish. Power doesn’t make a man wise.”
“I’m proof enough of that.”
“You’re occasionally a useless podge. But you’re a good man, Nikolai. And a good king. I will not serve another.”
“I don’t like that word.”
“Serve? It’s an honest word. You are the king I’ve chosen.” She took another sip of her drink and turned to face the fire. It was easier to speak her worry to the flames. “The last time we attempted the obisbaya, you almost died. You can’t render yourself defenseless like that again. For Ravka’s sake.”
“The Darkling will be vulnerable too. And this is the time to attempt it. We don’t know when or if his powers may return, and I have no intention of letting him banish Yuri.”
“You mean to drive the Darkling out instead.”
“He’s the invader. The little monk is still in there. You saw that.”
Zoya watched the flames snap and spark. “You must not underestimate him.” The way so many had. The way she had.
“Zoya.”
“What?”
“Zoya, look at me.”
Zoya turned and gasped. She raised her hands to fight, her glass slipping from her fingers and shattering on the floor.
Nikolai stood beside the table.
And the demon stood beside him. It seemed to hover there, a blot of darkness in the shape of her king, its black wings curling at the edges like smoke.
“It’s … How?”
“The monster is me and I am the monster. If the Darkling is right and this isn’t all some ruse, the obisbaya may be the secret to unraveling the Fold once and for all. The demon may go out of me and into the darkness forever.”
The demon hissed and Zoya flinched back, her foot nearly landing in the fire.
“But he is my demon, not the Darkling’s,” Nikolai said. He held his hand out to her, scarred beneath the gloves he wore. “Don’t be afraid.”
She felt the need in him as palpably as if he’d spoken. Don’t turn away from me. Anyone but you. Was that the dragon’s eye opening inside her? Or did she just recognize her own want? There was no one else she would trust to see her at her weakest, her most fearful. Her most monstrous.
Zoya met Nikolai’s gaze. “You can control it?”
“I can.”
She took a step forward, then another, forcing herself to cross the room until she was standing before both of them. Her mind screamed at her to run from the wrongness of what she was seeing, this creature made of nothing beside her king.
“Maybe the obisbaya will work,” said Nikolai, his hazel eyes steady. “But what if it doesn’t? What if I told you the demon will always be with me? That there will always be a part of me tied to the Darkling, to this shadow power? Would I still be your king? Or would you fear me? Would you come to despise me as you despise him?”
She didn’t know how to answer that. She had always assumed that somehow, eventually, they would find a way to rid Nikolai of this creature. Maybe she wanted to attempt the obisbaya again, despite the terrible risk to his life. Not for the sake of destroying the Fold, but because she hated that any part of the Darkling resided within the king.
The shadow thing raised its hand and Zoya clenched her fists, determined to stand her ground. The edges of its form were blurred like thick fog. Its long fingers ended in claws.
It reached for her and Zoya willed herself not to recoil. It brushed its knuckles across the skin of her cheek, and she drew in a sharp breath. Its touch was cold. It was solid. It had form.
Power. The ancient thing inside her recognized this darkness, the very substance of the universe. It was Nikolai and it was not.
“You would still be my king,” she said, as the demon stroked its fingers down her cheek to her throat. “I know who you are.”
Was it the monster touching her or was it her king? Was there a difference anymore? The fire crackled in the stillness of the room, the silence of the palace surrounding them, the heavy blanket of night.
The demon closed its talons over the ribbon in her hair and tugged. It slid loose, fluttering to the floor. Slowly, it withdrew its hand. Did she imagine its regret?
The thing melted back into Nikolai’s body, as if his shadow had come to meet him.
Zoya released an unsteady breath. “I think I may need another drink.” Nikolai offered her his glass and she tossed back the remaining brandy. He was watching her closely. She saw him flex the fingers of his hand, as if it really had been him touching her. “How long have you been able to … do that?”
“Since the Fold.”
“Another,” Zoya said, holding out the glass. He poured. She downed it. “And you really think that it’s worth attempting to find these monks so we can raise the thorn wood?”
“I do.”
“I don’t know,” said Zoya. “This stunt to see Alina. It feels like he’s stalling. Or he has some other plan.”
“I’m sure he does. But we need to find a way to stop the spread of this blight. If the Fjerdans weren’t breathing down our necks, if the wedding weren’t right around the corner, we might try to master this phenomenon without him. We’d let loose David and every scholar we have on this problem. But David’s mind must remain on the work of winning the war. We need the Darkling now, just as I knew we would.”
“Alina gave up her power to defeat him. She’ll probably want to murder both of us for managing to bring him back.”
Nikolai gave a rueful laugh. “The worst part is I don’t think she would have fallen for his scheme. She would have taken one look at Elizaveta and turned right back around. Orphans, you know. Very wily.”
Zoya contemplated another glass of brandy, but she didn’t want to make herself ill.
“We can’t bring her here, not with all the guests arriving. And there’s no way I’m letting him near Keramzin.”
“We’ll need a secure location. Isolated. And plenty of Sun Soldiers on hand.”
“Not good enough. If Alina agrees, I’ll take him to see her myself. I’ll find whatever we need to raise the thorn wood.”
Nikolai paused with his hand on the bottle. “The wedding is in less than two weeks. I … I need you here.”
Zoya studied her empty glass, turning it clockwise, counterclockwise. “It would be better if I wasn’t here. The rumors about us … No doubt Queen Makhi has heard them. My presence would only complicate things.” That was some part of the truth. “Besides, do you trust anyone else to travel with him? To contain him if things go wrong?”
“I could go with you. At least part of the way.”
“No. We need a king, not an adventurer. Your work is here. With Princess Ehri. Talk to her. Build the bond between you. We need her trust.”
“You say that as if earning her trust will be easy.”
“Her injuries could be a boon. Sit by her side dutifully. Read her stories, or have Tolya pick some poetry.”
Nikolai shook his head. “All Saints, you’re callous. She was almost burned alive.”
“I know. But I’m also right. The Darkling knew how to use the people around him.”
“And are we to behave as he did?”
Zoya’s laugh sounded brittle to her ears. “A king with a demon inside him. A monk with the Darkling inside him. A general with a dragon inside her. We’re all monsters now, Nikolai.” She pushed her glass aside. It was time to say good night. She moved toward the door.
“Zoya,” Nikolai said. “War can make it hard to remember who you are. Let’s not forget the human parts of ourselves.”
Rule of Wolves Page 13
