“And what if it all leads to nothing?” asked Genya. “What if the Darkling left you with this curse and there are no answers to be found?”
Zoya laid her fingers flat on the table. “What if Yuri discovers the truth about the monster?”
“Then we pray I can silence him and keep this secret long enough to secure Ravka’s future. Even without an heir, there may be a way to keep the throne safe and make sure the country isn’t left vulnerable.”
“And what exactly is that?” asked Zoya.
“Are you sure you don’t want to try trusting me, Zoya? It’s positively intoxicating.” The idea had come to him the previous week, when they’d arrived from Count Kirigin’s and had been greeted by Trukhin and Isaak.
Zoya pursed her lips. “I don’t like any of this. There’s too much room for disaster.”
Nikolai knew that. They were running out of time, and this journey to the Fold smacked of desperation. He could not deny the fear that clung to him, the doubt it sowed in his heart. What if his mind unraveled and his will with it? What if he attacked one of his friends again and there was no one there to stop him? What damage might he unleash on the people he loved? On the world?
Nikolai could not deny those fears, but he refused to give in to them. He would not just hand the monster a victory.
He turned to the people assembled before him—his advisers, his soldiers, his family. He needed them to believe, if not in Yuri’s tales, then in Nikolai himself, the person he had been before the Darkling and the war. He straightened the lapels of his velvet coat and winked.
“It’s not exciting if nothing can go wrong.”
He felt the monster recoil. Action. Decision. In moments like these, he felt almost like his old self. If this thing wanted to claim his soul, Nikolai intended to give it a damn good fight—and that battle began here, now, with a refusal to relinquish any bit of his spirit to the terror trying to drag him into the dark. He would do what he had always done: He would charge forward and pray that hope might be waiting like the roots of the thorn wood—just out of sight.
DUSK HAD FALLEN by the time she pushed to her feet.
The sky looked more gray than purple, wounded like a deep bruise, and the air felt moist against her cheeks. Snow had begun to fall in gentle drifts.
It didn’t stay gentle for long.
Nina had never seen a storm come on so fast. The wind blew hard, and snow blurred the whole world white. Gruzeburya. Even the Ravkans had a name for this wind. The Brute. Not for the cold it brought but for the way it blinded you like a thug in a dirty fight. Nina was torn between trying to follow the sound of the river back to camp and being afraid she might stray too close to the banks and fall in.
She trudged on, squinting against the white. At one point she thought she heard Adrik’s voice calling to her, glimpsed the bright yellow flag they’d raised above the tent, but a moment later it was gone.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. She had not been made for such places. Nina wouldn’t survive a night without shelter in this weather. She had no choice but to continue on.
Then, like a miracle, the wind lifted, the curtains of snow seemed to part, and she saw a dark shape in the distance. The camp.
“Adrik!” she cried. But as she drew closer, she saw no flag, no tent, only the swaying bodies of a copse of trees—and in the snow before them, a slight indentation. She’d walked in a circle. She had returned to Matthias’ grave.
“Well done, Zenik,” she sighed. She was only eighteen years old, so why did she feel so tired? Why did everything behind her seem bright and everything before her look bleak? Maybe she hadn’t come here to bury Matthias and claim her new purpose. Maybe she’d come out here to the ice, to this cold and unforgiving place, to die.
There would be no Saints to greet her on a brighter shore. Grisha didn’t believe in an afterlife. When they died, they returned to the making at the heart of the world. It was a thought that brought her little comfort.
Nina turned back toward camp. There was nothing for it but to start marching again. But before she could take a step, she saw them—five hulking shapes in the snow. Wolves.
“Of course,” she said. “Matthias, your country can kiss my fat Grisha ass.”
The wolves prowled around her in a circle, surrounding her, cutting off any route of escape. Low growls rumbled from their chests. Wolves were sacred to the drüskelle. Maybe they’d sensed Matthias’ presence. Or maybe they’d sensed Nina, a Grisha, an enemy. Or maybe they sensed a nice juicy meal.
“Just go,” she said in Fjerdan. “I don’t want to hurt you.” I don’t want to die.
Matthias had been forced to fight wolves during his year at Hellgate. Djel had a strange sense of humor. Nina flexed her fingers, felt her bone daggers ready to be called. They would work as well on an animal as a human. She hurled off her cloak, feeling the cold bite into her but freeing the bone shard armor at her back. She was a Saint surrounded by her relics.
Two wolves leapt. Nina’s hands shot out and the bone shards flew true, piercing the animals’ bodies in two clean, hard strikes. The wolves yelped and landed in the snow, motionless. The sound broke her heart. At least they were clean deaths. In the end, maybe that was all anyone could hope for.
But the others were closing in already. There was something odd about the way they moved. Their eyes glowed almost orange and they hunched and twitched as if animated by something more than hunger. What was wrong with them? There was no time to think.
They lunged. Nina struck out. This time her aim was less sure. One wolf fell, but the other pounced, landing on her with a weight that sent her tumbling into the snow.
Its jaws closed over her forearm, pain lancing through her. The wolf stank of something strange. She screamed.
Nina heard a loud snarl and knew she was about to die. All those pretty words for Matthias. Who will speak for me?
Then, in a blur, something smashed into the body of the wolf, freeing her from its weight. Nina rolled, clutching her bleeding arm to her chest, gasping for air. She plunged her arm into the snow, trying to get the wound clean. Her body started to shake. It was as if the wolf’s bite had carried poison. Nina felt a heart-stopping rush go through her. She saw death all around—Matthias’ body in the ground below, a graveyard to the north, an outbreak of plague farther on, the entropy of the earth, the decay in everything. The chorus screamed inside her head.
She pressed snow to her cheeks, trembling, trying to clear her thoughts, but when she opened her eyes, she wondered if the poison had fractured her mind. Two wolves were fighting in the snow—one gray, the other white and far larger. They rolled, and the white wolf clamped its jaws over the throat of the gray but did not bite down. At last, the gray slumped and whimpered. The white wolf released its hold and the smaller wolf recoiled, slinking away, tail tucked between its haunches.
The white wolf turned on Nina, blood on its muzzle. The animal was huge and rangy, but it didn’t twist or shake the way the grays had. Something had been infecting them, something that had gotten into Nina’s bloodstream, but this creature moved with the natural, unerring grace of wild things.
The white wolf stalked toward her. Nina pushed up onto her knees, holding out her hands to ward it off, reaching for another bone shard with her power.
Then she saw the scar that ran along its yellow eye.
“Trassel?”
The wolf’s ears twitched.
Matthias’ wolf? It couldn’t be. He’d once told her that when a drüskelle died, his brothers gave his isenulf back to the wild. Had Trassel come to find the boy he’d loved, to be united with him even in death?
“Trassel,” she said gently. The wolf cocked his big head to the side.
Nina heard hoofbeats. Before she could fathom what was happening, a girl rode into the clearing.
“Get back!” she cried, galloping her horse between Nina and the white wolf.
It took Nina a moment to understand what she was seeing—the tall girl from the convent. This time she wore leather trousers and furs, and the reddish-brown tumble of her hair streamed down her back, held away from her face by two long braids. She looked like a warrior queen—a sylph of the ice straight out of Fjerdan legend.
She raised her rifle.
Trassel backed away, snarling.
“No!” Nina screamed. She hurled a bone shard at the girl, striking her shoulder. The rifle shot went wide. “Run!” Nina yelled at Trassel in Fjerdan. The wolf snapped his jaws as if in argument. “Djel commenden!” Nina shouted. Drüskelle words. Trassel huffed once, then turned and loped into the storm, giving her a last betrayed look as if he couldn’t believe she’d ask him to abandon a fight.
“What are you doing?” the tall girl demanded, yanking the bone dart from her shoulder and tossing it into the snow.
Nina howled her rage. Matthias’ wolf, his troublemaker, his Trassel had somehow found his way to her, and this blundering podge had driven him off. She seized the girl’s leg and yanked her from the saddle.
“Hey!” The girl tried to shove Nina away, clearly surprised by her strength. But Nina had been trained as a soldier. She might not be built like a Fjerdan warrior, but she was plenty strong.
“You scared him away!”
“That was a wolf,” the girl shouted back in her face. “You know that, right? He already bit you once. Just because he follows some of your commands—”
“He didn’t bite me, you ass. It was the other wolf!”
“The other … are you out of your mind? And how do you know drüskelle commands anyway?”
Nina found hot tears running down her cheeks. She might never see Trassel again. What if Matthias had sent him to her? Called him here to help her? “You had no right!”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“It doesn’t matter what you meant!” Nina stalked toward her. “Careless, foolish, thoughtless.” She didn’t know if she was talking to this girl or herself anymore, and she didn’t care. It was all too much.