He turned on Elizaveta, snarling. I am the monster and the monster is me. He could feel the demon fighting for control even as it lent him its strength. But Elizaveta only smiled, gentle, beneficent. With a wave of her hand, the amber walls containing Zoya collapsed and the thorn wood wilted into the floor.
He seized Zoya’s limp body before it could fall. She was covered in golden sap. Elizaveta closed her fist and Zoya began to cough. She opened her eyes, lashes thick with resin, blinked in confusion, then her face flooded with terror and she began to thrash in his arms.
He wanted to soothe her. He wanted to … The smell of her fear mingled with the sap. It made him feel drunk. It made him feel hungry.
All he wanted was to dig his claws into her flesh. All he wanted was to consume her.
Remember, he demanded. Remember who you are.
Nikolai Lantsov. Ruler of Ravka. Privateer. Soldier. Second son of a disgraced king.
A growl of pure appetite rumbled through him as Zoya tried to scramble away, her movements stunted by the weight of the sap.
Remember who she is. Zoya sitting beside him writing correspondence. Zoya glowering at a new crop of students. Zoya holding him in the confines of a coach as he shook and shook and waited for the monster to leave him.
He clung tightly to the recollection of that sensation, that terrible trembling. Go, he demanded. Go.
Grudgingly, haltingly, the monster sank back into whatever dark place it resided, leaving the acrid taste of something burning in Nikolai’s mouth.
He collapsed, shaking, to his knees.
He couldn’t bear to look at Zoya’s face and see the disgust there. There would be no coming back from this. He felt her hands on his shoulders and forced himself to meet her gaze.
She was beaming.
“You did it,” she said. “You called him up and then you sent him packing.”
“You were almost killed,” he said in disbelief.
She grinned wider. “But I wasn’t.”
Elizaveta tapped the table. “So I am forgiven, Squaller?”
“That depends on how hard it is to get this stuff out of my hair.”
Elizaveta raised her hands, and the sap slid from Zoya in golden rivulets, returning to the floor, where it solidified.
Yuri wiped the tears from his face. “Will … will Commander Nazyalensky have to endure this ordeal every time?”
“I’ll do it if I have to.”
Elizaveta shrugged. “Let us hope not.”
Zoya offered him her hand. “You opened the door.”
Nikolai let her help him to his feet, forced himself to celebrate with the others. But he’d felt the will of the monster, and he wondered, when the time came, if he’d be able to match its ferocity.
He’d opened the door.
He doubted it would be so easy to close the next time.
HE’D MADE IT THROUGH three days of parties, dinners, and meetings, and no one had attempted to murder him again. It was a bit like being on the front. You survived for an hour, then another hour. You hoped to make it through the day. At night, Isaak fell into bed and lay staring at the ceiling, heart pounding, thinking of the many things he’d done wrong and the many more things he was bound to do wrong tomorrow.
Today, they were to enjoy the morning boating on the lake beside the Little Palace, and then they would picnic on its shores.
“We’ve arranged for you to spend time with the Shu princess before lunch,” Tamar had told him.
“And I … do what with her?”
“Be charming. Ask her about her guards and how long she’s known them. Get us any information you can.”
“Can’t you and Tolya just bond with the Tavgharad over your Shu childhoods or something?”
The twins had exchanged a glance. “We’re worse than Ravkans to them,” said Tamar. “We had a Shu father, but we wear the tattoos of the Sun Saint and serve a foreign king.”
“Why did you choose service to Ravka?”
“We didn’t,” said Tamar.
Tolya put his hand to his heart. “We chose Alina. We chose Nikolai. All of this”—he gestured to the palace grounds—“means nothing.”
Isaak didn’t know what to say to that. He considered himself a patriot, but he could admit that, unlike the king, Ravka had never been particularly kind to him.
“Chat with Princess Ehri,” said Tamar. “Get her talking.”
“Hypothetically, if I weren’t possessed of natural charisma and a gift for witty conversation, just how would I do that?”
Tamar rolled her eyes, but Tolya said, “Compliment her. Express your admiration for Shu culture. You might consider reciting—”
“Oh, for Saints’ sake, Tolya, that’s the last thing he should do.” Tamar knelt in front of Isaak. “Just listen to her. Ask her questions. Women don’t want to be seduced. They want to be seen and listened to. You can’t do either of those things if you’re thinking up strategies on how to win her over—or reciting the Fourth Epic of Kregi.”
“There is no Fourth Epic of Kregi,” growled Tolya. “The third was unfinished by the poet Elaan.”
“Then that’s definitely the one he should recite.”
Why did the thought of a simple conversation make Isaak’s heart rattle? Possibly because he’d never been good at talking to girls—other than his sisters. But arguing with Belka and Petya over the price of ribbon was a far cry from making small talk with royals. And he was supposed to somehow wheedle information from a princess? He tried to remind himself that he was handsome now—a fact that took him by surprise every time he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. He hadn’t been ugly before, just unremarkable—tidy brown hair that curled if he left it too long, regular enough features, slightly crooked bottom teeth. His mother had told him he was nice looking, but she’d also told his sister she had a lovely singing voice, and that was definitely not the case.
Now Isaak tried to look at ease as he reclined on a cushioned divan on the royal barge, attempting his best approximation of Nikolai’s relaxed slouch. He’d spent too many years standing at attention. Before him, elegantly decorated sloops and barges dotted the lake like water lilies, banners snapping, awnings striped in Ravkan blue and gold.
The lake was too cold for swimming, but the Tidemakers had heated its surface so that mist rose from the water in dense clouds, which Squallers manipulated into symbols of various countries and families of standing. Isaak had permitted himself a few sips from a tiny bell-shaped glass of apricot wine to try to soothe his nerves but still remained alert, listening to the conversation as one of the Fjerdan ambassadors asked if they might have a tour of the Grisha school.
“Of course you may,” said Genya. “It would be our great pleasure.”
Isaak did not think he imagined the current of excitement that passed between the ambassador and another member of his delegation.
Genya smoothed her skirts and added, “But I fear you may find it boring. The students are currently traveling with their teachers as part of their instruction.”
“All of them?”