Nikolai had known it was likely the Fjerdans would involve his mother and father—or the man he’d once believed to be his father—and the Kerch had made it possible. Yet seeing them here was still hard to accept. He could feel his father’s contempt from across the chamber, see it in the bitter lines of his haggard face. His mother looked frail and tired, and he wondered if she wanted to be here to speak against him or if she had been coerced. Perhaps that was wishful thinking, the hope of a wayward son who had exiled his own parents. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Is this where all of it ends? He’d asked that question more than once over the last few days. He looked around the room at the Fjerdan delegates, the Ravkan noblemen, and the Kerch and Zemeni ambassadors stationed in Os Kervo who had joined the summit as mediators. The Apparat and his Priestguard had made their way here too, though they hadn’t arrived with the Fjerdans and they stood high up in the gallery. The priest’s face looked bruised.
Nikolai didn’t know whom he could rely upon. He had allies among Ravka’s first families, though many had opposed his reforms. Plenty of the nobles from West Ravka would have been happy to see him deposed, particularly if it meant secession for the west. But after the Fjerdan betrayal and invasion, he hoped he could count a few more friends among them. Nikolai was popular with the people, but the people weren’t gathered here. They had no voice in this chamber.
Not entirely true, he considered. Dense crowds had thronged the square outside the city hall and he could hear the distant sounds of their chanting, even if it was hard to make out what they were saying through the closed shutters.
He felt curiously light. Whether or not he kept the Ravkan throne seemed almost incidental now that he might see his country and his people free. He didn’t know Demidov, but he might not be the most terrible choice, especially since Zoya had the power to combat the Apparat’s influence. She could remain to counsel the Little Lantsov as a voice to oppose Fjerda. And to keep the king from doing anything ridiculous. She’d essentially be occupying the same role she always had.
And Nikolai? He would be banished. There was no way that Demidov could allow him to remain as a member of the cabinet. He wouldn’t be permitted to resume his experiments at Lazlayon nor take up some position in the Ravkan government. Maybe there was some freedom in that. He could return to the sea. He could become Sturmhond again and join forces with the legendary Wraith, terrify slavers, become the scourge of … something. It all sounded reasonable, exciting even, except when he considered leaving behind the woman beside him.
The floor of the audience chamber was set with benches like those above. But no one sat. Instead they all stood—the Zemeni, the Ravkans, the Fjerdans, the Kerch—all facing each other beneath the dome, as if about to begin a dance.
The Zemeni ambassador stepped forward. “Both nations have submitted their list of concessions for peace. His Most Royal Highness, King Nikolai Lantsov of Ravka, has the floor.”
Nikolai could only handle so much pomp, so he decided to dispense with it.
“I read your list of proposed concessions, Commander Brum. They’re absurd. I think intentionally so, because you don’t want peace at all.”
“Why would we?” Brum shot back. It seemed he was done with pomp as well.
“It wouldn’t be unprecedented, given the crushing defeat you just suffered.” He turned to Zoya. “This is awkward. Does he know they lost?”
Brum cut his hand through the air in dismissal. “A battle is not a war, and I do not believe Ravka has the stomach for a prolonged conflict. If you did, you would press your advantage instead of waving the flag of truce.”
True, alas. “Are you so eager to see more blood spilled?”
“I am eager to see Fjerda’s sovereignty protected from witches and demons and those who would see the work of Djel corrupted. We all witnessed the monster you became on the battlefield.”
“I am both man and monster. Something I imagine you know quite a lot about.”
“And this creature”—Brum pointed at Zoya—“the Stormwitch or whatever abomination she’s become. No one should have such power.”
“I’ll wager the same thing was said of the first man who held a gun in his hand.”
A murmur rose from the benches. To Nikolai’s hopeful ears, it sounded approving. I haven’t lost them entirely. Whatever reports of demons his countrymen had heard from the battlefield, the king who stood before them in polished boots and gilded epaulets was every inch the civilized ruler.