“I’ll consider it,” Nikolai said mildly. “But first I must ask that you join me for breakfast.”
“I will not be wooed! I will not be bribed!”
“Yes, but will you have tea or coffee?” A titter rose from the crowd, the smallest release of tension.
The boy raised his hands to the skies. “The Age of Saints has come! The signs appear from the permafrost to the Sikurzoi! Do you think I will be swayed by your glib words and friendly demeanor?”
“No,” said Nikolai gently, and dismounted. Zoya and Tamar exchanged a glance. If this was all some elaborate setup for an assassination attempt, then the king was playing his part very well. “May I join you?”
The young monk blinked, flustered. “I … I suppose?”
Nikolai hoisted himself onto the rock. “I don’t expect you to be wooed or bribed or swayed by my admittedly winning demeanor,” he said so quietly that only the monk and Zoya and Tamar could hear. “But you may be swayed by the sniper stationed behind that gentle knoll—do you see it? Excellent spot for picnicking—with orders to burst your head like a summer melon if I lift my right hand.” Nikolai raised his hand and the boy flinched, but the king merely adjusted the lapel of his coat.
“I would gladly be martyred—”
“You won’t be martyred … Yuri, is it? You’ll be a mistake. That bullet will graze my shoulder and I’ll make sure to fall very dramatically to the ground. The shooter will confess to being an assassin who wished to murder the Lantsov king. Maybe he’ll even say he was loyal to the cause of the Starless Saint.”
“But that … that’s preposterous,” the monk sputtered.
“Is it more preposterous than the king of Ravka putting himself in the path of a sniper’s bullet in order to rid the kingdom of an upstart monk? Because that, my friend, is quite a story.” Nikolai extended his hand. “Come to breakfast. My cook makes a marvelous pork loin.”
“I don’t eat meat.”
“Of course you don’t,” Zoya said. “It’s animals you object to killing, not people.”
“The Darkling—”
“Spare me your sermons,” she hissed. “It is only my loyalty to the king that keeps me from pulling the air from your chest and crushing your lungs like hollow gourds.”
“I’ve seen her do it,” said Nikolai. “Makes a funny sound.”
“Kind of a pop?” said Tamar.
“Wetter,” Nikolai said. “More of a squelch.”
“I’ll go,” said the monk. “But if I am not returned to my followers safe and unharmed, there will be blood in the streets. There will—”
“Please let me do it,” said Zoya. “No one will miss him.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Nikolai. “I’m sure he has a mother. Right, Yuri? Nice woman. Lives in Valchenko?”
Yuri touched his hand to his chest as if the king had struck him. Apparently Tamar’s spies had gathered plenty of intelligence on this boy.
“I know,” said Nikolai, patting the monk on the shoulder. “Most disconcerting to realize you’re gambling with lives other than your own. Shall we?”
Yuri nodded and Nikolai turned to the crowd.
“We will meet,” he declared, voice booming. “We will talk.” He shrugged. “Perhaps we will argue. But Ravkans need agree on nothing more than the drinking of tea.”
A ripple of laughter passed through the people, still kneeling but grateful now, relieved. Tamar gave the monk her horse and they rode back through the gates.
As soon as they were inside, the Apparat rushed toward them, flanked by Priestguards. “We will take him into custody. I have many a question for this heretic—”
“Yuri Vedenen is my guest,” said Nikolai pleasantly.
“I insist that I be present at his interrogation.”
“What a peculiar name for breakfast.”
“You cannot possibly mean to—”
“Tolya,” Nikolai said, “take our guest to the Iris Suite and make sure he is adequately fed and watered. I’ll join you shortly.” They waited for the monk to be escorted away. It was clear the Apparat was desperate to speak, but before he could open his mouth, Nikolai swung down from his horse. “Priest,” he said, and now his voice held the low, angry thrum of a temper barely leashed. “Do not think that because I’ve let you live this long, I cannot change my mind. Accidents happen. Even to men of faith.”
“Forgive me, Your Highness. But … a creature like this cannot be trusted.”
“Pray go on,” said Zoya. “I’d like to see if an excess of irony can actually kill a man.”
“Why did the monk abandon the Priestguard?” asked Nikolai.
“I don’t know,” admitted the Apparat. “He was a scholar, a good one. Better than that. His theories were unorthodox but brilliant. Then a year ago he vanished without explanation. Until he reappeared on our doorstep preaching this absurd gospel.”
“Do we know where the cult originated?”
“No,” said the Apparat. He sighed. “But I think it was inevitable the people would seek to make the Darkling a Saint.”
“Why?” said Zoya. “The common people had no love for him.”
“In life, no. In death, a man may become anything at all. He possessed great power and died grandly. Sometimes that is enough.”
It shouldn’t be. After everything he did.
“Very well,” said Nikolai. “We will grant the monk an audience and see what he has to say.”
The Apparat’s eyes protruded almost comically from his head. “You cannot mean to speak with him, to lend his cause such credibility! It is the height of recklessness!”
Though Zoya might well have agreed with the priest, she still wanted to seize his filthy robes and shake him until he recognized he was talking to his king and not some supplicant. Not that she was particularly compliant when it came to Nikolai, but it was the principle of the thing.
Nikolai remained unruffled, his temper forgotten. “Calm yourself, priest. I have no intention of seeing the Darkling called a Saint. But if we can make a friend of this boy, we should, and I intend to get all of the information I can from him in the process.”
“My followers will not like it,” said the Apparat with false regret. “I, of course, understand the need for diplomacy, but they may fear the spiritual corruption of their king.”
“What a tragedy that would be. Perhaps there is a way to appease them and compensate you for this difficult day.”
The Apparat bristled. “The Saints have no need of gold.”
Nikolai looked scandalized. “Nothing so crass.”
“Well,” said the Apparat, making a great show of thinking. “Ulyosk and Ryevost are in need of new churches. The people need to know the king shares their faith, and such a gesture will help strengthen their faith in their ruler.”
After a long moment, Nikolai bobbed his chin. “You will have your churches.”
“They are the Saints’ churches, Your Highness.”
“Then please inform the Saints.”
“Does a king bow so easily to a man with no title?” Zoya asked as they rode away. She had said she would bite her tongue, and she had, but it had left her temper boiling. “You are helping the Apparat build his network of spies. You are making him stronger.”
“At some point, you might consider treating me as something other than a fool. Trust me, Zoya. You may come to enjoy it.”
“That’s what Tamar said about absinthe.”
“And?”
“It still tastes like sugar dipped in kerosene.”
Zoya cast a glance over her shoulder and saw the priest watching them from the city gates, his eyes as dark as pits. Nikolai might joke all he liked, but every concession they made to the Apparat felt like a misstep. The old king, the Darkling, Alina Starkov—they’d all bargained with the priest, and all of them had paid in blood.
Zoya spent the rest of her day overseeing a new squadron of Squallers and sending orders to the outposts along the southern border. She hoped the Grisha forces there would be able to guard against a possible Shu attack. She dined in the Hall of the Golden Dome beside Genya and David, listening with one ear to Genya’s plans for the arrival of their international guests as she thumbed through a summary of David’s work with Kuwei Yul-Bo. The young Inferni sat at a table surrounded by other young Grisha. His late father had created parem, and Kuwei had done his best to share his knowledge of that work with David and the other Fabrikators attempting to alter the addictive side effects of the drug. But he was less a scientist than a soldier. Though Genya had tailored him slightly, Kuwei’s gifts as an Inferni were his greatest disguise; no one in the Shu Han had known of his abilities. He had chosen a new name when he’d come to the Little Palace: Nhaban. It meant “rising phoenix” in Shu. The boy was as pretentious as he was gifted.
After dinner she managed another hour of work before she ventured to the Grand Palace to lock Nikolai in for the night and then allowed herself to retire to her chambers. They had once belonged to the Darkling. Genya and David had refused them when they’d assumed their duties in the Triumvirate, but Zoya had gladly occupied the spacious rooms. She was happy to take anything that had once been his, and she had swung the first hammer when it was time to tear down the old furnishings and remake the space to her liking. A gesture. She wasn’t about to let her hands get calloused and had left the real effort to the workmen. It had taken long months and considerable Fabrikator craft to fashion the rooms to her taste, but now the domed ceiling showed a sky thick with cloud, and the walls had been treated to look like a storm-swept sea. Few people noticed the little boat that had been painted into one of the six corners, or the flag it flew with two tiny stars. And no one who did would have known what it meant.