So she would let him. Whatever it took to find Vadik Demidov, to help the Grisha, to free her country. A reckoning was coming. She was not going to forgive Brum for his crimes even as he sought to commit new ones. Whatever she might feel for Hanne, she intended to see Brum dead, and she doubted Hanne would be able to forgive her for that. The divide was too great. The Shu had a saying, one she’d always liked: Yuyeh sesh. Despise your heart. She would do what had to be done.
“You are too good to me,” she simpered. “I am not deserving.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“They’re beginning!” said Ylva giddily, oblivious to the overtures her husband was making mere feet from her. Or was she? Maybe she was glad to have Brum’s attention elsewhere. Or maybe she’d overlooked the man’s flaws for so long that it had become a well-worn habit.
Nina was glad for the interruption. It gave her a chance to assess the crowd in the ballroom as one by one the girls approached the fountain at the center of the room, where they were met by the crown prince. Prince Rasmus was of average height for a Fjerdan, but eerily gaunt, his face a portrait in angles, the cheekbones high and sharp. He had only just turned eighteen, but his slight build and the tentative way he moved gave him the look of someone much younger, a sapling that wasn’t quite used to the weight of its branches. His hair was long and golden.
“Is the prince ill?” Nina asked quietly.
“Every day of his life,” Brum said with contempt.
Redvin shook his grizzled head. “The Grimjers are a warrior’s line. Only Djel knows how they shat out a weakling like that.”
“Don’t say that, Redvin,” said Ylva. “He endured a terrible illness when he was a child. It was a blessing he survived.”
Brum’s expression was unforgiving. “It would have been a greater mercy if he’d perished.”
“Would you follow that boy into battle?” Redvin asked.
“We may have to,” said Brum. “When the old king passes.”
But Nina didn’t miss the look that Brum exchanged with his fellow drüskelle. Would Brum consider colluding against the prince?
Nina tried not to look too interested and kept her attention on the processional of young women. Once each girl reached the fountain, she curtsied to the royal family observing from the dais beyond, and then curtsied again to the prince. Prince Rasmus took a pewter cup from a tray held by a servant beside him, dipped it into the fountain, and offered it to the girl, who drank deeply of Djel’s waters before returning the cup, curtsying once more, then backing down the aisle the way she’d come—careful never to turn her back on the Grimjer royals—where she was greeted by family and friends.
It was an odd little ritual, meant to mark Djel’s blessing over the season of balls and dances to come. But Nina’s focus was only partially devoted to the monotonous parade. The rest was given over to the crowd. It didn’t take her long to spot the man she knew must be Vadik Demidov. He stood close to the dais in a position of privilege, and Nina felt a shock of rage when she saw he wore a sash of pale blue and gold emblazoned with the Ravkan double eagle. The Little Lantsov. He bore a striking resemblance to the portraits she’d seen in the halls of the Grand Palace. Maybe too close a resemblance. Had they found a Grisha Tailor to make him look like Nikolai’s father? And if so, who was he really? Nina was going to have to get close enough to him to find out.
Her gaze moved on and met another pair of eyes staring directly at her—their irises so dark they seemed almost black. A chill spread over Nina’s body. She forced herself to ignore the Apparat’s piercing stare, to keep her attention roving over the crowd, an interested bystander and nothing more. But she felt as if a cold hand had closed over her heart. She knew the priest had come to the Fjerdan court, that he had forged an alliance to back Vadik Demidov, but she hadn’t expected to see him here. There’s no way for him to recognize you, she told herself. And yet his gaze had certainly felt knowing. She had to hope his interest was only in Brum’s household.
Ylva’s slender fingers dug into Nina’s arm. “It’s time!” she whispered excitedly. Hanne was next to make the walk down the aisle. “Her dress is perfect.”
It was—a high-necked gown of copper beads and long strings of rosy river pearls that ideally suited Hanne’s coloring. Hanne’s shorn head was shocking, but they’d chosen not to hide it with a scarf or headdress. Between the decadent gown and the austere beauty of Hanne’s features, the effect was striking. She looked like a statue cast in molten metal.
As Hanne waited for the previous girl to finish her return, her eyes flickered around the room in panic. Nina wasn’t sure if Hanne could actually see her in the crowd, but she concentrated on her friend, sending every bit of strength her way.
The smallest smile touched Hanne’s full lips, and she glided forward.
“Ulfleden,” Ylva said. “Do you know what that means?”
“Is it Hedjut?” Nina asked. She’d never learned the dialect.
Ylva nodded. “It means ‘wolf-blooded.’ It’s a compliment among the Hedjut, but not so much here. When a child is odd or behaves strangely, they say ‘her place is with the wolves.’ It’s a kind way of saying she doesn’t belong.”
Nina wasn’t sure how kind it was, though it made a sort of sense for Hanne, who would always be happiest beneath a wide sky.
“But Hanne has found her place here now,” said Brum proudly, watching her measured steps along the gray carpet.
When she reached the fountain, Prince Rasmus handed her the pewter cup and smiled. Hanne took it; she drank. The prince coughed, hiding his face in his sleeve—and kept coughing.
The queen shot up from her throne, already shouting for help.
The prince crumpled. Guards were moving toward him. There was blood on the prince’s lips; a fine spray of it spattered over Hanne’s beaded gown. She had him in her arms, and her knees buckled as they fell to the floor together.
8
NIKOLAI
ONCE THE ANTIDOTE HAD been delivered to Poliznaya, Nikolai and the others said goodbye to the Zemeni forces and began the ride to Os Alta. Adrik and Nadia would remain at Nezkii for a time.
“To enjoy the scenery,” Adrik had said, gesturing at the muddy, miserable landscape.
But Nikolai wanted a chance to think and their flyers needed repairs, so he, Tamar, and Tolya would ride. Messages were waiting for him on base at Poliznaya, confirming what his early scouts had reported: With the help of the Zemeni, General Raevsky had routed Fjerda at Ulensk. Ravka’s northern shipyards and bases had taken the brunt of the damage from Fjerda’s bombings. Thankfully, Fjerdan flyers were too heavy and too fuel-hungry to venture far ther south, so many of Ravka’s potential military targets remained out of range.
Victory at Nezkii and Ulensk had bought them a chance, time to get their missiles working, build up their fleet of flyers, and most importantly, deal with the Shu. The upcoming nuptials would help to stave off Queen Makhi, and maybe, if he could finesse this elaborate bit of diplomacy, make them allies. The price would be steep, but for Ravka, he would pay it.
Nikolai was dictating a reply to General Raevsky, and trying to ignore the noise of Tolya and Tamar sparring outside the stables, when he sensed her. What they had endured on the Fold had connected them in some way, and he knew he would see Zoya when he turned—yet the sight of her struck like a sudden change in the weather. A drop in temperature, the crackle of electricity in the air, the feeling of a storm coming on. The wind lifted her black hair, the blue silk of her kefta whipping around her frame.