“Then he was not so cruel—”
Genya held up a hand, and Nikolai was glad to see Yuri shut his mouth. “The Darkling didn’t want me to die. He wanted me to live—like this.”
“More fool him,” said Nikolai quietly, “to let such a soldier survive.”
Genya gave the barest nod. “Think twice before you use the word blessing, monk.” She sat and folded her hands. “Proceed.”
“Just a moment,” David said, planting a finger on the page to mark his place in his book. “What was your name?”
“Yuri Vedenen, moi soverenyi.”
“Yuri Vedenen, if you upset my wife again, I will kill you where you stand.”
The monk swallowed. “Yes, moi soverenyi.”
“Oh, David,” Genya said, taking his hand. “You’ve never threatened to murder anyone for me before.”
“Haven’t I?” he murmured distractedly, placed a kiss on her knuckles, and continued reading.
“I am … Forgive me, I am overwhelmed.” Yuri sat, then rose again, as if he couldn’t help himself. “To think I’m in rooms built by the Starless One himself.” He touched his fingers to the black seams that marked the Shadow Fold on the map. “It is … it is too glorious to contemplate. Is this cowhide?”
“Reindeer, I believe,” said Nikolai.
“Remarkable!”
“Wait,” said Zoya, blue eyes slitted. “You said the Starless One himself. Not his ancestors.”
Yuri turned from the map with a smug smile on his lips. “Yes, I did. I know there was only one Darkling, one man of great power who faked his death many times. A precaution against small minds who might have feared his extraordinary power and his long life.”
“And how did you arrive at this theory?” asked Nikolai.
Yuri blinked. “It’s not a theory. I know. The Darkling revealed as much to me in a vision.”
Zoya’s brows rose, and Nikolai had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. Instead he tented his fingers and said, “I see.”
But Yuri’s smile just deepened. “I know you think me mad, but I have seen miracles.”
And that was exactly why Nikolai had brought him here. “You said something the other day, that the Age of Saints was upon us. What did you mean?”
“How else do you account for the miracles taking place throughout Ravka?”
“So it begins,” muttered Zoya.
“We’ve heard the stories,” said Nikolai mildly. “But there are rational explanations for these occurrences. We live in difficult times, and people are bound to look for miracles.”
To Nikolai’s surprise, the young monk sat down at the table and leaned across it, his expression earnest. “Your Highness, I know you are not a man of faith. But the people believe these happenings are not just phenomena in search of explanation. They believe they are the work of Saints.”
“They are the work of Grisha,” said Zoya. “Possibly the Shu. Possibly your dear friend the Apparat.”
“Ah,” said Yuri. “But some people believe all of the old miracles were the work of Grisha.”
“Then call it the Small Science and dispense with all of this superstition.”
“Would that make it easier to accept the divine?” Yuri asked, his spectacles glinting. “If I call these works the ‘making at the heart of the world,’ would that help? I’ve studied Grisha theory too.”
Zoya’s eyes were hard as gems. “I’m not here to debate theology with a mop handle.”
Yuri sat back, his expression beatific. “The Saints are returning to Ravka. And the Starless One will be among them.”
“The Darkling is dead,” Genya said, and Nikolai did not miss the white knuckles of her clasped hands. “I watched his body burn.”
Yuri cast a nervous glance at David and said, “There are some who believe the Darkling did not die on the Fold and is simply awaiting his chance to return.”
“I was there too, monk,” said Zoya. “I saw him burn away to ash atop a funeral pyre fed by Inferni flame.”
The monk closed his eyes briefly, pained. “Yes. Of course. That was his martyrdom, and his body was destroyed. But the Darkling’s power was extraordinary, ancient. It may be gone, or it may still live on in the world and his spirit with it.”
Zoya pressed her lips together, folding her arms tightly against her body, as if to keep away the cold.
Nikolai did not like what he was hearing. A scrap of that ancient power still resided within his own body—and if last night was any indication, it was growing stronger by the day.
“You think all of these separate incidents, these supposed miracles, are related to the Darkling?” he asked.
“No!” exclaimed the monk. He leaned even farther forward. In a moment, his chin was going to make contact with the table. “I know they are.” He rose and gestured to the map behind them. “If I may?” He looked around, darting right and left, robes flapping like the wings of a deranged bird.
“This is what the Darkling’s acolytes look like?” whispered Zoya. “If we’d left a body, he would be turning in his grave.”
“Aha!” Yuri said, finding the small cloth flags that could be pinned to the hides. The maps were pocked with tiny holes where former leaders had planned military campaigns.
“The earthquake at Ryevost, the statue at Tsemna, the roof of myrrh at Arkesk, the bleeding walls in Udova, the roses in Adena.” One after another he listed the supposed miracles as he put pins on the map. Then he stood back. “They began here, far along the coasts and mountains and borders, but day by day, the occurrences have become more frequent, and they’ve drawn closer to—”
“The Fold,” said Nikolai. The pattern was clear, a radiant star-burst with its heart dead center in the Unsea.
“Saints,” breathed Zoya.
“Is that where—” Genya began.
“Yes,” said Nikolai, though he didn’t remember much of the final battle. He’d been infected with the monster already, fighting with it for control of his consciousness. And winning far more often than he was now. He’d been lucid in long flashes, even in his transformed state, and had sought out help from Alina. He had even tried to aid their forces in that last confrontation.
The miracle sites were closing in on the same central spot, the place where the Fold had once been, where the Darkling had made his last stand—where he had faced Alina Starkov and died by her hand. Victory. At least that was what it had looked like at the time—a country united, the possibility of peace, and Nikolai suddenly and swiftly purged of the demon that had battled him for control. He had believed the darkness within him had been vanquished at the moment of the Darkling’s death. He had believed the war was over.
And yet the monster had risen up to take hold of him again. Had the demon always been there, troubling his dreams, his constant companion, awaiting its moment? Or had something woken it?
Nikolai looked at the pins splayed over the map. Was there a pattern, or was Yuri seeing what he wanted to? And was this seemingly guileless zealot playing a deeper game?
“Forgive me, Yuri,” Nikolai said. “But your goal is to have the Darkling recognized as a Saint by the Ravkan church. You have every reason to try to tie these occurrences to the Starless One.”
“I have no reason to lie,” said Yuri. “Only days ago a sign appeared on the Fold, a lake of black rock, a sun in eclipse.”
Zoya expelled an exasperated breath. “Or a geological anomaly.”
Yuri poked his bony finger at the map. “This is not just where the Starless One passed from this life. It is a place of ancient power, the very place the Darkling first ruptured the world and created the Fold.”
“You can’t possibly know that,” Zoya said with a dismissive wave.
“It was the subject of my studies in the Priestguard. It’s all in the texts.”
“Which texts?” she asked, and Nikolai wondered if she was deliberately trying to bait the monk.
“The Book of Alyosha. The Sikurian Psalms. You can see it illustrated in the Istorii Sankt’ya.”
“A children’s book?”
“It was a holy site,” insisted Yuri. “The place where Sankt Feliks was pierced by the apple boughs, an ancient place of healing and glorious power where men came to be purified.”
Nikolai sat up straighter. “Purified of what exactly?”
Yuri opened his mouth, closed it. “I misspoke—”
“No, he didn’t,” said Tolya. “He’s talking about the obisbaya. Aren’t you, monk?”
“I … I …”
“I hate to admit my ignorance,” said Nikolai. “It’s so much more fun for people to discover it on their own. But what exactly is the obis … bumpy?”
“No idea,” said Zoya. Genya shrugged, and even David shook his head.
To Nikolai’s surprise, it was Tamar who spoke.
“The obisbaya,” she said. “The Ritual of the Burning Thorn. Do you know how the Priestguard were first created?”
“Those are children’s stories,” said Zoya scornfully.
“Possibly,” Tolya conceded.
“Tell me a story, then,” said Nikolai.
Tamar folded her arms. “Why don’t you do the honors, monk?”
Yuri hesitated, then said, “It begins with the first Lantsov king, Yaromir the Determined.” He shut his eyes, his voice taking on a more confident, even cadence. “Before him, the territory that would become Ravka was little more than a collection of warring provinces led by squabbling kings. He subdued them and brought them together beneath his double-eagle banner. But the invasions from Fjerda to the north and Shu Han to the south were relentless and put the young kingdom in a constant state of war.”
“Sounds familiar.” Nikolai knew this story from his own childhood classrooms. He’d always found it disheartening that Ravka had been at war since its birth.