Rule of Wolves (King of Scars #2) - Leigh Bardugo Page 0,17

she would never give herself over to the worship of abomination.”

“Never,” whispered Hanne fervently, and no one could doubt the look of sincerity on her face.

Nina tried not to smile. Hanne would never worship a Grisha because she damn well was one, a Healer forced to hide her powers but who still found ways to use them to help people.

The Wellmother’s lips pursed. “Then perhaps you think I traveled all this way to tell fanciful tales.”

The room was silent except for the crackle of the fire. Nina could feel the fear radiating off Ylva, the anger that came from Brum—and the uncertainty in both of them too. They knew Hanne had been disobedient in the past. But how far had she gone? Nina wasn’t sure herself.

Hanne took a deep breath. “The riding clothes were mine.”

Damn it, Hanne. What had Nina said? Deny everything.

“Oh Hanne,” Ylva cried, pressing her fingertips to her temples.

Brum’s face flushed red.

But Hanne stepped forward, her chin held high, radiant with the pride and rigid will she’d inherited from her father. “I’m not ashamed.” The sound of her voice was pure and certain. Her eyes met Nina’s, glanced away again. “I didn’t know who I was then or what I wanted. Now I know where I want to be. Here with you.”

Ylva stood and took Hanne’s hand. “And the icons? The prayer beads?”

“I don’t know anything about them,” Hanne said without hesi- tation.

“Were they found with Hanne’s riding clothes?” Nina asked, taking a chance.

“No,” the Wellmother admitted. “They were not.”

Ylva drew Hanne close. “I’m proud of your honesty.”

“Wellmother,” said Brum, his voice icy, “you may have the ear of Djel, but so do the drüskelle. You will think more carefully the next time you come to my home to accuse my daughter.”

The Wellmother rose. She looked indomitable, not remotely chastened by Brum’s words. “I serve the spiritual well-being of this country,” she said. “The Apparat, a heathen priest, is beneath this roof. I have heard tales of heathen worship in this very town. I will not be swayed in my mission. Still,” she said, and smoothed the woolen skirts of her pinafore, “I am glad Hanne has finally found her way. I will hear her confession before I go.”

Hanne curtsied, head bowed, the very picture of obedience. “Yes, Wellmother.”

“And I will hear Mila Jandersdat’s as well.”

Nina couldn’t hide her surprise. “But I was only a guest of the convent. I was never a novitiate.”

“And do you not have a soul, Mila Jandersdat?”

More of a soul than you, you pinch-faced prune pit. But Nina couldn’t protest further, not in front of the Brums. Besides, she was nearly giddy with relief. They hadn’t been found out. And while the idea of Hanne being accused of false worship was no small thing, it was nothing compared to what the Wellmother might have said. So if Madame Prune Pit wanted her to make up a few good sins, she’d be happy to entertain her for a quarter of an hour.

“I’ll go first,” she said to Hanne, and cheerfully followed the Wellmother into the small receiving room that had been selected for her confessional.

It was narrow, with space for little more than a writing desk and a small sofa. The Wellmother took a seat at the desk and lit an oil lamp.

“The water hears and understands,” she murmured.

“The ice does not forgive,” Nina said in traditional reply.

“Close the door.”

Nina did as she was bid and smiled warmly, showing she was eager to please.

The Wellmother turned, her eyes the cold color of slate. “Hello, Nina.”

5

ZOYA

IN A HIGH TOWER of Os Kervo’s city hall, Zoya paced the flagstone floor. Hiram Schenck was late, and she had no doubt the insult was deliberate. Once the Kerch government had acquired the secrets of the izmars’ya, Nikolai’s deadly ships that could travel undetected beneath the surface of the sea, Ravka had lost all their leverage with the little island nation and the Merchant Council who ruled it. Schenck just wanted to make sure she knew it.

She needed to stay calm, be a diplomat, not a soldier. It was that or tear Schenck’s tufty ginger head from his body.

Through the window, she glimpsed waves crashing against the base of the city’s famous lighthouse. It was said Sankt Vladimir the Foolish had held the ocean at bay while the stones were laid for the sea wall and the great lighthouse. Zoya had a suspicion he’d been nothing more than a powerful Tidemaker. Not that powerful, she considered. He’d drowned