Nikolai applauded heartily, then watched as Tolya’s golden eyes met Queen Makhi’s furious gaze. The giant’s grin faded. He had given up his twin to thwart Makhi, and he did not look ready to forgive the sacrifice. As the wedding party passed, he whispered something in Shu that made Makhi practically snarl.
She regained her composure as they exited the chapel behind the happy couple. Surrounded once more by their guards and trailed by the bewildered Shu ministers, Nikolai and Makhi passed back into the woods on the path that would lead them to the Grand Palace. Nikolai paused there, beneath the trees. The sky was a hard gray. It looked like it might snow.
“What is it you want?” the queen inquired. “My sister has never sought the crown, and she is incapable of ruling.”
“I want a treaty, sealing the peace between Shu Han and Ravka and agreeing to the current border at Dva Stolba. Any act of war against Ravka will be considered an act of war against the Shu as well. And you will guarantee the rights of all Grisha.”
“The rights of…?”
Zoya and Tamar had worked to fashion the wording of the treaty themselves.
“You will close your secret bases where Grisha are being drugged to death in order to create khergud soldiers. You will stop the conscription of innocent people into these programs. You will guarantee the rights of Grisha among your citizens.”
“The khergud are a myth, anti-Shu propaganda. If—”
“We are not negotiating, Your Highness.”
“I could kill you where you stand. Your guards are no match for my Tavgharad.”
“Are you so sure?” said Tolya, coming up behind them. “My father once trained the Tavgharad. He taught me too.”
“It would certainly make for a lively reception,” said Nikolai.
Queen Makhi’s lips curled into a sneer. “I know well who your father was, Tolya Yul-Bataar. It seems treason is thick in your blood.”
Tolya’s voice was forged steel, the edge honed by years of anger. “Mayu Kir-Kaat and her brother will be brought back together. You will never separate kebben again.”
“You dare to command a Taban queen?”
“I have no queen, no king, and no country,” said Tolya. “I have only ever had what I believe.”
“Queen Makhi,” said Nikolai quietly, “please understand, I know that you will use all of your considerable cunning to maneuver back into power as soon as you return. But the intelligence Tamar’s sources have gathered, Mayu’s testimony, and Princess Ehri’s damnable popularity will not be easily denied. It isn’t Ravka’s place to decide who should rule Shu Han, and you said yourself that Ehri doesn’t want the crown. But if you don’t abide by the terms of our treaty, she’ll have the support she needs to take it.”
“There will be a civil war.”
“I know what that can do to a country, but you have the power to prevent it. Sign the treaty. Close the laboratories. It’s that simple. I will not have my Grisha hunted any longer, and we will be amicable neighbors if not friends.”
“Ehri would be a better puppet queen for Ravka than I.”
“She would. But I have no wish to be a puppeteer. It’s hard enough to rule one country, and a strong Shu Han allied with Ravka is the best possible deterrent to Fjerda’s ambitions.”
“I will consider it.”
“That’s not agreement,” said Tolya.
“It’s a beginning,” said Nikolai. “Dine with us. Do us that honor. Then we’ll have a look at the treaty.”
Makhi sniffed. “I hope your chef is more skilled than your architects.”
“And I hope you enjoy aspic.”
Nikolai’s gaze met Tolya’s as they followed Makhi back toward the palace. Tolya had risked his sister’s life to make this mission happen. Nadia had given up her wife’s presence in a time of war. Tamar, Mayu, and Ehri had all put their lives on the line for the opportunity to finally fashion an alliance with the Shu and change the world forever for Grisha. It was a wild leap, an audacious one, but they had agreed they were willing to take the risk for a chance at a different future.
“I don’t know when I may see my sister again,” said Tolya as they walked to dinner. “It’s a strange feeling.”
“There’s no one else I would have trusted with such a challenge. But I feel her absence too. Now tell me what you whispered to Queen Makhi in the chapel.”
“You should learn to speak Shu.”
“I was thinking of taking up Suli.”
Suddenly, the demon inside Nikolai howled, rearing up like a feral beast, struggling to break free. Nikolai caught a glimpse of an empty foyer, an overturned samovar, a woman’s stunned face—Alina. It all vanished in a wash of darkness. Nikolai forced himself to breathe and yanked hard on the leash that had bound him and the demon since the obisbaya. He felt his feet in his boots, saw the branches overhead, heard the comforting murmur of chatter from the wedding guests.
“What’s wrong?” said Tolya, placing a steadying hand at Nikolai’s elbow.
“I’m not sure.” Nikolai took another breath, feeling the demon snap and screech at the end of its tether. All he needed was for the monster to escape in front of half of Ravka’s nobility and the Shu. “Have we had any word from Zoya?”
“Not yet.”
Was what he’d seen real or imagined? Was Zoya in trouble? “They should be done at the sanatorium by now. Let’s send riders to intercept and lend support. Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“Bandits. Brigands. A bad case of hay fever.” In case I sent my general into some kind of ambush. “But what did you say to the queen?”
“It’s a line from ‘The Song of the Stag’ by Ni Yul-Mahn.”
Now Nikolai understood the queen’s reaction. “The poem Makhi used to order the deaths of Ehri and her Tavgharad?”
“That’s right,” said Tolya. His eyes gleamed like coins in the last of the afternoon sun. “‘Let the hounds give chase. I do not fear death, because I command it.’”
16
NINA
TWO DAYS AFTER THE SALON where they’d met Demidov, Nina and Hanne dressed for the royal hunt, Hanne in dark green wool lined in golden fur, and Nina in slate gray. But they made sure to leave their heavy coats at home.
They took the long way to the glass bridge so that Nina could pass through the gardens, skirting the colonnade where Djel’s sacred ash had once stood, now replaced by a stone copy, its white branches spread over the courtyard in a wide canopy. They would never bloom.
“Enke Jandersdat,” the gardener said when he caught sight of her. “I have that distillation of roses you asked for.”
“How kind you are!” Nina exclaimed, taking the tiny bottle from him, along with a second, smaller vial tucked behind it. She slid both into her pocket.
The gardener smiled and returned to trimming the hedges, a tattoo of a thorn-wood tree barely visible on his left wrist, a secret emblem of Sankt Feliks.
A groom was waiting outside the ringwall with two horses. Nina and Hanne were both uncomfortable riding sidesaddle, but Hanne was too good an athlete to be thwarted. Besides, they weren’t really meant to ride, just journey out to the royal camp to join Prince Rasmus and Joran in the tents erected for the hunt.
The main tent was as big as a cathedral, draped with silks and heated by coals placed in silver braziers hung from tripods. Food and drink had been laid out on long tables at one side, and on the other, noblemen chatted in comfortable chairs heaped with skins and blankets.
The prince was dressed to ride in breeches and boots, his blue velvet coat lined with fur.
“You’ll join the hunt today, Your Majesty?” Hanne asked as they sat on low benches near the smoldering coals.
“I will,” said Rasmus eagerly. “I’m not much of a shot, but I’ll manage. This is the only event of Heartwood that everyone enjoys.”
“I doubt the stag is fond of it,” said Hanne.
“You don’t like seeing your men go off to slay wild beasts?”
“Not for sport.”
“We must take our enjoyment while we can. Soon we’ll be at war, and we’ll have nothing for entertainment but the killing of Ravkans.”
Hanne met Nina’s glance and asked, “Aren’t we still in talks with Ravka?”
“Your father isn’t much for talking. If he had his way, I think we’d be at war forever.”
“Surely not forever,” said Nina.
“What good is a military commander without a war to fight?”
Rasmus was no fool.
“But it’s not up to Jarl Brum to choose for Fjerda,” Nina said. “That is the role of the king. That choice is for you.”
Rasmus was quiet as he looked at the horses gathering beyond the entry of the tent.
“What would you choose?” Hanne asked softly.
The prince’s smile was more like a grimace. “Men like me aren’t suited to war.”
But that wasn’t entirely true. Not anymore. Rasmus would never be tall among Fjerdans, but now that he stood straight, he could look Hanne directly in the eye. He’d lost the grim pallor that had made him resemble a corpse left out in the cold, and he was sturdy if not strong.
“There is more to life than war,” offered Nina.
“Not in the Grimjer line. The Fjerdan throne belongs to those strong enough to seize it and keep it. And there’s no denying the Grisha are a menace and always will be until their kind are eradicated.”
“And what of the people who think the Grisha are Saints?” Joran asked, his face troubled. Nina was surprised. The bodyguard rarely joined their conversations.
Prince Rasmus waved his hand. “A passing fad. A few radicals.”
We’ll see about that. There was poison at the heart of Fjerda. Nina was going to change its chemistry.
She spotted Queen Agathe holding court at the far side of the tent. There was no way Nina would be allowed close enough to speak to her, but she didn’t think she would have to be the one to make the approach.
She caught Hanne’s eye, and Hanne said, “Mila, will you fetch us some ribbons to braid and some ash? We will make you a token to wear on the hunt, Prince Rasmus. A Grimjer wolf for one who is made for war, but chooses not to wage it.”
“What an odd sentimental thing you are,” Rasmus said, but he made no protest.
Nina rose and crossed slowly to the table of ribbons and ash boughs, making sure Agathe saw her.
“I wish to make a token,” she heard the queen say, then, “No, I’ll select the materials myself.”
A moment later Queen Agathe was beside her.
“My son grows stronger every day,” she whispered.
“Such is the will of Djel,” said Nina. “For now.”
The queen’s hand stilled over a spool of red ribbon. “For now?”
“The Wellspring does not like this talk of war.”
“What do you mean? Djel is a warrior. Like the water, he conquers all in his path.”
“Have you said your prayers?”
“Every day!” the queen cried, her voice rising dangerously. She caught herself. “Every night,” she whispered. “I have worn my dresses bare, kneeling on the floor of the chapel.”
“You pray to Djel,” Nina said.
“Of course.”
Nina took a leap, a leap that might end with her body broken from the fall. Or her vision might take flight. “But what of his children?” she murmured, and, arms full of ribbons and ash, she hurried back to Hanne and the prince.
A horn sounded: the call to the hunt. Rasmus rose, pulling on his gloves. “You’ll have no time to make me a token,” he said. “The riders are ready.”
“Then we can only wish you good fortune,” said Nina as she and Hanne both curtsied.
Rasmus and Joran headed out of the tent, and Nina and Hanne followed to see them off. But before they’d reached the group of riders, the queen’s voice rang out. “I would have you with me to watch the hunt, Rasmus.”
She stood at the dais that had been erected for that purpose. Her younger son was there, along with her ladies-in-waiting.
A hush fell in the camp. Someone snickered. Brum and Redvin were with the riders. Nina could see the contempt on both of their faces.
“Yes,” tittered someone under her breath. “Go sit with the children and the women.”
Did the queen understand the insult she was dealing her son? No, thought Nina guiltily, she’s too afraid for him. Probably because Nina had reminded her of her son’s mortality.
Rasmus stood rooted to the spot, unable to deny the queen but knowing the blow his reputation would take.
“Your safety is our highest priority,” said Brum, a smile playing over his lips.
Rasmus was trapped. He executed a short, sharp bow. “Of course. I’ll join you momentarily, Mother.”
He strode to one of the smaller tents with Joran in tow. Hesitantly, Hanne and Nina followed.
The tent was full of saddles and crops and other tack, the smell of leather sweet in the air. Rasmus stood with his back to them.
“It seems I had no reason to put my riding clothes on today,” he said without looking at them. “I could have worn silk and lace like the ladies.”
“We could return to the palace,” suggested Hanne.
“No, we could not. My mother has requested my presence and she will have it. Besides, I can’t be seen running off. Do you still think I will be the one to choose Fjerda’s path?”
“It’s only love that makes her act so,” said Hanne. “She’s afraid—”
“Hanne feels sorry for me.” Prince Rasmus turned. “You do too, don’t you, Mila? But Joran doesn’t. Joran doesn’t feel anything. Let’s test it. Come here, Joran.”
“Is anyone hungry?” Hanne said nervously. “Perhaps we could call for food.”
“I could eat,” Nina said.
Joran didn’t look nervous as he approached the prince. If there was any expression on his studiously blank face, it was resignation. Whatever this is, it’s happened before, Nina realized.
“Do you feel anything, Joran?” asked the prince.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Like what?”
“Pride,” said Joran. “Regret.”
“Pain?”
“Of course.”
“But you don’t show it.”
Before the guard could answer, the prince lifted a crop and smacked Joran hard across the face, the sound like a branch snapping on a cold morning.
Shock reverberated through Nina as if the blow had struck her own cheek.
Hanne lunged forward. “Your Highness!”
But the prince ignored her. His gaze was fixed on Joran as if the young guard was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. He hauled back the crop.
“Don’t!” cried Nina.
The prince struck Joran again.
Joran didn’t flinch, but Nina could see two angry red welts on the guard’s cheek.
“Does it hurt?” the prince asked. His voice was eager, like someone watching a friend swallow a spoonful of custard and asking, Is it good?
Joran held the prince’s gaze. “It does.”
The prince held out the crop. “Hit me, Joran.”
Joran did nothing. He wouldn’t fight back, wouldn’t stop the prince, because it was his sacred duty to serve Rasmus, because to strike a prince was a death sentence. Rasmus had been snide, petulant, even spiteful—but this was something deep and ugly. It was Fjerda’s poison in his veins.
The crop made a whoosh as it cut through the air again, then smacked against Joran’s cheek.
“Go get your father,” Nina whispered to Hanne. “Hurry.”
Hanne bolted from the tent, but Rasmus didn’t seem to notice.
“Hit me,” the prince demanded. He giggled, a bright, happy sound. “He wants to, my god how he wants to. Now Joran feels something. He feels rage. Don’t you, Joran?”
“No, Your Highness.”
But there was anger in Joran’s eyes; sh
ame too. Prince Rasmus had made the exchange. He’d traded his humiliation for Joran’s. The guard’s cheek was bleeding.
Was this who the crown prince really was? She had thought he was a sickly boy with a good heart. Curse all the Saints, maybe she’d wanted to believe he was like Matthias. Another boy brutalized by Fjerda’s traditions and Brum’s hate. But Matthias had never been cruel. Nothing had been able to corrupt the honor in his mighty heart.
“Brum is coming,” Nina said, her voice low. She couldn’t afford to compromise her cover, but she couldn’t let this go on. “You will not want him to find you with a crop in your hand.”
Rasmus’ glance was speculative, as if he was wondering what might happen if Brum confronted him. Joran was Brum’s drüskelle. But Rasmus was a prince.
Then it was as if a spell had broken. He shrugged and tossed the crop aside. “I’m going to join my mother. Clean yourself up,” he told Joran.
He strode past Nina as if nothing had happened. “Tell Hanne I expect to see her at the ball later.”
“Joran,” Nina began when the prince had gone.
He had taken out a handkerchief and pressed it to his cheek. “Don’t let Commander Brum see me this way,” he said.
“But—”
“It will only make trouble for the commander. For everyone. I’ll be fine. Please.”
He remained composed, a soldier, but his blue eyes were pleading.
“All right,” she said.
She turned her back on him and left the tent, scanning the crowd. She caught sight of Hanne speaking to Brum.
Nina hurried to her side and heard Brum say, “You must tell me what has upset you. I’m needed at—”
“Papa, please, if you would just come with me.”
“It’s fine,” said Nina, smiling. “All is well.” Both Hanne and Brum looked baffled. “I … I was feeling poorly, but now I’m right as rain.”
“Is that all?” asked Brum.
“Yes, and I…” This wasn’t the approach she’d intended to make, but there was nothing to do but forge ahead. “I had hoped you might bring your wolves out for the hunt?”
“The isenulf? They’re not made for such silly pursuits. Perhaps if we were hunting fox.”
Rule of Wolves Page 20
