Rule of Wolves (King of Scars #2) - Leigh Bardugo Page 0,19

what she’d seen on the Fold, what she’d done—murdered a Saint bent on destruction, driven a blade into the heart of a dragon, into the heart of a friend. She had saved Nikolai’s life. She had saved Ravka from Elizaveta. But she hadn’t stopped the Darkling from returning, had she? And now she couldn’t help but wonder if there was any chance she could save her country from war.

“I was lost in thought,” Zoya said, shaking out the sleeves of her blue kefta. “That’s all.”

“Ah,” said Kirigin. But he didn’t look convinced.

“You never served, did you?”

“No indeed,” said the count, seating himself at the end of a long rectangular table engraved with the West Ravkan crest—two eagles bracketing a lighthouse. He was wearing a custard-yellow coat and a coral waistcoat that, in combination with his pallid skin and bright red hair, made him look like an exotic bird seeking a perch. “My father sent me away to Novyi Zem during the civil war.” He cleared his throat. “Zoya—” She flashed him a look and he hastily corrected himself. “General Nazyalensky, I wonder if you might consider a visit to my holdings near Caryeva.”

“We are at war, Kirigin.”

“But after the war. In the summer, perhaps. We could go for the races.”

“Are you so sure there will be an after?”

Kirigin looked startled. “The king is a brilliant tactician.”

“We don’t have the numbers. If he fails to stop the Fjerdans at Nezkii, this war will be over before it begins. And to win, we need reinforcements.”

“And we will have them!” Kirigin declared. Zoya envied his optimism. “One day there will be peace again. Even in a time of war, we might slip away for a moment. For a quiet dinner, a chance to talk, to get to know each other. Now that the king is to be married—”

“The king’s plans are none of your concern.”

“Certainly, but I thought that now you might be free to—”

Zoya turned on him. She felt current crackle through her, felt the wind lift her hair. “Be free to what, exactly?”

Kirigin held up his hands as if he could ward her off. “I simply meant—”

She knew what he meant. Rumors had surrounded her and Nikolai for months, rumors she had encouraged to hide the secret of the demon that lived inside him and what it took to keep the monster under control. So why did it make her so angry to hear these words now?

She took a slow breath. “Kirigin, you are a charming, handsome, very … amiable man.”

“I … am?” he said, then added with more surety, “I am.”

“Yes, you are. But we are not suited in temperament.”

“I think if you just—”

“No just.” She took another breath and forced herself to rein in her tone. She sat down at the table. Kirigin had been a loyal friend to the king and had put himself at considerable risk over the last few years by letting his home be used as a base for their weapons development. He wasn’t a bad sort. She could try and be pleasant. “I think I know the way you see this playing out.”

Kirigin flushed even redder. “I highly doubt that.”

Zoya suspected it involved bodies entwined and possibly him playing her a song on the lute, but she would spare them both that particular image.

“You will invite me to a fine dinner. We’ll both drink too much wine. You’ll get me to talk about myself, the pressures of my position, the sadness of my past. Perhaps I’ll shed a tear or two. You’ll listen sensitively and astutely and somehow discover my secret self. Something like that?”

“Well, not precisely. But … yes!” He leaned forward. “I want to know the true you, Zoya.”

She reached out and took his hand. It was clammy with sweat.

“Count Kirigin. Emil. There is no secret self. I’m not going to reveal another me to you. I’m not going to be tamed by you. I am the king’s general. I am the commander of the Second Army, and right now my people are facing down the enemy without me there.”

“But if you would only—”

Zoya dropped his hand and slumped back in her chair. So much for pleasant. “War or not, if I ever hear another amorous word or invitation leave your mouth, I will knock you unconscious and let a street urchin steal your boots, understood?”

“My boots?”

Hiram Schenck breezed through the doors without knocking, his cheeks florid and what looked like hard-boiled egg crumbled over the lapels of his staid black merchant’s