The little thorn tree seemed to swell, its spikes lengthening.
“It is up to the king. We can practice helping him summon and control the monster, but the fight will be his alone. If his will is strong enough, he will survive. If not, the monster will claim him.”
Nikolai found he was rubbing his hand over his chest and forced himself to stop. “My will?”
“The trial is both physical and mental. It is meant to separate man from beast and beast from man. The pain will be unlike anything you’ve ever known, but worse will be facing the monster.”
“What exactly is it?” asked Nikolai.
This time Elizaveta’s smile was pitying, as if she could sense the fear that Nikolai carried inside him, the anger and confusion that had plagued him since the demon had taken hold. “A remnant of the Darkling’s power. A sliver of his own intent and ambition. Beyond that, I cannot be sure. The monster does not want to be driven out. It will try to confuse you to keep you from completing the ritual and using the thorn. If that happens, it will take you over completely. Do you think you can win?” she asked gently.
“We beat the Darkling once before.”
“Alina beat him,” corrected Zoya.
An expression of distaste crossed Elizaveta’s face. “The Sun Saint,” she sneered. “How desperate the people are for miracles. How low they will stoop.” Nikolai saw Zoya’s eyes narrow and laid a hand on her arm. They weren’t here to champion Alina’s legacy.
“But it is not the Darkling you will face,” Elizaveta continued. The thorn tree shot upward. The pot cracked as the tree’s roots burst through the clay in questing tendrils. “Not exactly. This is a creature animated by the Darkling’s will, just as it animated his shadow soldiers, the nichevo’ya. But it has lived inside you for over three years. It has shared your thoughts and desires, and it will marshal them against you. It will be fighting for its life just as surely as you are fighting for yours.”
Nikolai supposed he was meant to be cowed. A wise man probably would think twice about being impaled on a giant thorn, but he felt nothing but anticipation. The idea that this was a thing he could face and conquer, or even be destroyed by, was so much easier to accept than the notion of a nightmare he would have to endure forever. He’d begun to believe this thing would be with him always. There were parts of himself he despised—the endless ambition, the self-serving streak Alina had noted so accurately—and if Elizaveta was right, the monster would bring those weapons and worse to bear in the fight against him. So let it. He knew his desire for life would prove greater in the end.
“When the time comes,” Nikolai vowed, “I’ll be ready.”
The tree suddenly leapt from the table, its stalk thick and pulsing, its thorns like iron daggers. It shot over the floor and stopped a bare breath from Nikolai’s chest, the lethally pointed tip of a long thorn poised directly above his heart.
“I hope so,” said Elizaveta. “We have waited an eternity for you, Nikolai Lantsov. It would be a shame if you failed us now.”
Nikolai exchanged a glance with Zoya. Yuri was gazing at Elizaveta with naked adoration. Helpful as always.
“I’m fairly sure you’re trying to frighten me,” said Nikolai, reaching out a finger to touch the tip of the thorn. “I’m not sure why, but may I suggest a spider wearing a suit?”
“Why a suit?” asked Zoya, frowning. “Why not just a spider?”
“Where did he get the suit? How did he fasten the buttons? Why does he feel the need to dress for the occasion?”
Elizaveta was studying them. She flicked her fingers and the thorn tree receded. “I had intended to torture the monk to force your darkness to the fore,” she said contemplatively. “But best to cut to the chase.”
She lifted a hand and the floor rose around Zoya, encasing her in glistening panels of amber.
Zoya shouted, her face startled and frightened before her instincts took hold. She threw her hands out, buffeting the luminous walls with the force of her power. A golden substance began to rise from her feet, filling the chamber.
Nikolai reached for Zoya, but the thorn wood grew up between them in a wild, impenetrable tangle. There were thorns all around him, a wall of deadly gray spikes.
“Stop this, Elizaveta,” he shouted, though he could no longer see the Saint.
He heard Zoya scream.
“I know you’re not going to kill her,” he said, though he knew no such thing. “Juris needs her.”
Elizaveta appeared from the thicket surrounded by a bloom of roses. “Do you think I care what Juris needs? It’s freedom I require. And if losing her will drive you to act, that seems a small price.”
Nikolai lunged at her, but Elizaveta vanished into the thorn wood. He leapt onto the brambles, ignoring the pain as the thorns jabbed at him through his clothes. They were wickedly sharp, sinking into his flesh like teeth.
“You will have to fly, my king,” said Elizaveta’s voice. “Or you will never be free, and neither will we.”
Zoya’s screams rose.
From somewhere in the thicket, Yuri cried, “Oh no! Please, you must not. I beg you.”
Nikolai forced his eyes shut. Come on, you bastard, he implored the monster. You want to spread your wings? This is your chance. I’ll even let you gnaw on that so-called Saint as a thank-you.
But if the monster was listening, it must be laughing too. Whatever dark thing resided within him had no interest in playing this game.
The Saint will not harm her, Nikolai told himself. It’s a ploy.
And then Zoya’s screams stopped.
Yuri was sobbing.
“Zoya?” Nikolai shouted. “Zoya!”
He hurled himself against the barbed thicket. “Zoya!” he yelled, but it emerged as a snarl.
This time he felt the creature inside him drag its way to the surface as if its talons were scraping against his chest cavity.
No. He did not want this, did not want to give the monster control.
But another voice within him hissed, Yes.
Remember, he told himself, remember who you are.
He felt his claws emerge, felt his teeth grow long.
I am Nikolai Lantsov, privateer and king.
He screamed as the wings burst through his back and he rose up over the thorn wood, into the high cavern of the tower. Remember who you are.
Elizaveta gazed up at him, her face triumphant. Yuri wept. Beside them Zoya floated in a golden sarcophagus, like an angel caught in amber, her eyes closed, her body still.
He did not recognize the sound that tore from his throat as he hurled his body at Zoya’s prison. He struck it with a bone-crunching thud, but it did not budge.