They weren’t married. They weren’t even engaged. He wanted to ask, but he wanted to court her first. Maybe build her something. A new invention, something lovely and useless and ill-suited to war. A music box or a mechanical fox, a folly for her garden. Part of him was certain that she would simply change her mind about him and that would be the end of it. He had wanted her for so long that it seemed impossible he should actually have her beside him every day, that he might lay down beside her every night. Not impossible, he supposed. Just improbable.
He turned, sending pebbles scattering off the mountainside.
“Kiss me, Zoya,” he said.
“Why?”
“I need reassurance that you are real and that we survived.”
Zoya went up on her toes and pressed her warm mouth to his. “I’m right here and I’m freezing, so move before I toss you into a gully.”
He sighed happily. There she was. Bitter and bracing as strong drink. She was real, and at least for now, she was his.
* * *
They came upon the monastery without warning. One moment they were squeezing between two sheer rock walls and the next they were staring at an elaborate stone facade of arches and columns carved into gray stone. Between them, in a series of friezes, Nikolai saw the story of the first Priestguard, the monks who had transformed into beasts to fight for the first Ravkan king but who had been unable to return to human form. Yuri had believed that Sankt Feliks had been among those monks, and that over the years, the details of his Sainthood and martyrdom had been altered by time and retelling. Feliks had endured the obisbaya, the Ritual of the Burning Thorn, to purge himself of a beast. And if Nikolai didn’t particularly want to be freed of his monster any longer? He would still do what his country’s future required. That much hadn’t changed.
There was no door to knock on, only a long tunnel that led into the dark. One of the Sun Soldiers lit the way.
“The air smells sweet,” Genya said, and moments later, they understood why.
They emerged into a vast, snow-dusted clearing open to the sky. The rock walls around them were pocked with arched niches like a hundred hungry mouths, and at the center of it all stood the biggest tree Nikolai had ever seen.
The diameter of its twisted trunk was nearly as wide as the lighthouse at Os Kervo. A network of thick, muscular roots radiated from its base, and high above, the canopy of its branches nearly covered the clearing, dense with red blossoms and thorns as long as a man’s forearm.
The thorn wood. But its shape felt different this time.
“It looks like Djel’s ash tree,” said Zoya.
“All stories begin somewhere.” The voice came from the shadows of one of the niches. A woman appeared, her body swathed in crimson silk, her black hair in three long braids thrown over her shoulder. She was Shu, her eyes the vibrant green of new quince, and her feet were bare despite the snow. “All gods are the same god.” She turned to Zoya. “Nae brenye kerr, eld ren.”
Zoya bowed.
Nikolai looked from Zoya to the monk. “Beg pardon?”
“It’s Kaelish,” said the Darkling. “Ancient Kaelish. A language I didn’t realize Zoya knew.”
Zoya didn’t spare him a glance. “It means ‘good to see you, old friend.’ Juris was here before.”
“Long ago,” said the monk. “He wanted to be human again and thought we could help him. Do you fear that fate?”
Zoya looked surprised. “I’m still human.”
“Are you?”
Genya reached out and took Zoya’s hand. “She’s human enough.”
But Nikolai supposed they were all in somewhat hazy territory where that was concerned.
“We know what you’re here for,” said the monk. “But there’s no help to be found in the thorn wood.”
We? Nikolai realized that figures in crimson stood beneath every arch, staring down at them. They looked to be unarmed, but they held the high ground.
“You’re aware of the blight?” he asked, trying to make a count of the people in the arches. There were over fifty of them.
“It has come to our mountains once already. We’re only grateful it didn’t strike the thorn wood.”
“As are we,” said Nikolai, since the tree was their only hope. Or had been. “You’re saying we can’t stop the spread of the Fold?”
“Not with the obisbaya. The Shadow Fold is a tear in the fabric of the universe, the fabric of the first making.”
“The making at the heart of the world,” Zoya murmured.
“Before the making, there was nothing, and that is what seeps into our world now.”
Nikolai rubbed his hands together. “So how do we fix it?” The question he would always ask. What was broken could be repaired. What was torn could be mended. “How do we close the tear?”
“You can’t,” said the monk. “Someone must hold it closed.”
Genya frowned. “What?”
“Someone must stand at the doorway between worlds, between the void and creation.”
“For how long exactly?” asked Nikolai.
“Forever.”
“I see.”
“What do you see?” Zoya said sharply.
“It has to be someone.”
“Don’t be absurd,” she snapped.
The monk drew closer. He couldn’t tell how old she was. “Is it the shadow inside you that makes you brave?”
“I should hope not. I was making bad decisions long before that thing showed up.”
Zoya grabbed his sleeve. “Nikolai, you can’t be serious. I won’t let you do this.”
“You haven’t been crowned. I’m not sure you can forbid anything just yet.”
“You told me you’d stay by my side.”
There was nothing he wanted more. They’d stopped a war together, and he’d begun to believe they could build a life together, but this was something he would have to do alone. He turned to the monk. “What do I have to do?”
“Nikolai—”
“The thorn will pierce your heart, just as in the obisbaya, but there you will remain, in agony, courting madness. If the thorn is removed, the blight will return and the universe will crumble.”
Nikolai swallowed. That sounded far less palatable than a quick and heroic death. “I understand.”
“But Nikolai,” Genya said. “What happens when … well, when you die?”
“The blight will return,” said the monk.
“Just as I thought.” The Darkling leaned against one of the tree’s gargantuan roots. He looked bored, as if he encountered an ancient order of monks every other day. “Your grand gesture has been noted, boy king—”
“Not a king,” corrected Nikolai.
“Consort or king, you’re not up to the task.”
Zoya looked at the thorn wood. “Is this my martyrdom then?”
“Absolutely not,” said Genya.
The Darkling just laughed. “Look at the way you march to the gallows. One with heroic zeal, one with grim determination. No, Sankta Zoya, you’re not powerful enough to play martyr either. It has to be me, of course.”
Zoya’s eyes narrowed. “Of course. A man known for selfless acts. You do nothing without first calculating your own gain. Why would you start now?”