Siege and Storm (32 page)

“Surely you’re not suggesting that treason is preferable to honest service in the King’s Army.”

“I’m suggesting that maybe these people are just as fond of life as you are. They’re ill-equipped, undersupplied, and short on hope. If you’d read the reports, you’d know that officers are having trouble keeping order in the ranks.”

“Then they should institute harsher punishments,” said Vasily. “It’s what peasants understand.”

I’d already punched one prince. What was one more? I was halfway out of my seat before Nikolai yanked me back down.

“They understand full bellies and clear directives,” he said. “If you would let me implement the changes I’ve suggested and open the coffers for—”

“You cannot always have your way,
little brother
.”

Tension crackled through the room.

“The world is changing
,
” said Nikolai, the steel edge emerging in his voice. “We change with it, or there will be nothing left to remember us but the dust.”

Vasily laughed. “I can’t decide if you’re a fearmonger or a coward.”

“And I can’t decide if you’re an idiot or an idiot.”

Vasily’s face turned purple. He shot to his feet and smacked his hands down on the table. “The Darkling is one man. If you’re afraid to face him—”

“I
have
faced him. If you’re not afraid—if
any
of you aren’t afraid—it’s because you lack the sense to understand what we’re up against.”

Some of the generals nodded. But the King’s advisers, Os Alta’s noblemen and bureaucrats, looked skeptical and sullen. To them, war was parades, military theory, little figures moved around on a map. If it came to it, these were the men who would ally themselves with Vasily.

Nikolai squared his shoulders, the actor’s mask descending over his features once more. “Peace, brother,” he said. “We both want what’s best for Ravka.”

But Vasily wasn’t interested in being soothed. “What’s best for Ravka is a Lantsov on the throne.”

I drew in a sharp breath. A deadly stillness descended over the room. Vasily had as good as called Nikolai a bastard.

But Nikolai had regained his composure, and now nothing would shake it. “Then let us all say a prayer for Ravka’s rightful King,” he said. “Now, shall we finish our business?”

The meeting limped along for a few more minutes and then came to a welcome close. On our walk back to the Little Palace, Nikolai was uncharacteristically silent.

When we reached the gardens by the pillared folly, he paused to pluck a leaf from a hedge and said, “I shouldn’t have lost my temper that way. It just pricks his pride, makes him dig in his heels.”

“So why did you?” I asked, genuinely curious. It was rare for Nikolai’s emotions to get the best of him.

“I don’t know,” he said, shredding the leaf. “You got angry. I got angry. The room was too damn hot.”

“I don’t think that’s it.”

“Indigestion?” he offered.

But I wasn’t going to be put off by a joke. Despite Vasily’s objections and the council’s reluctance to do much of anything, through some magical combination of patience and pressure, Nikolai had still managed to push through a few of his plans. He’d gotten them to approve relief for the refugees fleeing the shores of the Fold, and requisitioned Materialki corecloth to outfit key regiments of the First Army. He’d even gotten them to divert funds for a plan to modernize farm equipment so that peasants could manage something other than subsistence. Small things, but improvements that might make all the difference in time.

“It’s because you actually care about what happens to this country,” I said. “The throne is just a prize to Vasily, something he wants to squabble over like a favorite toy. You’re not like that. You’ll make a good king.”

Nikolai froze. “I…” For once, words seemed to have deserted him. Then a crooked, embarrassed smile crept across his face. It was a far cry from his usual self-assured grin. “Thank you,” he said.

I sighed as we resumed our pace. “You’re going to be insufferable now, aren’t you?”

Nikolai laughed. “I’m already insufferable.”

*   *   *

THE DAYS GREW
LONGER.
The sun stayed close beneath the horizon, and the festival of Belyanoch began in Os Alta. Even at midnight, the skies were never truly dark, and despite the fear of war and the looming threat of the Fold, the city celebrated the endless hours of twilight. In the upper town, the evenings were crowded with operas, masques, and lavish ballets. Over the bridge, raucous horse races and outdoor dances shook the streets of the lower town. An endless stream of pleasure boats bobbed through the canal, and beneath the glimmering dusk, the slow-moving water circled the capital like a jeweled bangle, alight with lanterns hung from a thousand prows.

The heat had relented slightly. Behind the palace walls, everyone seemed in better spirits. I’d continued to insist that the Grisha mix their Orders, and at some point, I still wasn’t sure how, uncomfortable silence had given way to laughter and noisy conversation. There were still cliques and conflicts, but there was also something comfortable and boisterous in the hall that hadn’t been there before.

I was glad—maybe even a little proud—to see Fabrikators and Etherealki drinking tea around one of the samovars, or Fedyor arguing a point with Pavel over breakfast, or Nadia’s little brother trying to chat up an older and decidedly disinterested Paja. But I felt as if I were watching them from a great distance.

I’d tried to talk to Mal several times since the night of our argument. He always found an excuse to walk away from me. If he wasn’t hunting, he was playing cards at the Grand Palace or haunting some tavern in the lower town with his new friends. I could tell he’d been drinking more. Some mornings his eyes looked bleary and he sported bruises and cuts as if he’d been in a brawl, but he was unfailingly punctual, relentlessly polite. He kept to his guard duties, stood silently in doorways, and maintained a respectful distance as he trailed me around the grounds.

The Little Palace had become a very lonely place. I was surrounded by people, but I almost felt like they couldn’t see me, only what they needed from me. I was afraid to show doubt or indecision, and there were days when I felt like I was being worn down to nothing by the constant weight of responsibility and expectation.

I went to my meetings. I trained with Botkin. I spent long hours at the lake trying to hone my use of the Cut. I even swallowed my pride and made another attempt to visit Baghra, hoping that, if nothing else, she might help me to develop my power further. But she refused to see me.

None of it was enough. The ship that Nikolai was building in the lake was a reminder that everything we were doing was most likely futile. Somewhere out there, the Darkling was gathering his forces, building his army, and when they came, no gun, no bomb, no soldier or Grisha would be able to stop them. Not even me. If the battle went badly, we would retreat to the domed hall to await relief from Poliznaya. The doors were reinforced with Grisha steel, and the Fabrikators had already started sealing up cracks and gaps to prevent entry by the
nichevo’ya.

I didn’t think it would come to that. I’d reached a dead end in my attempts to locate the firebird. If David couldn’t get those dishes working, then when the Darkling finally marched on Ravka, we would have no choice but to evacuate. Run and keep running.

Using my power brought me none of the comfort it once had. Every time I summoned light in the Materialki workshops or on the shore of the lake, I felt the bareness of my right wrist like a brand. Even with everything I knew about the amplifiers, the destruction they might bring, the permanence of the way they might change me, I couldn’t escape my hunger for the firebird.

Mal was right. It had become an obsession. At night I lay in bed, imagining that the Darkling had already found the final piece of Morozova’s puzzle. Maybe he held the firebird captive in a spun gold cage. Would it sing to him? I didn’t even know if a firebird could sing at all. Some of the tales said so. One claimed the firebird’s song could lull entire armies to sleep. When they heard it, soldiers would cease fighting, lay down their weapons, and nod off peacefully in their enemies’ arms.

I knew all the stories by now. The firebird wept diamond tears, its feathers could heal mortal wounds, the future might be seen in the flap of its wings. I’d scoured book after book of folklore, epic poetry, and collections of peasant tales, searching for some pattern or clue. The sea whip’s legends centered around the icy waters of the Bone Road, but stories of the firebird came from every part of Ravka and beyond, and none of them connected the creature to a Saint.

Worse, the visions were getting clearer and more frequent. The Darkling appeared to me almost every day, usually in his chambers or the aisles of the library, sometimes in the war room during council meetings or as I walked back from the Grand Palace at dusk.

“Why won’t you leave me alone?” I whispered one night as he hovered behind me while I tried to work at my desk.

Long minutes passed. I didn’t think he would answer. I even had time to hope he might have gone, until I felt his hand on my shoulder.

“Then I’d be alone, too,” he said, and he stayed the whole night through, till the lamps burned down to nothing.

I got used to seeing him waiting for me at the end of corridors, or sitting at the edge of my bed when I fell asleep at night. When he didn’t appear, I sometimes found myself looking for him or wondering why he hadn’t come, and that frightened me most of all.

The one bright spot was Vasily’s decision to abandon Os Alta for the yearling auctions in Caryeva. I nearly crowed with delight when Nikolai gave me the news on one of our walks.

“Packed up in the middle of the night,” Nikolai said. “He says he’ll be back in time for my birthday, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he finds some excuse to stay away.”

“You should try not to look so smug,” I said. “It’s not very regal.”

“Surely I’m allowed some small dispensation for gloating,” he said with a laugh. He whistled that same off-key tune I remembered from the
Volkvolny
as we walked along. Then he cleared his throat. “Alina, not that you aren’t always the picture of loveliness, but … are you sleeping?”

“Not much,” I admitted.

“Nightmares?”

I did still dream of the broken skiff, of people running from the darkness of the Fold, but that wasn’t what kept me up at night. “Not exactly.”

“Ah,” said Nikolai. He clasped his hands behind his back. “I notice your friend has been throwing himself into his work lately. He’s much in demand.”

“Well,” I said, keeping my voice light, “that’s Mal.”

“Where did he learn to track? No one seems to be able to decide if it’s luck or skill.”

“He didn’t learn. He’s just always been able to do it.”

“How nice for him,” said Nikolai. “I’ve never been a natural at anything.”

“You’re a spectacular actor,” I said drily.

“Do you think so?” he asked. Then he leaned in and whispered, “I’m doing ‘humble’ right now.”

I shook my head in exasperation, but I was grateful for Nikolai’s cheery babble, and even more thankful when he let the subject drop.

*   *   *

IT TOOK DAVID
almost two more weeks to get his dishes operational, but when he was finally ready, I had the Grisha gather on the Little Palace roof to watch the demonstration. Tolya and Tamar were there, alert as always, scanning the crowd. Mal was nowhere to be seen. I’d stayed up the previous night in the common room, hoping to catch him and ask him personally to attend. It was long past midnight when I gave up and went to bed.

The two huge dishes were positioned on opposite sides of the roof, on the flat lip that extended between the domes of the eastern and western wings. They could be rotated through a system of pulleys, and each was manned by a Materialnik and a Squaller, outfitted in goggles to protect against the glare. I saw that Zoya and Paja had been teamed together, and Nadia had been paired with a Durast on the second dish.

Even if this is a total failure,
I thought anxiously,
at least they’re working together. Nothing like a fiery explosion to build camaraderie.

I took my place at the center of the roof, directly between the dishes.

With a jolt of nervousness, I saw that Nikolai had invited the captain of the palace guard to observe, along with two generals and several of the King’s advisers. I hoped they weren’t expecting anything too dramatic. My power tended to show best in full darkness, and the long Belyanoch days made that impossible. I’d asked David if we should schedule the demonstration for later in the evening, but he’d just shaken his head.

“If it works, it will be plenty dramatic. And I suppose that if it doesn’t work, it will be even more dramatic, what with the blast.”

“David, I think you just made a joke.”

He frowned, utterly perplexed. “Did I?”

At Nikolai’s suggestion, David had chosen to take his cue from the
Volkvolny
and use a whistle to signal us. He gave a shrill blast, and the onlookers backed up against the domes, leaving us plenty of room. I raised my hands. David blew on the whistle again. I called the light.

It entered me in a golden torrent and burst from my hands in two steady beams. They struck the dishes, reflecting off them in a blinding glare. It was impressive, but nothing spectacular.

Then David whistled again, and the dishes rotated slightly. The light bounced off their mirrored surfaces, multiplying upon itself and focusing into two blazing white shafts that pierced the early twilight.

An
ahhhh
went up from the crowd as they shielded their eyes. I guess I didn’t have to worry about drama.

The beams sliced through the air, sending off waves of cascading brilliance and radiant heat, as if they were burning through the sky itself. David gave another short blast on the whistle, and the beams fused into a single molten blade of light. It was impossible to look directly at it. If the Cut was a knife in my hand, then this was a broadsword.