“We’ve had our people circulating with the pilgrims every day and reporting back. They’ve been mostly peaceful. But this morning one of their preachers got them riled up, and the Apparat must not have liked what he heard.”
The king’s soldiers were waiting by the double-eagle fountain with additional horses in tow.
“No uniformed soldiers will move past the lower wall without my say-so,” Nikolai commanded. “The Grisha are only there for crowd control unless I give the signal. Keep the snipers in position, but absolutely no one is to act without direct orders from me, understood?”
The king had the right to command his forces as he saw fit, and Zoya trusted the twins to make the best possible use of their Heartrenders to protect the crown, but Zoya’s temper still bristled at the fact that they’d been put in this position. Nikolai was too fond of compromise. The Apparat had betrayed everyone who’d ever been foolish enough to trust him. He was a snake, and if she’d had her way, he and his Priestguard lackeys would have been offered two choices after the civil war—execution or exile.
They mounted and were headed through the gates when Nikolai said, “I need you calm, Zoya. The Apparat isn’t fond of the Grisha Triumvirate to begin with—”
“I weep.”
“And outright hostility from you won’t help. I know you don’t approve of allowing the priest to remain in the capital.”
“Of course you should keep him here. Preferably stuffed above my mantel.”
“A stirring conversation piece, no doubt, but we can’t afford to make him a martyr. He has too much sway among the people.”
Zoya ground her teeth. “He is a liar and a traitor. He was instrumental in deposing your father. He tried to keep Alina and me captive beneath the earth. He never lent you support during the war.”
“All true. If I ever need to study for a history exam, I know who to come to.”
Why wouldn’t he listen? “The priest is dangerous, Nikolai.”
“He’s more dangerous if we can’t see what he’s doing. His network is far-reaching, and his sway with the people is something I can do nothing to combat directly.”
They passed through the gates and on to the streets of the upper town. “We should have held a trial after the war,” Zoya said. “Made his crimes known.”
“Do you really believe it would have mattered? Even if Alina Starkov herself rose from the Fold ensconced in sunlight to denounce him, the Apparat would still find a way to survive. That’s his gift. Now put on your most devout face, Zoya. You make a darling heretic, but I need you looking pious.”
Zoya ordered her features into a facsimile of calm, but the prospect of dealing with the Apparat always left her caught between rage and frustration.
Nikolai had rebuilt the royal chapel on the palace grounds after the war and had it consecrated by the Apparat himself—a gesture of reconciliation. It was the site of Nikolai’s coronation, where the Lantsov crown had been set upon his head and the moth-eaten but supposedly sacred bearskin of Sankt Grigori had been laid upon his shoulders. The painted triptych panels of the Saints had been pulled from the rubble and refurbished, the gold of their halos burnished brightly—Ilya in Chains, Lizabeta of the Roses. Alina had been added to their number with her white hair and antler collar so that now fourteen Saints watched over the altar, assembled like a serene choir.
Zoya had barely made it through the coronation. She couldn’t help but think of the night the old chapel had fallen, when the Darkling had slaughtered most of the Second Army, the very Grisha he had spent his life claiming he would protect. If not for Tolya and Tamar, the war would have ended that night. And Zoya could admit that the Apparat’s forces had played their part too, holy warriors known as the Soldat Sol, young men and women dedicated to the worship of the Sun Saint, many of whom had been endowed with her power in the final battle with the Darkling on the Shadow Fold. That little miracle had cemented Alina’s legacy—and unfortunately bolstered the power of the Apparat as well. It was hard not to suspect he had something to do with the bone bridge at Ivets and the spate of strange happenings throughout Ravka.
As they passed over the bridge and into the streets of the lower town, Zoya could hear the crowds outside the double walls, but it was only when they’d dismounted and reached the top of the battlements that she got a good look at the people gathered below. She heard her own gasp, felt shock travel through her like a slap. These were not the ordinary pilgrims who journeyed across the country to pay homage to their Saints; they were not the sun cult that had grown up around Alina Starkov and that often came to the palace walls to honor her. These people wore black. The banners they raised were emblazoned with the sun in eclipse—the Darkling’s symbol.
They’d come here to praise the man who had torn Zoya’s life apart.
A young cleric stood on a rock. He had the long, wild hair of the Priestguard, but he wore black, not brown. He was tall and bony, and she doubted he could be much older than twenty.
“We begin in darkness,” he cried to the swaying crowd, “and it is to darkness we return. Where else are the rich man and the poor man made equal? Where else is someone judged for nothing but the purity of his soul?”
“What is this drivel?” Zoya demanded.
Nikolai sighed. “This is the Cult of the Starless Saint.”
“They worship—”
“The Darkling.”
“And just how many followers do they have?”
“We’re not sure,” said Tamar. “There have been rumblings of a new cult but nothing like this.”
The Apparat had caught sight of the king and was making his way along the battlements. Zoya could see the Priestguard arrayed behind him, wearing robes bearing Alina’s golden sun—and armed with repeating rifles.
“Better and better,” muttered Zoya.
“Your Majesty.” The Apparat bowed deeply. “I am honored you would make time to lend me your support. I so rarely see you in the chapel. I sometimes fear you have forgotten how to pray.”
“Not at all,” said Nikolai. “Just not much for kneeling. Plays havoc on the joints. You’ve brought armed men to the city walls.”
“And you can see why. You’ve heard this blasphemy? This vile heresy? They want the church to recognize the Darkling as a Saint!”
“Who is this new cleric to you?” Zoya said, striving to keep her tone even. “Was he a member of the Priestguard?”
“He is the lowest form of traitor.”
You would know, she thought grimly. “So that’s a yes?”
“He’s a monk,” confirmed Tamar. “Yuri Vedenen. He left the Priestguard a year ago. My sources don’t know why.”
“We can discuss the boy’s provenance another time,” said Nikolai. “If you let the Priestguard loose, you risk causing a bloodbath and making a whole slew of new martyrs, which will only validate their cause.”
“You cannot ask me to permit this heresy—”
Nikolai’s voice was cold. “I ask nothing.”
The Apparat’s already waxen face paled further. “Forgive me, Your Highness. But you must understand, this is not a matter for kings to decide. It is a battle for Ravka’s very soul.”
“Tell your men to stand down, priest. I will not have more blood shed in the capital.” Nikolai did not wait for the Apparat’s reply but descended the battlements. “Open the gates,” he commanded. “The king rides out.”
“Are you sure this is wise?” murmured Tamar. “I’ve heard the talk in this camp. These pilgrims aren’t fond of you.”
“Perhaps they just haven’t gotten to know me. Stay close. Tolya, you make sure those Priestguard don’t get any ideas. Try to keep them separated from my soldiers. I don’t need to cause a riot of my own.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Zoya.
Nikolai cast her a long look. “I’m all for reckless choices, Zoya, but this is a delicate matter. You will have to bite your tongue.”
“Until it bleeds.” She wanted a closer look at the people gilding the Darkling’s memory. She wanted to remember each of their faces.
The gate rose and a hush descended as the king rode out of the city and into the crowd. The pilgrims might not care for Ravka’s young ruler, but there were plenty of people who had come to the capital on other business, to trade or visit the lower town. To them, Nikolai Lantsov was not just a king or a war hero. He was the man who had restored order after the chaos of the civil war, who had granted them years of peace, who had promised them prosperity and worked to see it done. They went to their knees.
Re’b Ravka, they shouted. Korol Rezni. Son of Ravka. King of Scars.
Nikolai raised his gloved hand in greeting, his face serene, his bearing erect, sliding from the role of commander to born nobility in the blink of an eye.
Some of the black-clad pilgrims knelt with the rest of the crowd, but a few remained standing, gathered around their bony prophet, who stood defiant upon an outcropping of rock. “Traitor!” he shouted as Nikolai approached. “Pretender! Thief! Murderer!” But his voice trembled.
“I’ve certainly been busy,” said Nikolai. They rode closer, forcing the pilgrims to move aside until the monk stood alone atop the rock to face Nikolai.
Maybe younger than twenty, Zoya thought. The monk’s narrow chest rose and fell rapidly. His face was long, his skin pale except for two hectic spots of color on his cheeks that gave him the look of a boy with a fever. His eyes were a melancholy green at odds with the fervor in them.
“What is on his chin?” Zoya whispered to Tamar.
“I believe he’s trying to sprout a beard.”
She peered at his long face. “He’d have better luck trying to grow a horn in the middle of his forehead.”
The monk flapped his black sleeves like a crow about to take flight. “Tell your false priest to do what is right and recognize the Starless One as a Saint.”