Zoya considered pushing him over the railing. “If I pointed to a leaky faucet you’d say it was a miracle.”
Yet as they drew closer, Zoya saw the shape on the horizon was not a body of water but a gleaming black disk of stone, at least a mile across, perfectly round and shiny as a mirror.
A rattletrap village of tents and makeshift shelters had grown up around the stone circle. There were no signs of the Sun Saint here, no golden icons or images of Alina with her white hair and antler collar. Zoya saw only black banners painted with the two circles representing the sun in eclipse. The Darkling’s symbol.
“This is the place where the Starless One fell,” said Yuri, reverence in his voice.
Was it? Zoya couldn’t be sure. The battle was a memory of violet flames and fear. Harshaw bleeding on the ground, the skies full of volcra.
“Centuries before,” Yuri continued, “the Starless One stood on this very spot and challenged the rules that bound the universe. Only he dared to try to re-create the experiments of the Bonesmith, Ilya Morozova. Only he looked to the stars and demanded more.”
“He dared,” said Zoya. “And the result of his failure was a tear in the world.”
“The Shadow Fold,” said Nikolai. “The one place where his power became meaningless. The Saints do love a bit of dramatic irony.”
Zoya cut her hand through the air in irritation. “Not the Saints. This was no divine retribution.”
Yuri turned pleading eyes upon her. “How can you be sure? How can you know that the Fold was not a challenge the Saints set before the Darkling?”
“You said it yourself. He defied the rules that bind the universe, that govern our power. He violated the natural order.”
“But who created the natural order?” insisted Yuri. “Who is responsible for the making at the heart of the world?”
How she envied this boy’s certainty, his visions, his ridiculous belief that pain had a purpose, that the Saints had some kind of plan.
“Why does it have to be a who?” demanded Zoya. “Maybe this is simply how the world functions, how it works. What matters is that when Grisha overreach their power, there is a price. The lesson is built into all our stories, even the tales told to little otkazat’sya children like you.”
Yuri shook his head stubbornly. “The Black Heretic chose this place with care. There has to be a reason.”
“Maybe he liked the view,” she shot back.
“Still—” said Nikolai.
She planted her hands on her hips. “Not you too.”
“There are places like this all over Ravka,” he said, voice placating. “Places that have served old gods and new Saints, that have been built and ruined and rebuilt, because people returned to them again and again to worship.” Nikolai shrugged. “Perhaps they’re drawn to power.”
“Or good weather or cheap building materials,” Zoya said in exasperation. She’d had about enough. As soon as the skiff came to a halt, she leapt from the railing.
“Make sure Yuri stays here,” she heard Nikolai instruct the twins as he jumped down after her.
“Welcome, fellow pilgrims!” said a man wearing black robes and a beatific smile.
“Why, thank you,” said Zoya. Nikolai cast her a warning glance that she happily disregarded. “Are you in charge here?”
“I am just one more among the faithful.”
“And you put your faith in the Darkling?”
“In the Saint without Stars.” The pilgrim gestured to the gleaming disk of stone. It showed no imperfections, blacker than any night. “Behold the signs of his return.”
Zoya ignored the shiver that slid up her spine. “And can you tell me why you worship him?”
The man smiled again, clearly elated at the opportunity. “He loved Ravka. He wanted only to make us strong and save us from weak kings.”
“Weak kings,” mused Nikolai. “Almost as vexing as weak tea.”
But Zoya was in no mood for nonsense. “He loved Ravka,” she repeated. “And what is Ravka? Who is Ravka?”
“All of us. Peasant and prince alike.”
“Of course. Did the Darkling love my aunt who died beside countless innocent civilians in Novokribirsk so that he could show the world his might?”
“Leave them be,” Nikolai murmured, laying a hand on her arm.
She shook him off. “Did he love the girl he forced to commit those murders? What about the girl he tossed into the old king’s bed for his own purposes, then mutilated when she dared to challenge him? Or the woman he blinded for failing to offer him unswerving devotion?” Who would speak for Liliyana, for Genya and Alina and Baghra if she did not? Who will speak for me?
But the pilgrim remained unshaken, his smile steady, gentle, maddening. “Great men are often the victims of the lies told by their enemies. What Saint has walked among us who did not face hardships in this life? We have been taught to fear darkness—”
“A lesson you failed to learn.”
“But we are all alike in the dark,” said the pilgrim. “Rich man, poor man.”
“A rich man can afford to keep the lights on,” Nikolai said mildly. He gave Zoya a hard yank on her arm, dragging her back to the skiff and away from the pilgrims.
“Let go of me,” she seethed. “Where is the shrine to my aunt? To Saint Harshaw? To Sergei or Marie or Fedyor? Who will worship them and light candles in their names?” She felt the unwelcome prickle of tears in the back of her throat and swallowed them down. These people did not deserve her tears, only her anger.
“Zoya,” Nikolai whispered. “If you keep drawing attention, we may be recognized.”
He was right; she knew that. But this place, seeing that symbol on those banners … It was all too much. She whirled on Nikolai. “Why do they love him?”
“They love strength,” he said. “Living in Ravka has meant living in fear for so long. He gave them hope.”
“Then we have to give them something more.”
“We will, Zoya.” He cocked his head to the side. “I don’t like it when you look at me that way. As if you’ve stopped believing.”
“All those lives lost, all we’ve worked for, and these fools are so ready to rewrite history.” She shook her head, wishing she could force out the memories, uproot them forever. “You don’t know, Nikolai. The battle at the Spinning Wheel. Seeing Adrik’s arm torn from his body. His blood … it soaked the deck. We couldn’t get it clean. The people we lost here. On these sands. You don’t remember. You were the demon then. But I remember it all.”
“I remember enough,” he said, and there was an edge to his voice she hadn’t heard before. He laid his hands on her shoulders, his grip hard. “I remember, Zoya, and I promise I won’t let the world forget. But I need you to come back to me. I need my general beside me now.”
Zoya drew in a shaking breath, trying to find some calm, to stop the images from coming. Don’t look back. Don’t look back at me. She saw Liliyana’s teacup sitting on the counter at her shop, smelled the warm orange scent of bergamot.