“A vision?” asked Chernov, amid the startled exclamations of the crowd. “What did you see?”
“I saw the future. I saw how we are best meant to serve the cause of the Starless One. And it is not to live as cowards.” Troubled murmurs rose from the pilgrims. “We will not march south. We will not hide from this war.”
Chernov took a step forward. “Yuri, you cannot mean that. We have never troubled ourselves with politicians and their games.”
“This is no game. The Apparat betrayed the Darkling. He fought against naming him a Saint. He allies himself with Ravka’s enemies. But you would go to ground, trembling like animals without teeth or claws.”
“So that we may survive!”
“So that we can run back to a corrupt priest when he joins Demidov’s court? So that we can return to begging for his notice by chanting outside the city gates? We were meant for more.” He met the eyes of those watching him, exchanging angry whispers. “No doubt some of you joined this group for the very purpose of avoiding battle. You didn’t want to pick up a gun, so you put on a robe and carried the Starless banner. I will tell you right now, we do not want you here.”
“Yuri!” cried Chernov. “This is not our way.”
Aleksander wanted to cut him down where he stood, but it was not yet time to show his true power. He’d endured lifetimes of hiding just how strong he was. He could wait a little longer.
He spread his hands wide. “You are afraid. I understand that. You are not soldiers. Neither am I. And yet the Darkling spoke to me. He promised that he would return. But only if we make a stand in his name.”
“What are you suggesting?” Brother Azarov asked, his face fearful.
“We march north. Toward the border.”
“Toward the war?” he sputtered.
Aleksander nodded. He didn’t intend to waste his time traveling from village to village, winning over tiny congregations with parlor tricks. No, he required a moment of spectacle, something grand with plenty of witnesses. He would stage his return on the field of battle with thousands of Ravkan and Fjerdan soldiers as his audience. There, Yuri’s transformation from humble monk to chosen savior would be completed. There, Aleksander would teach them awe.
The Fjerdans were better armed and better provisioned, and when young King Nikolai faltered, as he inevitably would, then and only then would the Darkling return, and show Ravka what strength really looked like. He would save them. He would offer them a miracle. And he would become Saint, father, protector, king.
“Yuri,” said Chernov. “You ask too much.”
“I ask nothing,” said Aleksander, spreading his arms wider. “It is the Starless One who gives this command.” Shadows began to bleed from his palms. The crowd cried out. “You must decide how you will answer.”
He threw his head back, letting the shadows billow out over the crowd. They went to their knees. He heard sobbing. He was fairly sure Brother Azarov had fainted.
“Will you run to the south or will you carry our Saint’s banners north?” he demanded of the crowd. “How will you answer the Starless One?”
“North!” they cried. “North!”
They clung to one another, weeping, as the shadows blocked out the setting sun.
“I’m sorry I doubted you,” Chernov said, approaching with tears in his eyes.
Aleksander smiled, letting the shadows recede. He placed a hand on Chernov’s shoulder. “Don’t apologize, brother. You and I are going to change the world.”
27
NIKOLAI
THEY JOURNEYED TO KETTERDAM aboard the Cormorant, a large airship that would allow them to transport the titanium back to Ravka—assuming they were able to acquire it. But they couldn’t approach the city in a Ravkan vessel, so they moored the giant craft at a smuggler’s island off the Kerch coast. Adrik and his Squallers would keep it wreathed in mist while Zoya and Nikolai met up with the Volkvolny, the privateer Sturmhond’s most famous ship.
Numerous people had stepped into the role of Sturmhond since Nikolai had created the identity for himself. It had made it easy to keep the privateer’s legend and influence alive while he sat the throne. And, of course, there were things a privateer with no known allegiance might accomplish that a king bound by the rules of diplomacy could not. Sturmhond’s gift for making and breaking blockades and acquiring stolen property had served Ravka’s interests more than once. It felt good to slip into the familiar teal coat and strap Sturmhond’s pistols to his hips.
Zoya was waiting on the deck of the Volkvolny. She had dressed as a common sailor in trousers and a roughspun shirt, and braided her hair, but she looked completely ill at ease out of her kefta. Nikolai had seen the way Nina disappeared into a role, changed the way she walked, the way she spoke, seemingly without effort. Zoya did not have this gift. Her posture remained razor sharp, her chin lifted slightly, less like a rough-and-tumble sailor than a beautiful aristocrat who had taken it into her head to spend the day among commoners.
Her eyes scanned him from the crown of his head to the toes of his boots. “You look absurd in that outfit.”
“Absurdly dashing? I agree.”
She rolled her eyes as the ship surged forward to find its berth in the Ketterdam harbor. “You like playing the pirate too much.”
“Privateer. And yes, I do. There’s freedom in it. When I wear this coat, my responsibility is the people on this ship. Not an entire nation.”
“It’s a game of pretend,” she said.
“A welcome illusion. One might be anything or anyone aboard a ship.”
They leaned on the rail, watching as the sprawl of the city and its busy port came into view.
“You miss it, don’t you?” she asked.
“I do. Maybe if this all goes to hell and Vadik Demidov takes my crown, I’ll simply return to being Sturmhond. I can serve my country without wearing a crown.”
He was unnerved by how much the idea appealed to him. It wasn’t the work of being a king he minded. Problems were meant to be solved. Obstacles defeated. Allies won through charm or the occasional bribe. He was happy to pick up a sword or a pen on Ravka’s behalf, to go without sleep or comfort in order to see a mission through. But kings didn’t take action—not the way that a privateer or even a general could. Being a king meant second-guessing every move, considering countless variables before making a decision, knowing that each choice might have consequences that others would pay for. We need a king, not an adventurer. Zoya was right, but that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.
She cast him a curious glance. “Could you do it? Give up the throne?”
“I don’t know. When you’ve wanted something so long, it’s hard to imagine a life without it.” He supposed he wasn’t just talking about Ravka.
Zoya stood a little straighter, all propriety. “Growing up means learning to go without.”
“What a depressing thought.”
“It’s not so bad. Starve long enough, you forget your hunger.”
He leaned closer. “If it’s so easy to lose your appetite, maybe you were never truly hungry at all.” She looked away, but not before he saw the faintest blush tinge her cheeks. “You could come with me, you know,” he said idly. “A Squaller is always welcome on a ship’s crew.”