“Are you … how much of you is you and how much is that thing?”
“I don’t know,” Nikolai answered honestly. “But the demon isn’t the Darkling’s to command. It’s mine.”
“You’re sure about that?”
Nikolai had no reason to be. And yet he was. Maybe the darkness inside him had once belonged to the Darkling, a demon born of his enemy’s power. But they’d begun to make their peace when they’d faced each other in the thorn wood. It was his monster now.
“I’m sure,” Nikolai said. “If I weren’t, I think you know I’d never let myself lead an army.”
Adrik eyed him speculatively. “I’m still on your side, Korol Rezni. For now. After the war, we’ll see. Maybe I’ll be killed in action and I won’t have to worry about it.”
“That’s the Adrik I know.”
Adrik shrugged, his gloom descending over him like a well-worn cloak. “This country’s always been cursed,” he said as he headed toward the labs. “Maybe it deserves a cursed king.”
“He’ll come around,” said Zoya, approaching with a stack of correspondence in her hands. “Reports from our commanders. Speculation from our scouts about where and when the Fjerdans will attack.”
It was hard to be grateful for a war, but he was glad that he and Zoya had plenty to talk about that wasn’t what he’d said on the airship. Would he unsay it, if he could? He hated the skittishness he sensed in her, the way she seemed to be keeping her distance. But war was unpredictable. He might not survive the fight to come. He couldn’t be sorry for speaking his heart, or at least some part of it.
“Where would you put your money?” he asked.
Zoya considered. “The permafrost. It’s perfect terrain for Fjerdan tanks, and the cloud cover hurts our flyers.”
“Not Arkesk?”
“It would make sense for the Fjerdans except for the little matter of Sturmhond’s blockade. They won’t get any support from the sea. Besides, we know they’re in secret talks with West Ravka. You think they’ll invade on western soil anyway?”
“Maybe,” said Nikolai. If the talks were a sham, Fjerda might do just that. Arkesk was closer to the Fjerdan capital, and its rocky topography was rough but manageable. “The trees would slow them down. That could work to our advantage.”
“Saints’ teeth,” Zoya swore.
Nikolai looked up and saw Count Kirigin bustling toward them in a remarkable orchid coat and breeches.
“So sorry to interrupt, but there’s been a disturbance at the gate. There’s a man asking to see the king.”
Nikolai frowned. The Cormorant had flown directly to Lazlayon under cover of mist. There was no reason for anyone to think he was visiting Kirigin’s estate.
“Who is he?” Zoya asked.
“No idea,” said Kirigin. “He’s a bit of a mess. You might mistake him for a pile of rags. I can have the guards send him packing.”
“No,” said Zoya. “I want to know why he came looking for the king here. Have him searched for weapons and brought to the house.”
“He won’t come in. He says he wishes to speak to the king alone.”
Zoya’s brows shot up. “Alone?”
“A stranger in rags who dares command a king,” said Nikolai. “I’m intrigued.”
“He could be an assassin,” Zoya said.
“A terrible one.”
“Or a very good one, since you seem willing to meet him.”
“Lend me your guards, Kirigin. Let’s see what this stranger has to say.”
The walk to the gates was a long one, but Nikolai didn’t mind it. He needed time to think. Trying to pinpoint where Fjerda would launch their attack was a deadly guessing game. Ravka couldn’t afford to spread its forces too thin, but if he chose the wrong place to make a stand, Fjerda would blast through the northern border unopposed. So would the enemy choose Arkesk or the permafrost or somewhere else entirely?
Count Kirigin’s description of the stranger had been apt. He was tall—and that was about all Nikolai could say regarding his appearance. He was bundled in a heavy wool coat, a hat slung low over his ears, so that little more than his bright blue eyes were visible, and he was covered in soot.
“Damn it,” said Nikolai, suddenly realizing what this had to be. “He must have been in Os Alta and lost family or friends in the bombing.” He’d come here looking for someone to hold accountable, and Nikolai couldn’t blame him for choosing the king. Well. This wouldn’t be the worst thing he’d face in the coming days.
Nikolai greeted the stranger. “I’m told I have been ordered to make an appearance.”
“Not ordered. Invited.” He spoke Ravkan with a faint accent.
“The hour is late. What can I do for you?”
The stranger reached into his pocket. Instantly, Zoya and Kirigin’s guards lunged in front of Nikolai, hands and rifles raised.
“Best to move slowly in such situations,” said Nikolai.
The stranger held up his palms, showing he had no weapon, just a small package wrapped in brown paper.
“For the king,” he said, holding it out. “And only for the king.”
Cautiously, Zoya reached for the package.
“Give it over,” said Nikolai. “If he’s going to kill me with the world’s tiniest bomb, I’ll at least have an interesting death.”
He pulled the paper away. It was a miniature of Tatiana Lantsov, Ravka’s former queen. His mother. Nikolai’s gaze snapped to the stranger before him. He’d only ever seen his true father in a portrait, a miniature just like this one that had belonged to his mother. Magnus Opjer had looked the spitting image of Nikolai. Except for his bright blue eyes.
“Leave us,” he said to Zoya and the guards.
“It isn’t safe—” Zoya began, but she stopped when she saw the expression on his face. “All right,” she said. “But we’ll be just up the path. I’m not letting either of you out of my sight.”
He listened to their footsteps fade but kept his eyes on the man before him.
Opjer unwound his scarf and Nikolai drew in a breath.
“Tatiana told me you took after me,” Opjer said. “But I cannot quite believe the likeness.”
“It’s all true then.”
“I’m afraid so.”
Had a part of Nikolai believed it was some great joke? That his mother had been mistaken? That Fjerda’s rumormongering would prove to be nothing more than gossip? But here was the proof; all the whispers were true. He was the pretender. He had no Lantsov blood. Not a drop of it. In fact, he was more Fjerdan than Ravkan.
Nikolai took in Opjer’s ragged clothes. Why had he fled Fjerda? Why would he come all this way to see a son he’d never met before? Maybe he did have assassination in mind.
“Why come to me now, looking like a beggar, bearing a miniature of my mother? Mere sentiment?”
“I tried to get here sooner. To warn you of the bombing.”
So, Nikolai was right about that much. Opjer had been in Os Alta during the attack. “You knew what they intended?”