Siege and Storm (40 page)

*   *   *

THE FIRST THING
I HEARD
was the low rumble of Tolya’s voice. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream. All I knew was pain and the relentless weight of the earth. Later I would find out that they’d labored over me for hours, breathing air back into my lungs, staunching the flow of blood, trying to mend the worst breaks in my bones.

I drifted in and out of consciousness. My mouth felt dry and swollen shut. I was pretty sure I’d bitten my tongue. I heard Tamar giving orders.

“Bring the rest of the tunnel down. We need to get as far from here as we possibly can.”

Mal.

Was he here? Buried beneath the rubble? I could not let them leave him. I forced my lips to form his name.

“Mal.” Could they even hear me? My voice sounded muffled and wrong to my ears.

“She’s hurting. Should we put her under?” Tamar asked.

“I don’t want to risk her heart stopping again,” replied Tolya.

“Mal,” I repeated.

“Leave the passage to the convent open,” Tamar said to someone. “Hopefully, he’ll think we went out there.”

The convent. Sankta Lizabeta. The gardens next to the Gritzki mansion. I couldn’t order my thoughts. I tried to speak Mal’s name again, but I couldn’t make my mouth work. The pain was crowding in on me. What if I’d lost him? If I’d had the strength, I would have screamed. I would have railed. Instead, I sank into darkness.

*   *   *

WHEN I CAME
TO,
the world was swaying beneath me. I remembered waking aboard the whaler, and for a terrifying moment, I thought I might be on a ship. I opened my eyes, saw earth and rock high above me. We were moving through a massive cavern. I was on my back on some kind of litter, borne between the shoulders of two men.

It was a struggle to stay conscious. I’d spent most of my life feeling sick and weak, but I’d never known fatigue like this. I was a husk, hollowed out, scraped clean. If any breeze could have reached us so far below the earth, I would have blown away to nothing.

Though every bone and muscle in my body shrieked in protest, I managed to turn my head.

Mal was there, lying on another litter, carried along just a few feet beside me. He was watching me, as if he’d been waiting for me to wake. He reached out.

I found some reservoir of strength and stretched my hand over the litter’s edge. When our fingers met, I heard a sob and realized I was crying. I wept with relief that I would not have to live with the burden of his death. But lodged in my gratitude, I felt a bright thorn of resentment. I wept with rage that I would have to live at all.

*   *   *

WE TRAVELED FOR MILES,
through passages so tight that they had to lower my litter to the ground and slide me along the rock, through tunnels high and wide enough for ten haycarts. I don’t know how long we went on that way. There were no nights and days belowground.

Mal recovered before I did and limped along beside the litter. He’d been injured when the tunnel collapsed, but the Grisha had restored him. What I had endured, what I had embraced, they had no power to heal.

At some point, we stopped at a cave dripping with rows of stalactites. I’d heard one of my carriers call it the Worm’s Mouth. When they set me down, Mal was there, and with his help, I managed to get into a sitting position, propped against the cave wall. Even that effort left me dizzy, and when he dabbed his sleeve to my nose, I saw that I was bleeding.

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“You’ve looked better,” he admitted. “The pilgrims mentioned something called the White Cathedral. I think that’s where we’re headed.”

“They’re taking me to the Apparat.”

He glanced around the cavern. “This is how he escaped the Grand Palace after the coup. How he managed to evade capture for so long.”

“It’s also how he appeared and disappeared at the fortune-telling party. The mansion was next to the Convent of Sankta Lizabeta, remember? Tamar led me straight to him, and then she let him get away.” I heard the bitterness in my weak voice.

Slowly, my addled mind had pieced it all together. Only Tolya and Tamar had known about the party, and they’d arranged for the Apparat to meet me. They’d already been among the pilgrims that morning when I’d nearly started the riot, there to watch the sunrise with the faithful. That was how they’d gotten to me so quickly. And Tamar had vanished from the Eagle’s Nest as soon as she’d begun to suspect danger. I knew that the twins and their sun soldiers were the only reason any of the Grisha had survived, but their lies still stung.

“How are the others?”

Mal looked over to where the ragged group of Grisha huddled in the shadows.

“They know about the fetter,” he said. “They’re frightened.”

“And the firebird?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“I’ll tell them soon enough.”

“Sergei isn’t doing well,” Mal continued. “I think he’s still in shock. The rest seem to be holding up.”

“Genya?”

“She and David stay behind the group. She can’t move very quickly.” He paused. “The pilgrims call her
Razrusha’ya.
”

The Ruined.

“I need to see Tolya and Tamar.”

“You need to rest.”

“Now,” I said. “Please.”

He stood, but hesitated. When he spoke again, his voice was raw. “You should have told me what you intended to do.”

I looked away. The distance between us felt even deeper than it had before.
I tried to free you, Mal. From the Darkling. From me.

“You should have let me finish him,” I said. “You should have let me die.”

When I heard his footsteps fade, I let my chin droop. I could hear my breath coming in shallow pants. When I worked up the strength to lift my eyes, Tolya and Tamar were kneeling before me, their heads bowed.

“Look at me,” I said.

They obeyed. Tolya’s sleeves were rolled up, and I saw that his massive forearms were emblazoned with suns.

“Why not just tell me?”

“You never would have let us stay so close,” replied Tamar.

That was true. Even now I wasn’t sure what to make of them.

“If you believe I’m a Saint, why not let me die in the chapel? What if that was meant to be my martyrdom?”

“Then you would have died,” said Tolya without hesitation. “We wouldn’t have found you in the rubble in time or been able to revive you.”

“You let Mal come back for me. After you gave me your vow.”

“He broke away,” said Tamar.

I lifted a brow. The day Mal could break Tolya’s hold was indeed a day of miracles.

Tolya hung his head and heaved his huge shoulders. “Forgive me,” he said. “I couldn’t be the one to keep him from you.”

I sighed. Some holy warrior.

“Do you serve me?”

“Yes,” they said in unison.

“Not the priest?”

“We serve you,” said Tolya, his voice a fierce rumble.

“We’ll see,” I murmured, and waved them away. They rose to go, but I called them back. “Some of the pilgrims have taken to calling Genya
Razrusha’ya
. Warn them once. If they speak that word again, cut out their tongues.”

They didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. They made their bows and were gone.

*   *   *

THE WHITE CATHEDRAL
was a cavern of alabaster quartz, so vast it might have held a city in its glowing ivory depths. Its walls were damp and bloomed with mushrooms, salt lilies, toadstools shaped like stars. It was buried deep beneath Ravka, somewhere north of the capital.

I wanted to meet the priest standing, so I held tight to Mal’s arm as we were brought before him, trying to hide the effort it took just to stay upright and the way my body shook.

“Sankta Alina,” the Apparat said, “you are come to us at last.”

Then he fell to his knees in his tattered brown robes. He kissed my hand, my hem. He called out to the faithful, thousands of them gathered in the belly of the cavern. When he spoke, the very air seemed to tremble. “We will rise to make a new Ravka,” he roared. “A country free from tyrants and kings! We will spill from the earth and drive the shadows back in a tide of righteousness!”

Below us, the pilgrims chanted.
Sankta Alina.

There were rooms carved into the rock, chambers that glowed ivory and glittered with thin veins of silver. Mal helped me to my quarters, made me eat a few bites of sweet pea porridge, and brought me a pitcher of fresh water to fill the basin. A mirror had been set directly into the stone, and when I glimpsed myself, I let out a little cry. The heavy pitcher shattered on the floor. My skin was pale, stretched tight over jutting bones. My eyes were bruised hollows. My hair had gone completely white, a fall of brittle snow.

I touched my fingertips to the glass. Mal’s gaze met mine in the reflection.

“I should have warned you,” he said.

“I look like a monster.”

“More like a
khitka
.”

“Woodsprites eat children.”

“Only when they’re hungry,” he said.

I tried to smile, to hold tight to this glimmer of warmth between us. But I noticed how far from me he stood, arms at his back, like a guard at attention. He mistook the sheen of tears in my eyes.

“It will get better,” he said. “Once you use your power.”

“Of course,” I replied, turning away from the mirror, feeling exhaustion and pain settle into my bones.

I hesitated, then cast a meaningful glance at the men the Apparat had stationed at the door to the chamber. Mal stepped closer. I wanted to press my cheek to his chest, feel his arms around me, listen to the steady, human beat of his heart. I didn’t.

Instead, I spoke low, barely moving my lips. “I’ve tried,” I whispered. “Something’s wrong.”

He frowned. “You can’t summon?” he asked hesitantly. Was there fear in his voice? Hope? Concern? I couldn’t tell. All I could sense in him was caution.

“I’m too weak. We’re too far belowground. I don’t know.”

I watched his face, remembering the argument we’d had in the birchwood grove, when he’d asked if I would give up being Grisha.
Never
, I’d said. Never.

Hopelessness crowded in on me, dense and black, heavy like the press of soil. I didn’t want to say the words, didn’t want to give voice to the fear I’d carried with me through the long, dark miles beneath the earth, but I forced myself to speak it. “The light won’t come, Mal. My power is gone.”

AFTER

A
GAIN, THE GIRL
dreamed of ships, but this time, they flew. They had white wings made of canvas, and a clever-eyed fox stood behind the wheel. Sometimes the fox became a prince who kissed her lips and offered her a jeweled crown. Sometimes he was a red hellhound, foam on his muzzle, snapping at her heels as she ran.

Every so often, she dreamed of the firebird. It caught her up in wings of flame and held her as she burned.

Long before word came, she knew the Darkling had survived and that she had failed once more. He had been rescued by his Grisha and now ruled Ravka from a throne wreathed in shadows, surrounded by his monstrous horde. Whether he’d been weakened by what she’d done in the chapel, she didn’t know. He was ancient, and power was familiar to him as it had never been to her.

His
oprichniki
guards marched into monasteries and churches, tore up tiles and dug down through floors, seeking the Sun Summoner. Rewards were offered, threats were made, and once again the girl was hunted.

The priest swore that she was safe in the sprawling web of passages that crisscrossed Ravka like a secret map. There were those who claimed the tunnels had been made by armies of the faithful, that it had taken hundreds of years with picks and axes to carve them. Others said they were the work of a monster, a great worm who swallowed soil, rock, root, and gravel, who hollowed out the underground roads that led to the old holy places, where half-remembered prayers were still said. The girl only knew that no place would keep them safe for long.

She looked into the faces of her followers: old men, young women, children, soldiers, farmers, convicts. All she saw were corpses, more bodies for the Darkling to lay at her feet.

The Apparat wept, shouting his gratitude that the Sun Saint still lived, that she had once again been spared. In his wild black gaze, the girl saw a different truth: A dead martyr was less trouble than a living Saint.

The prayers of the faithful rose around the boy and the girl, echoing and multiplying beneath the earth, bouncing off the soaring stone walls of the White Cathedral. The Apparat said it was a holy place, their haven, their sanctuary, their home.

The boy shook his head. He knew a cell when he saw one.

He was wrong, of course. The girl could tell from the way the Apparat watched her struggle to her feet. She heard it in each fragile thump of her heart. This place was no prison. It was a tomb.

But the girl had spent long years being invisible. She’d already had a ghost’s life, hidden from the world and from herself. Better than anyone, she knew the power of things long buried.

At night, she heard the boy pacing outside her room, keeping watch with the golden-eyed twins. She lay quiet in her bed, counting her breaths, stretching toward the surface, seeking the light. She thought of the broken skiff, of Novokribirsk, of red names crowding a crooked church wall. She remembered little human heaps slumped beneath the golden dome; Marie’s butchered body; Fedyor, who had once saved her life. She heard the pilgrims’ songs and exhortations. She thought of the volcra and of Genya huddled in the dark.

The girl touched the collar at her neck, the fetter at her wrist. So many men had tried to make her a queen. Now she understood that she was meant for something more.

The Darkling had told her he was destined to rule. He had claimed his throne, and a part of her too. He was welcome to it. For the living and the dead, she would make herself a reckoning.

She would rise.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The problem with acknowledgments is that they quickly devolve into long lists of names suitable for skimming. But many people are required to make a book happen, and they deserve recognition, so please bear with me. (If it gets boring, I recommend singing aloud. Get a friend to beatbox for you. I’ll wait.)