Rule of Wolves (King of Scars #2) - Leigh Bardugo Page 0,198

had believed that Sankt Feliks had been among those monks, and that over the years, the details of his Sainthood and martyrdom had been altered by time and retelling. Feliks had endured the obisbaya, the Ritual of the Burning Thorn, to purge himself of a beast. And if Nikolai didn’t particularly want to be freed of his monster any longer? He would still do what his country’s future required. That much hadn’t changed.

There was no door to knock on, only a long tunnel that led into the dark. One of the Sun Soldiers lit the way.

“The air smells sweet,” Genya said, and moments later, they understood why.

They emerged into a vast, snow-dusted clearing open to the sky. The rock walls around them were pocked with arched niches like a hundred hungry mouths, and at the center of it all stood the biggest tree Nikolai had ever seen.

The diameter of its twisted trunk was nearly as wide as the lighthouse at Os Kervo. A network of thick, muscular roots radiated from its base, and high above, the canopy of its branches nearly covered the clearing, dense with red blossoms and thorns as long as a man’s forearm.

The thorn wood. But its shape felt different this time.

“It looks like Djel’s ash tree,” said Zoya.

“All stories begin somewhere.” The voice came from the shadows of one of the niches. A woman appeared, her body swathed in crimson silk, her black hair in three long braids thrown over her shoulder. She was Shu, her eyes the vibrant green of new quince, and her feet were bare despite the snow. “All gods are the same god.” She turned to Zoya. “Nae brenye kerr, eld ren.”

Zoya bowed.

Nikolai looked from Zoya to the monk. “Beg pardon?”

“It’s Kaelish,” said the Darkling. “Ancient Kaelish. A language I didn’t realize Zoya knew.”

Zoya didn’t spare him a glance. “It means ‘good to see you, old friend.’ Juris was here before.”

“Long ago,” said the monk. “He wanted to be human again and thought we could help him. Do you fear that fate?”

Zoya looked surprised. “I’m still human.”

“Are you?”

Genya reached out and took Zoya’s hand. “She’s human enough.”

But Nikolai supposed they were all in somewhat hazy territory where that was concerned.

“We know what you’re here for,” said the monk. “But there’s no help to be found in the thorn wood.”

We? Nikolai realized that figures in crimson stood beneath every arch, staring down at them. They looked to be unarmed, but they held the high ground.

“You’re aware of the blight?” he asked, trying to make a count of the people in the arches. There were over fifty of them.

“It has come to our mountains once already. We’re only grateful it didn’t strike the thorn wood.”

“As are we,” said Nikolai, since the tree was their only hope. Or had been. “You’re saying we can’t stop the spread of the Fold?”

“Not with the obisbaya. The Shadow Fold is a tear in the fabric of the universe, the fabric of the first making.”

“The making at the heart of the world,” Zoya murmured.

“Before the making, there was nothing, and that is what seeps into our world now.”

Nikolai rubbed his hands together. “So how do we fix it?” The question he would always ask. What was broken could be repaired. What was torn could be mended. “How do we close the tear?”

“You can’t,” said the monk. “Someone must hold it closed.”

Genya frowned. “What?”

“Someone must stand at the doorway between worlds, between the void and creation.”

“For how long exactly?” asked Nikolai.

“Forever.”

“I see.”

“What do you see?” Zoya said sharply.

“It has to be someone.”

“Don’t be absurd,” she snapped.

The monk drew closer. He couldn’t tell how old she was. “Is it the shadow inside you that makes you brave?”

“I should hope not. I was making bad decisions long before that thing showed up.”

Zoya grabbed his sleeve. “Nikolai, you can’t be serious. I won’t let you do this.”

“You haven’t been crowned. I’m not sure you can forbid anything just yet.”

“You told me you’d stay by my side.”

There was nothing he wanted more. They’d stopped a war together, and he’d begun to believe they could build a life together, but this was something he would have to do alone. He turned to the monk. “What do I have to do?”

“Nikolai—”

“The thorn will pierce your heart, just as in the obisbaya, but there you will remain, in agony, courting madness. If the thorn is removed, the blight will return and the universe will crumble.”

Nikolai swallowed. That sounded far less palatable than a quick and heroic death.