A young cleric stood on a rock. He had the long, wild hair of the Priestguard, but he wore black, not brown. He was tall and bony, and she doubted he could be much older than twenty.
“We begin in darkness,” he cried to the swaying crowd, “and it is to darkness we return. Where else are the rich man and the poor man made equal? Where else is someone judged for nothing but the purity of his soul?”
“What is this drivel?” Zoya demanded.
Nikolai sighed. “This is the Cult of the Starless Saint.”
“They worship—”
“The Darkling.”
“And just how many followers do they have?”
“We’re not sure,” said Tamar. “There have been rumblings of a new cult but nothing like this.”
The Apparat had caught sight of the king and was making his way along the battlements. Zoya could see the Priestguard arrayed behind him, wearing robes bearing Alina’s golden sun—and armed with repeating rifles.
“Better and better,” muttered Zoya.
“Your Majesty.” The Apparat bowed deeply. “I am honored you would make time to lend me your support. I so rarely see you in the chapel. I sometimes fear you have forgotten how to pray.”
“Not at all,” said Nikolai. “Just not much for kneeling. Plays havoc on the joints. You’ve brought armed men to the city walls.”
“And you can see why. You’ve heard this blasphemy? This vile heresy? They want the church to recognize the Darkling as a Saint!”
“Who is this new cleric to you?” Zoya said, striving to keep her tone even. “Was he a member of the Priestguard?”
“He is the lowest form of traitor.”
You would know, she thought grimly. “So that’s a yes?”
“He’s a monk,” confirmed Tamar. “Yuri Vedenen. He left the Priestguard a year ago. My sources don’t know why.”
“We can discuss the boy’s provenance another time,” said Nikolai. “If you let the Priestguard loose, you risk causing a bloodbath and making a whole slew of new martyrs, which will only validate their cause.”
“You cannot ask me to permit this heresy—”
Nikolai’s voice was cold. “I ask nothing.”
The Apparat’s already waxen face paled further. “Forgive me, Your Highness. But you must understand, this is not a matter for kings to decide. It is a battle for Ravka’s very soul.”
“Tell your men to stand down, priest. I will not have more blood shed in the capital.” Nikolai did not wait for the Apparat’s reply but descended the battlements. “Open the gates,” he commanded. “The king rides out.”
“Are you sure this is wise?” murmured Tamar. “I’ve heard the talk in this camp. These pilgrims aren’t fond of you.”
“Perhaps they just haven’t gotten to know me. Stay close. Tolya, you make sure those Priestguard don’t get any ideas. Try to keep them separated from my soldiers. I don’t need to cause a riot of my own.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Zoya.
Nikolai cast her a long look. “I’m all for reckless choices, Zoya, but this is a delicate matter. You will have to bite your tongue.”
“Until it bleeds.” She wanted a closer look at the people gilding the Darkling’s memory. She wanted to remember each of their faces.
The gate rose and a hush descended as the king rode out of the city and into the crowd. The pilgrims might not care for Ravka’s young ruler, but there were plenty of people who had come to the capital on other business, to trade or visit the lower town. To them, Nikolai Lantsov was not just a king or a war hero. He was the man who had restored order after the chaos of the civil war, who had granted them years of peace, who had promised them prosperity and worked to see it done. They went to their knees.
Re’b Ravka, they shouted. Korol Rezni. Son of Ravka. King of Scars.
Nikolai raised his gloved hand in greeting, his face serene, his bearing erect, sliding from the role of commander to born nobility in the blink of an eye.
Some of the black-clad pilgrims knelt with the rest of the crowd, but a few remained standing, gathered around their bony prophet, who stood defiant upon an outcropping of rock. “Traitor!” he shouted as Nikolai approached. “Pretender! Thief! Murderer!” But his voice trembled.
“I’ve certainly been busy,” said Nikolai. They rode closer, forcing the pilgrims to move aside until the monk stood alone atop the rock to face Nikolai.
Maybe younger than twenty, Zoya thought. The monk’s narrow chest rose and fell rapidly. His face was long, his skin pale except for two hectic spots of color on his cheeks that gave him the look of a boy with a fever. His eyes were a melancholy green at odds with the fervor in them.
“What is on his chin?” Zoya whispered to Tamar.
“I believe he’s trying to sprout a beard.”
She peered at his long face. “He’d have better luck trying to grow a horn in the middle of his forehead.”
The monk flapped his black sleeves like a crow about to take flight. “Tell your false priest to do what is right and recognize the Starless One as a Saint.”
“I’ll consider it,” Nikolai said mildly. “But first I must ask that you join me for breakfast.”
“I will not be wooed! I will not be bribed!”
“Yes, but will you have tea or coffee?” A titter rose from the crowd, the smallest release of tension.
The boy raised his hands to the skies. “The Age of Saints has come! The signs appear from the permafrost to the Sikurzoi! Do you think I will be swayed by your glib words and friendly demeanor?”
“No,” said Nikolai gently, and dismounted. Zoya and Tamar exchanged a glance. If this was all some elaborate setup for an assassination attempt, then the king was playing his part very well. “May I join you?”
The young monk blinked, flustered. “I … I suppose?”
Nikolai hoisted himself onto the rock. “I don’t expect you to be wooed or bribed or swayed by my admittedly winning demeanor,” he said so quietly that only the monk and Zoya and Tamar could hear. “But you may be swayed by the sniper stationed behind that gentle knoll—do you see it? Excellent spot for picnicking—with orders to burst your head like a summer melon if I lift my right hand.” Nikolai raised his hand and the boy flinched, but the king merely adjusted the lapel of his coat.
“I would gladly be martyred—”
“You won’t be martyred … Yuri, is it? You’ll be a mistake. That bullet will graze my shoulder and I’ll make sure to fall very dramatically to the ground. The shooter will confess to being an assassin who wished to murder the Lantsov king. Maybe he’ll even say he was loyal to the cause of the Starless Saint.”
“But that … that’s preposterous,” the monk sputtered.
“Is it more preposterous than the king of Ravka putting himself in the path of a sniper’s bullet in order to rid the kingdom of an upstart monk? Because that, my friend, is quite a story.” Nikolai extended his hand. “Come to breakfast. My cook makes a marvelous pork loin.”
“I don’t eat meat.”
“Of course you don’t,” Zoya said. “It’s animals you object to killing, not people.”
“The Darkling—”
“Spare me your sermons,” she hissed. “It is only my loyalty to the king that keeps me from pulling the air from your chest and crushing your lungs like hollow gourds.”