“We don’t have to go on the hunt,” said Nina. “We just need to get outside and then talk your father into taking us into the drüskelle sector.”
“He won’t do it! Women aren’t permitted there.”
“Not even to see the kennels?”
Hanne hesitated. “I know he’s brought my mother to see the wolves.”
“And you’ve been inside.”
“I told you, it was years ago.”
“You liked going with him, didn’t you?” A little Grisha girl who didn’t even know what she was, following her father the witchhunter to work.
“I liked any chance to be with him. He was … he was fun.”
“Jarl Brum?”
“When I was very little. And then … he didn’t change exactly. He’d always been stern, but … Have you ever seen a petrified forest? The trees are still trees, but they don’t bend to the wind. They have no leaves to rustle. He was the mighty Commander Brum, unyielding, the ruthless witchhunter, Fjerda’s scythe. The more he sopped up their praise, the less like my father he became.”
It’s Fjerda, Nina thought, not for the first time. She had no mercy for Jarl Brum, no matter who he’d been as a young father. But she understood that all of this hadn’t begun with him and it wouldn’t end with him either. Fjerda with its hard ways and its old hatreds filled men with shame and anger. It made the weak weaker and the strong cruel.
“Can you draw me a plan of the drüskelle buildings?”
Hanne huffed a breath. “This may be the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
“Maybe so, but can you draw me a plan?”
“Yes, but you’ll still have to get us past the gate.”
“Don’t you worry, Hanne Brum. I have a gift for getting past Fjerdan defenses.”
14
ZOYA
“WHERE IS SHE?”
They’d traveled via airship to a field just a few miles from the sanatorium, the Sun Soldiers bending light around the craft to keep them camouflaged. It was a trick David had devised and Alina had pioneered to evade the Darkling’s forces during the civil war. Zoya remembered that terrifying flight from the Spinning Wheel, summoning wind to keep them aloft for hour after hour as they tried to put some distance between themselves and their pursuers. That was the same day Adrik had lost his arm to the Darkling’s shadow soldiers.
She watched the Darkling now, seated across from her in the coach. His hands and feet were shackled and four Sun Soldiers rode alongside. The rest of their unit had gone ahead to prepare the sanatorium and set up security.
The Darkling had been kept blindfolded in the airship, and the coach’s windows were covered by shades that blocked the view but let in the afternoon light. The less he knew about where they were going, the better. Despite the chains that bound him, it was disconcerting to share such close quarters, the shadows creeping in around them.
He has no power, she had to keep reminding herself. And she knew he was just as uneasy as she was. The expression on his face when the airship had taken off would give her joy for the rest of her life.
“Where is she?” he repeated, his gray quartz eyes glinting in the gloom. “You might as well tell me now.”
“How is it you don’t know?” asked Zoya. “Your dear Sankta Elizaveta was nearly omniscient.”
The Darkling studied the closed shade as if there was a view to behold. “She wouldn’t tell me.”
Zoya didn’t bother to stifle her pleasure. “A jealous Saint. Who knew? I’ll tell you about the meeting after you tell me about the thorn wood. Is this monastery you spoke of real?”
“It is.”
“But there’s some kind of catch, isn’t there?”
“It’s possible that it’s located in the Sikurzoi.”
The mountains that ran along the Ravkan border with Shu Han. The lower hills were crawling with patrols of Shu soldiers, and the rocky terrain beyond would be hard to traverse. But Tamar would find a way to get them where they needed to be. “An inconvenient obstacle, but hardly an insurmountable one.”
“It’s also possible the path to this particular monastery was blocked by a landslide nearly three hundred years ago, and only the monks know the way through.”
“Then we’ll simply go over it.”
“It’s also possible no one has spoken to or heard from these monks for another three hundred years before that.”
“Saints’ blood,” she swore. “You have no idea if these monks have thorn-wood seeds.”
“I know they had them.”
“You don’t even know if they really exist!”
“Perhaps it’s a matter of faith. Are you thinking of killing me, Zoya?”
“Yes.”
“Your king wouldn’t be pleased.”
“I’m not going to do it,” she lied. “I just enjoy thinking about it. It’s soothing, like humming myself a little melody. Besides, death is too good for you.”
“Is it?” He sounded almost curious. “What would make my atonement complete? An eternity of torture?”
“It would be a start. Though letting you live a long life without your power isn’t a bad beginning either.”
Now his face went cold. “Make no mistake, Zoya Nazyalensky. I did not live a hundred lives, die, and return to this earth, to live as an ordinary man. I will find a path back to my power. One way or another, I’ll cast out the remainders of Yuri’s soul. But the obisbaya is your king’s only chance to be free of his demon and for the world to be free of the Fold.” He leaned back against the seat. “I hear tell there was an attempt on your life.”
Damn it. Which guards had been talking? What had he over-heard?
“The more powerful you become, the more enemies you acquire,” he said. “And the Apparat is not a good enemy to have.”
“How do you know the Apparat was behind the attack?” They’d gotten little information from the assassin, but he was definitely one of the Apparat’s Priestguard. Zoya suspected the Apparat cared less about people calling her a Saint—though that was disconcerting enough—and more about eliminating her to weaken Ravka’s forces. His zealot followers had been happy to make the attempt.
A smug smile touched the Darkling’s mouth. “After hundreds of years, one becomes a very good guesser. The Apparat wants Saints he can control. A weak girl, or better yet a dead one. This assassination was meant to be your martyrdom.”
“I’m no Saint. I’m a soldier.”
He tried to spread his hands, the chains at his wrists clanking. “And yet, do we not make miracles?”
“Yuri really is still in there, prattling on, isn’t he?” This journey already felt interminable. “I’m not in the business of miracles. I practice the Small Science.”
“You know as well as I that the line between Saint and Grisha was once blurred. It was a time of miracles. Maybe that time has come again.”
Zoya wanted nothing to do with it. “And when one of the Apparat’s assassins slips through my guard or a Fjerdan bullet lodges in my heart, will I be resurrected like Grigori? Like Elizaveta? Like you?”