In the distance, I saw Os Alta, the Dream City, its spires white and jagged against the cloudless sky. But between us and the capital, arrayed in perfect military formation, stood row after row of armed men. Hundreds of soldiers of the First Army, maybe a thousand—infantry, cavalry, officers, and grunts. Sunlight glittered off the hilts of their swords, and their backs bristled with rifles.
A man rode out before them. He wore an officer’s coat covered with medals and sat atop one of the biggest horses I’d ever seen. It could have carried two Tolyas.
Nikolai watched the rider galloping back and forth across the lines and sighed. “Ah,” he said. “It seems my brother has come to greet us.”
We rode slowly down the slope, until we came to a halt before the masses of assembled men. Despite the white horses and glittering banners, our processional of wayward Grisha and ragged pilgrims no longer seemed quite so grand. Nikolai nudged his horse forward, and his brother cantered up to meet him.
I’d seen Vasily Lantsov a few times at Os Alta. He was handsome enough, though he’d had the bad luck to inherit his father’s weak chin, and his eyes were so heavy-lidded that he always looked very bored or slightly drunk. But now he seemed to have roused himself from his perpetual stupor. He sat straight in his saddle, radiating arrogance and nobility. Next to him, Nikolai looked impossibly young.
I felt a prickle of fear. Nikolai always seemed so in control of every situation. It was easy to forget that he was just a few years older than Mal and I were, a boy captain who hoped to become a boy king.
It had been seven years since Nikolai had been at court, and I didn’t think he’d seen Vasily in all that time. But there were no tears, no shouted greetings. The two princes simply dismounted and clasped each other in a brief embrace. Vasily surveyed our retinue, pausing meaningfully on me.
“So this is the girl you claim is the Sun Summoner?”
Nikolai raised his brows. His brother couldn’t have given him a better opening. “It’s a claim easy enough to prove.” He nodded to me.
Understatement is overrated. I raised my hands and summoned a blazing wave of light that crashed over the assembled soldiers in a cascade of billowing heat. They threw up their hands, and several stepped back as the horses shied and whinnied. I let the light fade. Vasily sniffed.
“You’ve been busy, little brother.”
“You have no idea, Vasya,” replied Nikolai pleasantly. Vasily’s mouth puckered at Nikolai’s use of the diminutive. He looked almost prim. “I’m surprised to find you in Os Alta,” Nikolai continued. “I thought you’d be in Caryeva for the races.”
“I was,” said Vasily. “My blue roan had an excellent showing. But when I heard you were returning home, I wanted to be here to greet you.”
“Kind of you to go to all this trouble.”
“The return of a royal prince is no small thing,” Vasily said. “Even a younger son.”
His emphasis was clear, and the fear inside me grew. Maybe Nikolai had underestimated Vasily’s interest in retaining his place in the succession. I didn’t want to imagine what his other mistakes or miscalculations might mean for us.
But Nikolai just smiled. I remembered his advice: Meet insults with laughter.
“We younger sons learn to appreciate what we can get,” he said. Then he called to a soldier standing at attention down the line. “Sergeant Pechkin, I remember you from the Halmhend campaign. Leg must have healed well if you’re able to stand there like a slab of stone.”
The sergeant’s face registered surprise. “Da, moi tsarevich,” he said respectfully.
“‘Sir’ will do, sergeant. I’m an officer when I wear this uniform, not a prince.” Vasily’s lips twitched again. Like many noble sons, he had taken an honorary commission and done his military service in the comfort of the officers’ tents, well away from enemy lines. But Nikolai had served in the infantry. He’d earned his medals and rank.
“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant. “Only bothers me when it rains.”
“Then I imagine the Fjerdans pray daily for storms. You put quite a few of them out of their misery, if I recall.”
“I seem to remember you doing the same, sir,” said the soldier with a grin.
I almost laughed. In a single exchange, Nikolai had seized control of the field from his brother. Tonight, when the soldiers gathered in the taverns of Os Alta or played cards in their barracks, this was what they would be talking about: the prince who remembered an ordinary soldier’s name, the prince who had fought side by side with them without concern for wealth or pedigree.
“Brother,” Nikolai said to Vasily. “Let’s get to the palace so we can dispense with our greetings. I have a case of Kerch whiskey that needs drinking, and I’d like to get your advice on a foal I spotted in Ketterdam. They tell me Dagrenner is his sire, but I have my doubts.”
Vasily tried to disguise his interest, but it was as if he couldn’t resist. “Dagrenner? Did they have papers?”
“Come have a look.”
Though his face was still wary, Vasily spoke a few words to one of the commanding officers and leapt into his saddle with practiced ease. The brothers took their places at the head of the column, and our procession was moving once again.
“Neatly done,” Mal murmured to me as we passed between the rows of soldiers. “Nikolai’s no fool.”
“I hope not,” I said. “For both our sakes.”
As we drew closer to the capital, I saw what Count Minkoff’s guests had been talking about. A city of tents had sprung up around the walls, and a long line of people waited at the gates. Several of them were arguing with the guards, no doubt petitioning for entry. Armed soldiers kept watch from the old battlements—a good precaution for a country at war, and a deadly reminder to the people below to keep things orderly.
Of course, the city gates sprang open for the princes of Ravka, and the procession continued through the crowd without pause.
Many of the tents and wagons were marked with crudely drawn suns, and as we rode through the makeshift camp, I heard the now-familiar cries of “Sankta Alina.”
I felt foolish doing it, but forced myself to lift my hand and wave, determined to at least make an effort. The pilgrims cheered and waved back, many running to keep pace with us. But some of the other refugees stood silent by the side of the road, arms crossed, expressions skeptical and even blatantly hostile.
What do they see? I wondered. Another privileged Grisha going to her safe, luxurious palace on the hill while they cook on open fires and sleep in the shadow of a city that refuses them sanctuary? Or something worse? A liar? A fraud? A girl who dares to style herself as a living Saint?
I was grateful when we passed into the protection of the city walls.
Once inside, the procession slowed to a crawl. The lower town was full to bursting, the sidewalks crammed with people who spilled onto the street and halted traffic. The windows of the shops were plastered with signs declaring which goods were available, and long lines stretched out of every doorway. The stink of urine and garbage lay over everything. I wanted to bury my nose in my sleeve, but I had to settle for breathing through my mouth.
The crowds cheered and gawked here, but they were decidedly more subdued than those outside the gates.
“No pilgrims,” I observed.
“They’re not allowed within the city walls,” said Tamar. “The King has had the Apparat declared an apostate and his followers banned from Os Alta.”
The Apparat had conspired with the Darkling against the throne. Even if they’d since severed ties, there was no reason for the King to trust the priest and his cult. Or you, for that matter, I reminded myself. You’re just the one dumb enough to stroll into the Grand Palace and hope for clemency.
We crossed the wide canal and left the noise and tumult of the lower town behind. I noticed that the bridge’s gatehouse had been heavily fortified, but when we reached the far bank, it seemed that nothing in the upper town had changed. The broad boulevards were s
potless and serene, the stately homes carefully maintained. We passed a park where fashionably turned out men and women strolled the manicured paths or took the air in open carriages. Children played at babki, watched over by their nannies, and a boy in a straw hat rode by on a pony with ribbons in its braided mane, the reins held by a uniformed servant.
They all turned to look as we passed, lifting their hats, whispering behind their hands, bowing and curtsying when they caught sight of Vasily and Nikolai. Were they really as calm and free of worry as they seemed? It was hard to fathom that they could be oblivious to the danger threatening Ravka or the turmoil on the other side of the bridge, but it was even harder for me to believe they trusted their King to keep them safe.
Sooner than I would have liked, we reached the golden gates of the Grand Palace. The sound of them clanging shut behind us sent a splinter of panic through me. The last time I’d passed through those gates, I’d been stowed away between pieces of scenery in a horse cart, fleeing from the Darkling, alone and on the run.
What if it’s a trap? I thought suddenly. What if there was no pardon? What if Nikolai never intended for me to lead the Second Army? What if they clamped Mal and me in irons and tossed us into some dank cell?
Stop it, I chastised myself. You’re not some scared little girl anymore, shaking in her army-issue boots. You’re a Grisha, the Sun Summoner. They need you. And you could bring this whole palace down around them if you wanted to. I straightened my spine and tried to steady my heart.
When we reached the double eagle fountain, Tolya helped me from my horse. I squinted up at the Grand Palace, its gleaming white terraces crammed with layer after layer of gold ornament and statuary. It was just as ugly and intimidating as I remembered.
Vasily handed the reins of his mount to a waiting servant and headed up the marble steps without a backward glance.
Nikolai squared his shoulders. “Keep quiet and try to look penitent,” he muttered to us. Then he bounded up the staircase to join his brother.
Mal’s face was pale. I wiped my clammy hands on my kefta, and we followed the princes, leaving the rest of our party behind.
Inside, the halls of the palace were silent as we passed from room to glittering room. Our footfalls echoed on the polished parquet, and my anxiety grew with every step. At the doors to the throne room, I saw Nikolai take a deep breath. His uniform was immaculate, his handsome face cut in the lines of a fairy tale prince. I suddenly missed Sturmhond’s lumpy nose and muddy green eyes.
The doors were thrown open and the footman declared, “Tsesarevich Vasily Lantsov and Grand Duke Nikolai Lantsov.”
Nikolai had told us that we wouldn’t be announced but that we should follow behind him and Vasily. With hesitating steps, we complied, keeping a respectful distance from the princes.
A long, pale blue carpet stretched the length of the room. At the end of it, a group of elegantly dressed courtiers and advisers milled around a raised dais. Above them all sat the King and Queen of Ravka, on matching golden thrones.
No priest, I noted as we drew closer. The Apparat had always seemed to be lurking somewhere behind the King, but now he was conspicuously absent. He did not seem to have been replaced with another spiritual adviser.
The King was far frailer and weaker than when I’d last seen him. His narrow chest looked like it had caved in on itself, and his drooping mustache was shot through with gray. But the greatest change had been wrought in the Queen. Without Genya there to tailor her face, she seemed to have aged twenty years in just a few months. Her skin had lost its creamy firmness. Deep furrows were beginning to form around her nose and mouth, and her too-bright irises had faded to a more natural but less arresting blue. Any pity I might have felt for her was eclipsed by my memory of the way she’d treated Genya. Maybe if she’d shown her servant a little less contempt, Genya wouldn’t have felt compelled to throw her lot in with the Darkling. So many things might have been different.
When we reached the base of the dais, Nikolai bowed deeply. “Moi tsar,” he said. “Moya tsaritsa.”
For a long, anxious moment, the King and Queen gazed down at their son. Then some fragile thing seemed to snap in the Queen. She sprang from her throne and bounded down the steps in a flurry of silk and pearls.
“Nikolai!” she cried as she clutched her son to her.
“Madraya,” he said with a smile, hugging her back.
There were murmurs from the watching courtiers and a smattering of applause. Tears overflowed the Queen’s eyes. It was the first real emotion I’d ever seen her display.
The King got slowly to his feet, helped by a footman who scurried to his side and guided him down the steps of the dais. He really wasn’t well. I was beginning to see that the succession might be an issue sooner than I’d thought.
“Come, Nikolai,” said the King, holding his arm out to his son. “Come.”
Nikolai offered his elbow to his father while his mother clung to his other arm and, without ever acknowledging us, they made their way out of the throne room. Vasily followed. His face was impassive, but I didn’t miss the telltale purse of his lips.
Mal and I stood there, unsure of what to do next. It was all very nice that the royal family had disappeared for a private reunion, but where did that leave us? We hadn’t been dismissed, but we hadn’t been told to stay. The King’s advisers studied us with blatant curiosity, while the courtiers tittered and whispered. I resisted the urge to fidget and kept what I hoped was a haughty tilt to my head.
The minutes crawled by. I was hungry and tired and fairly sure one of my feet had fallen asleep, but still we stood waiting. At one point I thought I heard shouting coming from the hall. Maybe they were arguing about how long to leave us standing there.
Finally, after what must have been the better part of an hour, the royal family returned. The King was beaming. The Queen’s face had gone pale. Vasily looked livid. But the most notable change was in Nikolai. He seemed more at ease and he’d regained the swagger I recognized from my time aboard the Volkvolny.
They know, I realized. He’s told them that he’s Sturmhond.
The King and Queen reseated themselves on their thrones. Vasily went to stand behind the King, while Nikolai took his place behind the Queen. She reached up, seeking his hand, and he laid it on her shoulder. That’s what a mother looks like with her child. I was too old to be pining for parents I’d never known, but I was still touched by the gesture.
My sentimental thoughts were driven from my head when the King said, “You’re very young to lead the Second Army.”
He hadn’t even addressed me. I bowed my head in acknowledgment. “Yes, moi tsar.”
“I am tempted to put you to death immediately, but my son says that will only make you a martyr.”
I stiffened. The Apparat would love that, I thought as fear coursed through me. One more cheerful illustration for the red book: Sankta Alina on the Gallows.
“He thinks you can be trusted,” the King quavered. “I’m not so sure. Your escape from the Darkling seems a very unlikely story, but I cannot deny that Ravka does have need of your services.”
He made it sound like I was a groundskeeper or a county clerk. Penitent, I reminded myself, and bit back a sarcastic reply.
“It would be my greatest honor to serve the Ravkan King,” I said.
Either the King loved flattery or Nikolai had done a remarkable job of pleading my case, because the King grunted and said, “Very well. At least temporarily, you will serve as the commander of the Grisha.”
Could it possibly be that easy? “I … thank you, moi tsar,” I stammered in baffled gratitude.
“But know this,” he said, wagging a finger at me. “If I find any evidence that you are fomenting action against me or that you have had any contact with the apostate, I will have you hanged without plea or trial.” His voice rose to a querulous wail. “The people say you are a Saint, but I think you are just another ragged refugee. Do you understand?”
An
other ragged refugee and your best chance of keeping that shiny throne, I thought with a surprising surge of anger, but I swallowed my pride and bowed as deeply as I could manage. Was this how the Darkling had felt? Being forced to bend and scrape before a dissolute fool?
The King gave a vague wave of his blue-veined hand. We were being dismissed. I glanced at Mal.
Nikolai cleared his throat. “Father,” he said, “there’s the matter of the tracker.”
“Hmm?” said the King, glancing up as if he’d been nodding off. “The…? Ah, yes.” He trained his rheumy stare on Mal and said in a bored tone, “You have deserted your post and directly disobeyed the orders of a commanding officer. That is a hanging offense.”
I drew in a sharp breath. Beside me, Mal went very still. An ugly thought leapt into my head: If Nikolai wanted to get rid of Mal, this was certainly an easy way to do it.
An excited murmur rose from the crowd around the dais. What had I walked us into? I opened my mouth, but before I could say a word, Nikolai spoke.
“Moi tsar,” he said humbly, “forgive me, but the tracker did aid the Sun Summoner in evading what would have been certain capture by an enemy of the Crown.”
“If she was ever really in any danger.”
“I saw him take up arms against the Darkling myself. He is a trusted friend, and I believe he acted in Ravka’s best interest.” The King’s lower lip jutted out, but Nikolai pressed on. “I would feel better knowing that he is at the Little Palace.”
The King frowned. Probably already thinking of lunch and a nap, I thought.
“What do you have to say for yourself, boy?” he asked.
“Only that I did what I thought was right,” Mal replied evenly.
“My son seems to feel you had good reason.”
“I imagine every man thinks his reasons are good,” Mal said. “It was still desertion.”
Nikolai raised his eyes heavenward, and I had the urge to give Mal a good shake. Couldn’t he be a bit less flinty and forthright for once?
The King’s frown deepened. We waited.
“Very well,” he said at last. “What’s one more viper in the nest? You will be dishonorably discharged.”
Grisha 02 - Siege and Storm Page 16
