“But who created the natural order?” insisted Yuri. “Who is responsible for the making at the heart of the world?”
How she envied this boy’s certainty, his visions, his ridiculous belief that pain had a purpose, that the Saints had some kind of plan.
“Why does it have to be a who?” demanded Zoya. “Maybe this is simply how the world functions, how it works. What matters is that when Grisha overreach their power, there is a price. The lesson is built into all our stories, even the tales told to little otkazat’sya children like you.”
Yuri shook his head stubbornly. “The Black Heretic chose this place with care. There has to be a reason.”
“Maybe he liked the view,” she shot back.
“Still—” said Nikolai.
She planted her hands on her hips. “Not you too.”
“There are places like this all over Ravka,” he said, voice placating. “Places that have served old gods and new Saints, that have been built and ruined and rebuilt, because people returned to them again and again to worship.” Nikolai shrugged. “Perhaps they’re drawn to power.”
“Or good weather or cheap building materials,” Zoya said in exasperation. She’d had about enough. As soon as the skiff came to a halt, she leapt from the railing.
“Make sure Yuri stays here,” she heard Nikolai instruct the twins as he jumped down after her.
“Welcome, fellow pilgrims!” said a man wearing black robes and a beatific smile.
“Why, thank you,” said Zoya. Nikolai cast her a warning glance that she happily disregarded. “Are you in charge here?”
“I am just one more among the faithful.”
“And you put your faith in the Darkling?”
“In the Saint without Stars.” The pilgrim gestured to the gleaming disk of stone. It showed no imperfections, blacker than any night. “Behold the signs of his return.”
Zoya ignored the shiver that slid up her spine. “And can you tell me why you worship him?”
The man smiled again, clearly elated at the opportunity. “He loved Ravka. He wanted only to make us strong and save us from weak kings.”
“Weak kings,” mused Nikolai. “Almost as vexing as weak tea.”
But Zoya was in no mood for nonsense. “He loved Ravka,” she repeated. “And what is Ravka? Who is Ravka?”
“All of us. Peasant and prince alike.”
“Of course. Did the Darkling love my aunt who died beside countless innocent civilians in Novokribirsk so that he could show the world his might?”
“Leave them be,” Nikolai murmured, laying a hand on her arm.
She shook him off. “Did he love the girl he forced to commit those murders? What about the girl he tossed into the old king’s bed for his own purposes, then mutilated when she dared to challenge him? Or the woman he blinded for failing to offer him unswerving devotion?” Who would speak for Liliyana, for Genya and Alina and Baghra if she did not? Who will speak for me?
But the pilgrim remained unshaken, his smile steady, gentle, maddening. “Great men are often the victims of the lies told by their enemies. What Saint has walked among us who did not face hardships in this life? We have been taught to fear darkness—”
“A lesson you failed to learn.”
“But we are all alike in the dark,” said the pilgrim. “Rich man, poor man.”
“A rich man can afford to keep the lights on,” Nikolai said mildly. He gave Zoya a hard yank on her arm, dragging her back to the skiff and away from the pilgrims.
“Let go of me,” she seethed. “Where is the shrine to my aunt? To Saint Harshaw? To Sergei or Marie or Fedyor? Who will worship them and light candles in their names?” She felt the unwelcome prickle of tears in the back of her throat and swallowed them down. These people did not deserve her tears, only her anger.
“Zoya,” Nikolai whispered. “If you keep drawing attention, we may be recognized.”
He was right; she knew that. But this place, seeing that symbol on those banners … It was all too much. She whirled on Nikolai. “Why do they love him?”
“They love strength,” he said. “Living in Ravka has meant living in fear for so long. He gave them hope.”
“Then we have to give them something more.”
“We will, Zoya.” He cocked his head to the side. “I don’t like it when you look at me that way. As if you’ve stopped believing.”
“All those lives lost, all we’ve worked for, and these fools are so ready to rewrite history.” She shook her head, wishing she could force out the memories, uproot them forever. “You don’t know, Nikolai. The battle at the Spinning Wheel. Seeing Adrik’s arm torn from his body. His blood … it soaked the deck. We couldn’t get it clean. The people we lost here. On these sands. You don’t remember. You were the demon then. But I remember it all.”
“I remember enough,” he said, and there was an edge to his voice she hadn’t heard before. He laid his hands on her shoulders, his grip hard. “I remember, Zoya, and I promise I won’t let the world forget. But I need you to come back to me. I need my general beside me now.”
Zoya drew in a shaking breath, trying to find some calm, to stop the images from coming. Don’t look back. Don’t look back at me. She saw Liliyana’s teacup sitting on the counter at her shop, smelled the warm orange scent of bergamot.
She couldn’t breathe. Her head felt heavy and blurred as she let Nikolai pull her onto the skiff. The junior Squallers had already left their post to get a better look at the black stone. No discipline at all.
Nikolai signaled to the twins. “Tolya, Tamar, corral those Squallers and get them back here. Then take opposite sides of this big shiny eyesore and walk the perimeter. Find out what you can about when it appeared and how many people come to the site every day. We’ll need to deal with them if we actually want to dig nearby. Zoya and I will take the skiff farther west with Yuri. We’ll reconvene to decide next steps in an hour’s time.”
“I can help,” Yuri protested, watching Tolya and Tamar leap down to the sands. “I can talk to the pilgrims—”
“You’ll remain with us. We’ll travel a little farther on and decide what to do. I don’t know how we’re going to dig here without these people getting involved.”
Yuri pushed his spectacles up his long nose, and Zoya wanted to break them in two. “Perhaps we should get them involved,” he said. “Or we could claim we’re searching for relics from the battle for a museum—”
“That may only incense them,” said Nikolai. “They’ll claim the site is holy and can’t be touched, or they’ll want to dig themselves to locate objects for their altars.”
Zoya didn’t care what the pilgrims wanted. If she had to look at them and their black banners another minute, she thought she might well lose her mind.
She pushed up her sleeves, feeling the weight of the amplifier at her wrist. “Enough politicking. Enough diplomacy. They want darkness? I’ll give it to them.”
“Zoya—” warned Nikolai.
But her anger had slipped its leash, and she could feel the storm rise. All it took was the barest twist of her wrists and the sands shifted, forming ripples, then dunes, rising higher and higher. She saw Genya huddled in her black shawl, her arms thick with scars. She saw Harshaw dead in the sand, his red hair like a fallen flag. Zoya’s nostrils were full of the scent of bergamot and blood. The wind howled, as if it were speaking her rage.