Nasi nodded to the window, as if there was an answer there. Kosika hopped down from the bed—the jolt of landing sent another spike of pain through her skull—went to the sill, and gasped. She wasn’t in a house. She was in a castle. The castle. This high up, she could see the grounds and the high stone wall that ringed it, could trace the nine smaller walls of the city as if they were chalk lines, could count every block and square. The carriages were the size of raindrops, the people grains of rice. The Silver Wood sat, the size of her palm, at the city’s edge, and all of London sprawled beneath her like a toy set or a tapestry.
It took her a moment to see it, but then she did. From here, it was small, little more than a patch of shadow, a broken line, a pool of dark. When she brought her hand up, she could cover the whole mark with the tip of one finger. But she knew that up close, it was bad. Part of the Votkas Mar was missing, and deep cracks ran down the street. It looked like a large hand—like the one she held up now—had crushed the spot beneath their thumb.
Kosika felt a little dizzy, a little sick.
“They were scared,” explained Nasi. “Of what you might do if you kept going.”
Kosika turned. “I didn’t mean to.”
The other girl only shrugged, and moved another piece on the board. “But you did.”
Kosika’s heart began to race, and at the same time a breeze kicked up in the room, even though the windows were closed. What about Lark? What if they’d hurt him? What if she had? She had to go, had to find her friend. She went to the massive door, and pushed, and pulled, with all her strength, but it didn’t move.
“It’s locked,” said Nasi, as if that wasn’t obvious.
Kosika looked around at the chamber, at the lush tapestries that covered the floor and hung from the walls. The room was big, bigger than her whole house, and made entirely of stone. “Are we prisoners?”
The girl studied the board. “I’m not,” she said. “As for you, maybe.” Kosika would learn that Nasi didn’t bother with gentle lies. She believed it was always better to know the truth. “But,” she went on, “there are far worse places to be kept.”
Nasi held out the bowl of fruit, and Kosika’s hand darted forward, quick-fingered, before the other girl could pull it away. But Nasi only held it, and waited, and Kosika’s hand slowed, her eyes searching. She took a plum, and bit down, shocked by the sweetness.
Nasi took one, too.
“If you want to leave,” she said, studying the fruit, “I’m really not sure they could stop you.”
Kosika thought of the destruction in the street below, and wondered if the other girl was right. She was about to find out. Turning back to the door, she pressed her hands flat against it, and focused. She could feel the wood, and the metal, the place where they met. She began to pull and—
“What are you doing?” asked Nasi.
“I have to find Lark.”
“Blond boy?” ventured the other girl. “Dark eyes? Covered in blood?”
Kosika rounded on her. “You’ve seen him? Where is he?”
“Last time I checked, he was in the kitchens, eating the Vir out of bread and cheese and everything else.”
“Vir?”
“The royal guard. That’s what they call themselves. Very proud, dressed all in silver.”
Kosika remembered the pale man who knelt before her. Patjoric.
Nasi waved her over to the board. Kosika came. Up close, she saw the pieces were not all the same. There were knights. And cloaked figures. Children. And kings.
“It’s called kol-kot,” explained the girl, clearing the pieces from the board until there was only a white-and-silver king. “When Holland Vosijk took the throne,” she said, “the Vir were the first to bend their knee. The first to believe that he was the Someday King.”
As she spoke, she added white-and-silver knights to the board, one by one, until they formed a circle around the king. Kosika counted them: thirteen.
“Now the king is dead.” Nasi lifted the figure from the center of the circle, and set it, almost gently, to the side. “And the Vir are trying to hold the peace, but it’s only a matter of time before someone comes along to claim the empty throne by force. But they’re hoping it won’t come to that, not if you take Holland’s place.”
Kosika reeled. “Why me?”
“Well,” said Nasi, setting another piece—a child—in the circle, “because you are like him. Antari.”