Rule of Wolves

by Leigh Bardugo

  “I am a Squaller, a Grisha.” She cast a disdainful glance at Brum. “Some of our enemies will call me witch. And some of our own people will agree. Will you have a Grisha queen?”

  “It’s true,” said the old duke from Grevyakin, whom she and Nikolai had visited with months ago. She’d been miserable through the whole evening, but now she was glad she’d managed to stay awake and civil. “Some will despise you. Others will call you Saint. I want to farm my land and see my children safe. I will bow to a Grisha queen if it will bring peace.”

  Again she nodded, as if she had expected nothing less, as if her heart didn’t feel like it was about to hummingbird straight through her chest. Zoya paused. She understood the risk she was about to take, but the crown would be nothing but an unwanted weight if she didn’t. She knew the toll speculation around his birth had taken on Nikolai. She couldn’t attempt to rule that way. And she didn’t want to be the girl who hid any longer. We see you, daughter.

  Zoya took a deep breath. “My father’s name was Suhm Nabri, and I am his only daughter. Will you have a Suli queen?”

  A murmur of consternation and confusion rose from the crowd, but Zoya didn’t lower her chin. She met their gazes one by one. Some of them had probably had their servants chase Suli off their land, or maybe they’d hired them for their parties and never thought twice about them again. Others sent old clothes to Suli caravans and slept better that night, soothed by their show of generosity, while others praised the beauty of Suli women and children and patted themselves on the back for their open-mindedness. But maybe some of them knew they had Suli blood in their own families, and maybe a few would admit that the Suli had roamed this country before it had ever been called Ravka.

  Count Kirigin stepped forward. He’d chosen an alarming cobalt-blue coat trimmed in scarlet ribbon today. “Are the Suli not known for their far-seeing and their resilience?” he asked the chamber.

  Nikolai was going to have to give that man a medal. Or maybe Zoya would.

  “That’s right,” said the duchess of Caryeva. “I don’t care where she’s from. I will bow to the only queen who can take to the skies on black wings and put terror in our enemies’ hearts.”

  Nikolai rose. “I say yes!” he cried to the chamber, his face alight with optimism and triumph. “We will have a Suli queen, a Grisha queen, a Ravkan queen!” He had never looked more golden or more grand.

  A cheer went up from the Ravkans as the Fjerdans looked on with some concern.

  Maybe that could be enough. Maybe. This moment was made of glass, fragile, ready to shatter into nothing if she made the wrong move.

  “If this is the wish of the Ravkan people,” said Zoya slowly, “I will serve my country in whatever way I can.”

  “But how do we know her power is holy?” The Apparat’s voice snaked through the room. Zoya had nearly forgotten about him and his Priestguard. “Are we so ready to forget the blight that has struck not only Ravka but every country represented in this room and beyond? Can it be mere coincidence that such a curse has befallen our lands when first a demon and then a dragon appear?” He spread his hands as if addressing his congregation, his questions ringing through the chamber. “How is it that Zoya Nazyalensky, an ordinary Grisha, should come to possess such abilities? She took the form of a reptile because she is one. I know this girl. I served as spiritual counselor to the king. She has a cruel, cold heart and can never be the mother Ravka needs.”

  Zoya could make no reply to that. She had been cruel. She had been cold. There was a hard heart of iron in her that had allowed her to survive. And how was she meant to oppose the Apparat? Nikolai hadn’t thought of that, had he? The priest was believed to speak for the people, and in this chamber, his words carried as loudly as those chanting outside.

  “Do you choose which Saints we’re free to worship now?”

  That voice. Cool as well water. The Darkling emerged from the back of the chamber. He still wore the black robes of the Starless Saint. How had he even gained access to the hall?

  The Apparat scoffed. “What right do you have to be here? A nameless monk following the banner of a madman.”

  “Let us not concern ourselves with names,” said the Darkling, stepping into the light. “I have had so many of them.”

  The Apparat recoiled. Most of the people in this chamber had never met the Darkling or had encountered him only briefly, and his features were still not returned to what they’d once been. But for those who knew him, who had worked with him, who had admired and feared him, there was no mistaking who he was. Genya had known it instantly. And if the sheer horror on his face was any indication, so did the Apparat.

  “We have all suffered throughout these long years of war and conflict,” said the Darkling smoothly. “But of the many people who might speak of kings and queens, it should not be this man. For a moment, let us put aside the fact that he has allied himself with Ravka’s enemies during a time of war—”

  “My only allegiance is to the Saints!”

  The Darkling ignored him, seeming to drift closer to the Apparat. “This man helped the Darkling depose a Lantsov king. He was instrumental in bringing about the civil war that nearly destroyed this country, and now, he dares to challenge a woman the people worship as a living Saint?”

  “Are we sure we want to let him keep talking?” Zoya murmured to Nikolai.

  “Not at all.”

  “Everyone knows the old king was ill,” the Apparat said, but his eyes were skittering about the room wildly as if searching for some means of escape. “These charges are nothing but lies.”

  “The king was a victim of poison, was he not?” the Darkling queried.

  “He was indeed,” said Nikolai.

  “Poison delivered slowly over time, by someone close to him, someone who had his trust. How many people could that be? I can think of only one.”

  Zoya glanced at the old king. His face was red with fury, his jowls trembling like pudding that hadn’t quite set. In truth, the poison had been delivered by a certain Genya Safin in just retribution. But that was hardly common knowledge. And to admit to it now, Nikolai’s father would have to tell all these people just how a young girl had gained access to his body every day.

  “Lies!” said the Apparat. “Lies from a heretic!”

  But as he spoke, shadows began to bleed from his mouth. The people in the chamber gasped, backing away, trying to put distance between themselves and the priest.

  Zoya’s eyes focused on the Darkling’s hands, tucked into his sleeves but moving.

  “I believe this is your cue,” whispered Nikolai.

  One she was happy to take. Zoya slashed her arm through the air and thunder broke in an enormous boom.

  “Enough,” she said. “Seize him.”

  * * *

  Chaos had erupted in the chamber when the royal guards swarmed the Apparat. The Fjerdans had departed hurriedly, but not before the crown prince had agreed to prolong their truce until a proper treaty could be made.

  “Can you not stay?” Zoya had said, her gaze on Nina in her guise as Mila Jandersdat. But all of Nina’s attention was focused on the prince, her face a mask of confusion as she studied him with a bizarre intensity that didn’t seem at all in keeping with the modest ways of Fjerdan women.

  “We will return,” Prince Rasmus said. “I vow it.” He had a low, husky voice. “Perhaps for your coronation.”

  Nikolai had set guards and Sun Soldiers to pursue the Darkling, who had somehow vanished from the chamber. No matter what he’d done for them at the summit, they still had no idea of his agenda, and Zoya refused to let him hie off somewhere to scheme. Besides, if this truce held, they had to find a way to stop the spread of the blight. She didn’t know if the Darkling actually possessed any knowledge of how to do that or if all his talk of the obisbaya had been manipulation, but she intended to find out.

  Already, the nobles of Ravka were asking when she would be crowned and when she would be accepting petitions for governmen
t funds, annexations of land, the list went on. But eventually the audience chamber was cleared and only Nikolai and Zoya remained beneath the echoing dome.

  With a sweep of her hand, Zoya sent a gust to slam the shutters closed, blocking out the sound of that infernal chanting.

  She turned to Nikolai. “Are you quite out of your mind?”

  “On occasion. I find it bracing. But I have never been more sane or sober, Zoya.”

  “I can’t do this, Nikolai. You’re the diplomat, the charmer. I’m the…”

  “Yes?”

  She threw her hands up in exasperation. “I’m the muscle.”

  “The crown was never meant for me. You’re a military commander, you’re Grisha, and thanks to Nina’s work and Juris’ gift, you are a living Saint.”

  Zoya slumped down on one of the benches. “No matter what they said in this chamber, you know they’ll never accept me. All those vows and cheers will mean nothing when they don’t get what they want.”

  Nikolai knelt before her and reached for her hand.

  “Stop doing that,” she snapped. “Stop kneeling.” But she didn’t keep him from taking her hand. His touch was comforting, familiar, something to hold on to.

  “I can’t. It’s just what my knees do now. I noticed your tricky little turn of phrase back there. You said that you would serve Ravka, but you didn’t actually say you would accept the crown.”

  “Because I’m hoping you’ll come to your senses and see this is impossible.”

  Nikolai grinned. “You know how I feel about that word.”

  He looked positively giddy.

  “How can you do it?” she asked. “How can you just give up the throne you’ve fought so hard for?”

  “Because I was never fighting for the throne. Not really. The battle was always for this disaster of a country. The Darkling believed that he was the key to Ravka’s salvation. Maybe I fell into that trap too. But it isn’t too late to get this right.”

  She shook her head. “It can’t be done.”

  “We’ll charm them one by one if we have to, and you will lead Ravka into an age of peace.”

  “I’m not charming.”

  “But I am. I have a stockpile of wiles to deploy on Ravka’s behalf.”

  “Dinners and parades and small talk. That sounds like hell.”

  “I’ll rub your feet every night.”

  What was he offering her? He was smiling but she could sense the caution in him too, a wariness she recognized. She’d promised herself she would speak her heart when she had the chance, but now that she was here, in this quiet room, with Nikolai before her, she had never been so frightened in her life.

  “There’s a mural in my room,” she said hesitantly, unsure of what she meant to say, afraid of the words that might come. “A stormy sea. A boat. A flag with two stars. Did you ever wonder—”

  “What they mean? Only when I thought of your bedchamber. So, roughly every night.”

  “Can you be serious for once?”

  “Once and only once.”

  “Those stars are me and my aunt. Liliyana. She was the bravest woman I ever knew and she … she fought for me, when no one else would, without any weapon. She was a woman with no status or wealth, but she risked her own life to protect me. She thought I was worth saving. She thought … She thought I was worth loving.” When Liliyana’s star was gone, Zoya had believed she would reckon with that stormy sea on her own, forever. That if she was lucky enough to be loved by one person in this life, that should be enough. Or that was what she’d told herself. “I can’t do this alone, Nikolai.”

  “I will be by your side.”

  “As my adviser?”

  “If that’s what you wish.”

  She didn’t want to ask. Her pride forbade it. But her damn pride had cost her enough. She looked away. “And if … if I wished for more?”

  She felt his fingers on her chin, turning her head. There was an unwanted ache in her throat. Zoya forced herself to meet his gaze. In this light, his hazel eyes looked almost golden.

  “Then I would gladly be your prince, your consort, your demon fool.”

  “You will grow to hate me. I’m too sharp. Too angry. Too spiteful.”

  “You are all of those things, but you are so much more, Zoya. Our people will come to love you not despite your ferocity, but because of it. Because you showed mercy in our darkest hour. Because we know that if danger comes again, you will never falter. Give us that chance.”

  Love. The word was not made for people like her. “I don’t know how to believe you,” she said helplessly.

  “What if I say I can’t bear to lose you?”

  A smile tugged at her lips. “I’d say you’re a liar. That claims like that belong to romantic ninnies.” She raised her hand and let her fingertips trace the line of his beautiful jaw. He closed his eyes. “We would go on, you and I. If I couldn’t be queen, you would find a way to win this battle and save this country. You would make a sheltering place for my people. You would march and bleed and crack terrible jokes until you had done all you said you would do. I suppose that’s why I love you.”

  His eyes flew open and his face lit in an extraordinary grin. “All Saints, say it again.”

  “I will not.”

  “You must.”

  “I’m the queen. I must do nothing but please myself.”

  “Would it please you to kiss me?”

  It would. And she did, drawing him up to her, feeling the stubble at his jaw, the soft curl of his hair behind his ear, and at last, after all these long days of wanting, his witty, brilliant, perfect mouth. Silence fell around them and Zoya’s head emptied of fear and worry and anything but the warm press of his lips.

  When the kiss broke, he rested his forehead against hers.

  “You do realize you just referred to yourself as the queen. That means you agreed.”

  “I am going to kill you.”

  “So long as you kiss me again before you do.”

  She obliged him.

  47

  NINA

  NINA COULDN’T THINK STRAIGHT. Is this a game? Is he toying with me?

  She was a tangle of anger and hope and confusion. Get your head together, Zenik, she chastised herself. If you ever needed to keep your wits about you, this is the time.

  Easier said than done. She was fairly sure she’d just seen Nikolai Lantsov—or maybe not Lantsov, since he’d admitted to being a bastard—give up his crown to Zoya Nazyalensky. Who was also a dragon. And possibly a Saint. And Rasmus had called for a lasting truce and a treaty with Ravka. But why? Did he truly believe in peace? Was this all some elaborate ruse, some part of his feud with Jarl Brum?

  Or was something else at play here altogether? Nina had seen Hanne’s body crumpled on the ground. But what had she really seen? She remembered Hanne’s hands moving swiftly over her face, drawing hair from her own head. I’ve been practicing, she’d said.

  Do not hope, Nina. Do not dare to hope for this.

  All was silence on the boat ride back to Leviathan’s Mouth, the unease of the Fjerdan soldiers and officers palpable. She could feel Brum’s anger radiating from him, the fear of the drüskelle who had failed him in the audience chamber.

  Joran looked nearly happy, his face serene, as if he’d finally found some kind of peace for the first time. He had been the first to speak, to declare for Zoya and for an end to war. Would any of the others have dared to be first? Or only the boy full of regret, desperate to do right, to sacrifice everything as penance to the Saints? If Nina had sought her vengeance and taken Joran’s life, if Hanne hadn’t stopped her, what might have happened in Os Kervo?

  Nina was less sure of what she sensed from Prince Rasmus. He kept glancing at her, and his expression was one she could almost believe was true concern. She couldn’t stop herself from studying his profile, the color of his eyes—were the differences she thought she saw there real or imagined? She felt like she was coming undone.

  They docked at
one of the piers, and the prince strode toward the command center with Joran beside him. “Come along,” he said to Nina.

  “I would have a word, Your Highness,” said Brum, his anger barely leashed.

  “Then you may come along too.”

  The command center was much like the rest of the structures on Leviathan—all military utility, stocked with maps and equipment. Crates of gear had been stacked in neat aisles, maps and tide charts were hung on the tent’s canvas siding, though the rest of the walls had been left open.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to have a rest, Your Highness?” Brum asked, seeking to draw attention to the prince’s frailty.

  “I think not. I feel quite well.”

  “Of course, you were not on the field today.”

  “No, I wasn’t. I have not had my share of riding or fresh air or battle in this life. I know you think me the lesser because of it.”

  “I never said—”

  “You’ve said enough. You’ve called me weakling and whelp.”

  Brum sputtered. “I never did. I—”

  “Think,” the prince said gently, and again Nina found herself leaning forward, wondering. His voice sounded rough, different. As if the vocal cords had been hastily altered. “Remember that the men you once called loyal no longer wish to serve you. Your friend Redvin was found dead in the ruined eastern tower. Your drüskelle are in shambles. Is this the time you want your honesty called into question?”

  Brum did not give any ground. “I have served Fjerda with honor.”

  “You have served Fjerda long enough.”

  Brum laughed. “I see. You think the Ravkans will keep to this peace, Your Highness?”

  “I do,” said Prince Rasmus. “And even if I didn’t, it is no longer a matter that concerns you.”

  “Your health—”

  “My health has never been better.”

  Nina hesitated, then said, “All this talk of poison today.”

  A hush fell.

  “Yes,” said Rasmus slowly. “A curious thing. I’ve been guarded by drüskelle since I was a child.”