Rule of Wolves (King of Scars #2) - Leigh Bardugo Page 0,116

first taste of parem.” He gestured to Bergin and the Grisha rose. He wore a kind of uniform—loose gray trousers and a tunic of the same fabric. Mayu saw desperation in his face, the same helplessness the other prisoners shared. But there was something else there too: rage. He was still angry. He was still fighting. “Bergin was a translator working for a shipping concern in Fjerda, but when his powers were discovered, he tried to flee the country. Our troops intercepted him and offered sanctuary.”

Fury flared in Bergin’s blue eyes. Mayu doubted the doctor’s story bore much resemblance to the truth. Bergin had probably been dosed by Shu troops and taken captive to serve as a “volunteer.”

“We’ve had him working on Locust.”

“Locust?” asked Tamar.

“The conversion from ordinary soldier to khergud is incredibly complicated, so we pair each volunteer with a soldier candidate for the duration. Of course, sometimes the volunteer dies before the work is complete, but we’re getting better at managing doses to prolong their lives.”

“Remarkable,” Tamar said, her voice sharp as a blade begging to draw blood. The doctor didn’t seem to notice, but Bergin did, his blue eyes suddenly more alert. He was leaning on one of the huge, slablike tables that took up the center of the room.

“This is where the great work is done,” said the doctor.

Mayu saw drills, bone saws, long pieces of brass and steel, a contraption that looked like it had been welded into the shape of a wing. The floor was made of some kind of metal and punctuated by large drains. To make it easy to wash away the blood. This isn’t an old dairy, she realized. It’s a slaughterhouse. This is the killing floor.

On the far right was a different kind of dormitory. The beds here were more like coffins, sealed brass sarcophagi.

“And these are our ironhearted children, the khergud.”

Here was the proof of Makhi’s program, of the torture of Grisha, of the abominations they’d created. But was her brother among them?

Tamar laid a hand on Mayu’s shoulder, and Mayu realized she was shaking.

“What are their names?” asked Ehri.

“Locust, Harbinger, Scarab, Nightmoth—”

“No,” said Mayu, unable to tamp down her anger. “Their real names.”

The doctor shrugged. “I don’t actually know.”

Mayu gripped the pommel of her talon sword, trying to control her frustration. She looked at the princess, willing Ehri to understand her need. Yes, they had their proof, but where was her brother?

“I’m curious,” said Ehri. “Is it safe to open the … containers?”

“Oh, entirely,” said the doctor, already flipping a switch on one of the sarcophagi. The lid released with an unexpected pop. “We wake them using a stimulant made from ordinary jurda. But they’re safe in any state. The khergud are perfect soldiers.”

Is that what I am? Mayu wondered. A soldier who would take an innocent man’s life, murder a princess, watch her sisters burn at the whim of a queen?

The doctor lifted the lid. A woman lay inside, her breathing shallow, her brow furrowed in sleep. “They don’t dream well,” murmured the doctor. The sleeping soldier seemed to scent something; her nostrils flared. Tamar moved away from the container. The khergud were rumored to be able to smell the presence of Grisha. Perfect soldiers. Perfect hunters.

“Another, please,” said Ehri.

The doctor flipped a switch, pushed open another lid. “We made the sleeping chambers wide to allow for those with winged enhancements.”

Mayu looked down at the man who lay in the container, his brass wings folded behind him. Metal horns curved from his forehead. Not Reyem. Was he even here? If he wasn’t, how would they find the facility he was being kept at?

The doctor released the lid on a third container. He smiled. “Now, this will interest you, Princess. Something new we’ve been working on. This is Locust. We gave him metal pincers, fused at his spine. He’s taken to the treatment well.”

Mayu knew it would be her brother before she even looked.

Reyem lay sleeping inside the chamber. He had the same troubled expression as the others, as if in his dreams he was not the hunter but the prey. She hadn’t seen him in almost a year, but he was the same Reyem, tall and lean, his long hair pulled back from his face in a high knot, the way he’d always worn it. He had a tiny, half-moon scar on his cheek from when he’d been hit by a rock—a rock Mayu had thrown in anger, never really meaning to hurt him. He’d cried, but