Rule of Wolves

by Leigh Bardugo

  “The Wellmother’s warm and loving disposition?”

  A smile quirked Hanne’s lips, and Nina felt a rush of relief. She could feel the pain radiating from her and she didn’t understand why.

  “No mirrors,” Hanne said. “We weren’t meant to be vain or care about our appearance. But this house? I feel like there’s a mirror on every wall.”

  “Hanne—”

  “Don’t say I look beautiful. Please.”

  “Okay, but don’t cry,” Nina said helplessly. She brushed a tear from Hanne’s cheek with her thumb. “You’ll be blotchy for the party.”

  “Cry?” said Ylva, bustling through the doorway. “Is something wrong?”

  Nina and Hanne jumped at the sound of her voice, and Nina felt a flush heat her face, as if she’d been caught at something.

  Hanne mustered a smile and said, “I don’t think Papa is going to approve of this gown.”

  “Heartwood is not about your father’s approval,” Ylva said, beaming. “You will be the talk of the ball, and that can only be good for securing a husband.”

  Saints, Nina couldn’t stand those words. They’d been playing a game with Heartwood and it hadn’t been without its victories, but what would the end of it mean for Hanne?

  They gathered their wraps and joined Ylva to wend their way to the palace. Brum was nowhere to be seen, and Nina wondered if he was hunting Magnus Opjer or if Fjerda’s royal family even knew that their most valuable prisoner was missing.

  The ball was held in the same cavernous room where they’d first met the prince, but the place was nearly unrecognizable. White trumpet lilies crowded every surface, wound around columns, twined in chandeliers, their petals spread like bursts of fireworks, their sweet scent thick in the air. Nina felt like she was walking through a tide of honey. Had these flowers simply come from Fjerdan hothouses or had Grisha power made them bloom?

  Musicians played, and the buzz of laughter and talk rose and fell in giddy waves. It was as if no one cared a war was looming. No, she realized, it’s that they’re not afraid. They know they’re going to win. The king and queen sat their thrones, watching the proceedings with impassive faces. Nina saw prayer beads clutched in the queen’s left hand.

  At the center of the room, above the fountain consecrated to Djel, hung a huge wreath of lilies and green ash boughs. This was life in winter, the Wellspring as the father of renewal, the flowers symbolizing fertility. Nina glanced at Hanne, at the other girls who had been presented at Heartwood, all displayed in their finery, blossoms in their hair. This was the last moment of their girlhood, before they were expected to become wives and mothers.

  “They’re eager,” she said, more than a little surprised.

  Hanne’s eyes roamed over the girls—some talking, others standing nervously beside their mothers or chaperones, trying to keep from mussing their hair in the heat of the ballroom. “They want to make their parents proud, stop being a burden on their families, manage households of their own.”

  “And you?” Nina asked.

  “Honestly?”

  “Of course.”

  Hanne cast her a single glance. “I want to throw you onto my horse and ride as fast and as far away from here as we can get. Not sidesaddle.”

  Before Nina could even think of a reply, Hanne was drifting toward the refreshments table.

  Nina watched the long line of her back. She had that same startled feeling she’d had when Joran discovered her in the drüskelle sector. Did Hanne mean it? Or had she just been joking? Nina set her hands on her hips. She damned well intended to ask. Because yes, she was a soldier and a spy and her duty belonged to Ravka, but … but the idea of riding into a new world with Hanne Brum was not a chance you just let slip by.

  No sooner was Nina at Hanne’s side than Joran appeared to take them to the prince. Ylva shooed them on their way with a happy smile and a wink. She was delighted at the attention her daughter had garnered from Prince Rasmus. Hanne and Nina had visited with him every day this week, and Hanne had begun to heal the prince aggressively. There were talks of an alliance forming between Fjerda and West Ravka to unseat Nikolai, and Nina had to hope that a healthy prince might dare to face Brum and finally assert himself as a king-to-be. If she just had a little more time, she might be able to turn both Rasmus and his mother toward peace.

  As for Joran, Nina knew that if he’d spoken a word to Jarl Brum, she would have long since been dragged away in chains. The prince’s guard gave no indication of what he’d seen or the conversation they’d shared.

  The crown prince had staked out an entire corner of the ballroom to himself beneath an arched alcove. The lilies were so heavy here it was as if they’d entered some kind of enchanted bower, and Rasmus looked every inch the fairy prince, lording over the caves of Istamere. His color was high, his shoulders straight. Quite a change from the week before, when he’d suddenly lost so much of his vigor. Nina almost felt guilty, but that feeling evaporated when she thought of the bombs that had fallen on Os Alta, when she remembered him striking Joran, that excited laugh escaping his lips. He held court amid a group of lords and ladies but had eyes only for Hanne as she approached.

  “All the works of Djel,” the prince exclaimed. “You look extraordinary, Hanne.”

  Hanne curtsied and smiled, any hint of wild rebellion, of galloping away from the Ice Court to freedom, gone. Despite her short hair and her scandalous gown, she radiated demure Fjerdan womanhood. What an actress she’d become. Nina hated it.

  “Go,” said Rasmus, waving his hand at the courtiers who had gathered around him. “I want no distraction from gazing at this marvelous creature.”

  The nobles left with a few knowing glances directed Hanne’s way, but they made no objections, accustomed to obeying the prince’s whims.

  “You look well too, Enke Jandersdat,” said Joran as Hanne and Nina settled on the low chairs before Rasmus.

  “Poor Joran,” said the prince. “Do you think I’ve been rude ignoring Mila in her cheap silver sparkles?” Joran’s cheeks flamed bright red, and Rasmus’ brows rose. “Has my loyal guard been struck by an infatuation? She’s too old for you, Joran, and you’re here to be my vicious bodyguard, not moon over a fishwife.”

  Nina gave a merry laugh. She didn’t care what the prince thought of her, and she understood that the remark about her gown was a jab at Brum, who had paid for it.

  “Now you are being unkind, Your Highness,” she said. “But I am happy to orbit Hanne’s sun. You’re looking very well yourself, if I may say so.”

  “You may—though you will make our friend Joran jealous. Perhaps you should pay him a compliment too.”

  Nina smiled at Joran. Your secret is safe with me. “You look slightly less stern tonight, Joran.”

  “Does he?” Prince Rasmus mused. “Maybe a bit around the forehead.”

  “It’s quite a crush tonight,” said Hanne. “I’ve never seen this ballroom so full.”

  “They all want to gawk at me, and I’m happy to let them. And of course, everyone wants to talk about the war.”

  “I see Vadik Demidov here, but not the Apparat,” said Nina.

  “Demidov is happiest at a party, eating someone else’s food and drinking someone else’s wine. As for the priest, he’s been most secretive lately. Your father isn’t happy about it. He wants my family to banish him back to Ravka or the underside of whatever rock will have him.”

  A glorious idea, thought Nina. The less she saw of the priest, the better.

  “And what will your family do?” Nina asked.

  Rasmus grimaced. “My mother has become strangely superstitious and won’t part with the priest. She’s in Djel’s chapel day and night.”

  I just bet. But Nina left it to Hanne to say, “Oh?”

  Rasmus lowered his voice and leaned in. “She doesn’t want to let Brum bomb any more civilian targets. She’s talking like some kind of peasant who claims to see the face of Djel in a loaf of bread. Saying that the spirits of the dea
d spoke to her and that Djel will make me sick again—just because I backslid a bit.”

  Hanne’s eyes dropped guiltily away and she touched her fingers to a spray of lilies in a silver vase.

  “Perhaps it’s superstition,” said Nina. “But if it was Brum’s choice to bomb the city, you could choose a new policy and show him you have other plans for Fjerda’s future.”

  “Interesting,” Rasmus said, assessing first Nina and then Hanne. “The fishwife has discovered politics. She’s criticizing your father’s strategies, Hanne. What do you think of that?”

  Hanne cocked her head to the side, considering. “I think strong men show strength, but great men show strength tempered by compassion.”

  Rasmus laughed. “You have a gift for diplomacy, Hanne Brum. And I do like taking a larger role in our military decisions. Though I can tell you our generals were most surprised to see me join their meetings.”

  That was good. At least Nina hoped so. Better than Brum. That’s all we need. Strength tempered by compassion. A prince who might choose peace over war if given the chance.

  “I’m glad you felt well enough to attend,” said Hanne.

  “I admit I enjoyed it. We spent most of the time discussing plans for a fascinating addition to our armory.”

  “A new weapon?” Nina asked. Were those the plans labeled Songbird she’d seen on Brum’s desk?

  “Something like that. But let’s not talk of war and stuffy commanders.”

  “It’s good for them to remember who will rule our country,” said Hanne.

  Rasmus sat a bit straighter, looking satisfied. “Yes. They should remember, much as some would like to forget. I’ll have you know I’ve danced three times already this night. You and I will have a dance later, Hanne. I cannot wait to shock the court with your dress.”

  “I’d be honored, Your Highness.”

  “Everyone says that. But it’s not always so. The court ladies used to suffer through their dances with me. I couldn’t keep up. I ended each dance wheezing. I was something to be endured, like a child’s piano recital.”

  Hanne’s expression was thoughtful. “I know that feeling well. Every time a soldier asked me to dance, I knew it was just an attempt to curry favor with my father. Each minute I spent with them, I could tell how anxious they were to be away from me.”

  “Because you were too tall, too strong. We are opposite sides of the mirror. Perhaps we should take to the floor now and truly make them talk.”

  Hanne laughed. “But they’re not playing music to dance to.”

  “If His Royal Highness wishes to dance, then they will.”

  He offered her his hand and Hanne took it, smiling. Nina felt something in her heart twist. Oh, that’s small of you, Zenik. It’s not as if you and Hanne could have had a future here. Hanne could talk of riding off somewhere, but that was just nerves speaking, the prospect of facing down another party, another night of idle small talk. She wouldn’t abandon Fjerda and Nina wouldn’t abandon Ravka. And when Nina’s mission was complete? She certainly wasn’t going to remain in this simpering disguise at the Fjerdan court.

  Nina watched Hanne and Prince Rasmus drift into the sea of bodies as the musicians struck up a swaying rhythm. She loved to dance and she was good at it. Or she had been. She hadn’t been free to dance for a long time—or sing, or behave as she wished. Be glad for Hanne. Be glad for both of them. She bit her lip. She was trying, damn it. Around Hanne, Rasmus’ bitterness lost its edge; Nina could see the glimmer of the man he might become if they could drain him of Fjerda’s poison, of the demands it placed on its rulers and its men. And Hanne? It was easy to see what she’d sacrificed to become a girl who might garner the interest of a prince, but what had she gained? She’d spent her whole life being excluded. She didn’t look like the delicate beauties of the court. She and Rasmus stood eye to eye, evenly matched in height and stature. But Hanne didn’t have to look like everyone else. Now she walked among the Fjerdans, shining, unique, triumphant, an object of envy instead of scorn. Wolf-blooded.

  “I need to thank you,” Joran said, drawing Nina from her thoughts. “You could have revealed me to Brum. I’m grateful you didn’t.”

  Nina knew she had to tread carefully. “Your faith isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

  “How can you say that?”

  With Joran, Nina could let the Mila mask slip a bit more. He didn’t require the performance of servile bumbling that Brum or Rasmus did. “There’s altogether too much shame in Fjerda. I don’t see why you shouldn’t take comfort from your Saints.”

  “Commander Brum says the Saints are false gods sent to turn us from Djel.”

  “Surely not all the Saints,” Nina said, though she knew that was exactly what Brum meant. “Not Sënj Egmond, who built the Ice Court, or Sënje Ulla of the Waves.”

  “Brum doesn’t believe they were Saints, only men and women blessed by Djel. He says if we open our doors to heathen religion, Djel will forsake us and Fjerda will be doomed.”

  Nina nodded slowly, as if considering. “I have heard there are cults of false Saints, like the Starless One. I’ve heard stories of the blight that some say is a sign of his return. Do you think his followers could gain a foothold here?”

  “It’s hard to believe, but … Brum says people are desperate for hope and will be taken in by any cheap spectacle.”

  Nina certainly hoped so. “And what of the miracles here? In Ravka? The men who were saved from drowning in Hjar? The bridge of bones in Ivets?”

  “Theatrical fodder for feeble minds. That’s what—”

  “What Brum says, I know. Do you believe everything Commander Brum says?”

  “That’s what I was trained to do.”

  “But do you?”

  Joran looked out at the dancers whirling on the floor. “You’re angry because of … because of his behavior toward you.”

  “I am,” Nina said, maybe the truest words she’d ever spoken in the Ice Court. “But you’ve begun to wonder too. What if Brum is wrong?”

  “About what?”

  Nina kept her voice even, conversational. “The Grisha. Djel. The way war should be waged. All of it.”

  Joran’s face went ashen. “Then there is no hope for me.”

  “Not even among the Saints?”

  “No,” he said, his voice flat. “The Saints don’t want a soul like mine.”

  Nina rose and went to him. There had to be a way to reach this boy. With the right prodding, he might even give up the secrets of Fjerda’s new weapon. “All soldiers kill. And no soldier can say each death is righteous.”

  Joran turned, and Nina drew in a breath at the bleakness in his eyes. He looked like a man who had stopped searching for answers. He was alone on the ice and his heart was howling.

  “You don’t understand,” he said.

  “You might be surprised.” She had done her fair share of killing.

  “I murdered an unarmed man.”

  And Nina had let a horde of undead women tear the Wellmother to pieces. “Maybe so, but—”

  Joran seized her arm. “He was my brother. He was a traitor. I shot him and left him to die in a foreign city. I—”

  My brother. A traitor.

  “Be silent,” she gasped. Whatever Joran was going to say, she didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want to know.

  But Joran wouldn’t stop. “He told me … He said there was so much in the world that I didn’t have to be afraid of, if I would only open my eyes. And I did.” His voice broke. “And I am afraid of everything.”

  The drüskelle had been in Ketterdam for the auction. They’d put a price on Matthias’ head. Nina felt like she was falling. She was kneeling on the cobblestones, watching the light fade from Matthias’ beautiful eyes. She was holding him, trying to keep him with her. He was dying in her arms.

  “You should be afraid,” Nina growled, shoving Joran into the shadows of the alcove, away from the eyes of the crowd. He was too startled to fight her, and in the ne
xt breath, she had the sharpened tip of a bone dart hovering above his jugular. “You should tremble in your bed and weep like the base coward you are. You are the man who killed Matthias Helvar. Say it.”

  His eyes were wide, confused. “I … Who are you?”

  “Say it. I want your confession before I end your worthless life.”

  “Mila?”

  Hanne’s voice. She sounded so far away.

  “What is this?” asked the prince.

  Joran’s hand closed over Nina’s, hiding the bone dart. He forced her rigid body to turn. “I presumed upon Enke Jandersdat and she rightly put me in my place.”

  “Is this true?” asked the prince.

  Nina couldn’t speak. Her jaw felt wired shut. If she tried to wrench it open to speak, she would start screaming and she wouldn’t stop.

  Hanne came to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “I should take her home.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Prince Rasmus. “She’s fine. It’s not as if he put her up against the wall and lifted her skirts.”

  Hanne stared at him. “That’s not the point.”

  “She’s a widow, not an untried maiden, Hanne. Don’t be difficult.”

  “Joran said—”

  “Joran gave a lonely widow a little attention. It was probably a thrill for her.”

  Something shifted in Hanne’s face, rage overtaking her beautiful features. “Does she look thrilled?”

  Nina had no idea what she looked like in this moment. A ghost. A spirit sent to seek vengeance. A woman undone.

  “Oh, Hanne, don’t be such a killjoy. You’re worse than one of my tutors.”

  “And you are being thoughtless and cruel.”

  All of the prince’s warmth vanished. “Watch your tongue, Hanne Brum. I won’t be bullied by you or your father.”

  Joran said, “The fault was all mine, Your Majesty. I can only beg Enke Jandersdat’s forgiveness.”

  “I tell you when to beg,” said Rasmus. “You serve no master but me.” Then suddenly he was smiling. “Oh, everyone stop glowering and be merry. I shall be good and kind and patient—just as Hanne is. Joran, go fetch us something stronger than punch to drink.”