What had Zoya just done? And how had she withstood the power of Juris’ strike?
“Good!” Juris said as they drew apart. He rolled his shoulders as if nearly being cooked alive was a commonplace experience. Maybe for an ancient dragon it was.
Zoya’s hair was damp with perspiration, her shirt clung to her skin, and her grin was pure exhilaration—a smile he’d never seen from her before. Nikolai found his mood souring.
He cleared his throat. “If you’re done trying to cleave my general in two, I have need of her.”
Zoya whirled, wiping the sweat from her brow with her sleeve. “What is it?” Her eyes were so blue they seemed to glow.
“We’ve been summoned to Elizaveta. I want you there to learn about the ritual.”
The dragon huffed. “Her time is better spent with me. The thorn wood is a path you walk alone, boy king.”
“But it’s a very arduous path,” Nikolai said. “Who will carry my snacks?”
Juris shook his head and turned to Zoya, who had already hung her axes on the wall. “You waste your time with trifles.”
“My country’s future is not a trifle.”
“King and country are not the same.”
Zoya unrolled her sleeves, fastening the buttons at the wrist. “Close enough.”
Juris’ wings spread as his body swelled to its dragon form. Nikolai forced himself to maintain a calm demeanor despite the primal terror the sight created in him. Was that what he looked like when the monster rose?
Again Juris huffed, this time from his huge snout and with enough force to send a whirlwind through the entire chamber. “You will see in time. When he grows old and you grow only more powerful.”
Zoya lifted her shoulder in a disinterested shrug. “And you’ll long be dust in the ground, so you won’t even be here to gloat about it.”
The dragon flew off in a sulk. Nikolai gave him a cheerful wave, but Juris’ words chased Nikolai’s thoughts as he backtracked through the halls with Zoya and Yuri. He was concerned they might lose their way, but the rippling of the walls seemed to be directing them, and they soon found themselves on another bridge, one Nikolai hoped would lead to Elizaveta’s spire.
Nikolai knew that Grisha lived long lives and that the greater their power, the longer they survived. How many years might Zoya live to protect Ravka and the Lantsov line? Could she shepherd Ravka wisely, or would she succumb to the madness of eternity the way the Darkling had? And would Ravka’s people accept her? Or in time, would they deem her unnatural? He’d be dead by then, these problems well beyond his care or control, but that was not a cheerful thought.
Yuri stopped walking so abruptly that Nikolai almost ran into him. “Oh …” he said. “Oh.”
Elizaveta’s spire loomed before them, its amber panels glowing golden in the strange, flat light of the Fold. Nikolai could see the shapes of giant insects frozen within each panel, and the whole structure seemed to hum like a great hive.
“Sankta,” Yuri whispered exultantly.
He hadn’t shown such veneration for the dragon, Nikolai noted, but Juris’ spire had given the impression of a beast’s lair. This place felt like a temple, terrifying and holy.
“You were wrong about the pyre,” Zoya said to Yuri. “Do we really know anything about what this ritual requires?”
“Only that it’s dangerous,” said Yuri.
“And here I thought the king would just have to eat candy and perform a monologue.”
“I’ve already prepared some selections,” said Nikolai.
As they approached, the panels of the spire shifted and arranged themselves to create an entrance. Inside, the air smelled of roses and honey, and everything shimmered with the buttery light of the gilded hour before sunset. And yet there was no sunset here.
Elizaveta herself seemed cast in gold, surrounded by bees and dragonflies, the roses of her gown blooming and dying and blooming again.
“Welcome,” she said warmly. If she was surprised or displeased to see Zoya, she showed no sign of it. Instead, she smiled at all of them. “My king, shall we see if we can make the monster come when we call?”
Nikolai bowed, and Elizaveta gestured to a table where a small clay pot sat. “When the time comes for the ritual, I will raise the thorn wood from the sands of the Fold.” As she spoke, she fluttered her fingers, and a prickly, iron-colored branch emerged from the pot’s soil. “When it is mature, its thorns will be as long as a cutlass. You will call to the monster, and when it emerges, you will drive a thorn through both of your hearts.”
“Just how is he supposed to survive that?” asked Zoya.
The little thorn tree seemed to swell, its spikes lengthening.
“It is up to the king. We can practice helping him summon and control the monster, but the fight will be his alone. If his will is strong enough, he will survive. If not, the monster will claim him.”
Nikolai found he was rubbing his hand over his chest and forced himself to stop. “My will?”
“The trial is both physical and mental. It is meant to separate man from beast and beast from man. The pain will be unlike anything you’ve ever known, but worse will be facing the monster.”
“What exactly is it?” asked Nikolai.
This time Elizaveta’s smile was pitying, as if she could sense the fear that Nikolai carried inside him, the anger and confusion that had plagued him since the demon had taken hold. “A remnant of the Darkling’s power. A sliver of his own intent and ambition. Beyond that, I cannot be sure. The monster does not want to be driven out. It will try to confuse you to keep you from completing the ritual and using the thorn. If that happens, it will take you over completely. Do you think you can win?” she asked gently.
“We beat the Darkling once before.”
“Alina beat him,” corrected Zoya.
An expression of distaste crossed Elizaveta’s face. “The Sun Saint,” she sneered. “How desperate the people are for miracles. How low they will stoop.” Nikolai saw Zoya’s eyes narrow and laid a hand on her arm. They weren’t here to champion Alina’s legacy.
“But it is not the Darkling you will face,” Elizaveta continued. The thorn tree shot upward. The pot cracked as the tree’s roots burst through the clay in questing tendrils. “Not exactly. This is a creature animated by the Darkling’s will, just as it animated his shadow soldiers, the nichevo’ya. But it has lived inside you for over three years. It has shared your thoughts and desires, and it will marshal them against you. It will be fighting for its life just as surely as you are fighting for yours.”
Nikolai supposed he was meant to be cowed. A wise man probably would think twice about being impaled on a giant thorn, but he felt nothing but anticipation. The idea that this was a thing he could face and conquer, or even be destroyed by, was so much easier to accept than the notion of a nightmare he would have to endure forever. He’d begun to believe this thing would be with him always. There were parts of himself he despised—the endless ambition, the self-serving streak Alina had noted so accurately—and if Elizaveta was right, the monster would bring those weapons and worse to bear in the fight against him. So let it. He knew his desire for life would prove greater in the end.