Rule of Wolves (King of Scars #2) - Leigh Bardugo Page 0,126
general could. Being a king meant second-guessing every move, considering countless variables before making a decision, knowing that each choice might have consequences that others would pay for. We need a king, not an adventurer. Zoya was right, but that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.
She cast him a curious glance. “Could you do it? Give up the throne?”
“I don’t know. When you’ve wanted something so long, it’s hard to imagine a life without it.” He supposed he wasn’t just talking about Ravka.
Zoya stood a little straighter, all propriety. “Growing up means learning to go without.”
“What a depressing thought.”
“It’s not so bad. Starve long enough, you forget your hunger.”
He leaned closer. “If it’s so easy to lose your appetite, maybe you were never truly hungry at all.” She looked away, but not before he saw the faintest blush tinge her cheeks. “You could come with me, you know,” he said idly. “A Squaller is always welcome on a ship’s crew.”
Zoya wrinkled her nose. “Live on salt cod and pray to the Saint of Oranges that I don’t get scurvy? I think not.”
“No small part of you wishes for this kind of freedom?” Because, all Saints, he did.
She laughed, tilting her face to the salt breeze. “I long for boredom. I would gladly sit in a drawing room at the Little Palace and sip my tea and maybe fall asleep in the middle of a tedious meeting. I’d like to linger over a meal without thinking of all the work yet to be done. I’d like to get through one night without…”
She trailed off, but Nikolai understood too well how to finish her thought. “Without a nightmare. Without waking in a cold sweat. I know.”
Zoya rested her chin in her hands and looked out at the water. “We’ve been promised a future for so long. A day when the Grisha would be safe, when Ravka would be at peace. Every time we try to grab for it, it slips through our fingers.”
Nikolai had sometimes wondered if it was in his nature to be restless, in Zoya’s nature to be ruthless, and in Ravka’s nature to be forever at war beneath the Lantsov banner. Was that part of what drew him to this life as king? He longed for peace for his country, but did some part of him fear it as well? Who was he without someone to oppose him? Without a problem to solve?
“I promised you that future.” He wished he’d been able to make that dream come true for both of them. “I didn’t deliver.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she clipped out, haughty and imperious as a queen. But she didn’t look at him when she said, “You gave Ravka a chance. You gave me a country I could fight for. I’ll always be grateful for that.”
Gratitude. Was that what he wanted from her? Nevertheless, Nikolai found he was pleased. He cleared his throat. “I believe we’ve arrived.”
The crew lowered the gangway, and Nikolai and Zoya strode up the Fifth Harbor dock.
Zoya planted her hands on her hips, surveying the tangle of people and cargo around them. “Of course Brekker couldn’t be bothered to meet us.”
“Best not to announce our association on the Ketterdam docks.” It would have been safer and simpler to send a delegation on the crown’s behalf, but Brekker had ignored every message until Nikolai had penned the letter himself. He and Zoya had worked with the young thief before. They weren’t friends or even trusted associates, but they had a better shot of winning Kaz Brekker’s help than strangers.
“You are a king.”
“Not while I wear this coat.”
“Even with a pelican on your head, you’d still be the king of Ravka, and it wouldn’t kill that Barrel rat to show a bit of respect.” They plunged into the crowds of tourists and sailors on the quay. “I loathe this city.”
“It’s lively,” he said, switching to Kerch.
“If by lively you mean a rat-infested, coal-dust-covered lump of human misery,” she replied in kind, her accent heavy. “And I don’t like their language either.”
“I like the bustle. You can feel the prosperity of this place; I want Ravka to have a piece of this—trade, industry. Our country shouldn’t always have to be the beggar at the door.”
Zoya’s face was thoughtful as they turned onto East Stave, both sides of the canal lined with gambling dens, some grand and some squalid. Each facade was more garish than the last, meant to entice tourists looking for fun. Barkers shouted from