“A princess, then.”
Ehri smiled. “More like an artless girl. An end to war. A chance for the common people to choose their own futures. A world in which families aren’t torn apart by hardship … or duty. I must sound very foolish to you.”
“Not at all,” said Isaak. “If we don’t dream, who will?”
Ehri nodded, but her smile was tinged with sadness. “If we don’t dream, who will?”
The last course had been served. Soon guards would come to fetch them away. As anxious as Isaak had been, he found he was sorry the evening was over.
“Will you return home immediately after the ball at the end of the week?” he asked.
“Yes.” He didn’t think he imagined the regret in her eyes.
“Meet me in the conservatory during the ball,” he said before he could stop himself. “Otherwise we’ll never have a real moment alone.” He was shocked to hear the words leave his mouth.
He was even more shocked when she said yes.
THEY WAITED BENEATH A FLAT gray sky. It might have been dawn. It might have been dusk. Magical things happened at the in-between times. Morozova’s sacred amplifiers had appeared at twilight. The stag. The sea whip. The firebird. Perhaps the Saints were the same.
Nikolai stood on the sands flanked by Zoya and Yuri above the spot where warrior priests had once come to be transformed, where the Darkling had torn the world open and created the Fold, and where, years later, he had finally been defeated. If there was power in this place, Nikolai could only hope that it was friendly and that it would help to destroy the remnants of the curse the Darkling had left behind.
Elizaveta’s gown of roses bloomed dark red around her, a high collar of blossoms and buds framing her face as her bees hummed in her hair. Grigori’s massive body folded and unfolded in a shifting mass of limbs. Nikolai wondered what form he would choose for his brief mortal life.
Juris was nowhere to be seen.
“The dragon couldn’t be bothered to attend?” he whispered to Zoya.
“He wants this more than anyone,” she said, and glanced up at the black stone of his spire in the distance. “I have no doubt he’s watching.”
Elizaveta nodded at both of them as her insects buzzed and clicked. “Are you ready, my king?” she asked Nikolai. “We cannot entertain the possibility of failure.”
“A shame,” Nikolai murmured. “My failures are so entertaining.” He raised his voice and said, “I’m ready.”
Yuri stood beside Zoya, his whole body vibrating with tension or fervor. In his shaking hands he held the pages of text he had continued to translate without Tolya’s help. Elizaveta had insisted he remain with Nikolai and recite the ceremony.
“Is that entirely necessary?” Zoya had demanded.
“The words are sacred,” Elizaveta had said. “They should be spoken as they once were. Yuri has his role to play in this too.”
The monk pressed the pages to his chest now. His eyes looked wide and startled behind the lenses of his spectacles. “I find … I find I do not know what to pray for.”
Nikolai gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “Then pray for Ravka.”
The monk nodded. “You are a good man. I can have faith in the Starless One and have faith in that too.”
“Thank you,” said Nikolai. He wasn’t going to enjoy disappointing Yuri. But whether Nikolai lived or died this day, there would be no Sainthood for the Darkling. He would have to find some other way to appease the monk. Yuri was a boy in search of a cause, and that at least was something Nikolai could understand. He turned to Zoya. “You have the order? If the monster takes me—”
“I know what to do.”
“You needn’t sound quite so eager.”
To his surprise, Zoya seized his hand. “Come back,” she said. “Promise you’ll come back to us.”
Because he was most likely about to die, he let himself cup his hand briefly to her extraordinary face. Her skin felt cool against his fingers.
“Of course I’ll come back,” he said. “I don’t trust anyone else to deliver my eulogy.”
A smile curled her lips. “You’ve written it already?”
“It’s very good. You’d be surprised how many synonyms there are for handsome.”
Zoya closed her eyes. She turned her face, letting her cheek rest against his palm. “Nikolai—”
The hum of Elizaveta’s insects rose. “It’s time,” she said, and lifted her hands. “Nikolai Lantsov, prepare yourself.”
Zoya released his hand and stepped away. He desperately wanted to pull her back into his arms and ask her what she’d intended to say.
This is not a goodbye, he told himself. But it certainly felt like one.
Thunder rumbled over the gray sky. A moment later, Nikolai realized it wasn’t coming from above but from below. The ground began to tremble, and a sound like distant hoofbeats rose from somewhere deep within the earth. It grew, an oncoming stampede that shook the sands. Elizaveta grimaced, perspiration gleaming on her brow.
She loosed a shout and the thorn wood burst from the sand. The stalks surrounded Nikolai and Zoya, twining and twisting, the thicket growing up around them as if woven on an invisible loom. Yuri began to chant.
“Have you never wondered at the power of the woods?” asked Elizaveta, her face glowing as she drove the brambles higher. “The magic at the heart of so many stories. The prick of a thorn? The magic a single rose can carry? These trees are older than anything else in the world, sprung from the first making, before man and animal and anything else. They are old as the stars, and they belong to me.”
Gold seemed to drip from the thorn wood stalks, pooling at the bases of their trunks, then flowing in sinuous rivers toward Zoya. The sap formed a sphere around her, hardening into amber. Nikolai saw her press her hands to the sphere’s sides as liquid began to rise over her ankles. The stalks around them creaked, twining against each other, the sound merging with the jagged syllables of ancient Ravkan.
Save her. The impulse was always the same, one that somehow both he and the dark thing within him could agree upon. Maybe because the Darkling had once valued Zoya and fostered her power. But Nikolai had known it would not be difficult to call the beast this time. It had been waiting, barely leashed, gnashing its teeth.
“Draw your sword, my king!” cried Elizaveta.
Nikolai drew the saber at his side and felt the monster rise. Remember who you are. Claws shot from his hands and he roared as his wings burst from his back.
The demon’s hunger filled him, the desire to rend flesh, to feed, stronger than it had ever been. Before Nikolai could succumb and lose all sense, he slashed his sword through the nearest branch, slicing a thorn free of its stalk. It was nearly as long as his saber. He sheathed his blade and took the thorn in his taloned hands. Could he really do this? Could he really drive it into his own heart?
Both of their hearts. Slay the monster. Free himself.
He heard the creature scream as if understanding his intent. Only one of us will survive this, Nikolai vowed. It is time you met the will of a king.
What king? said a dark voice within him. It is a bastard I have come to kill.
Was it his hand that held the thorn blade? Or was it the monster that kept the point poised above his heart?