Rule of Wolves

by Leigh Bardugo

  He has no power, she had to keep reminding herself. And she knew he was just as uneasy as she was. The expression on his face when the airship had taken off would give her joy for the rest of her life.

  “Where is she?” he repeated, his gray quartz eyes glinting in the gloom. “You might as well tell me now.”

  “How is it you don’t know?” asked Zoya. “Your dear Sankta Elizaveta was nearly omniscient.”

  The Darkling studied the closed shade as if there was a view to behold. “She wouldn’t tell me.”

  Zoya didn’t bother to stifle her pleasure. “A jealous Saint. Who knew? I’ll tell you about the meeting after you tell me about the thorn wood. Is this monastery you spoke of real?”

  “It is.”

  “But there’s some kind of catch, isn’t there?”

  “It’s possible that it’s located in the Sikurzoi.”

  The mountains that ran along the Ravkan border with Shu Han. The lower hills were crawling with patrols of Shu soldiers, and the rocky terrain beyond would be hard to traverse. But Tamar would find a way to get them where they needed to be. “An inconvenient obstacle, but hardly an insurmountable one.”

  “It’s also possible the path to this particular monastery was blocked by a landslide nearly three hundred years ago, and only the monks know the way through.”

  “Then we’ll simply go over it.”

  “It’s also possible no one has spoken to or heard from these monks for another three hundred years before that.”

  “Saints’ blood,” she swore. “You have no idea if these monks have thorn-wood seeds.”

  “I know they had them.”

  “You don’t even know if they really exist!”

  “Perhaps it’s a matter of faith. Are you thinking of killing me, Zoya?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your king wouldn’t be pleased.”

  “I’m not going to do it,” she lied. “I just enjoy thinking about it. It’s soothing, like humming myself a little melody. Besides, death is too good for you.”

  “Is it?” He sounded almost curious. “What would make my atonement complete? An eternity of torture?”

  “It would be a start. Though letting you live a long life without your power isn’t a bad beginning either.”

  Now his face went cold. “Make no mistake, Zoya Nazyalensky. I did not live a hundred lives, die, and return to this earth, to live as an ordinary man. I will find a path back to my power. One way or another, I’ll cast out the remainders of Yuri’s soul. But the obisbaya is your king’s only chance to be free of his demon and for the world to be free of the Fold.” He leaned back against the seat. “I hear tell there was an attempt on your life.”

  Damn it. Which guards had been talking? What had he over- heard?

  “The more powerful you become, the more enemies you acquire,” he said. “And the Apparat is not a good enemy to have.”

  “How do you know the Apparat was behind the attack?” They’d gotten little information from the assassin, but he was definitely one of the Apparat’s Priestguard. Zoya suspected the Apparat cared less about people calling her a Saint—though that was disconcerting enough—and more about eliminating her to weaken Ravka’s forces. His zealot followers had been happy to make the attempt.

  A smug smile touched the Darkling’s mouth. “After hundreds of years, one becomes a very good guesser. The Apparat wants Saints he can control. A weak girl, or better yet a dead one. This assassination was meant to be your martyrdom.”

  “I’m no Saint. I’m a soldier.”

  He tried to spread his hands, the chains at his wrists clanking. “And yet, do we not make miracles?”

  “Yuri really is still in there, prattling on, isn’t he?” This journey already felt interminable. “I’m not in the business of miracles. I practice the Small Science.”

  “You know as well as I that the line between Saint and Grisha was once blurred. It was a time of miracles. Maybe that time has come again.”

  Zoya wanted nothing to do with it. “And when one of the Apparat’s assassins slips through my guard or a Fjerdan bullet lodges in my heart, will I be resurrected like Grigori? Like Elizaveta? Like you?”

  “Are you so very sure you can be killed at all?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The power that I possess, that Elizaveta and Grigori and Juris possessed, that now crackles through your veins, is not so easily wiped from the world. You can strike a bird from the sky. It’s far harder to vanquish the sky itself. Only our own power can destroy us, and even then it’s not a sure thing.”

  “And your mother?”

  The Darkling’s gaze slid back to the covered window. “Let us not speak of the past.”

  She had been Zoya’s teacher, feared and beloved, powerful beyond measure. “I watched her throw herself from a mountaintop. She sacrificed herself to stop you. Was that her martyrdom?”

  The Darkling said nothing. Zoya couldn’t stop herself.

  “Grigori was eaten by a bear. Elizaveta was drawn and quartered. Still they returned. There are stories whispered in the Elbjen mountains of the Dark Mother. She crowds in when the nights grow long. She steals the heat from kitchen fires.”

  “Liar.”

  “Maybe. We all have stories to tell.”

  Zoya pulled up the shade, then lowered her window, inhaling the cold winter air.

  The woods were thick with snow, the branches of the birch trees glittering with frost.

  She felt something in her stir, as if waking, as if whatever was inside her had also lifted its head to breathe deeply of the pines. These woods should have felt barren, maybe even sinister with their long shadows, but instead …

  “Do you feel it?” the Darkling asked. “The world is more alive here.”

  “Be silent.”

  She didn’t want to share this with him. It was winter but she could still hear birdsong, the rustle of small creatures in the brush. She saw the tracks of a hare through the white drifts of snow.

  She reached over and raised the shade on the Darkling’s side. From this vantage, they could see a low hill and the abandoned sanatorium.

  “What is that place?” the Darkling asked.

  “It was a duke’s dacha long ago. The hill was covered in his vineyards. Then it became a quarantine house during an outbreak of the wasting plague. They dug up the vines to bury the bodies. When the quarantine ended, the duke was dead and no one wanted the property. They said it was cursed. It seemed just the right spot for this wretched endeavor.”

  The sanatorium was miles from any real village or town and had long been rumored to be haunted. They wouldn’t have to worry about unwanted visitors.

  As they watched, a coach pulled up and three figures emerged—a man, a young boy accompanied by an orange cat that bolted for the trees, and a small, slender woman, her hair long and white as the first snowfall. She tilted her face up to the sky, as if letting the winter light pour through her. Alina Starkov, the Sun Saint.

  Is she afraid? Zoya wondered. Eager? Angry? She felt the dragon stir as if called. No. She didn’t want to feel what Alina was feeling. Her own emotions were enough of a burden. Mal placed a shawl around Alina’s shoulders, wrapping his arms around her as they looked out over the old vineyard.

  “Charming.”

  Zoya studied the Darkling’s face. “You can sneer, but I see your hunger.”

  “For the life of an otkazat’sya?”

  “For a life of the kind you and I have never known and will never know—quiet, peace, the surety of love.”

  “There is nothing sure about love. Do you think love will protect you when the Fjerdans come to capture the Stormwitch?”

  She didn’t. But maybe she wanted to believe there was more to life than fear and being feared.

  She yanked down the shade and tapped the roof. The coach traveled on, up the cramped cart track in slow switchbacks. At last, they rattled to a stop.

  “Stay here,” she said, hook
ing his shackles to the seat.

  She descended from the coach, closing the door behind her. Mal and Alina stood on the sanatorium’s stairs, but when Alina saw Zoya, she smiled and raced down the steps with arms open. Zoya blinked away an embarrassing prickle of tears. She hadn’t known how Alina might greet her, given the circumstances. She let herself be hugged. As always, Ravka’s Saint smelled of paint and pine.

  “Is he in there?” Alina asked.

  “He is.”

  “You bring me the worst gifts.”

  The tabby had returned from its sojourn and was twining through Misha’s legs. It padded over to Zoya. “Hello, Oncat,” she murmured, hefting the cat into her arms and feeling the comforting rumble of its purr.

  Misha said nothing, just watched, his young face tense. He was only eleven years old, but he’d seen tragedy enough for ten lifetimes.

  “Are you ready?” she asked Alina.

  “Not at all. Couldn’t we have met someplace slightly less … nightmare-inducing?”

  “Believe me, I’d rather be in a plush hotel in Os Kervo sipping a glass of wine.”

  “It’s not so bad,” said Mal. “We don’t get out much.”

  “Just for the occasional hunting trip?” asked Zoya.

  Noblemen loved to hunt on the lands around Keramzin, and in the company of two humble peasants, they often drank and gossiped and talked matters of state. Alina and Mal had turned the orphanage into a way station for intelligence gathering.

  The Sun Soldiers had fanned out to surround the sanatorium and create a perimeter. Now a young soldier with sun tattoos on both of her forearms emerged from the building.

  She bowed to Zoya but paid little attention to the girl with the shawl tucked around her head. As far as these soldiers and everyone in Ravka knew, Alina Starkov had died on the Shadow Fold.

  “There’s water damage throughout, so we’ve placed chairs in the entry.”

  Zoya set down Oncat. “There’s hot tea?”

  The soldier nodded. Alina cut Zoya a glance, and she shrugged. If they had to endure the Darkling, they could at least be civilized about it.

  “Keep eyes on the door,” Zoya commanded. “If you hear anything out of the ordinary—anything at all—do not wait for my orders.”

  “I’ve guarded him in the sun cell,” the tattooed soldier said. “He seems harmless enough.”

  “I didn’t ask for an assessment of the threat,” Zoya bit out. “Stay alert, and respond with deadly force. If he gets free, we won’t have a second shot at him, understood?”

  The soldier nodded, and Zoya dismissed her with a disgusted flick of her hand.

  “Still making friends?” Alina said with a laugh.

  “These children are going to get themselves and us killed.”

  Mal smiled. “Are you nervous, Zoya?”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  He turned to Alina. “She’s nervous.”

  “You’re not?” asked Alina.

  “Oh, I’m terrified, but I didn’t expect Zoya to be.”

  Alina yanked her shawl tighter. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Zoya strode to the coach and ducked inside. She unhooked the Darkling’s shackles from the seat and drew the blindfold back over his eyes.

  “Is that strictly necessary?”

  “Probably not,” she admitted. “Behave yourself.”

  Flanked by Sun Soldiers, she led him across the yard and up the stairs.

  “Wipe your feet,” Alina said.

  He stilled at the sound of her voice, then obeyed.

  Zoya met her eyes and Alina winked. Any little victory.

  It was colder inside than out, the sanatorium’s battered marble floors and broken windows providing little insulation. The entry had once been a grand receiving room, with double staircases that led to the east and west wings. But now one of those staircases had buckled from rot. A shattered chandelier lay on its side in the corner, beside heaps of dust and glass the Sun Soldiers had swept up. Old medical equipment was propped against the walls—the twisted frame of a cot, a rusty metal tub, what might have been leather straps for restraining patients.

  Zoya stifled a shudder. That cozy hotel was sounding better and better. A table had been set with a samovar and glasses at the center of the room. Four chairs surrounded it. Zoya hadn’t known Misha was coming.

  Two Sun Soldiers led the Darkling to a chair, his shackles jangling. They had no idea they were in Alina Starkov’s presence, that their power had come from her loss.

  Zoya gestured for them to take up positions at the base of the steps. She didn’t want anyone to overhear their conversation. There were already soldiers posted outside every exit point, and high above, she heard the distant but comforting sound of engines. She had requisitioned two of Nikolai’s armed flyers to patrol the skies.

  When they were alone, Alina sat and said, “Misha, will you pour the tea?”

  “For him too?” Misha asked.

  “Yes.”

  The boy complied, setting the glasses in their little metal frames neatly on the table.

  “I’ll get my own,” said Zoya. She was particular about sugar, and she needed a moment to take in this peculiar scene. It was strange that after so much pain and sacrifice, they should all meet again in this abandoned place.

  The room fell silent. Oncat meowed plaintively.

  “Where do we start?” Mal asked.

  “You do the honors,” said Alina.

  Mal crossed the room and yanked the blindfold away. The Darkling didn’t blink, didn’t reorient himself, merely looked around the room as if assessing a property he might like to purchase.

  “You didn’t bring me to Keramzin,” he said.

  Alina went very still. They all did. Zoya knew the shock of this. The Darkling’s face was different—the sharp bones were there, the glimmering gray eyes, but its shape was slightly altered, the scars once given to him by the volcra gone. His voice, though—that cool glass voice of command—was the same.

  “No,” said Alina. “I didn’t want you in my home.”

  “But I’ve been there before.”

  Alina’s face hardened. “I remember.”

  “Do you remember me?” asked Misha. He was too young to hide his hatred with polite talk.

  The Darkling raised a brow. “Should I?”

  “I took care of your mother,” said Misha. “But my mother was murdered by your monsters.”

  “As was mine. In the end.”

  “They say you’re a Saint now,” Misha spat.

  “And what do you say, boy?”

  “I say they should let me kill you myself.”

  “Many have tried before. Do you think you could manage it?”

  Mal laid a hand on Misha’s shoulder. “Leave it be, Misha. Threatening him only makes him feel important.”

  “What do we call you now?” asked Alina. “What does anyone call you?”

  “I’ve had a thousand names. You’d think it wouldn’t matter. But Yuri doesn’t suit me at all.” He peered at her. “You look different.”

  “I’m happy. You never really saw me that way.”

  “Living in obscurity.”

  “In peace. We chose the life we wanted.”

  “Is it the life you’d have chosen if you hadn’t sacrificed your power?”

  “I didn’t sacrifice my power. It was taken from me because I fell prey to the same greed that drove you. I paid the price for tampering with merzost. Just as you once did.”

  “And does that make your grief any less?”

  “No. But every child I help heals something inside me, every chance I have to tend to someone left in the wake of your wars. And maybe when our country is free, then that wound will close.”

  “I doubt it. You might have ruled a nation.”

  “It’s amazing,” said Mal, settling in a chair and stretching out his legs. “You died.” He turned his gaze on Alina. “And you pretended to die. But you both picked up right where you left o
ff. Same argument, different day.”

  Alina jabbed him in the thigh. “It’s very rude to make accurate observations.”

  The Darkling’s gray eyes studied Mal with more interest than he’d ever shown before.

  “I understand we’re blood related.”

  Mal shrugged. “We all have relatives we don’t like.”

  “Do you, orphan?”

  Mal’s laugh was real and surprisingly warm. “He says it like it’s an insult. You’re rusty, old man.”

  “Alina’s blade wrapped in my shadows and your blood.” The Darkling’s voice was thoughtful, like he was remembering a favorite recipe. “That was how you almost ended me. Barely more than children and you came closer to killing me than anyone had before.”

  “Not close enough,” Misha growled.

  “You dragged us out to this miserable place,” said Alina. “What is it you want now?”

  “What I have always wanted, to make a safe place for the Grisha.”

  “Do you think you could manage it?” she asked, echoing the Darkling’s taunt to Misha. “It’s not like you didn’t get a fair try before. Hundreds of tries.”

  “If not me, then who?”

  “Nikolai Lantsov. Zoya Nazyalensky.”

  “Two monsters, more unnatural than anything either Morozova or I ever created.”

  Zoya’s brows rose at that. Being called a monster by a monster somehow felt like a badge of honor.

  “I’m pretty sure I’m talking to a dead man,” said Alina. “So maybe this isn’t the time to throw stones.”

  The Darkling’s shackles clinked. “They are children, barely able to understand themselves or this world. I am—”

  “Yes, we know, eternal. But right now, you’re a man without a scrap of power sitting in a house full of ghosts. Zoya has been fighting for years to keep the Grisha safe. She rebuilt the Second Army from the tatters you left behind. Nikolai has unified the First and Second Armies in a way never seen in Ravka’s history. And what about the innovations of Genya Safin and David Kostyk?”

  Zoya stirred her tea, afraid to show how much Alina’s words meant to her. After the war, she had begun her journey as a member of Alina’s chosen Triumvirate, unplagued by hesitation. She’d thought she was born to lead. But through time, and trial, and failure, doubt had crept in.