The dragon heaved its shoulders in a shrug, and then, before Nikolai’s bewildered eyes, it seemed to shift and shrink, becoming a towering man in finely wrought chain mail that glittered like black scales. The sand soldiers parted to reveal the grotesque, his body still shifting and changing, now covered in eyes as if to better take in every inch of them.
“What is this?” Nikolai demanded. “Who are you?”
“Do the people not pray for Saints?” asked the man called Juris.
“At last,” wept Yuri, still kneeling. “At last.”
“Come,” said Elizaveta, extending a hand, the bees buzzing gently around her in a hum that was almost soothing. “We will explain all.”
But Nikolai’s mind had already leapt a chasm into preposterous territory. Sankta Lizabeta, who had been martyred in a field of roses. Sankt Juris, who …
“You slew the dragon,” said Nikolai. “It’s … it’s in all of the stories.”
“Sometimes the stories are rough on the details,” said Juris with a gleaming smile. “Come, boy king. It’s time we talked.”
ISAAK WAS TRYING VERY HARD not to sweat through his uniform, and the effort was only making him sweat more. It was not so much the pain of transformation that bothered him but the proximity of Genya Safin as she moved her fingers over the lines of his nose and brow. He’d been sequestered with her for nearly two days in a practice room usually occupied by the Corporalki. It had no windows, and its single door was always guarded by one of the Bataar twins. The light for Genya’s careful work came from the vast skylight above, the glass so clear it could only be Grisha made.
Isaak had little to do but stay as still as possible, stare at Genya, and let his mind wander down the path that had brought him to this incomprehensible situation. Had it begun with his father’s passing? With the draft? Had it begun during the northern campaign, when he’d served under Nikolai Lantsov? His prince had been just past eighteen, only a few months older than Isaak himself. Isaak had come to admire his commander, not just for his bravery but for the way he could think himself out of a tight situation. He never forgot a name, never failed to ask after an ailing relative or the progress of a healing wound.
After the battle of Halmhend, the prince had visited the infirmary to speak to the wounded. He had spent hours there, chatting by each soldier’s bedside, charming every nurse, raising spirits. When he’d sat down beside Isaak’s cot, filled Isaak’s water glass, and gone so far as to lift the glass to Isaak’s lips so he could drink, Isaak had been so overwhelmed he’d had to remind himself how exactly one swallowed water.
They’d talked about Isaak’s childhood, his sisters, and Isaak found himself telling the prince all about his father, who had been a tutor in the house of Baron Velchik. Isaak hadn’t spoken of his father’s death in years and had never told anyone about how his life had changed in the wake of that tragedy, how his family had been forced to leave the baron’s estate and take up residence in a tiny rented room above a dressmaker’s shop, where his mother had done her best to feed and clothe Isaak and his sisters by taking in piecework.
The prince had praised Isaak’s gift for languages and suggested he cultivate the talent now that it was time for Isaak to leave the front.
“I’m not sure that’s something my family can afford,” Isaak had admitted with some shame. “But I will certainly consider it, Your Highness.”
He’d returned home and begun looking for work as soon as he was able. Months passed as Isaak took on odd jobs and waited for his body to heal so that he could return to active duty and the pay his family so desperately needed. Then, one evening, he arrived home to find his mother waiting for him with a letter. He’d spent a long day shoveling manure, for which he’d earned all of six eggs, which he’d carried home gently cradled in the folds of his shirt. He nearly dropped them all when he saw that the letter in his mother’s hand was stamped with the pale blue wax of the prince’s double-eagle seal.
Dear Isaak,
Delighted to see we both survived my leadership. If you’d like to leave your village and make the arduous journey to Os Alta, there’s a job waiting for you in the royal guard at the Grand Palace. It will require a great deal of standing up straight, not looking bored through the most tiresome events man can conceive, opening doors, and keeping your buttons shiny, so I would not blame you if you’d prefer literally any other occupation. But if you’ve the courage to face such horrors, you will also find my own tutors happy to school you in the languages of your choosing. I hope you will select Shu, Kerch, and Zemeni, as they are the languages that might best serve a prince or a king, but you are certainly welcome to indulge your taste for Kaelish poetry. I did, and my stomach’s been aching since.
With fondest regards,
Nikolai Lantsov,
Grand Duke of Udova,
Prince of Ravka, etc.
Isaak’s mother and sisters had gathered round to touch the fine, heavy paper and press their fingers to the tracery of the wax seal. His mother had wept both because her son was leaving and because the prince had done them this great honor. Positions in the palace guard were usually reserved for war heroes and the sons of lesser noblemen.
As for Isaak, he had spent the rest of the week patching holes in the roof that their landlord refused to repair, and when the work was done, he’d kissed his mother and his baby sisters and promised that he would write to them as often as he was able. He’d put on his army boots and his much-darned coat and set out for the capital.
Isaak had enjoyed his work at the palace, the quiet of Os Alta after the chaos of war and the hardships of home, the pleasure of learning languages in his off-hours. With the wages he sent home every month, his family was able to move into a snug cottage with a garden large enough to grow vegetables, and a north-facing window where his mother could do her sewing in the sun.
It was not always easy. He had known little more than the confines of his small town and the routine of the army, and he was not sure what he found more intimidating: the dishes with their golden filigree, the ladies in their jewels, or simply the sight of Second Army soldiers in their red, blue, and purple kefta moving about the grounds. But in time he’d found his place and adapted to the rhythms and requirements of palace life. When the Darkling had staged his attack on the throne, Isaak had taken up arms to support the Lantsov name. And when Prince Nikolai had become King Nikolai, he’d stood at attention in the newly rebuilt chapel and watched his king crowned with pride in his heart.
Life had gone on. Isaak had become fluent in Shu, Zemeni, Kerch, and Suli. He earned extra pay working as a translator for the crown, and despite his king’s warnings, Isaak developed a taste for poetry of all kinds.
Then the summons had come. Isaak had been on duty at the entrance to the southern wing when Tamar Kir-Bataar had sought him out. Isaak had been confused and more than a little frightened. It was not every day one was called before the Grisha Triumvirate—though he was relieved to find that Zoya Nazyalensky was still traveling with the king, so he could at least avoid her scathing look of disdain. She could wither a man’s balls just by raising a brow.
He’d spent scant time in the Little Palace and had never ventured past the Hall of the Golden Dome, but Tamar escorted him through the vast double doors emblazoned with the Triumvirate’s bunched arrows and down winding hallways to a small room lined in elaborate maps of Ravka and the world.