“Honestly, I’ve barely had a chance to speak with her.” He’d meant to invite her to his Saint’s day feast, but somehow he’d never gotten around to it. Nikolai knew he should talk to her. He must if he had any hope of seeing his plans for the future come to fruition. But he’d been avoiding spending time with the princess since that disastrous night when Isaak had died and the woman everyone had believed to be Ehri was revealed as an assassin. Since then, the real Princess Ehri had been sequestered in luxurious quarters that were still very much a prison. Her Tavgharad guards had been kept in the most hospitable part of the dungeons beneath the old stables, and the assassin—the girl who had driven a knife into Isaak’s heart, thinking she was killing a king—was under lock and key, still healing from her wounds. As for Nikolai’s other prisoner? Well, he had a very unique cell of his own.
“Ehri is softening,” Nikolai continued. “But she’s stubborn.”
“A good trait for a queen,” said Zoya.
“Do you think so?”
Nikolai watched Zoya’s face. He couldn’t help watching. Her glance at him was so swift he might have imagined it, a flash of blue, the sky glimpsed through trees. And the meaning of that glance? Something. Nothing. He’d have more luck trying to tell his fortune in the clouds.
Zoya kept her reins in one hand as she adjusted her gloves. “In less than a month, Queen Makhi will arrive, expecting a grand celebration. Without the presumed bride’s cooperation, you’re going to find yourself in the middle of an international incident.”
“He may well anyway,” said Tamar.
“Yes, but if the wedding doesn’t happen, Nikolai won’t have to worry about the Fjerdans or the Shu or the Fold.”
“I won’t?”
“No, because Genya will have murdered you. Do you have any idea how much work she’s put into planning this grand event?”
Nikolai sighed. “It will happen. I’ve already had a new suit made.”
“A suit,” Zoya said, casting her eyes heavenward. “You’ll be very well-dressed at your funeral. Talk to Ehri. Charm her.”
She was right, and that vexed him more than anything. He was grateful to see a rider approaching from camp, though the messenger’s grim expression instantly set Nikolai’s heart racing. No one ever rode that fast when the news was good.
“What is it?” Nikolai asked as the rider drew alongside them.
“A flyer arrived from Os Alta, Your Majesty,” the messenger said on a gasp. “We’ve had a message from the Termite.” He handed Nikolai a sealed missive.
He saw Zoya lean forward in her saddle and knew she wanted to snatch the paper right out of his hands. Nina Zenik’s code name was Termite.
Nikolai’s eyes scanned the page. He had hoped they’d have more time. But Nina had at least given them a fighting chance.
“We need to get back to camp. Ride ahead and have them ready two of our flyers,” Nikolai told the messenger, who vanished in a cloud of dust.
“This is it, isn’t it?” asked Zoya.
“Fjerda is on the march. Tamar, you’ll need to get word to David and our Fabrikators, and I’ll send a flyer to our contacts in the west as well.”
“The missiles aren’t usable yet,” said Tamar.
“No,” said Nikolai. “But the Fjerdans aren’t going to wait.” He turned to Zoya. “Hiram Schenck is in Os Kervo. You know what to do. We have only one chance to get this right.”
“Are we ready?” Tolya asked.
“Hardly,” said Tamar. “But we’ll give them hell anyway.”
The demon in Nikolai roused at the thought. War was like fire—sudden, hungry, and easiest to stop before it had taken hold. He would do all he could to contain this blaze. He feared for his country and for himself. He’d be a fool not to. But some part of him, maybe the privateer, maybe the demon, maybe the prince who had clawed his way to the throne, was itching for a fight.
“Think of it as throwing a party,” he said, giving his reins a snap. “When the guests show up, you find out who your real friends are.”
4
NINA
NINA WOKE TO HANNE at her bedside, shaking her arm. Her heart pounded in her chest and she realized her sheets were soaked with sweat. Had she been talking in her sleep? She’d been dreaming of the ice, of Matthias’ wolf. Trassel had been eating from her hand, but when she looked closer, she saw that his white muzzle was covered in blood and that he was feasting on a corpse.