Tamar ran a hand through her short hair. “Our father promised our mother that we would have a choice. So when she died, he took us to Novyi Zem.”
Would that have been the better thing? Should Liliyana have put her on a ship to cross the True Sea instead of bringing her to the palace gates to join the Grisha? Nikolai had abolished the practice of separating Grisha from their parents. There was no mandatory draft to pull children from their homes. But for the Grisha who had no homes, who had never felt safe in the places they should feel safe, the Little Palace would always be a refuge, somewhere to run to. Zoya had to preserve that sanctuary, no matter what the Fjerdans or the Shu or the Kerch threw at them. And maybe, somewhere on the other side of this long fight, there was a future where Grisha wouldn’t have to fear or be feared, where “soldier” would just be one of a thousand possible paths.
She stood and shook out her cuffs. She wanted to sit by the fire, argue with Tolya, look at Genya’s sketches, watch Nikolai frown into his tea. And that was exactly why she had to leave. There could be no rest. Not until her country and her people were safe.
“Your Majesty?” she said. “We’ve put this off long enough.”
Nikolai got to his feet. “At least I don’t have to drink any more tea.”
“Do you want company?” Genya asked.
Zoya did. She wanted an entire army at her back. But she saw the way Genya clutched the papers in her hands, the way David’s gaze snapped to his wife, the desire to protect her the one thing that could draw him from his work.
“When you’re ready,” Zoya said quietly. “And not before.” She cracked her knuckles. “Besides,” she drawled as she sailed from the room, “that dress needs a proper train. Let’s not have the Shu queen thinking we’re peasants.”
* * *
“That was good of you,” Nikolai said as they crossed the palace grounds to the old zoo. A full moon was rising.
Zoya ignored the compliment. “Why can’t it be as simple as war? One enemy facing another in honest combat? No, now we have some kind of monstrous blight to face.”
“Ravka likes to keep things interesting,” said Nikolai. “Don’t you enjoy a challenge?”
“I enjoy a nap,” said Zoya. “I can’t remember the last time I was allowed to sleep in.”
“None of that. A full night’s sleep might put you in a good mood, and I need you at your most disgruntled.”
“Keep spewing inanities and you may see me at my worst.”
“All Saints, are you saying I haven’t seen you at your worst?”
Zoya tossed her hair. “If you had, you’d be under the covers, gibbering prayers.”
“A unique way of getting me into bed, but who am I to question your methods?”
Zoya rolled her eyes, but she was grateful for the distraction of this easy back-and-forth. This was safe, simple, nothing like the quiet of his bedchamber, his hand tight in hers. And what would she do when Nikolai was married and propriety rose like a wall between them?
She straightened her spine and tightened the ribbon in her hair. She would get by just fine, as she always had. She was a military commander, not a simpering girl who wilted from a lack of attention.
The old zoo was located in the wooded area on the eastern end of the palace grounds. It had been abandoned generations ago, but somehow it still smelled of the animals that had been caged there. Zoya had seen the weathered illustrations: a leopard in a jeweled collar, a lemur wearing a velvet waistcoat and performing tricks, a white bear imported from Tsibeya that had mauled three different keepers before escaping. It had never been caught, and Zoya hoped it had somehow found its way home.
The zoo was built in the shape of a large circle, the old cages facing outward and overgrown with brambles. At the center was a high tower that had once housed an aviary at the top. Now it was home to a different animal.
As Zoya climbed the stairs behind Nikolai, she felt the ancient intelligence inside her rouse—thinking, calculating. It always seemed to come alive with her anger or her fear.
The Fold is expanding. Nikolai had said the words so easily, as if remarking upon the weather. I hear there will be rain tomorrow.
The calla lilies are in bloom again.
The world is being devoured by nothingness and we have to find a way to stop it. More tea?
But that was always the way. The world might crumble, but Nikolai Lantsov would be holding up the ceiling with one hand and plucking a speck of dirt from his lapel with the other when it all went to ruin.
He and Zoya had built this prison carefully, leaving only the skeleton of the aviary. Its walls were now made entirely of glass, letting light in throughout the day. At night, Sun Soldiers, heirs to Alina Starkov’s power, many of whom had fought against the Darkling on the Fold, kept the light alive. They had all been sworn to secrecy, and Zoya hoped that vow would hold. The Darkling had emerged into this new life without his powers—or so it seemed. They were taking no chances.
When the door opened, their prisoner rose from where he’d been sitting on the floor, moving with a kind of grace Yuri Vedenen had never possessed. Yuri, a young monk who had preached the gospel of the Starless Saint, had led the cult dedicated to worship of the Darkling. They believed the Starless One had been martyred on the Fold and that he would return. And to Zoya’s great surprise, Yuri and the rest of the addlepated zealots clad in black and chanting for a dead dictator had been right: The Darkling had been resurrected. His power had poured into Yuri’s own body and now … now Zoya wasn’t sure who or what this man was. His face was narrow, his pale skin smooth, his eyes gray beneath dark brows. His long black hair almost brushed his collarbones. He wore dark trousers and nothing else, his chest and feet bare. Vain as always.
“A royal visit.” The Darkling sketched a short bow. “I’m honored.”
“Put on a shirt,” said Zoya.
“My apologies. It gets quite warm in here with the relentless sunlight.” He shrugged into the rough-spun shirt Yuri had worn beneath his monk’s robes. “I’d invite you to sit, but…” He gestured to the empty room.
There was no furniture. He had no books to occupy him. He was let into the neighboring cell only to wash and relieve himself. Another two heavily padlocked doors stood between that cell and the stairs.
The Darkling’s new residence was empty, but there was quite a view. Through the glass walls, Zoya could see the palace grounds, the rooftops and gardens of the upper town, lights from the boats drifting on the river that ringed it, and the lower town below. Os Alta. This had been her home since she was only nine years old, but she’d rarely had the chance to see it from this angle. She felt a rush of dizziness, and then she was remembering. Of course. She knew this city, the countryside that surrounded it. She had flown over it before.
No. Not her. The dragon. It had a name, one known only to itself and long ago to the others of its kind, but she couldn’t quite remember what it was. It was right on the tip of her tongue. Infuriating.
“I am eager for company,” said the Darkling.
Zoya felt a sudden rush of his resentment, his rage at this captivity—the Darkling’s anger. The dragon’s presence in her head had left her vulnerable. She drew in a breath, grounding herself, here, in this strange glass cell, the stone floor beneath her boots. What might you learn—Juris’ voice, or was it her own?—what might you know, if only you would open the door?