“The prince and the fishwife? If you live as Rasmus, you know you’ll be king one day.” A king who knew what it was to be a woman in Fjerda, what it was to feel alone among her people. A true warrior.
“And you will be my queen.” Hanne’s shy glance pierced Nina—sudden light, too bright after so much darkness. “If you’ll have me.”
Nina laughed. “Oh, I’ll have you, Hanne Brum.” Hanne’s cheeks flushed. It was glorious. “Two Grisha living in secret, ruling Fjerda, guiding them toward peace with Ravka? It’s too beautiful a dream. But a prince can’t wed a commoner.”
“Then I’ll give you land and titles. If you’re willing. Can you stay here with me and live this lie?”
Nina stopped Hanne with a kiss, gazing down at the person she loved, alive and happy. “It’s not a lie. You are my prince and you have my heart.”
“You would wear a false face forever?”
“Well, Mila may develop some new hobbies and stop wibbling and wringing her hands so much, but yes. For the dream of you, I could.”
“If you want to go back to Ravka—”
“I do. And I’ll miss it and make you command the chefs to cook blini and beet soup.” She planted herself in Hanne’s lap. “But this is where I belong.”
They stayed there, curled against each other, Hanne’s arms wrapped around Nina, as they watched the sky turn the deep blue of twilight. Just beneath Hanne’s left ear, Nina saw two rosy freckles, missed in the panicked rush of tailoring. She did love those freckles. Maybe they could keep one of them.
What would Matthias think of all this? Nina wondered. A Grisha king. A Grisha queen. She hoped he would be glad to see her happy, that he would want her heart to heal. Save some mercy for my people. Sitting there, in the quiet, watching the clouds slide by, no sound to break the silence but the steady hum of the engines, Nina felt a strange sensation creep through her, an ease that she had all but forgotten. Peace.
There were battles ahead, dangers she and Hanne would have to face. What they were attempting was audacious, maybe impossible, but somehow she knew they would manage it. Nina rested her cheek against Hanne’s. She’d honored Matthias, and this path, somewhere between revenge and redemption, was the right one. My place is with the wolves.
Nina sat up straight. “Hanne, what do I call you now? Rasmus?”
Hanne shuddered. “I can’t stand that. We’ll have to choose a new name. A Saint’s name. To honor the prince’s newfound faith in the Children of Djel.”
“All Saints, you’re a quick learner. That’s a politician’s move.”
“But we have to pick a good one.”
“How about Demyan? Or Ilya? He was famous. And he changed the world.”
Her prince smiled. “I don’t know the story.”
“I’ll tell it to you,” Nina said. Outside, night was falling and the sky was full of stars. “I’ll tell you a thousand stories, my love. We’ll write the new endings, one by one.”
48
NIKOLAI
THEY TRAVELED WITH SUN SOLDIERS, not only for protection, but because some of the mountain passes were still blocked by snow.
“It would have been faster by dragon,” Zoya complained as they traversed yet another switchback.
“And considerably more conspicuous,” Nikolai replied.
“Just keep moving,” Genya said. “I don’t want to spend another night in these mountains.”
Nikolai glanced behind him on the trail, where Zoya was helping Genya clamber over a rock. They’d all worn the roughspun clothes of travelers—warm coats and trousers, boots lined in fur. “Is it the bobcats, the weather, or the company that displeases you?”
“I am a queen,” Zoya said. “I should be borne aloft on a litter so that my delicate feet never touch the ground.”
“I could ask the demon to carry you.”
Zoya sniffed. “Thank you, no. The last time you let it out, it tried to bite me.”
“I think it was meant affectionately.”
“Are you certain?” asked Genya.
“Not entirely,” he admitted.
Flyers had brought them to the plains north of Sikursk. From there, they’d been forced to continue on foot. The winds that tore through these peaks made flight too risky. Ahead of them, bracketed by Sun Soldiers, the Darkling trudged on. His hands were bound and he still wore the black robes of the Starless. It was as if he didn’t feel the cold.
Nikolai wondered what might be waiting for them if they ever managed to find this monastery—assuming it even existed. He was perfectly prepared for this daft excursion to be yet another of the Darkling’s deceptions, but that didn’t mean he was prepared for the deception itself. Perhaps the Darkling would bring down a landslide and bury them all beneath a pile of rock or abandon them in a labyrinth of caves. The options were endless. The man had a limitless supply of unpleasant surprises.
They emerged around a bend and the valley sprawled out before them, blanketed in silver mist and ringed by the snow-capped peaks of the Sikurzoi. He could see mountain lakes gleaming like frozen coins, and far in the distance, a herd of shaggy bison moving slowly across a meadow, searching for signs of spring.
Nikolai would have preferred to wait for the thaw to make this trip, but reports of the blight had only grown more frequent, miles-wide patches of dead earth and ashen soil, men, women, and children struck down in the space of moments, scars that might never heal.
After the battle for Os Kervo, his trackers hadn’t been able to locate the Darkling. The followers of the Starless One still held their services, and a few had camped outside the palace walls to petition the new queen for the Darkling’s Sainthood. But the man himself had gone missing. Until one night they’d entered the war room in the Little Palace to find him slouched in his old chair, as if he’d never left.
Nikolai had reached for his guns, Tolya and Zoya had moved into combat stance. But the Darkling had merely rested his chin in his hand and said, “It seems that, once again, Ravka has a problem only I can solve.”
It was fair to say that problem was of the Darkling’s creation, but if he could be of assistance, Nikolai wasn’t going to argue. At the very least, he’d set them on the path to the Monastery of Sankt Feliks, where he believed they would find answers. And if not? Even the Darkling, the eternal know-it-all, wasn’t sure what they would do. He seemed unfazed by the prospect.
“Are you really so ready to watch the world die?” Nikolai had asked him.
He’d merely shrugged. “Imagine, if you’re able, how long I’ve spent in this world. Do you never wonder what waits in the next?”
Nikolai supposed he had. He’d written some very bleak poetry about death and the unknown while he was at university in Ketterdam, some of it in rhymed couplets, all of it remarkably bad.
He glanced back at Zoya trudging along, her silver fur hat pulled down low over her ears, her nose red from the cold. Why think of the next world when she was in this one? Over the past weeks he’d watched her navigate meetings, diplomatic dinners, the tricky early negotiations of the Fjerdan treaty. He was there to charm and to offer guidance when she needed it, but Zoya’s role as general of the Second Army had forced her to learn the ins and outs of Ravka’s foreign policy and internal workings. She might never have a real passion for agricultural reform or industrial development, but her ministers would be there to help. And so would Nikolai, if she let him.