“Three Grisha taken from Sikursk and eight more south of Caryeva.”
Zoya sat down hard. “So many?” The Shu had used their stores of jurda parem to develop a new kind of warrior: soldiers tailored by Grisha Fabrikators, honed to greater strength, given wings, weighted fists, unbreakable bones, and heightened senses. They called them khergud.
“Tell her the rest,” said Nadia.
Zoya’s gaze locked on Tamar. “There’s more?”
“This is Ravka,” said Tamar. “The Grisha near Sikursk were traveling undercover. Either the Shu knew about the mission—”
“Or Nina was correct and these new soldiers really can somehow sniff out Grisha,” finished Nadia.
“Nina warned us,” said Tamar.
“She did, didn’t she?” said Zoya bitterly. “How fortunate, then, that our good king sent our chief source of information on these Shu soldiers thousands of miles away.”
“It was time,” said Tamar. “Nina was lost in her grief. It will do her good to be of use.”
“What a consolation that will be when she’s captured and executed,” Zoya retorted. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “The Shu are testing us, pushing farther into our territory. We have to push back.”
“With what?” Nadia asked. “A stern warning?”
“It would be one thing if we could target them at home,” said Tamar. “But my sources have had no luck discovering the locations where they’re creating and training the khergud soldiers.”
Zoya’s stomach knotted when she thought of those bases, of the Grisha “volunteers” the Shu had addicted to parem to create these monstrosities. She reached for another file. “Are these the dissections?” Tamar nodded. The bodies of two khergud soldiers had been retrieved from Ketterdam and brought back to the Little Palace for study. Tolya had objected, claiming it was wrong to “desecrate” a fallen soldier’s body. But Zoya had no patience for fine feeling when their people were being stolen from within their very borders.
“This metal,” Zoya said, pointing to the notes David had made in the margin of one of the detailed anatomical sketches created by the Corporalki. “The one they’re using to plate the bones. It’s not just Grisha steel.”
“It’s an alloy,” said Nadia. “They’re combining Grisha steel with ruthenium. It’s less malleable but more durable.”
“I’ve never heard of it before.”
“It’s extremely rare. There are only a few known deposits around the world.”
Tamar leaned forward. “But the Shu are getting it from somewhere.”
Zoya tapped her finger to the file. “Find the source. Track the shipments. That’s how we’ll figure out where the khergud are being made.”
Tamar ran her thumbs over her axes. “When we do, I’m leading the attack.”
Zoya nodded. “I’ll be right beside you.”
Nadia grinned. “And I’ll be watching your back.”
Zoya hoped it would be soon. She was itching for a fight. She glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was time to wake the king.
A cold mist had crept over the grounds in the night, covering the trees and stone paths in a veil of cloud. She passed through the woods, beneath a canopy of twisting branches. They would bloom white, then pink, then red as blood when spring came, but for now they were only gray wood and thorns. She emerged to the manicured hedges and sprawling lawns that surrounded the Grand Palace, lanterns casting light over the still-dark grounds in muzzy halos. The palace looked like a bride before her wedding, its white stone terraces and golden statues cloaked in mist. It should have been peaceful, this soft gray hour before dawn. But all she could think of was the khergud, the Zemeni, the Fjerdans, the Kerch.
Each day she worked with new recruits at the Little Palace and managed the affairs of the Second Army. It had grown under her command, slowly recovering from the wounds the Darkling had dealt them—wounds that had almost been death blows. How could he do it? She still wondered. The Darkling had built up the strength of the Second Army over generations, adding to its numbers, improving its training, solidifying his own influence. He had cultivated the talents of young Grisha, helped them to develop their skill. He had raised them like children. And when his children had misbehaved? When his coup attempt had failed and some of the Grisha had dared to stand with Alina Starkov against him? He’d murdered them. Without hesitation or remorse. Zoya had watched them fall. She’d almost been among them.
Almost, she reminded herself as she climbed the palace steps. But I survived to lead the army he built and nearly destroyed. Zoya had vowed to make the Second Army a power to be reckoned with again. She’d gone deeper within the borders of Fjerda and the Shu Han, pierced the shores of the Wandering Isle and the frontiers of Novyi Zem in search of Grisha who might wish to learn to fight and who might give their allegiance to Ravka. She was determined to capitalize on that growth, to assemble a force greater than what even the Darkling had raised. But that wouldn’t be enough. She intended to find a way to protect Grisha throughout the world so no one would ever have to live in fear or hide their gifts again—a governing body with representatives from every nation to hold their countries accountable, a guarantee of rights and of punishment for anyone who tried to imprison or harm her kind. For that dream to be anything more than a pleasant fantasy, Ravka would have to be strong—and so would its king.
As Zoya strode through the Grand Palace halls to Nikolai’s chambers, she cast a look at two servants lingering outside his door that sent them shrinking up against the wall like frightened anemones.
She knew the way they sighed over their poor king. He’s never been the same since the war, they whispered, swooning and dabbing their eyes whenever he was near. She couldn’t blame them. Nikolai was rich, handsome, and beset by a tragic past. Perfect daydream fodder. But with her luck the king would ignore the suitable prospective brides she’d found, fall for a common housemaid, and insist on marrying for love. It was just the kind of contrary, romantic nonsense he was prone to.
She greeted Tolya, rang for a breakfast tray, then entered the king’s bedroom and threw open the curtains. The morning light had turned pale and rosy.
Nikolai cast her a baleful glare from his place among the pillows. “You’re late.”
“And you’re chained to a bed. Perhaps not the best time to be critical.”
“It’s too early in the morning to threaten a king,” he said grumpily.
She sank down beside him and began the work of unshackling him. “I’m at my most murderous on an empty stomach.”
Zoya was grateful for the chatter. It was meaningless, but it filled the silence of the room. They’d slipped back into an easy routine after the near disaster in Ivets, but she could never quite accustom herself to this intimacy—the dawn quiet, the rumpled sheets, the tousled hair that made Nikolai look less a king than a boy in need of kissing.
Entertain me with lively tales of your childhood, he’d said to her. Zoya doubted the king would be amused by her stories. Should I tell you about the old man my mother wanted to marry me off to when I was nine years old? Should I tell you what happened on my wedding day? What they tried to do to me? The damage I left in my wake?
Zoya finished the business of freeing him from his bonds, taking care to touch his sleep-warmed skin as little as possible, then left the king to wash and dress.
A moment later a knock sounded on the sitting room door and a servant entered with hot tea and a tray of covered dishes. Zoya didn’t miss the furtive glance in her direction as he scurried away. Perhaps she should simply give in to the rumor that she was Nikolai’s mistress and let people talk. At least then she could skip the predawn trek from the Little Palace and sleep in.
Nikolai sauntered into the sitting room, golden hair combed neatly, boots shined, impeccably attired as always.
“You look well rested,” she said sourly.
“I barely slept, and I woke with a crick in my back that feels like Tolya played lawn tennis with my spine. But a king does not hunch, Zoya dear. Are you eating my herring?”
She popped the last bite into her mouth. “No, I have eaten your herring. Now—”
Before Zoya could begin to address the business of the day, the door flew open and Tamar entered, followed by her brother, golden eyes glinting, both of them fully armed.
“Tell me,” Nikolai said, all hint of his easy manner gone.
“There’s trouble with the pilgrims camped outside the city walls. The Apparat doesn’t like anything this new cult has to say. He’s called the Priestguard to the lower town.”
Zoya was on her feet in an instant. The Apparat was meant to serve as spiritual counselor to the king, but he was a traitor and a troublemaker through and through.
Nikolai took a quick swig of his tea and rose. “Are our people in position?”
Tolya nodded. “We have Heartrenders in plain dress interspersed throughout the crowd and snipers in position along the walls and the nearest hillside. There’s not much cover, though.”
“You knew this would happen?” Zoya asked Nikolai as she followed him and the twins back through the palace corridors.
“I had a feeling.”
“And you made no move to stop him?”
“How?” said Nikolai. “By barricading him in the chapel?”
“I’ve heard worse ideas. He has no standing.”
“But he has the means, and he knows I won’t challenge him outright with armed troops.”
Zoya scowled. “The Priestguard should have been disbanded long ago.” They were warrior monks, both scholar and soldier, and there was no question their loyalty lay with the Apparat, not their king.
“Unfortunately, that would have caused riots among the common people, and I’m not keen on riots. Unless they involve dancing, but I believe those are usually referred to as parties. What kind of party is this, Tamar?”