“You’ve heard of Bernhard Bolle, who made his fortune in smoked trout? And Ingvar Hals, who owns timberland from the Elbjen to the Isenvee? Well, Lennart Bjord towers above them all.”
“Lennart Bjord?” the bearded man repeated.
“That does sound familiar,” said someone by the hearth. Nina highly doubted that, since she’d made him up mere moments ago.
“I was the first to greet them,” said the big man with the rifle. “It’s only right I should get the reward.”
“How is that fair? You happened to be by the door!”
“Now, don’t get too riled,” Nina said with a schoolmarm tsk in her voice as the men began debating who would take the watch. “Lennart Bjord will have a bit of something for everyone.”
Nina and “Inger” settled in the corner, their backs to the wall as the men argued.
“That was pathetic,” the girl seethed, resting her elbows on her knees and tugging her skirt over the toes of her boots.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You made us seem weak. Every time we behave that way, it just makes it easier for men to look at us and see nothing but softness.”
“There is nothing wrong with softness,” Nina said, her temper fraying. She was exhausted and cold, and she’d dug her lover’s grave tonight. “Right now they’re looking at us as two big bags of money instead of two vulnerable girls alone.”
“We weren’t vulnerable. I have my gun, my knife. You have those ridiculous darts.”
“Do you also have twelve arms hidden in that coat? We’re outnumbered.” Nina actually suspected that she could have managed all of them, but only if she intended to reveal her true power, and that would mean putting this girl in the ground tonight too.
“They’re drunk. We would have managed.”
“You don’t enter a fight you can’t win,” Nina replied, irritated. “I’m guessing you’ve had to train in secret, and that you’ve probably never had a real combat instructor. Being strong doesn’t mean being sloppy.”
The wiry girl drew her coat closer. “I hate it. I hate how they see us. My father is the same way. He thinks a woman wanting to fight or hunt or fend for herself is unnatural, that it denies men the chance to be protectors.”
Nina snorted. “It really is a tragedy for them. What does your mother think?”
“My mother is the perfect wife, except she provided my father no sons. She does as he dictates.” The girl sighed. She looked weary suddenly, the thrill of the fight and the storm gone. Her hair—that extraordinary color, like the woods in autumn, chestnut and red and gold—lay storm-damp and tangled against her brown cheeks. “I can’t blame her. It’s the way the world works. She’s worried I’ll become an outcast.”
“So they sent you to a convent in the middle of nowhere?”
“Where I couldn’t get into trouble or embarrass them in front of their friends. Don’t pretend you think differently. I saw the way you looked at me when you helped us in the clearing.”
“You were dressed as a soldier. I was entitled to a little surprise.” And she’d been dedicated to maintaining her cover, not befriending a Grisha—one who might be able to get her closer to the factory. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I travel on my own, make my own living.”
“That’s different. You’re a widow.”
“You needn’t sound quite so envious.”
The girl rubbed her hand over her brow. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless.”
Nina studied her. There was something relentless in her features—the cheekbones sharp, the nose rigorously straight. Only the full thrust of her lips gave any hint of softness. It was a challenging face, stubborn in its lines. Beautiful.
“We’re not as different as you might think.” Nina bobbed her head toward the men, who were now arm wrestling for the right to a generous reward that none of them would ever see. “It’s fear that makes your father act as he does, that makes men write foolish rules that say you can’t travel alone or ride as you wish to.”
The other girl bit back a laugh. “Why should they be afraid? The world belongs to them.”
“But think of all the things we might achieve if we were allowed to do the things that they do.”
“If they were truly afraid, you wouldn’t have to simper and preen.”
Nina winked. “You’ve seen me simper. If I ever decide to preen, you’ll need to sit down for it.”
The girl stifled a snort. “I’m Hanne.”
“Nice to meet you,” Nina said. “I’m Mila.” She’d told countless lies this night, but somehow it felt wrong to give this girl a false name.
“You don’t really mean for us to sleep, do you, Mila?” Hanne’s face was knowing.
“Not a chance. You’re going to keep your hand on your dagger, and I’m going to keep first watch.”
Nina touched her hand to her sleeve, felt the reassuring presence of the bones lining the fabric. She watched the flickering of the fire.
“Rest,” she told Hanne, and realized she was smiling for the first time in months.
PREPARATIONS FOR NIKOLAI’S GRAND tour of the miracle sites required days of planning by the king’s staff. Provisions had to be secured, vehicles made ready for the changing weather, appropriate clothing packed, and letters sent to noblemen and governors in the towns they intended to visit. Zoya found herself snapping at everyone even more than usual. She knew the talk was that she was in one of her moods, but the perks of ruling included permission not to slather her words in honey. She did her job. She did it well. If her students and servants and fellow Grisha couldn’t endure a few curt replies in exchange, they were in the wrong damn country.
She might have been able to relax if everyone didn’t move so slowly. But eventually the wagons were packed, the coach prepared, and outriders sent ahead to scout the condition of the roads for the royal procession. The specific itinerary for the trip would be kept secret, but soon Nikolai’s people would know their king was traveling and they would come out in force to see their golden war hero.
Zoya wasn’t sure what to think of the monk’s stories of the thorn wood or the twins’ talk of the Priestguard and the obisbaya. Part of her said that it was foolish to pin their hopes on such a mission, on the ramblings of a fanatic who clearly believed in Saints and all the pomp and nonsense that went with them.
She told herself the journey would be good for the crown and Nikolai’s standing, regardless of what they found. She told herself that if it all came to nothing, they would find some other way to get through the next few months, to appease their allies and keep their enemies at bay. She told herself that the real Nikolai was still in control, not the monster she had seen that night in the bell tower.
But Zoya had survived by being honest with herself, and she had to acknowledge that there was another fear lurking inside her—beneath the anxieties that accompanied the preparations for this journey, beneath the ordeal of looking into the eyes of the demon and seeing its hunger. She was afraid of what they might find on the Fold. What if the genuflecting twits who worshipped the Starless One were actually right, and these bizarre occurrences heralded the Darkling’s return? What if he somehow found a way back?
“This time I’ll be ready for him.” Zoya whispered the words in the dark, beneath the roof of the chambers the Darkling had once occupied, in the palace he had built from nothing. She wasn’t a naive girl anymore, desperately trying to prove herself at every turn. She was a general with a long body count and an even longer memory.
Fear is a phoenix. Words Liliyana had spoken to her years ago and that Zoya had repeated to others many times. You can watch it burn a thousand times and still it will return. She would not be governed by her fear. She did not have that luxury. Maybe so, she thought, but it hasn’t kept you from avoiding Nikolai since that night in the bell tower. She hated this frailty in herself, hated that she now kept Tolya or Tamar close when she was chaining the king to his bed at night, that even in meeting rooms she found herself on guard, as if expecting to look across a negotiating table and see his hazel eyes glimmer black. Her fear was useless, unproductive—and she suspected it was something the monster might enjoy.
When the morning of their departure finally arrived, she packed a small trunk. Unlike the luggage the servants had prepared for her kefta and traveling clothes, this one would be locked. It held Nikolai’s shackles, reinforced twice over and with a new locking mechanism it had taken her hours to master. The weight of them was reassuring in her hands, but she still breathed easier when Genya and David arrived in her chambers.
Zoya peered at the tiny bottle Genya handed her. It was fitted with a glass stopper. “Is this enough?”
“More than enough,” said Genya. “Give him one drop immediately before sleep, a second if you have any trouble. Any more than that and there’s a good chance you’ll kill him.”
“Good to know. Regicide isn’t on my list of preferred crimes.”
Genya’s lips twitched in a smile. “You’re saying you’ve never wanted to kill Nikolai?”
“Oh, I have. I just don’t want him to sleep through it.”
Genya gave her another bottle, this one round and red. “Use this to wake him in the morning. Just uncork it and place it beneath his nose.”
“What is it exactly?”
“A distillation of jurda and ammonia. Basically a very fast-acting stimulant.”
“That isn’t exact at all,” said David. “It utilizes—”
Zoya held up a hand. “Exact enough.”
Genya ran her fingers over the carved surface of the trunk. “The process won’t be easy on him. It will be a bit like drowning every night and being revived every morning.”
Zoya wrapped the bottles in cotton and placed them gently in the trunk, but as she moved to lock the lid, Genya laid a hand over hers.