“It’s all right, Yuri,” he said. “There’s a reason I’ve strengthened the local governors and put more power in the hands of their assemblies. Ravka may not always need a monarch. But change takes time.”
And it may not be possible. He’d meant what he said to Zoya. Ravkans were drawn to figures of power, to strength. They had never been allowed to learn the ways of ruling for themselves because decisions had always been taken from them by kings, Darklings, generals, priests. Over time that might shift. Or maybe I’ll die in this ritual and the country will be plunged into chaos.
He’d left Ravka unforgivably vulnerable. There were ministers who could rule in his stead, but he hadn’t made any order of succession clear. He had no heir. He had no wife to step forward as a rallying symbol. And who would protect her anyway, this imaginary girl he was to wed? The answer was obvious: Zoya Nazyalensky could do the job—assuming she could get free of this purgatory.
He would make her his First Minister and Protector of the Realm, not just the commander of the Grisha forces. If Nikolai died before his heir came of age, she would be there to watch over Ravka and the line of succession. The people had come to trust her—as much as they could trust a Grisha. And despite her dark moods and vindictive heart, he had come to trust her. She was maturing into a steady, confident leader.
Or not, he thought as the bear cub led them into Juris’ inner sanctum and the presence of two fighters locked in combat. Zoya’s teeth were bared, and she wielded twin axes of the type Tamar favored, though these looked older and less refined. Juris was bearing down on her with a huge broadsword.
Yuri tugged nervously at his scrap of beard. “That doesn’t seem at all safe.”
“For either of them,” Nikolai said.
Storm clouds gathered around the fighters, and thunder shook the floor. The bear rolled away, little paws held over its ears as if fleeing the sound.
For a moment, as unlikely as it seemed, they appeared evenly matched. But Nikolai knew Zoya’s talents didn’t lie in this type of warfare, and sure enough, when Juris feinted left, Zoya made the mistake of trying to move with him.
“Guard your flank!” Nikolai shouted.
Juris turned sharply and brought his broadsword down in a sweeping arc. Zoya brought her axes up, and they seemed to glow with blue fire. As the blades met the thrust of Juris’ sword, lightning crackled from the axe blades, and the big warrior roared, smoke rising from his black scale armor.
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.