Ten
"Four guards? Really?" I asked Aleksander accusingly as the doors to the training room closed behind me an hour later.
"It seemed prudent to give you more protection, all things considered," he replied pointedly as I stalked across the large hexagonal room towards him.
"I don't need a whole fireteam of soldiers to follow me around like depressing fucking rainclouds," I countered, temper flaring. Mercifully, the trip here had been uneventful and out of the path of any other Grisha, but there was no denying it had felt like an armed escort was taking me to the gallows rather than to train with Aleksander. Even unflappable Svetlin had seemed uncomfortable with so many rifles rattling after him as we walked.
"Those 'rainclouds' are there to keep you safe," Aleksander insisted stonily.
As much as I hated to admit it, nothing had ever happened to me while in the presence of my armed guard. The incident in the Fabrikator workshops had only occurred because Genya had dismissed my entourage on a frivolous errand. That, and I'd been an absolute, emotional moron. "I can take care of myself," I bit out through gritted teeth.
"So you keep saying, but you've yet to prove it," Aleksander challenged, his eyes narrowing into a dangerous glare that undoubtedly made most people shrink with terror.
"We talked about his over breakfast, or are our conversations so forgettable?" I snipped back, unfazed.
"Quite the opposite," he purred, making my insides melt.
"Well, give me another turn with that fancy knife of yours, and I'll prove both my points," I threatened just as silkily.
Aleksander seemed to think about that for a second, his eyes dancing like molten quicksilver. "Fine," he allowed, head quirking ever so slightly to the side as he considered me, "it's not what I had in mind for our session together today, but if you're so eager to fight me, I'll make a deal with you."
"I'm listening," I said, voice low.
A lopsided grin flirted on his mouth. "Best me, and I'll relieve you of your escort. Permanently."
The first rule I learned after winding up on my own as a child was: if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is. "What's the catch?" I asked suspiciously, despite being sorely tempted to agree outright.
At that, a sly yet approving smirk fully materialised on Aleksander's face, sending a cascade of butterflies careening through my chest. "No weapons, tools, or aids are allowed… Aside from your powers as a Grisha," he answered with a hint of smugness.
I should have seen that coming from a mile off… "I don't stand a chance against you," I pointed out, planting my hands on my hips to underscore my displeasure. "Perhaps you remember our previous training sessions differently than I do, but you've nearly separated my head from my shoulders on multiple occasions."
"The key word being 'nearly'," he emphasised with some satisfaction. "I think you'll manage to hold your own this time."
"Your confidence in me is overwhelming," I deadpanned. When Aleksander remained silent, waiting for my decision, I prodded for more details asking, "Supposing I accept, what happens if I don't win our little summoning duel?"
"Things stay as they are," he replied with an audible shrug. "You've nothing to lose by agreeing to my terms."
"But if I refuse them outright… ?" I pressed, catching the caveat woven in between his words.
"I increase your guard detail from four to six men—"
"—What!?—"
"—At all times."
"That's ridiculous," I seethed, seeing red. "I'm not helpless, and you know it!"
"Prove it to me," he demanded, staring me down.
Defiantly, I held his gaze, even though it felt like he was looking straight through me. "Fine," I spat after a lengthy and tense hesitation, "I will."
"Good," Aleksander murmured, his voice deadly, as shadows began to bleed off him in inky skeins. Reeling backwards, I barely managed to put four yards between us before he raised his hands in summoning and a roiling wall of darkness came speeding mercilessly toward me.
Instinctually, I threw my arms up to shield myself and willed the force of the attack to dissipate around my body. The resulting violent rush of air was enough to send me sliding back several feet across the polished hardwood floor. "Thanks for letting me prepare myself," I snarked as I recovered as quickly as possible, shifting my posture into a proper fighting stance.
"Consider that a warning shot," Aleksander growled, the brutality promised in his voice echoed by the gale of shadows now swirling about him.
"Noted, you ass," I cursed quietly as a lance of darkness broke free of the seething tempest across the room and hurtled towards me. Not trusting my abilities enough to block a literal spear, I ducked out of its path at the last moment. The force of the shadowy javelin's passing ruffled my hair; the blowback of its impact against the wall knocked me flat.
"Get up," Aleksander barked, his eyes eerily dark with the reflection of the shadows wreathed about him.
"Working on it," I grumbled as I righted myself. I'd barely regained my footing before another summoned pike flew toward me. Knowing what was coming this time, I dodged Aleksander's attack more gracefully, manoeuvring myself well away from the resulting crash between shadows and sidewall.
"I don't know how many times I have to tell you, Esfir," Aleksander growled as he snapped his fingers and manifested a dozen inky cannonballs, "but you can't rely on outrunning an opponent. Your body will tire long before any Grisha worth their kefta."
"Well, until I figure out what I'm doing—no thanks to you, I might add," I fired back, eyeing the black projectiles warily, "running is all I've got at the moment. Because I really don't feel like being run through today."
"In that case, might I make a suggestion?" He offered humourlessly before sending two of the orbs speeding toward me in quick succession.
Throwing up my arms, I absorbed each blow, grunting with the effort. "Sure, I'm all ears," I bantered dryly after catching my breath.
"If you won't duel me properly, forfeit now," he replied, voice cutting like a winter wind.
Another two strikes landed in a quick one-two series. I blocked the brunt of the first, but the second squeaked past my guard and clipped my shoulder. Pain, lancing like lightning, raced through my left side. "And why, exactly, would I do that?" I hissed through bared teeth.
"Because I'd rather not break your arms," Aleksander drawled, unimpressed.
A single, blindly-fast shot pitched toward me. "Thanks for your consideration," I rasped as I dissipated the immense force, my right forearm now throbbing, "but I call bullshit."
"Explain," he demanded blackly.
"Well, for all your big talk," I grinned through teeth now clenched with pain, "I'm still in one piece."
"Not by my choice, I assure you."
"Liar. You're holding back."
"Hardly."
"Prove it," I challenged.
"Don't tempt me," Aleksander warned blackly. With nothing but a lazy flick of his hand, another relentless volley rocketed my way, sending me skittering. Five strikes met roughly with the floorboards, narrowly missing my footfalls as I sprinted along the room's perimeter.
Skidding to a halt, I turned to Aleksander at the centre of the room just in time to see a sixth missile hurtling toward me. Too slow to stop it, it caught me squarely in the gut and sent me flying backwards into the wall. My head cracked roughly against the panelling, dazing me as I collapsed to all fours.
"Is that proof enough for you?" I heard Aleksander ask icily through the ringing in my ears.
Slowly, I dragged myself back to standing. And through the stars in my eyes, I saw Aleksander watching me with a narrow glare, the last of his conjured munitions orbiting slowly around his shoulders like a planet around a dark star. "Yes," I groaned.
"Then concede," he growled back, an unusual sense of relief underpinning the malice in his tone.
"That wasn't what I meant," I bit back.
The resounding silence that followed, emphasised by the subtle writhing sound of Aleksander's power, told me he understood his mistake.
Squaring myself to him, I steadied the heaving of my chest and felt the great beast of my own darkness roar to life within me. "My turn," I exhaled, resolved like never before.
Aleksander bristled, and the orb circling him swelled to triple its original size—facts I barely registered as I willed my power to manifest.
Before… Before, trying to use my power was trying to see through smoke. But now, summoning was like breathing—as I realised so long ago, there truly was no 'magic' to it. There was simply me and the shadows and the limits of my will.
With a casual flick of my wrist, I sent a volley of black lashes flying toward Aleksander, forcing him to dance backwards out of their path lest they take his feet out from under him. When he landed, catlike, back into a fighting stance, I sent a volley of shadowy darts flying towards him without hesitation. Unfortunately, he blocked most of them by morphing the orb that circled him into a wall of darkness.
As the remaining skeining needles pierced into the floor around him with a deafening chorus of thunks, Aleksander dissipated his conjured shield to glare at me. "Try not to damage the floor," he said boredly, trying to goad me.
"If I were you," I smiled back pleasantly, "I would be more worried about protecting my pretty face than saving the hardwood."
A smug smirk crept onto Aleksander's mouth. "I do believe you just paid me a compliment."
"Consider it more of a warning," I said back smoothly before forcefully clenching my fists, turning the lingering bolts of darkness lodged in the floor into a tangled bramble of jutting black spears.
Faster than I anticipated, Aleksander stepped through the shadows and out of harm's way… Though the same couldn't be said of his kefta. When he reappeared several feet to the right of where he had vanished, I could see several gaping holes pierced through the corecloth of the beautiful garment he wore.
"Hm," he grunted as he paused to look down at himself, surveying the damage. "That wasn't very kind of you."
"I did tell you to be careful," I answered, perhaps a touch condescendingly.
A huff of a laugh escaped Aleksander, the husky sound sending unbidden shivers racing up my spine. "Yes," he smiled subtly, "you did."
"Oh, so you do listen," I smarmed back.
"To you? Always," he clarified wolfishly.
"Good. Then I won't waste time warning you again," I winked before seeing a fresh buffet of my power coursing across the room. Wave after wave of pitch-black energy, as furious and lightning-charged as the boundaries of the Fold, rushed towards Aleksander, catching him seemingly by surprise. It was only by taking a wide-eyed and tumbling leap out of the way that he again (narrowly) avoided being forced backwards and pinned against the training room wall.
Now, in a fair fight, I would have let Aleksander regain his footing before striking again. And, likewise, I would have also kept to the rules. But this wasn't a fair fight—just as every training session I had ever suffered through before had never been truly 'fair'. So, without hesitation, I pounced again as he somersaulted along the floor and made to spring lithely back to his feet.
Flitting toward him through the shadows, I slammed Aleksander roughly, driving my shoulder into his gut. As the wind rushed out of him with a gasping, paralysing woosh, I skillfully grabbed Aleksander's wrist and threw him over my shoulder, planting him flat on his back (thanks, Botkin). "No more guards and no more escorts," I growled into his face as I pinned Aleksander to the ground, my knees pressed firmly into his biceps as I straddled his chest.
"You cheated," he managed to choke out, looking wildly up at me with a mixture of awe and confusion.
"Just like following orders, I'm not particularly good with rules," I hissed back, manifesting a wicked blade of pure shadow into my hand. On instinct honed over so many years, I immediately tucked the shifting, incorporeal dagger tightly under Aleksander's chin, right against that vital, vulnerable spot on his neck. As he swallowed reflexively against the sudden, dangerous weight there, a thin bead of blood welled up, staining his immaculate skin crimson.
He glared up at me for a heartbeat, his breaths still coming in ragged pants. "How did you do that?" He asked with a measure of flat composure, his crystalline eyes flashing toward my hand at his jugular.
"Don't try to change the subject," I insisted icily, pressing my knife a fraction harder into his flesh. As blood welled anew under the whispering razor, Aleksander winced, though his stare never left mine.
"As promised," he gulped, still trying to steady himself, "no more guards. No more escorts. Unless—"
"—Unless I ask for one," I cut him off harshly, daring him to disagree with me with a glare.
A small nod. Fresh blood seeped forth. "Unless you ask for one," he echoed with a hard swallow.
"Good," I sighed, relieved. Feeling instantly vindicated, I vanished the knife I held against Aleksander's neck and sat away from his face. As I did, he released a heavy sigh of his own—though I wouldn't say it was from relief. It was too tight for that.
"Are you quite comfortable, or have you yet to prove the entirety of your point?" He managed somewhat rigidly, his usually cold, grey eyes going uncharacteristically molten as they flitted downward towards my…
Oh, Saints.
Flying backwards as though I had been struck by lightning, I scrambled off Aleksander's chest. The absence of his warmth beneath me—between my legs—was shock enough to kickstart my brain out of the puddle of mush it had become. "Sorry about that," I rushed awkwardly, tripping over my feet as I tried (and failed) to stand. "Habit."
Aleksander chuckled as he propped himself up on his elbows to better watch me fall back on my ass, the dark and sultry sound skittering delicately along my bones. "A habit to what?" He pressed, eyeing me curiously.
Of course, words failed me. "Uh," I stalled, desperately willing my tongue to form a coherent sentence. "To, um, keep an enemy, er—er, down," I struggled unconvincingly.
The cat-like grin that slinked onto Aleksander's mouth said more than his even, unbothered tone would ever belie. "And is that something Botkin taught you?"
"The Shu Han shoulder throw, yes," I replied easily, finding my wits, "but the gut blow and the knife—those were pure Kribirsk street urchin." Conveniently, I left out any further mention that I had been sitting astride him with my… With my body so close to his.
Just the thought of sitting so intimately atop Aleksander made my face turn pink.
"Of course," he agreed, something nearing satisfaction flirting in his voice as though he could read my thoughts or hear how my breath hitched in my throat. However, as I held his gaze, I could see that confusion still lingered in his clear, grey eyes, despite his bravado.
"Is something wrong?" I said without thinking, my voice sinking to a tentative, worried hush that chased away any heat that had bloomed in me.
Bolting upright, Aleksander composed himself entirely, even pausing to fix the collar of his ruined kefta before striding forward. After looking down at me under a delicately furrowed brow, he chivalrously extended an offer to help me. "I'm just not used to losing," he said as I grasped his hand, the feeling of calm and surety that always flooded me when he touched me conspicuously… Different. Seeming to sense this change, Aleksander quickly dropped my hand as soon as I was back on my feet.
"Well, I guess you'll just have to get acquainted with the idea of not being perfect all the time," I teased to hide the mourning I felt swoop in to fill the gap left behind by the utter wholeness I had known as Aleksander's skin brushed mine.
"Not if I can help it," he half-smiled, the act returning some warmth to my face.
"I have my work cut out for me, then," I retorted matter-of-factly, drawing a small laugh out of Aleksander that eased some of the tension between us.
At that moment, a heavy knock sounded at the training room doors, the hollow, unhappy sound echoing through the cavernous space. We both looked toward the intrusion at once, though Aleksander was the only one to speak. "Enter," he called out with chilling authority, and barely a second later, a servant in grey livery appeared.
"Sir," he answered with a sketched bow as he quickly darted towards us, "I've a message for you."
"Speak," Aleksander commanded with an aggravated sigh.
"It's from Madam Baghra," the young man said with another dip at the waist. As he did so, I couldn't help but notice that he had a very interesting scar on his ear—one he was very evidently trying to hide with his mousy brown hair. It was as though a piece of his helix had been ripped away, leaving a jagged tear behind.
Another exasperated sigh blew out of Aleksander. "What does that cantankerous old hag want now?"
The servant flinched in shock, casting me a look as if to say he couldn't believe what he was hearing. And at that moment, I would have sworn that I had seen him before. "She's requested a meeting with you, sir," the young, nondescript man relayed hesitantly as he turned his muddy-green eyes back to the floor.
"I'll meet with her later," Aleksander dismissed with a jerk of his hand.
"But, sir," the servant pressed with an ingratiating bow that somehow seemed tainted with disgust, "she insists that you come to see her immediately."
"Of course she does," Aleksander hissed quietly as he cast a baleful glare towards the sky as if praying for deliverance from any Saint that might be listening. A tense moment passed before he looked apologetically at me and then unfeelingly back to the servant before him. "Tell her I'll be there shortly," he murmured stiffly.
"Yes, sir," the young man bowed again before stepping away and retreating.
Only when the training room doors closed with another thud did Aleksander seem to breathe. "It would seem that the rest of the day is your own," he allowed with forced pleasantness, eyes still trained angrily across the room.
It would have been a lie to say I wasn't disappointed to hear him say that. "Whatever will I do with myself?" I swooned dramatically, earning a flick of a glance from Aleksander. "Perhaps I'll run away to Ketterdam—if I leave now, I'll make it there just in time for Ghezen's Day."
"Ghezen's Day is in the peak of summer," Aleksander noted dryly. "We're heading swiftly into autumn."
"I never said I would go directly to Kerch," I scoffed in mock offence. "Maybe I'll stop off on the Wandering Isle for a bit. Or Novyi Zem, perhaps—I've always wanted to learn how to grow my own jurda."
"In that case, might I suggest a stop in the library before you vanish off the continent?" He suggested, finally turning to me with a hint of a smile.
"And why, exactly, would I do that?" I shot back sarcastically, meeting his casually-pleased look with a similar one of my own.
"Because," he said slowly and with a modicum of good humour, "you may want to brush up on your conversational Kaelish and Zemeni before leaving Ravka behind."
"I'll take that under consideration," I said, unable to keep myself from smiling.
"So stubborn," he insulted playfully.
"You haven't seen 'stubborn' yet," I challenged back impishly.
"Perhaps you can show me later."
"Happily. That is if I'm still here—"
"—Of course—"
"—And you're still alive after seeing Baghra," I teased.
"Hopefully, I'll be so lucky," Aleksander sighed with a mixture of resignation and anticipation before bowing courteously. "Alas, the she-devil calls."
"Be brave: they say demons can smell fear," I whispered with mock caution.
"I'll keep that in mind," he winked before striding away, leaving me alone—truly and utterly alone—for the first time in weeks.
o-o-o-o
Emerging from deep within the stacks, I lugged another monstrous tome to the central reading table of the library. Once the massive leather volume rested safely in its cradle, I settled back into the chair I had claimed to pour over the pages within the aged book—a sight I would have found laughable not long ago.
After trouncing Aleksander for my freedom, I immediately went to the library, but not, as he suggested, to brush up on my foreign languages. Rather, the persistent itch of our two-layered conversation after my transfusion was screaming again for an answer, especially in light of how I had managed to catch the strongest Grisha alive off guard. And even though a mountain range of treatises and compendiums now surrounded me, I was still far from figuring out what I needed to know.
Hopefully, this book would finally be of some use…
"My goodness," Behrad said about thirty minutes later when I angrily closed The Art of the Small Science with a thud that shook the whole table, "was that not to your liking? I found it quite interesting—if you can ignore the author's grandiloquent style."
Turning in my chair, I found the Fabrikator looking at me over an open book while standing before a nearby shelf. "Interesting, sure," I sighed, frustrated, "but not useful in the slightest."
"In what regard?" The Materialnik asked as he gently snapped his volume shut and replaced it in its proper spot. I waited until he came to hover respectfully at my shoulder before answering.
"It talks ad nauseam about the fundamental origins and principles behind our power," I began, ignoring how the word 'our' elicited a pleased smile from Behrad, "but not about how one might… Build on those basics."
Behrad's hazel eyes narrowed shrewdly. "You're looking to improve your techniques?" He podded with over-spun innocence, the professor in him always wanting me to ask the right questions.
And even though I knew and respected his game, I couldn't help but roll my eyes (just slightly). "Not exactly," I hedged, unsure how to state what I wanted to know without saying too much.
"Then, by all means," the Fabrikator replied with an intrigued tilt of his head, "please elaborate. I'm sure I can point you in the right direction if I know what answers you're looking for."
I held Behrad's gaze for a moment, considering him, before I sighed and gazed off into the stacks. "If, hypothetically," I began carefully, "a Grisha wanted to… Become more powerful, how would they do that?"
Brow furrowed thoughtfully, Behrad thought about that for a moment. "A Grisha's power generally increases with age," he offered.
"And if one didn't have the patience to wait?" I pressed.
"Then one would need an amplifier," he laughed.
"A what?"
"An amplifier: a natural object of great power that increases a Grisha's power when worn."
Now it was my turn to think. "Where do these objects come from? You said they're 'natural', but what does that mean—like a rock? A twig?" I asked dubiously.
"Not exactly. I was hoping to talk about this in one of our lectures together," he smiled sadly over the lost opportunity, "but I suppose a crash course will have to suffice. One moment, please," he said before darting purposefully back into the depths of the stacks.
Anxious with anticipation, I watched the spot where he had vanished into the towering rows of bookshelves. Several minutes passed before the Fabrikator reemerged, carrying three small tomes under his arm.
"Here we are," Behrad greeted before carefully placing the books he had curated on the table before me. They were very old, very worn, and very underwhelming. "The most accurate and complete sources of information about amplifiers. Between these volumes, every answer you might have on the subject should exist."
"'Should'?" I parroted as I looked at the titles of each book: The Book of Alyosha, The Sikurian Psalms, and the Istorii Sankt'ya. I was familiar with the last of them—a children's book filled with gruesomely detailed illustrations of the Saints' individual martyrdoms. The other two were religious texts and were unknown to me.
"There is still a bit of mystery surrounding amplification," he admitted, curiosity sparking in his kind eyes. "It's an ancient phenomenon, but frustratingly unpredictable."
"Interesting," I murmured as I pulled The Lives of Saints closer and examined the familiar, blood-red cover. "Thank you, Behrad. You've quite literally saved me from hours of frustration."
"My absolute pleasure, Esfir," he said with a respectful dip of his head. Behrad left without another word.
Unable to read liturgical Ravkan, I set aside the first two texts and cracked open the children's book, carefully leafing through its pages. Although I was in no way a devout (obviously), I knew each of the Saints' stories, with Sankta Margaretha's being the dearest to me of all. Even so, I carefully read each tragic story, taking notes of anything pertinent as I went. I scribbled about the power of Sankta Anastasia's blood, Sankta Vasilka's firebird wings, Sankta Lizabeta's bees, Sankt Nikolai's magic reindeer, and Sankt Grigori's magic bone lyre. But it wasn't until I reached the story of Sankt Juris that I truly found what I was after.
Juris of the Sword tried thrice to defeat a dragon, but it was only by sacrificing himself to the dragon's jaws that he could deliver the killing blow. Miraculously, he survived and, ever after, wore the dragon's scales as proof of his victory. He was said to be bound to the dragon's power, giving him the longevity of a thousand men and control over wind, fire, and water. Some accounts even said he could fly by becoming a dragon himself as if his life force and the dragon he had killed were merged into one.
This must have been what Behrad had meant about amplifiers being 'natural objects': a trophy from an animal of great power.
Following that train of thought, I turned back through the pages of my notes, re-reading what I had jotted down. The other stories were similar, though I now saw the Saints' connections to animals or animal parts in a very different light. Sankta Anastasia's tale, however, gave me pause.
There were no animals in her martyrdom, but there was her blood. Her blood which, supposedly, had possessed such great power that, when drank by the sick, it healed them. Restored them. Invigorated them.
What if… I found myself thinking, eyes instinctively snapping in the direction of Bagrah's hut, where I knew Aleksander was enduring her company. What if his blood was just as powerful?
What if Aleksander was himself an amplifier?
From what I knew, it was unheard of… But not impossible if Behrad's warnings about amplifiers' unpredictability were accurate. And if I had learned anything after spending so long at the Little Palace, it was that the limits of the Small Science were vast—perhaps even incomprehensible.
So, really, anything could be possible. Even a living Grisha who was as powerful, if not more so, than the Saints themselves.
After gently closing the Istorii Saknt'ya, I leaned back in my chair and idly massaged my right arm. I could almost feel the spider web of blackened veins hidden beneath my kefta and the sense of power that had melded into my flesh, my soul. It was so similar to the feeling of wholeness that now washed over me whenever I touched Aleksander's hand that any lingering hesitation about my theory instantly melted away.
And I wasn't sure how I felt about that.