The Crown's Game
Page 77
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“Wait,” Nikolai said, clambering out the window as well.
“Leave me be.” Vika turned her back to him. She swirled her arm over her head, and a small blizzard appeared. It spat snow into Nikolai’s eyes and pushed him back against the wall of the palace. Vika levitated, and a sleigh of ice formed beneath her.
“Vika, please. Wait.”
But she either didn’t hear him through the storm or she chose not to listen. She tapped on the sleigh, and it glided away on the surface of the river.
The blizzard pummeled Nikolai until she was gone from sight. As soon as the snowstorm vanished, Pasha’s Guard appeared on the other side of the window.
“Hey, you! What are you doing there?” Two rough pairs of hands seized Nikolai by his collar and dragged him back inside. A thick layer of snow tumbled off his hair and coat onto the wooden floor below. The guards righted him and gave him a shove toward the door. “Make haste before we arrest you. The exit is that way.”
Nikolai picked up his top hat, which had fallen off as he chased after Vika. He glanced back over his shoulder at the window, but the guards moved their hands to their swords in warning. He nodded and placed his hat back on his head, cold and wet from the now-melting snow, and trudged out of the room, down the hallway, and out into the square.
He bit his lip as he left. It might be the last time he walked through that door.
Nikolai stopped every so often on his walk home to steady himself on a streetlamp. The scar had been burning him, hotter and hotter, nearly unbearably, for the last two weeks as he contemplated his final turn in the Game. Vika had attacked him aggressively by ransacking the Zakrevsky house. Nikolai had needed time to calm down—to let it sink in that it was Vika’s grief that had driven her to it, not hatred or real viciousness, he hoped—and to consider how he would respond.
Now, however, it was all moot. Pasha had changed the Game, and each scorching throb of Nikolai’s scar served as a reminder that Renata’s life was at risk. How could Pasha do this? It was bad enough that Nikolai and Vika might die, but to add Renata and Ludmila? It was as if Pasha’s goodness had died when the tsar and tsarina did. Or maybe Nikolai had killed it by betraying him. Nikolai clutched the streetlamp tighter, although this time, it was as much from shame as from the pain of his scar.
Finally, the searing at his collarbone eased a bit, and although he was still sick with guilt, Nikolai released his grip on the streetlamp. But there was no relief, for at that moment, the stench of decay washed over him. He reached for his handkerchief and covered his nose.
“My apologies,” a cloaked woman said as she crossed a small bridge over the nearby canal and approached him. “I need to speak with you, enchanter. Would you be able to cast a shield around yourself—or around me—to block the unpleasant smell, so that we may have a conversation?”
Nikolai started to respond but instead gagged into his handkerchief. It was as if the rot were crawling into his mouth. He waved his hand in front of the woman and formed an invisible bubble around her to contain the odor, not so much because of her request, but out of self-preservation. Only when he could breathe again did he register that this stranger had known he was an enchanter, and that, damn it, he had just performed magic in front of her without question. She had not even flinched.
“Thank you, Nikolai.”
He took several steps away. “How do you know my name?”
“I know many things about you, perhaps even some you do not know yourself. Will you walk with me? I promise, you are safe.”
“Tell me who you are.”
“I will. That I also promise. But first, would you like to know who your father was?”
“My father?” Nikolai took a tentative step toward the woman.
She began to hobble down the street. “You inherited from your father not only his broad shoulders and confidence, but also his adaptability. Despite his many flaws, he was quite skilled at adjusting himself to thrive through change. He would not have survived the war with Napoleon and all the other upheavals without it.”
“I knew he was a soldier. But that is all that I knew.”
The woman laughed, although it was more a shrill screech than a joyous chuckle. Nikolai cringed. “Your father was no mere soldier. He was a leader of men. Your father was the tsar.”
Nikolai stopped in the middle of the street, in front of a small church. “Pardon?”
“You heard me right. Your friend the tsesarevich is your half brother.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Is it? I think I ought to know. The tsar took me as his mistress during a monthlong visit to his army on the steppe. I was young and beautiful then, and we spent every night in his tent. Eight months after he left, I bore him a son, whom I named Nikolai.”
“No.” Every muscle in Nikolai’s body tensed. It had to be a lie. What game was this old hag playing at?
“Oh, yes.” She paused in front of the church’s wooden doors, as if for dramatic effect. “In fact, since you are a year older than the tsesarevich, you could contend his right to be the next tsar. It’s rumored the tsarina had her own affairs, as well, and it is reasonable to doubt whether the tsar was Pasha’s father. You could be tsar, my darling. I’ve already been busy spreading gossip about the possibility around the city.”
Nikolai clenched his fists. Then he snatched the invisible edge of the bubble surrounding the woman—he knew precisely where the edge was, for he had created it—and yanked her into the church. It was empty at this hour. He slammed her into the pews. She cackled.
“You could be arrested for treason,” he whispered furiously. “I could be arrested for treason, simply for walking and talking with you. How dare you spew these lies.”
The woman straightened her cloak and adjusted the hood over her head. Being hurled into the pew seemed to have had little impact on her.
“I don’t know how you came to know my identity as an enchanter, but I could chain you to this bench for eternity if I so desired.”
“I have no doubt. But you wouldn’t do that to your mother, would you?”
“I have no mother. She died when I was born.”
“I almost died. But I resurrected myself.” The woman lifted the hood and let it fall to her shoulders.
Nikolai stumbled backward into another pew across the aisle. The woman looked as horrid as she had smelled before he contained her stench in the bubble. Her skin was yellowed and mummified in places, gray and sagging in others. Only her eyes glowed, wild with savagery.
“Leave me be.” Vika turned her back to him. She swirled her arm over her head, and a small blizzard appeared. It spat snow into Nikolai’s eyes and pushed him back against the wall of the palace. Vika levitated, and a sleigh of ice formed beneath her.
“Vika, please. Wait.”
But she either didn’t hear him through the storm or she chose not to listen. She tapped on the sleigh, and it glided away on the surface of the river.
The blizzard pummeled Nikolai until she was gone from sight. As soon as the snowstorm vanished, Pasha’s Guard appeared on the other side of the window.
“Hey, you! What are you doing there?” Two rough pairs of hands seized Nikolai by his collar and dragged him back inside. A thick layer of snow tumbled off his hair and coat onto the wooden floor below. The guards righted him and gave him a shove toward the door. “Make haste before we arrest you. The exit is that way.”
Nikolai picked up his top hat, which had fallen off as he chased after Vika. He glanced back over his shoulder at the window, but the guards moved their hands to their swords in warning. He nodded and placed his hat back on his head, cold and wet from the now-melting snow, and trudged out of the room, down the hallway, and out into the square.
He bit his lip as he left. It might be the last time he walked through that door.
Nikolai stopped every so often on his walk home to steady himself on a streetlamp. The scar had been burning him, hotter and hotter, nearly unbearably, for the last two weeks as he contemplated his final turn in the Game. Vika had attacked him aggressively by ransacking the Zakrevsky house. Nikolai had needed time to calm down—to let it sink in that it was Vika’s grief that had driven her to it, not hatred or real viciousness, he hoped—and to consider how he would respond.
Now, however, it was all moot. Pasha had changed the Game, and each scorching throb of Nikolai’s scar served as a reminder that Renata’s life was at risk. How could Pasha do this? It was bad enough that Nikolai and Vika might die, but to add Renata and Ludmila? It was as if Pasha’s goodness had died when the tsar and tsarina did. Or maybe Nikolai had killed it by betraying him. Nikolai clutched the streetlamp tighter, although this time, it was as much from shame as from the pain of his scar.
Finally, the searing at his collarbone eased a bit, and although he was still sick with guilt, Nikolai released his grip on the streetlamp. But there was no relief, for at that moment, the stench of decay washed over him. He reached for his handkerchief and covered his nose.
“My apologies,” a cloaked woman said as she crossed a small bridge over the nearby canal and approached him. “I need to speak with you, enchanter. Would you be able to cast a shield around yourself—or around me—to block the unpleasant smell, so that we may have a conversation?”
Nikolai started to respond but instead gagged into his handkerchief. It was as if the rot were crawling into his mouth. He waved his hand in front of the woman and formed an invisible bubble around her to contain the odor, not so much because of her request, but out of self-preservation. Only when he could breathe again did he register that this stranger had known he was an enchanter, and that, damn it, he had just performed magic in front of her without question. She had not even flinched.
“Thank you, Nikolai.”
He took several steps away. “How do you know my name?”
“I know many things about you, perhaps even some you do not know yourself. Will you walk with me? I promise, you are safe.”
“Tell me who you are.”
“I will. That I also promise. But first, would you like to know who your father was?”
“My father?” Nikolai took a tentative step toward the woman.
She began to hobble down the street. “You inherited from your father not only his broad shoulders and confidence, but also his adaptability. Despite his many flaws, he was quite skilled at adjusting himself to thrive through change. He would not have survived the war with Napoleon and all the other upheavals without it.”
“I knew he was a soldier. But that is all that I knew.”
The woman laughed, although it was more a shrill screech than a joyous chuckle. Nikolai cringed. “Your father was no mere soldier. He was a leader of men. Your father was the tsar.”
Nikolai stopped in the middle of the street, in front of a small church. “Pardon?”
“You heard me right. Your friend the tsesarevich is your half brother.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Is it? I think I ought to know. The tsar took me as his mistress during a monthlong visit to his army on the steppe. I was young and beautiful then, and we spent every night in his tent. Eight months after he left, I bore him a son, whom I named Nikolai.”
“No.” Every muscle in Nikolai’s body tensed. It had to be a lie. What game was this old hag playing at?
“Oh, yes.” She paused in front of the church’s wooden doors, as if for dramatic effect. “In fact, since you are a year older than the tsesarevich, you could contend his right to be the next tsar. It’s rumored the tsarina had her own affairs, as well, and it is reasonable to doubt whether the tsar was Pasha’s father. You could be tsar, my darling. I’ve already been busy spreading gossip about the possibility around the city.”
Nikolai clenched his fists. Then he snatched the invisible edge of the bubble surrounding the woman—he knew precisely where the edge was, for he had created it—and yanked her into the church. It was empty at this hour. He slammed her into the pews. She cackled.
“You could be arrested for treason,” he whispered furiously. “I could be arrested for treason, simply for walking and talking with you. How dare you spew these lies.”
The woman straightened her cloak and adjusted the hood over her head. Being hurled into the pew seemed to have had little impact on her.
“I don’t know how you came to know my identity as an enchanter, but I could chain you to this bench for eternity if I so desired.”
“I have no doubt. But you wouldn’t do that to your mother, would you?”
“I have no mother. She died when I was born.”
“I almost died. But I resurrected myself.” The woman lifted the hood and let it fall to her shoulders.
Nikolai stumbled backward into another pew across the aisle. The woman looked as horrid as she had smelled before he contained her stench in the bubble. Her skin was yellowed and mummified in places, gray and sagging in others. Only her eyes glowed, wild with savagery.
