Rule of Wolves (King of Scars #2) - Leigh Bardugo Page 0,125

nodded. He didn’t intend to waste his time traveling from village to village, winning over tiny congregations with parlor tricks. No, he required a moment of spectacle, something grand with plenty of witnesses. He would stage his return on the field of battle with thousands of Ravkan and Fjerdan soldiers as his audience. There, Yuri’s transformation from humble monk to chosen savior would be completed. There, Aleksander would teach them awe.

The Fjerdans were better armed and better provisioned, and when young King Nikolai faltered, as he inevitably would, then and only then would the Darkling return, and show Ravka what strength really looked like. He would save them. He would offer them a miracle. And he would become Saint, father, protector, king.

“Yuri,” said Chernov. “You ask too much.”

“I ask nothing,” said Aleksander, spreading his arms wider. “It is the Starless One who gives this command.” Shadows began to bleed from his palms. The crowd cried out. “You must decide how you will answer.”

He threw his head back, letting the shadows billow out over the crowd. They went to their knees. He heard sobbing. He was fairly sure Brother Azarov had fainted.

“Will you run to the south or will you carry our Saint’s banners north?” he demanded of the crowd. “How will you answer the Starless One?”

“North!” they cried. “North!”

They clung to one another, weeping, as the shadows blocked out the setting sun.

“I’m sorry I doubted you,” Chernov said, approaching with tears in his eyes.

Aleksander smiled, letting the shadows recede. He placed a hand on Chernov’s shoulder. “Don’t apologize, brother. You and I are going to change the world.”

27

NIKOLAI

THEY JOURNEYED TO KETTERDAM aboard the Cormorant, a large airship that would allow them to transport the titanium back to Ravka—assuming they were able to acquire it. But they couldn’t approach the city in a Ravkan vessel, so they moored the giant craft at a smuggler’s island off the Kerch coast. Adrik and his Squallers would keep it wreathed in mist while Zoya and Nikolai met up with the Volkvolny, the privateer Sturmhond’s most famous ship.

Numerous people had stepped into the role of Sturmhond since Nikolai had created the identity for himself. It had made it easy to keep the privateer’s legend and influence alive while he sat the throne. And, of course, there were things a privateer with no known allegiance might accomplish that a king bound by the rules of diplomacy could not. Sturmhond’s gift for making and breaking blockades and acquiring stolen property had served Ravka’s interests more than once. It felt good to slip into the familiar teal coat and strap Sturmhond’s pistols to his hips.

Zoya was waiting on the deck of the Volkvolny. She had dressed as a common sailor in trousers and a roughspun shirt, and braided her hair, but she looked completely ill at ease out of her kefta. Nikolai had seen the way Nina disappeared into a role, changed the way she walked, the way she spoke, seemingly without effort. Zoya did not have this gift. Her posture remained razor sharp, her chin lifted slightly, less like a rough-and-tumble sailor than a beautiful aristocrat who had taken it into her head to spend the day among commoners.

Her eyes scanned him from the crown of his head to the toes of his boots. “You look absurd in that outfit.”

“Absurdly dashing? I agree.”

She rolled her eyes as the ship surged forward to find its berth in the Ketterdam harbor. “You like playing the pirate too much.”

“Privateer. And yes, I do. There’s freedom in it. When I wear this coat, my responsibility is the people on this ship. Not an entire nation.”

“It’s a game of pretend,” she said.

“A welcome illusion. One might be anything or anyone aboard a ship.”

They leaned on the rail, watching as the sprawl of the city and its busy port came into view.

“You miss it, don’t you?” she asked.

“I do. Maybe if this all goes to hell and Vadik Demidov takes my crown, I’ll simply return to being Sturmhond. I can serve my country without wearing a crown.”

He was unnerved by how much the idea appealed to him. It wasn’t the work of being a king he minded. Problems were meant to be solved. Obstacles defeated. Allies won through charm or the occasional bribe. He was happy to pick up a sword or a pen on Ravka’s behalf, to go without sleep or comfort in order to see a mission through. But kings didn’t take action—not the way that a privateer or even a