“Not remotely. Perhaps dessert is another steak?”
Isaak laughed again. He took a sip of the iced wine that had been served with the last course and asked Ehri the same question he’d been putting to himself. “If you were destined to be queen and not your sister …” Ehri’s brows rose, and Isaak knew he was in tricky territory. Monarchs did not speculate idly. “How would you rule the Shu?”
Ehri toyed with the stem of her glass. Isaak had the urge to take her hand, but he knew that wasn’t permitted. Strange that a king could command an army but he couldn’t hold the hand of a girl he liked. And he did like Ehri. He’d been smitten with Genya, overwhelmed by her status and the idea that such a woman might take notice of him. Ehri was different. It was true that he barely knew her. She was a princess born of ancient royal blood. She sat before him wearing enough emeralds to buy and sell the entirety of Isaak’s hometown. But she surprised him at every turn. She was warm and thoughtful and seemed to care as little for pretense as he did. If they’d been two ordinary people, if they’d met at a village dance instead of in a room surrounded by courtiers … Isaak had to wonder at himself. As if you’d ever have had the nerve to talk to a girl like this. But maybe Ehri—kind and funny Ehri—would have taken pity and granted him a dance.
“How would I rule?” Ehri mused, lifting the glass to her lips.
“You must have considered it?”
“Those are dangerous thoughts for one such as me.” Ehri shook her head slowly, the emeralds glinting in her hair. “The things I imagine, the things I would hope for are not the musings of a queen.”
“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.