“The korpa!” I declared in dire tones. “Your private parts weeel shrink to nothink!”
He paled. His throat worked. “But—”
At that moment there was shouting from inside the ballroom and a loud crash as someone upended a table. I saw two men shoving each other.
“I think it’s time to leave,” said Tamar, edging us away from the commotion.
I was about to protest when the fight broke out in earnest. People started pushing and shoving, crowding the doors to the terrace. The music had stopped, and it looked like some of the fortune-tellers had gotten into the scramble too. Over the crowd, I saw one of the silken wagons collapse. Someone came hurtling toward us and crashed into the noblemen. The coffee urn toppled off the table, and the little blue cups followed.
“Let’s go,” said Mal, reaching for his pistol. “Out the back.”
Tamar led the way, axes already in hand. I followed her down the stairs, but as we stepped off the terrace, I heard another horrible crash and a woman screaming. She was pinned beneath the banquet table.
Mal holstered his pistol. “Get her to the carriage,” he shouted to Tamar. “I’ll catch up.”
“Mal—”
“Go! I’ll be right behind you.” He pushed into the crowd, toward the trapped woman.
Tamar tugged me down the garden stairs and up a path that led back along the side of the mansion, to the street. It was dark away from the glowing lanterns of the party. I let a soft light blossom to guide our steps.
“Don’t,” said Tamar. “This could be a distraction. You’ll give away our location.”
I let the light fade, and a second later, I heard a scuffle, a loud oof, and then—silence.
“Tamar?”
I looked back toward the party, hoping I would hear Mal’s approach.
My heart started to pound. I raised my hands. Forget giving away our location, I wasn’t going to just stand around in the dark. Then I heard a gate creak, and strong hands took hold of me. I was yanked through the hedge.
I sent light searing out in a hot flare. I was in a stone courtyard off the main garden, bordered on all sides by yew hedges, and I was not alone.
I smelled him before I saw him—turned earth, incense, mildew. The smell of a grave. I raised my hands as the Apparat stepped out of the shadows. The priest was just as I remembered him, the same wiry black beard and relentless gaze. He still wore the brown robes of his station, but the King’s double eagle was gone from his chest, replaced by a sunburst wrought in gold thread.
“Stay where you are,” I warned.
He bowed low. “Alina Starkov, Sol Koroleva. I mean you no harm.”
“Where’s Tamar? If she’s been hurt—”
“Your guards will not be harmed, but I beg you to listen.”
“What do you want? How did you know I would be here?”
“The faithful are everywhere, Sol Koroleva.”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Every day your holy army grows, drawn by the promise of your light. They wait only for you to lead them.”
“My army? I’ve seen the pilgrims camped outside the city walls—poor, weak, hungry, all desperate for the scraps of hope you feed them.”
“There are others. Soldiers.”
“More people who think I’m a Saint because you’ve sold them a lie?”
“It is no lie, Alina Starkov. You are Daughter of Keramzin, Reborn of the Fold.”
“I didn’t die!” I said furiously. “I survived because I escaped the Darkling, and I murdered an entire skiff of soldiers and Grisha to do it. Do you tell your followers that?”
“Your people are suffering. Only you can bring about the dawn of a new age, an age consecrated in holy fire.”
His eyes were wild, the black so deep I couldn’t see his pupils. But was his madness real or part of some elaborate act?
“Just who will rule this new age?”
“You, of course. Sol Koroleva, Sankta Alina.”
“With you at my right hand? I read the book you gave me. Saints don’t live long lives.”
“Come with me, Alina Starkov.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You are not yet strong enough to face the Darkling. I can change that.”
I stilled. “Tell me what you know.”
“Join me, and all will be revealed.”
I advanced on him, surprised by the throb of hunger and rage that shot through me. “Where is the firebird?” I thought he might respond with confusion, that he might pretend ignorance. Instead, he smiled, his gums black, his teeth a crooked jumble. “Tell me, priest,” I ordered, “or I’ll cut you open right here, and your followers can try to pray you back together.” With a start, I realized that I meant it.
For the first time, he looked nervous. Good. Had he expected a tame Saint?
He held up his hands placatingly.
“I do not know,” he said. “I swear it. But when the Darkling left the Little Palace, he did not realize it would be for the last time. He left many precious things behind, things others believed long since destroyed.”
Another surge of hunger crackled through me. “Morozova’s journals? You have them?”