Rule of Wolves (King of Scars #2) - Leigh Bardugo Page 0,18

in the bay for his troubles.

She shouldn’t be here. She should be at the front, on the ground with her Squallers. With her king.

“We can’t risk Fjerda finding out what we’re up to,” Nikolai had said. “You need to meet with Schenck.”

“And if the Fjerdans attack from the sea?”

“They won’t break Sturmhond’s blockade.”

He’d sounded certain, but Nikolai had a talent for sounding sure of himself. Sturmhond, the legendary privateer—and the Ravkan king’s alter ego—had sent a fleet of ships to guard Ravka’s coastline. In theory, the king and the Triumvirate were meant to leave that job to the Ravkan navy. But the navy was too closely tied to West Ravka and their interests for Nikolai’s comfort. They couldn’t be trusted, not when the stakes were so high.

At least Nina’s message had arrived in time for them to prepare. At least Nina was still alive.

“Order her home,” Zoya had urged, determined to keep the pleading from her voice.

But the king had refused. “We need her there.”

It was true, and she hated it.

Let the Fjerdans come by sea, Zoya thought, let Jarl Brum and the rest of his bloody witchhunters come to us on the waves. My Squallers and I will give them a warm welcome.

She rested her head against the cool stone of the window casement. Some part of her had been glad to leave the king. To avoid Tamar’s knowing gaze. She could still hear the Suli woman’s voice, still see her standing fearless beneath the cedar tree. Khaj pa ve. We see you. Zoya was a warrior, a general, a Grisha who wore the scales of a dragon around her wrists. So why did those words fill her with so much fear?

She consulted the timepiece she wore on a jeweled fob, clipped to the sash of her kefta. It was a gift from the king, the silver lid shaped like a dragon curled around a quince. When she flipped it open, the abalone face caught the light, shimmering with faint rainbows. The silver hands ticked away.

“He’s late,” she bit out.

“Perhaps he got lost,” offered Count Kirigin nervously. He was always nervous around her. It was tiresome. But he was very wealthy, and his interminably jolly mood made him a perfect foil. When Kirigin was in the room, it was impossible to take anything too seriously. Besides, his father had been a war profiteer, which made him a villain in Ravka but quite popular among the noblemen of West Ravka who had enriched themselves with the help of the elder Kirigin. “My watch says he’s still got two minutes until he’s strictly considered late.”

“Our king needs every minute.”

Kirigin’s cheeks flushed. He tapped his fingers on the table. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

Zoya turned back toward the window.

She felt his shame, his eagerness, his longing. They came on like a sudden storm, a gust that swept her off solid ground and into free fall. One moment she was standing, sure-footed in a sunlit room in Os Kervo, looking out at the sea. The next she was gazing at a beautiful girl before her, raven-haired, her blue eyes distant. She reached out to touch the girl’s smooth cheek.

“Zoya?”

Zoya slammed back into her own consciousness just in time to smack Kirigin’s hand away. “I did not give you leave to touch me.”

“My apologies,” he said, cradling his hand as if she’d broken one of his fingers. “You just looked so … lost.”

And she had been lost. She glanced down at the shimmering black fetters on her wrists. They looked like shackles but they felt natural, as if they’d always been meant to lie cool against her skin. Power. The hunger for it like a heartbeat, steady and unrelenting. It was the temptation of all Grisha, and the acquisition of an amplifier only made it worse. Open the door, Zoya.

She could never be sure if it was her own voice or Juris’ that spoke in her head. She only knew that his presence within her was real. No figment of her imagination could be so irritating. Sometimes, beneath Juris, she could sense another mind, another presence that was not human, had never been human, something ancient—and then the world would shift. She would hear a servant whispering gossip in the kitchens, smell apple blossoms in the orchard at Yelinka—nearly fifteen miles away. All that she could bear, but the emotions, this sudden drop into someone else’s pain or joy … It was too much.

Or maybe you’re losing your mind, she considered. It was possible. After