WARNING: This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence and gore. Please read at your own discretion.
Thirteen
"You're irritated," Nikolai said as we casually neared the main gates of Os Alta, his brilliant white gelding tossing its head as if to agree.
I cast the privateer-turned-prince a pointed and lingering sideways glance which he returned with an overly-dazzling grin.
"I hope not with me," he appended after that, one gloved hand flying to his uniformed throat in mock offence.
As I adjusted myself in my mare's saddle—Maeve's saddle, I discreetly pulled my cloak tighter to my chest, happy for the protection it provided against the autumn chill that hung in the air. "Is it that obvious?" I sighed (perhaps a little too curtly) as I returned my reins in both hands. "I thought I was doing a decent job of pretending to be happy."
"To most people: yes," Nikolai smirked, steering his horse tighter alongside mine so we could speak more privately, "but I know you better than that."
"After not speaking for three years, I doubt it," I drawled quietly, mindful of the contingent of mounted guards trailing in neat rows behind us.
"Oh, come now: terrifying power, political influence, and bottomless wealth can't have changed you that much," the prince winked. I'm sure he would have elbowed me in the side if he could.
No, but getting to know Aleksander sure has. "You have no idea," I replied sarcastically as we passed through the shadows of the city's massive outer battlement. For a brief moment, I wished the gigantic iron portcullis that loomed over our heads would fall and impale me if only to save me from the lingering stares of the citizens at our backs. Thankfully, we had begun our day early enough to avoid the bulk of the crowds, but those that were up and about (primarily merchants in the outer ring, preparing for market) made sure to stop and gawk as we passed. Nikolai, true to form, met each gaping face with a bright smile and stately wave, but that did little to remedy things. And, in all honesty, I had to admit we did make for a curious sight: it wasn't every day that a member of Ravkan royalty went for a casual outing with a Grisha, let alone one dressed in black.
Once upon a time, I probably would have stopped to stare, too.
"Well, it's good that we're taking time to get more acquainted, then," Nikolai chuckled.
"And why is that?" I asked with cloying innocence, hoping he'd read between the lines and explain why he'd (essentially) demanded to see me, however informally.
"I wouldn't want to owe an unspecified favour to someone I don't know—hypothetically, of course," the prince posited just cordially enough to mask the severe undertone of his statement.
There it was.
"Yes," I sighed. "That would be a terrible situation to be stuck in, wouldn't it?"
"Unbearably stressful, I would imagine," he agreed with the mock seriousness of someone who meant every word they said.
"Without a doubt," I nodded just as gravely, eyes trained ahead on the idyllic farmland that now surrounded us. "If I found myself in that kind of a situation," I went on jokingly, "it would drive me insane knowing I was so beholden to someone else—especially if I was used to 'holding all the cards', as it were."
When I finally looked over to smile beatifically at Nikolai, I found a mix of fox-like appreciation and genuine frustration meeting me in return. "For a hypothetical situation, you seem to know a tremendous amount about how it would feel to be roped into an unscrupulous business deal," he mused.
"And what, exactly, are you implying: that I'm some kind of criminal?" I asked blackly, waiting a long, loaded moment before laughing away my own accusation.
Nikolai laughed along, his expression evolving into something more playful. "Never: you don't strike me as the type," he agreed, his tone impish.
"As if a person of such upstanding character and breeding would know anything about criminals anyway," I smirked back knowingly.
At that, Nikolai let out an almost wistful sigh and said in equally hushed tones, "I should have insisted you join me on the Volkvolny. You were wasted in Kribirsk." I could feel his eyes on me, sweeping my profile as I looked away to glare stonily towards the horizon.
"There was a reason I said no, Nikolai."
"Which I never understood, really."
"Which you chose not to understand."
"Remind me, then, why you relegated yourself to a boring life in a tiny town when you could have been galavanting over the open ocean with me—and my crew, of course," the prince asked, voice turning playful again.
"My life wasn't, and still isn't, boring," I replied pointedly, dodging his question as we trotted down a branching side road heading out into the open countryside.
"Perhaps that was wrong of me to say, O, Dark Herald," Nikolai allowed teasingly, "but I know for a fact that the galavanting part is true."
"Galavanting never suited me," I deflected again, my mood improving a bit. Storumhund's—Nikolai's—undimmable sense of humour had always been infuriatingly infectious.
"And that should change," he enthused, sensing that my barbs were beginning to retract. "Aren't you fortunate I'm here to show you how wonderful it is to be a frivolous pleasure-seeker?"
I had to laugh at that, however indulgently. "I'm sure your mother isn't about to let you leave for another world tour after only just returning home."
"Who said anything about leaving?" Nikolai grinned rakishly. "There's plenty of fun, both of the honest and dishonest varieties, to be had in Os Alta if you know where to go. And, besides, I find I now have reasons to stay close to my mother dearest for the foreseeable future."
"Like attending to important matters of state, I'm sure," I said dryly.
"Among other things," he answered with a roguish waggle of his eyebrows. "I've been told it's high time for me to get married."
"Then you'll need to tear yourself away from the mirror," I laughed. "You can't wed your reflection."
"I know, and it's quite unfortunate," Nikolai sighed dramatically. "I suppose I'll have to settle and wed the second most beautiful person in the world, then."
"And I pity whoever that poor girl is."
"Come now, Esfir: that's not nice to say about yourself. "
"Please, Nikolai. I'm impervious to your flattery, so stop wasting your breath."
"So is that a 'yes'?"
"No," I said flatly.
"Ah, so a 'maybe', then," he smiled. "I understand: we don't want things to look rushed."
"Has anyone ever told you that you're absolutely impossible?" I asked long-sufferingly as we neared a dense copse of trees along the dirt road.
"Why of course," the prince said mischievously. "Impossibly charming, impossibly brilliant, impossibly handsome, impossibly well-endowed… Shall I go on?"
"Saints save me, no," I groaned as we slowed to a lazy walk and allowed our mounts a break.
"Well, since you asked so nicely—" Nikolai began, but his words were cut off by a loud bang and the horrendous keening of his horse.
I barely managed to keep my seat as Maeve reared in terror. On the other hand, Nikolai's gelding wheeled around in tight, frantic circles as the prince tried to keep the beast from bolting. As the creature turned around and around, I saw a flood of red stained one side of its immaculate white neck.
"Ambush—protect Prince Nikolai!" The Captain of the guard hollered just before another shot rang out, making a bloody crater of his face.
Chaos erupted when the body crumpled to the ground.
Gunfire exploded from the trees. Horses screamed. The remaining guards tried to close ranks around Nikolai. Bullets whizzed through the air in all directions. Men screamed orders. Cries of pain rang out. War cries punctuated the commotion.
I had been in a shoot-out or two, but nothing like this. In the blink of an eye, the Os Altan countryside had turned into a warzone, and I had no idea what to do.
"Are you alright?" Nikolai bellowed over the cacophony of pistol and rifle fire. His horse was still whining in pain as he wheeled the gelding as close to me as possible—so he could look at me directly. Any trace of laughter or mischief that had been there before had been obliterated and replaced by the unflinching clarity of a battle-tested military commander.
"I'm fine," I managed as I anchored myself properly into my saddle after nearly being thrown off. Nikolai's level-headedness somehow instilled some sense back into me.
"You're not hit?" He asked as another one of the guards ringed around us took a hit to the neck, and toppled from his horse. His foot was still caught in his stirrup as his gelding dashed away, dragging him face-down and flailing through the dirt and grass.
"I said I'm fine," I repeated as I scanned the trees. Muzzle flashes blipped in the shade like tiny fireworks. The ambushers had yet to show their faces. "We need to get you out of here," I insisted, turning my attention to Nikolai's gelding. The poor thing was breathing in great heaves as it bled out; it was written in the flatness of its eyes that the horse wasn't going to live much longer.
The wince the prince flashed me in return said he realised as much, too. "That may prove difficult."
"No, it won't: you'll have to ride with me. Get in front," I urged as I slipped out of my seat and sat on Meeve's hindquarters. It may not be the quickest getaway, but I knew she could carry us back to safety. Kaelish Shires were bred to be large, strong, and determined.
Nikolai gave me a dubious look as I brandished the reins at him, silently insisting that he take the saddle. "I have a pistol; I should be in the back," he growled as he artfully changed mounts without setting foot on the ground. Maeve grumbled under the added weight (and, I liked to think, his salty attitude) but didn't falter.
"And I'm wearing a bullet-proof kefta," I quipped back as I wrapped my arms around Nikolai's waist to secure myself.
"Touché," the prince said as a bullet whizzed precariously close to our heads, making us duck in sync.
"Go!" I barked into Nikolai's ear, and he spurred Maeve to as fast of a gate as she could manage with two astride.
"Mörd onter ja drüsje!*" An unfamiliar chorus of male voices screamed from the trees as the prince and I began to flee.
"Saints fuck me up the ass," Nikolai blasphemed as we cantered back towards Os Alta.
"What is it?" I demanded, daring a glance over my shoulder. Half a dozen men dressed in grey were racing out of the thicket, rifles and mortars raised at the ready. Before I had time to gasp, their contingent had occupied (and nearly overwhelmed) the remaining Royal Guards, making way for their mounted comrades to burst into view.
We were being chased.
"Drüskelle," the prince cursed again as he tried to urge Maeve for more speed. She obliged as best she could—which wasn't saying much.
"'Drüskelle'?" I repeated, the word familiar in a foggy sort of way. I knew it was bad, but I couldn't remember exactly why.
"Holy soldiers from Fjerda, whose sole miserable purpose in life is to hunt and kill Grisha," Nikolai bit out as I leaned into him to hear better.
Ice slid down my spine, but I didn't have time to wallow in fear. Another hail of bullets narrowly missed us. "Why do they want to kill me!?" I demanded. "You're royalty"
"Why don't we ask them about our religious differences over tea?" Nikolai snarked as he took Maeve's reins in one fist and drew his pistol from his hip. "I just happened to bring along a picnic we could all stop to share."
Point taken. "No need to be an ass," I hissed as I looked back at our new friends. These men, with their fair beards and black-and-silver uniforms, looked like every other Fjerdan I had ever met, save for the pure hatred that burned in their ice-blue eyes. Even from this far away, I could tell they would do whatever it took to chase me down and end me.
And they were gaining on us. Quickly.
"Do something, Esfir, dearest. Won't you?" Nikolai suggested, however sarcastically, as he cocked the hammer on his gun.
"On it," I answered with confidence as shadows began to swirl around me.
o-o-o-o
Several hours later, bloodied and exhausted, I slunk through the door into Aleksander's sitting room. He was working at his desk as I entered the room, but upon noticing me, he shot up out of his chair as if he had been stabbed in the backside.
"I'm fine—we're all fine," I placated wearily before he could demand anything more of me. Sloughing off my travelling cloak, I threw it over the back of the sofa before collapsing onto the plush cushions. The warmth radiating from the hearth was like a tonic to my wind-chilled face and hands.
Even though I had immediately closed my eyes in repose, I could feel Aleksander come to stand over me. His presence so close to me was weighty, like the moon's pull on the sea. "What happened?" He asked, deathly calm. That was enough for me to sneak a look at him.
His face was a tight mask of pure composure, meant to hide the roiling swirl of emotions dancing in his gaze. At once, I knew he was simultaneously furious, concerned, relieved, and intrigued by my unceremonious entrance and blasé conciliations. "What happened?" He asked again crisply when I didn't reply fast enough, each word enunciated as a separate demand for answers.
"Drüskelle," I groaned blackly as I kicked off one of my boots, followed quickly by the other.
"Drüskelle?" Aleksander parroted incredulously.
"Between Prince Nikolai, the Royal Guards, and myself, we took care of them," I assuaged as I propped my feet up on the tea table, "so no need to worry."
"You mean to tell me," Aleksander said, his voice still eerily calm, "that you were set upon by a Drüskelle hunting party outside the capital and simply… 'Took care of them'?"
Now it was my turn to look quizzical. "What else was I supposed to do? They ambushed us and tried to kill me—and Prince Nikolai. I don't think asking them to surrender for questioning would have gone well for anyone."
"How did you do it?" He asked, his stare softening with awe.
Aleksander was impressed with me. That alone stole the air from my lungs, never mind that his hand had come to rest on the back of the couch, near enough to touch my face.
It was an effort to consciously reconnect my brain to my mouth to be able to speak. "It wasn't pretty," I hedged, sounding a little dazed.
"Killing never is," Aleksander murmured, his fingers twitching as if he might reach out to brush some of the dried blood off of my cheek. "Where are the bodies?"
I swallowed at that. The memory of what I had done—how I had cut three men down, one after the other, after the other—was still raw and unsettling. Even the thought of Nikolai blowing the brains out of our final pursuer made me shiver with revulsion. "We only made it a few miles outside the city walls," I answered quietly, "so they won't be hard to find again. The Royal Guards have probably already collected the corpses."
Well, what was left of them, anyway.
"How many?" He grilled, now sounding every inch the General he was. Apparently, he didn't like that the Royal Guards might have already taken custody of the remains.
"At most? Ten, I think," I said quickly to hide the shiver that spider-walked down my spine. "Four on horseback, the rest were on foot. I didn't get a good look at them, though."
I was too busy urging Nikolai to run away.
The sharp inhale Aleksander took was the only outward sign that he was at all affected by what I'd reported. "Were there any isenulf?"
"Isen-what?" I repeated dubiously as I shifted in my seat to better look up at him.
A mistake.
Seeing Aleksander tower over me, his quartz-like eyes boring down into mine with such… Authority made my mouth run dry, and my core melt. I barely retained enough sense to listen to his reply.
"Isenulf," he repeated, his voice going taught as if he could feel what I did. "Great, white wolves bred solely to aid Drüskelle in battle." Here, Aleksander paused just to look at me, his focus drifting to my barely-parted lips. "You'd know one of you saw it," he finally said, his voice running imperceptibly husky.
I swallowed hard before finding my tongue. "No," was all I could manage with a heavy, steadying exhale. Forcing myself to look away into the fire, I tried to still my racing pulse. I knew I would have done or said something regrettable if I'd held Aleksander's gaze any longer.
"Good," was all he said, that simple word as taut as my body felt.
A long pause landed between us, the heaviness of it somehow adding to the tightness I already felt in my throat—my chest.
"I should go, uh, clean up," I said hurriedly before bolting up from the chesterfield. I could feel Aleksander watching my every move as I busied myself with gathering my belongings.
It took tremendous self-restraint not to acknowledge his attention.
"I'll have Svetlin run a hot bath for you," he offered gently as I plucked up my boots awkwardly in one hand and then stood to grab my cloak. I found Aleksander holding it to me, though his brows were knit ever so slightly as if he were suddenly worried about something.
"That would be wonderful," I smiled as I took the garment from him, our hands brushing for the briefest moment beneath the glittering, black fabric. "And thank you," I said quickly, my words breathy from the fleeting and overwhelming moment of completeness that came and went with his touch.
The infinitesimal widening of Aleksander's eyes was the only outward sign that he experienced the same rush of feeling as my fingers grazed his. "My pleasure," he murmured before stepping away from the couch, signalling he was expecting me to leave.
Unsure of what else to say or do, I smiled again and fled the room with Aleksander's probing gaze heavy on my back.
o-o-o-o
In the time that it took me to scrub the blood and grime from my face and hair, Aleksander had disappeared. And although he left me a beautifully-penned note telling me that he had gone to the Royal Barracks to talk with the Captain of the Guard and to take custody of the enemy corpses, it still stung that he hadn't waited to tell me face-to-face. I knew it wasn't my place to join him in collecting the bodies (and, frankly, I had no desire to look over my handiwork again or answer any more questions), but it would have been nice to talk to him once more before he lost himself in his work.
In need of distraction, I busied myself in the library for the rest of the day, researching anything and everything I could find about Fjerda and the Drüskelle.
In the end, I felt more justified for what I'd done to save myself—and Nikolai.
When, inevitably, my hunger pangs became too persistent to ignore, I slunk back toward Aleksander's chambers. I hoped I would find him there—why, I wasn't sure—but when I didn't feel that familiar tug on my bones guiding me to him, I knew for certain he wouldn't be. He was, instead, as I focused more fully on the sensation, somewhere far across the Little Palace, past the Fabrikator workshops and out towards the lake. It struck me as odd that he would be out at the Summoner's Pavilions this late in the evening, but I didn't let myself think too long about it.
The last thing I wanted now was to go wandering over there in search of Aleksander and find myself unwelcome.
Svetlin treated me like royalty for the remainder of the evening. But, even as I ate a particularly delicious supper, then relaxed in the sitting room with my history book, and eventually readied for bed, I was… Unfulfilled. Distracted. Restless.
Like nothing but knowing—feeling—Aleksander was nearby would give me peace.
That was probably why, as the witching hour drew near, I found myself drawn out of bed. The sconces had been put out for the night, but the complete darkness of the hallways didn't impede me. I padded easily toward the sitting room as silently as I used to through those places in Kribirsk where I didn't belong. My only hesitation came when I reached the doorway, and I debated whether I should enter or not.
"I know you're there, Esfir," Aleksander said from within, his voice muffled but discernible.
Slipping inside, I closed the double doors gently behind me and tried my best to look confident. Aleksander was reposed on the sofa, clad in (what appeared from this angle to be) nothing more than a black silk and velvet housecoat and a pair of loose-fitting black pants. I had to force myself to meet his gaze as my eyes kept drifting down to appreciate his exposed and well-muscled chest.
Suddenly, I wished I had taken the time to draw my dressing gown closed.
"You're up late," I observed as I leaned against the sitting room doors, clasping the handles for support with my hands pinned behind my back. The twin silver handles were cold beneath the heat of my palms.
"I could say the same for you," he countered lazily before bringing a crystal brandy snifter to his mouth and taking a sip.
"Couldn't sleep," I half-lied. "I was looking for something dry to read to help me nod off. What's your excuse?"
Aleksander looked at me for a long moment, his gaze contemplative. "I also couldn't sleep," he grinned lopsidedly before suavely saluting me with his glass and taking another drink.
"I suppose that's a remedy, too," I allowed with an answering smile.
"Care to join me?" He offered, his voice tinged with hesitancy.
My heart skipped a beat. "A drink does sound better than re-reading Dayir Yul-Taghai's dissertation on Grisha steel," I confessed, eliciting a small chuckle from us both. "Don't tell Behrad I said that," I amended playfully.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Aleksander assured me as he sat up on the couch, making room for me opposite him. Taking that as an invitation, I forced myself to let go of the earthly tether I clutched at my back and crossed the room. When I sat, curling up as casually as I dared in the crook of the armrest (leaving only an arm's length of space between us), I noticed that there was already a second snifter laid out beside the matching decanter on the tea table.
Aleksander had been expecting me.
"Allow me," he murmured as he set down his drink to pour mine. His hands were sure yet graceful as he handled the crystal decanter, sending the rich, golden liquid within sparkling in the firelight as he served me.
"Thank you," I said, voice hushed with concentration as I took my glass when he leaned over and offered it to me, being mindful of where I placed my fingers to ensure I didn't accidentally touch Aleksander's skin.
"My pleasure," he replied sincerely. When I dared meet the insistence of his stare, I found his usually piercing, gem-like eyes surprisingly soft and tender.
Needing courage, I lifted my glass to him in a toast, which he returned, and then took as large a drink as possible without being rude. Though not as savagely as whisky or kvas, it burned my throat and tasted of candied orange peel, honeysuckle, lavender, and ripe pears.
We then sat silently for a protracted heartbeat, each looking awkwardly away from the other to stare into the hearth. True to form, I found my hands itching for occupation as my heart beat wildly within my chest. Not wanting to give myself away, I casually swirled my glass in my hand, pretending to admire the brandy within.
"Prince Nikolai sent this as a thank you and an apology—one of his rarest bottles. It's practically as old as I am, which I'm sure was some sort of joke," Aleksander scoffed. I glanced at him and found he had resumed reclining on his half of the chesterfield—one arm draped over the armrest, the other over the back of the seat, and one ankle crossed lazily on his opposite thigh. His robe had pulled open widely with the act, re-exposing the bare magnificence of his chest and stomach.
Saints, get yourself together, girl: he's just a man… An impossibly handsome man without a shirt on, sure, but still just a man.
I felt myself beginning to blush and forced myself to look away. "Well, I have to say I'm a little disappointed," I sighed before taking another (ample) sip of my liquor. "I personally think my life is worth at least two bottles of his best brandy."
Aleksander laughed outright at that, the sound so dark and rich that it seemed to caress every inch of me. "You're worth far more than that," he countered.
"Is that so?" I asked coyly, looking back over at him despite my better judgement.
"Without question," Aleksander answered with such quiet fervour that I was caught off-guard.
I had wanted to make some stupid joke about possibly eking three bottles out of Nikolai, but the words died in my mouth (which was suddenly very dry). "Really?" Was what I asked instead, sounding as dazzled and naïve as I felt.
He carefully drank in every facet of my expression before saying, "Why would I lie?"
Between the frenetic pace of my heart and the sudden rush of heat that bloomed in my face—my entire body—I barely managed to make a coherent reply. "To be… Kind," I stumbled, unable to turn away.
Aleksander's brow darkened as he sat upright and leaned towards me, shrinking the distance between us. "On your own, you killed three fully-fledged Drüskelle—a feat few Grisha can claim," he said emphatically, his conviction evident in his voice. "Your skill with your power is incredible. The fact that you exist is incredible. There's nothing to be 'kind' about, Esfir: you are priceless. Irreplaceable."
There were so many sarcastic things I could have said—should have said—to keep Aleksander at a perfect heart's length away. But something about the ardour in his eyes, the slight tremor of emotion in his voice, and the gravity of his very presence only made me want to pull him closer.
To kiss him.
Clutching my brandy glass like a lifeline to a drowning man, I forced myself to sit still. "Thank you," I murmured with what I hoped was a delicate, grateful smile.
"There's no need to thank me for speaking the truth," Aleksander deflected as he consciously moved back to 'his' end of the couch, his usual mask of composure falling into place. However, I could tell by the way he aggressively tossed back the last bit of liquor in his glass that he felt just as overwhelmed as I did.
"I'll keep that in mind for the next time you pay me a compliment," I chuckled before downing the rest of my own brandy.
Aleksander let out a small huff of a laugh in agreement but didn't say anything more. He just sat there, watching me, watching him, as if he were afraid whatever might come out of his mouth next would be irrevocable.
That was my cue to leave.
"It's late: I should go," I admitted in a hush, the words more for me than they were for Aleksander.
Nevertheless, my voice seemed to break him out of thought. "Of course," he replied with a hint of a smile as if to thank me for being the voice of reason. "Goodnight, Esfir," he said chastely after a pause, during which I relinquished my empty glass and rose from the sofa.
"Goodnight, Aleksander," I echoed demurely before leaving the room and walking back to my bedchamber alone.
* "Death to the witch!" (English to Fjerdan [Grishaverse])