Rule of Wolves (King of Scars #2) - Leigh Bardugo Page 0,123

own mother. Like all of Ravka.

She will return to you.

He didn’t want Yuri’s sympathy. He drank sour beer and listened to the customers gossip. All the talk was of the war, the bombing of Os Alta, and of course, the blight that had vexed the king and his general so.

“Pilgrims camped in Gayena. They tried to set up their blasted black tents here, but we drove them out. We’ll have none of that unholy talk.”

“They say the blight’s a punishment for not making the Darkling a Saint.”

“Well, I say make him a Saint if it will bring that pasture back to life. Where am I supposed to graze my cattle?”

“If he can get my lazy husband out of bed, I’ll make a pilgrimage to the Fold myself.”

Gayena. At last he had word of the Starless. He finished his awful meal and ducked out of the beer hall, but not before he’d used his shadows to help him snatch a pair of spectacles from one of the tables. As he walked, he let Yuri’s features return to the fore, the long face, the weak chin. No beard, of course. He was no Tailor. And the weak body would remain in exile too. Aleksander would need every bit of his strength. He placed the spectacles on his nose. He would have to look over the lenses. Yuri’s faulty eyesight from all those years bent over books was another thing he didn’t care to restore.

He could feel the boy’s elation at the prospect of rejoining the faithful. This is my purpose. This is the reason for all of it.

Yuri wasn’t wrong. Everyone had a part to play.

Aleksander found the Starless camped under a bridge like a gathering of trolls, their black banners raised over their tents. He took quick stock of their defenses and assets. It was a surprisingly young group, and almost all men, all of them dressed in black, many in tunics clumsily embroidered with his symbol—the sun in eclipse. He spotted a mule, a few scrawny horses, a box covered with a tarp in a wagon—a weapons cache, he assumed. This was what he had to work with? He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. If not an army, then the makings of one, but not this pathetic gathering.

I shouldn’t have left them. Yuri again. His presence was more insistent now, as if allowing the little monk’s features to emerge had made Yuri’s voice stronger—less a single gnat than a swarm of them.

“Yuri?” A barrel-chested man with a salt-and-pepper beard approached.

Aleksander searched for his name and Yuri’s memories provided it. “Chernov!”

He was swept up in a musty, muscular embrace that nearly lifted him off his toes. It was like being hugged by a bearskin rug badly in need of cleaning.

“We feared you were dead!” Chernov cried. “We’d heard you were traveling with the apostate king and then, not a word from you.”

“I have returned.”

Chernov frowned. “You sound different. You look different.”

Aleksander knew better than to try to make excuses. Instead he grabbed Chernov’s arm and met his gaze. “I am different, Chernov. How many are gathered here?”

“At last count, we had thirty-two of the faithful. But we’re feeding a few travelers who have not yet found the Starless path.”

“We are?” Valuable resources squandered.

“We are,” said Chernov. “Just as you preached. All are equal in the dark.”

He had to stop himself from laughing. Instead he nodded and repeated the words with fervor. “All are equal in the dark.”

Chernov led him through camp, and Aleksander greeted those who seemed to recognize him as an old friend. If they only knew. As they walked, he inquired casually about the other places the Cult of the Starless Saint had taken hold. By Chernov’s count, the cult’s following had swelled to nearly one thousand pilgrims. A meager number, but it was a start.

“We’ve decided to head south to warmer climes, get away from the northern border. We don’t want to get caught in the crossfire when the fighting breaks out.”

“And then?”

Chernov smiled. “And then we continue the good work of spreading the Darkling’s name and championing his Sainthood. Once King Nikolai is deposed, Vadik Demidov will be crowned and we will petition—”

“Demidov will be a Fjerdan puppet.”

“What do we care for politics of that kind?”

“You’ll care when they stack Grisha on the pyre.”

“Grisha?”

Aleksander had to work to hide his anger. “Was not the Darkling a Grisha?”

“He was a Saint. There is a difference. What has come over you, Yuri?”

Aleksander smiled, regrouping. “Forgive me. I only meant