Now Brum looked genuinely frightened. As far as Nina knew, he had never resorted to poison. He’d thought the prince’s poor health would do the work for him. But could he prove that?
“If you have evidence of such rank treason,” Brum said, “I demand it be presented. I will not have my honor besmirched.”
“I know this has been a day of tragedy for you,” the prince said. “Of terrible loss. You need a time of rest and quiet contemplation. Perhaps on Kenst Hjerte.”
“That is exile,” Brum said, his voice low and determined. “You cannot mean to—”
“‘Cannot’ is a word unfamiliar to princes.”
“Your Highness,” Brum tried, making his voice warm, appealing. “This is a misunderstanding and nothing more.”
The prince gestured to his guards. “Take him to his cabin and keep him under guard. But be kind to him. He is … he is what this country made him.”
Before the guards could take hold of Brum, he had a gun in his hands, pointed at the crown prince.
“No!” Nina cried.
“Strymacht Fjerda!” Brum shouted.
Gunshots—one, two, three, whipcrack loud.
Brum never had a chance to fire. He was on the ground, bleeding. Joran reholstered his weapon. He’d shot Brum three times—once in the leg, twice in the arm.
The prince moved forward, but Nina seized him by the elbow. “Don’t. He’ll be all right.”
Rasmus’ eyes met hers, not quite the blue they had been. “Get a medic!” he called, holding her gaze. “This poor man needs help.”
Medics and soldiers rushed forward. “We should let him die,” said one, spitting on the ground by Brum’s body. “He tried to kill you, Your Highness.”
“I have no doubt he meant to turn the gun on himself. He lost his only daughter today.” Rasmus paused. “Mila, you knew her well. You were Hanne’s dearest friend, were you not?”
“I loved her,” said Nina, stubborn, terrible hope clawing at her heart. “I love her still.”
* * *
Brum was taken to the infirmary to have his gunshot wounds treated. He would recover in time, though he would have healed faster with the help of a Grisha. Ylva insisted on remaining with him. Nina wanted to comfort her, but she scarcely knew the words to say.
They boarded the royal airship in silence. Already there was talk of Prince Rasmus meeting with his parents to discuss the treaty, of whether the peace would hold, but all Nina wanted was a chance to speak to him alone.
They entered the royal cabin, a sleek pod of golden wood and plush white silk. Through the windows, Nina could see the setting sun painting the clouds in golden light, pale rose, faint blue at the edges.
“Leave us, Joran,” the prince said.
Joran paused at the door, meeting first the prince’s gaze, then Nina’s. “Whatever you require, Your Highness. You need only ask.” He said the words as if speaking a vow. “I’ll see that you’re not disturbed.”
He bowed and departed, closing the door behind him. There were no witnesses now, only the clouds and the sky beyond.
The honeyed light caught on the prince’s features. He was watching her with an expression she’d never seen on his haughty royal face before. She saw fear there, and her own hope reflected back to her.
“Where did we meet?” she whispered.
“In a clearing by a poison stream,” the crown prince replied in that soft, husky voice. “I rode a white horse, and for a moment, you believed I was a soldier.”
Before Nina’s mind could protest, her feet were carrying her across the room. She threw her arms around him.
“Never let me go,” Hanne whispered against her hair, holding her tight.
“Never again.” She drew back. “But … the prince?”
Hanne’s guilty expression said all it needed to. Rasmus was dead, his head dashed by the fall. He’d died wearing Hanne’s face.
“How? What happened in that tower?”
Hanne took a breath. “Prince Rasmus started drinking when Fjerda’s bells were destroyed. He was all mocking words for my father and his plans. He … he thought it was amusing to give me a slap.”
“We knew how cruel he could be. I never should have left you alone with him.”
“It was a small slap.”
“Hanne!”
“It was. It was a test. I think he wanted to see how far he could go. He told me to strike him back, just as he did with Joran. He dared me to hit him. He hit me again. He said we’d play this game whenever he pleased when we were husband and wife. Joran tried to stop him, but … I panicked. I didn’t mean to do it.”
“You used your power on him.”
A tear slid down Hanne’s cheek. “His heart. I think I crushed it … I’ve never hurt someone that way.”
Nina cupped Hanne’s face in her palms. “I know you didn’t mean to. I know you never would.” Hanne had always been too good and too kind for the ugliness of this world.
“I told Joran to run for help. I tried to heal the prince. But I knew he was dead.”
“So you tailored him.”
“Yes. And myself. As quickly as I could. But Joran … I think he took his time.”
To help Hanne? Or because he wanted Prince Rasmus dead? Whatever you require, Your Highness. Could Nina call that redemption? Did his motives matter? Joran had saved Hanne’s life today. He had spoken against Brum. He’d known Nina was not Mila Jandersdat and yet he’d kept that secret to himself. Maybe it could be a beginning.
“I bound my breasts, changed our clothes, and … and … I threw his body out the window.”
“All Saints.”
Hanne sat down on a wide velvet bench. “What am I to tell my mother? She thinks I’m dead. You can’t imagine what it was to hear her grieve, to see you on your knees weeping for me. I can’t lose her, Nina.”
“We’ll find a way to tell her. In time. But Hanne … what do we do now? You’ll have to face the Grimjer king and queen.”
“I can tailor myself more fully before then. Though I wish I had your gift for performance.”
Nina had to laugh. “You did brilliantly. I absolutely believed you were Rasmus. You’re lucky I didn’t murder you on the spot.”
“Don’t think I wasn’t worried. But fooling his parents?”
Hanne had learned deception from Nina over the last months. She’d spent a good part of her life at the Ice Court learning its protocols, and she’d been so much in the prince’s company that his mannerisms and ways of speech were no mystery.
“We’ll practice. We have time on the journey.”
Hanne didn’t look convinced. “If the king and queen ask me questions about Rasmus’ childhood…”
“I can help with that,” said Nina. After all, they had the counsel of the dead.
“Will you?” Hanne’s brow creased. “Can you love a murderer?”
“I might ask the same.”
Hanne hesitated. “And can you love me in this body?”
“It is your heart I love. You know that, don’t you?”
Tears formed in Hanne’s eyes. “I hoped.”
“But where does this end? How long can you stay trapped this way?”
“I’m not trapped, Nina.” Hanne blew out a breath. “What if I told you there’s a rightness in this body? That ever since I understood what tailoring could do, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what might be?”
Nina remembered the guilty look on Hanne’s face when she’d admitted she’d been tailoring herself in secret. She thought of the way Hanne’s eyes had slid away from her own reflection. Nina hadn’t understood. “You said you didn’t know if you could be happy.”
“I still don’t. I don’t know what it is to live in a body that feels like it could be mine. All I know is … I lost my father today, maybe my mother. But not myself. And if I have to play the role of prince for this possibility, then it’s a trade I’ll gladly make.”
“This from the person who said she hated parties.”
&nb
sp; “It isn’t the face I would have chosen. I don’t want to be Rasmus.”
Nina put her hands on Hanne’s shoulders. “You aren’t Rasmus. You’re someone new, someone I can’t wait to know.”
Hanne’s smile was small, a precious, fragile thing. “We wanted to change the world. Maybe this is our chance.”
“The prince and the fishwife? If you live as Rasmus, you know you’ll be king one day.” A king who knew what it was to be a woman in Fjerda, what it was to feel alone among her people. A true warrior.
“And you will be my queen.” Hanne’s shy glance pierced Nina—sudden light, too bright after so much darkness. “If you’ll have me.”
Nina laughed. “Oh, I’ll have you, Hanne Brum.” Hanne’s cheeks flushed. It was glorious. “Two Grisha living in secret, ruling Fjerda, guiding them toward peace with Ravka? It’s too beautiful a dream. But a prince can’t wed a commoner.”
“Then I’ll give you land and titles. If you’re willing. Can you stay here with me and live this lie?”
Nina stopped Hanne with a kiss, gazing down at the person she loved, alive and happy. “It’s not a lie. You are my prince and you have my heart.”
“You would wear a false face forever?”
“Well, Mila may develop some new hobbies and stop wibbling and wringing her hands so much, but yes. For the dream of you, I could.”
“If you want to go back to Ravka—”
“I do. And I’ll miss it and make you command the chefs to cook blini and beet soup.” She planted herself in Hanne’s lap. “But this is where I belong.”
They stayed there, curled against each other, Hanne’s arms wrapped around Nina, as they watched the sky turn the deep blue of twilight. Just beneath Hanne’s left ear, Nina saw two rosy freckles, missed in the panicked rush of tailoring. She did love those freckles. Maybe they could keep one of them.
What would Matthias think of all this? Nina wondered. A Grisha king. A Grisha queen. She hoped he would be glad to see her happy, that he would want her heart to heal. Save some mercy for my people. Sitting there, in the quiet, watching the clouds slide by, no sound to break the silence but the steady hum of the engines, Nina felt a strange sensation creep through her, an ease that she had all but forgotten. Peace.
There were battles ahead, dangers she and Hanne would have to face. What they were attempting was audacious, maybe impossible, but somehow she knew they would manage it. Nina rested her cheek against Hanne’s. She’d honored Matthias, and this path, somewhere between revenge and redemption, was the right one. My place is with the wolves.
Nina sat up straight. “Hanne, what do I call you now? Rasmus?”
Hanne shuddered. “I can’t stand that. We’ll have to choose a new name. A Saint’s name. To honor the prince’s newfound faith in the Children of Djel.”
“All Saints, you’re a quick learner. That’s a politician’s move.”
“But we have to pick a good one.”
“How about Demyan? Or Ilya? He was famous. And he changed the world.”
Her prince smiled. “I don’t know the story.”
“I’ll tell it to you,” Nina said. Outside, night was falling and the sky was full of stars. “I’ll tell you a thousand stories, my love. We’ll write the new endings, one by one.”
48
NIKOLAI
THEY TRAVELED WITH SUN SOLDIERS, not only for protection, but because some of the mountain passes were still blocked by snow.
“It would have been faster by dragon,” Zoya complained as they traversed yet another switchback.
“And considerably more conspicuous,” Nikolai replied.
“Just keep moving,” Genya said. “I don’t want to spend another night in these mountains.”
Nikolai glanced behind him on the trail, where Zoya was helping Genya clamber over a rock. They’d all worn the roughspun clothes of travelers—warm coats and trousers, boots lined in fur. “Is it the bobcats, the weather, or the company that displeases you?”
“I am a queen,” Zoya said. “I should be borne aloft on a litter so that my delicate feet never touch the ground.”
“I could ask the demon to carry you.”
Zoya sniffed. “Thank you, no. The last time you let it out, it tried to bite me.”
“I think it was meant affectionately.”
“Are you certain?” asked Genya.
“Not entirely,” he admitted.
Flyers had brought them to the plains north of Sikursk. From there, they’d been forced to continue on foot. The winds that tore through these peaks made flight too risky. Ahead of them, bracketed by Sun Soldiers, the Darkling trudged on. His hands were bound and he still wore the black robes of the Starless. It was as if he didn’t feel the cold.
Nikolai wondered what might be waiting for them if they ever managed to find this monastery—assuming it even existed. He was perfectly prepared for this daft excursion to be yet another of the Darkling’s deceptions, but that didn’t mean he was prepared for the deception itself. Perhaps the Darkling would bring down a landslide and bury them all beneath a pile of rock or abandon them in a labyrinth of caves. The options were endless. The man had a limitless supply of unpleasant surprises.
They emerged around a bend and the valley sprawled out before them, blanketed in silver mist and ringed by the snow-capped peaks of the Sikurzoi. He could see mountain lakes gleaming like frozen coins, and far in the distance, a herd of shaggy bison moving slowly across a meadow, searching for signs of spring.
Nikolai would have preferred to wait for the thaw to make this trip, but reports of the blight had only grown more frequent, miles-wide patches of dead earth and ashen soil, men, women, and children struck down in the space of moments, scars that might never heal.
After the battle for Os Kervo, his trackers hadn’t been able to locate the Darkling. The followers of the Starless One still held their services, and a few had camped outside the palace walls to petition the new queen for the Darkling’s Sainthood. But the man himself had gone missing. Until one night they’d entered the war room in the Little Palace to find him slouched in his old chair, as if he’d never left.
Nikolai had reached for his guns, Tolya and Zoya had moved into combat stance. But the Darkling had merely rested his chin in his hand and said, “It seems that, once again, Ravka has a problem only I can solve.”
It was fair to say that problem was of the Darkling’s creation, but if he could be of assistance, Nikolai wasn’t going to argue. At the very least, he’d set them on the path to the Monastery of Sankt Feliks, where he believed they would find answers. And if not? Even the Darkling, the eternal know-it-all, wasn’t sure what they would do. He seemed unfazed by the prospect.
“Are you really so ready to watch the world die?” Nikolai had asked him.
He’d merely shrugged. “Imagine, if you’re able, how long I’ve spent in this world. Do you never wonder what waits in the next?”
Nikolai supposed he had. He’d written some very bleak poetry about death and the unknown while he was at university in Ketterdam, some of it in rhymed couplets, all of it remarkably bad.
He glanced back at Zoya trudging along, her silver fur hat pulled down low over her ears, her nose red from the cold. Why think of the next world when she was in this one? Over the past weeks he’d watched her navigate meetings, diplomatic dinners, the tricky early negotiations of the Fjerdan treaty. He was there to charm and to offer guidance when she needed it, but Zoya’s role as general of the Second Army had forced her to learn the ins and outs of Ravka’s foreign policy and internal workings. She might never have a real passion for agricultural reform or industrial development, but her ministers would be there to help. And so would Nikolai, if she let him.
They weren’t married. They weren’t even engaged. He wanted to ask, but he wanted to court her first. Maybe build her something. A new invention, something lovely and useless and ill-suited to war. A music box or a mechanical fox, a folly for her garden. Part of him was certain that
she would simply change her mind about him and that would be the end of it. He had wanted her for so long that it seemed impossible he should actually have her beside him every day, that he might lay down beside her every night. Not impossible, he supposed. Just improbable.
He turned, sending pebbles scattering off the mountainside.
“Kiss me, Zoya,” he said.
“Why?”
“I need reassurance that you are real and that we survived.”
Zoya went up on her toes and pressed her warm mouth to his. “I’m right here and I’m freezing, so move before I toss you into a gully.”
He sighed happily. There she was. Bitter and bracing as strong drink. She was real, and at least for now, she was his.
* * *
They came upon the monastery without warning. One moment they were squeezing between two sheer rock walls and the next they were staring at an elaborate stone facade of arches and columns carved into gray stone. Between them, in a series of friezes, Nikolai saw the story of the first Priestguard, the monks who had transformed into beasts to fight for the first Ravkan king but who had been unable to return to human form. Yuri had believed that Sankt Feliks had been among those monks, and that over the years, the details of his Sainthood and martyrdom had been altered by time and retelling. Feliks had endured the obisbaya, the Ritual of the Burning Thorn, to purge himself of a beast. And if Nikolai didn’t particularly want to be freed of his monster any longer? He would still do what his country’s future required. That much hadn’t changed.
There was no door to knock on, only a long tunnel that led into the dark. One of the Sun Soldiers lit the way.
“The air smells sweet,” Genya said, and moments later, they understood why.
They emerged into a vast, snow-dusted clearing open to the sky. The rock walls around them were pocked with arched niches like a hundred hungry mouths, and at the center of it all stood the biggest tree Nikolai had ever seen.
The diameter of its twisted trunk was nearly as wide as the lighthouse at Os Kervo. A network of thick, muscular roots radiated from its base, and high above, the canopy of its branches nearly covered the clearing, dense with red blossoms and thorns as long as a man’s forearm.
Rule of Wolves Page 49
