Summary: In which the plot thickens, a secret council convenes and certain things come to light
Once satisfied that Alina is deeply asleep and will not awake for sometime, Mei-Xing quietly escapes the room, her thoughts in tumult as they spin around her mind as she walks aimlessly down one of the many corridors. She is troubled, gravely so. Her daughter has been injured, grievously according to the chart hanging on the back of Alina's door, and far from setting her mind at rest Alina's account merely stoked the fire of her worries. Her only child – her precious girl – had nearly been killed by another Grisha and for reasons which only provoked her parental fury to greater heights.
By her own words, her daughter is not blameless in the altercation, but she is sorely troubled by the implications – both of the attack by one who should have protected Alina, but also the cause. Long has she wondered about the relationship between her daughter and the Black General. He is not who she would have wished for her daughter's partner in life, but it is becoming increasingly clear that he is the only one she will have.
When Alina was younger and just on the cusp of womanhood, Mei-Xing had hoped that it was merely the normal, innocent infatuation so common with girls of that age which Alina felt for the older man. General Kirigan is a handsome man after all. Tall, dark, with striking eyes and a charisma which attracts others to him like moths to a flame. It hadn't surprised her in the least that her daughter's head was turned by such a man.
More troubling had been when she had noticed a similar interest from the General himself. Oh, he no doubt thought himself subtle and under good regulation, but a mother's instincts are a finely honed thing and she had seen the way he looked at Alina, the way he held her as if he couldn't bear to let her go, the way his eyes followed her no matter what he was doing or who he talking to. It had troubled her and made her long for the steady character and patient understanding of her husband. Anton had been a gentle man, a good man, he would have known what to do when boys started paying attention to their Alina, just as he would have known what to do about Kirigan. She had missed his insight, his wisdom, his calm strength during those trying days when all she could do was watch and wait and fear what was happening before her eyes. A stranger in a foreign land – even after all these years as a citizen – Mei-Xing was at a disadvantage. She might know the customs and laws, but her heritage and gender worked against her and rendered her almost powerless against a man of much higher station.
It was common in Shu Han for men of the General's station to have their pick of women – young girls and experienced ladies alike – to take as mistresses, and it had kept her up for more nights than she could recall worrying what she could do should the General seek to call in the debt they undoubtedly owed him by taking Alina.
On this matter at least time had put some of her worries to rest. Alina's 16th birthday had come and gone with no mention or even hint of the feared topic. That he desired Alina was clear to Mei-Xing, but equally so was his strange reluctance to act on it. It gave her hope that he daughter would be safe, could have a good life with an honourable husband.
Then had come that heartrending day when he had said goodbye for what he clearly thought was the last time. Such a farewell would have called out to colder hearts than hers and she could only watch with tears in her eyes at the torment and pain she saw so clearly in the man. That he cared for her daughter had been indisputable that day and she had seen first-hand the pain it had caused him to part with Alina.
That Alina loves Kirigan has been clear to her mother for some years. It isn't as she had once hoped the work of attraction and infatuation, but the sort of love that lasts a lifetime. It isn't the fiery passion of those ghastly books young girls seem to love so much – cloying, desperate, needy and jealous – but something deeper, something stalwart and true. The type of unselfish love that knows no bounds. It is the love she once shared with Alina's father.
Whether the General loves her daughter is less clear. He certainly cares for her a great deal – that was always apparent and undeniable – but there are many forms of love in the world and Mei-Xing is worldly enough to know the difference. She had wondered when he left them all those years ago if perhaps it wasn't just desire he felt towards Alina, there had been a pain in his eyes that she recognised, that had called to her. It had moved her enough that afterwards she had even asked Baghra. The older woman had looked uncharacteristically sad and troubled but all she would say is that his decision had been for the best, and that had been that.
As the months passed, she had thought that that had been the end of the matter, time would move on and with it Alina's affections until the Black General was nothing but a dream. She had been wrong. Alina, her precious baby, had fallen ill and Mei-Xing was returned to the nightmare that was the fifth year of her daughter's life. Nothing worked: no medicine, no magic, no cure was enough to even halt the wasting illness that was stealing her daughter's life from before her very eyes. How she had railed against Baghra's desperate plan, resisted it until it was almost too late and Alina too weak to make the journey, and in doing so had nearly killed her darling girl.
She may not have seen her daughter in nearly a year, but the Alina she had met at the Little Palace – grubby, terrified and traumatised she might have been – was also resplendently healthy and whole in a way the Alina she had last set eyes on had not been.
The connection between her daughter and the Black Generals has always scared her, almost as much as she is thankful for it, and now another piece of the puzzle has been given to her.
She had never seen the General so shaken as that night he had come to her, trembling with exhaustion, to explain and escort her to the Little Palace. The Alina she had met there was older, wiser and wearier than the girl she remembered. For the first time, her daughter's faith had been shaken in Kirigan. Gone was the absolute certainty and unquestioning trust she had in the man, and in its place were altogether darker emotions. She feared his intentions and doubted his affection. The pain Alina felt hurt her mother's heart and it had been with that in mind that she had talked to the General and imparted her advice, it was all she could do. Alina was now an adult and it was her choice how she lived her life… and who she lived it with.
Things had seemed to improve after that. The regular letters had been a balm to her aching heart and she had been overjoyed to see Alina recover and start to flourish once again. The last letter she had received from her darling girl had been filled with hope and excitement and joy at the new friends she had made and the closeness she once again felt with her oldest friend.
No parent ever wishes to hear that their child has been injured. When Alina had first left for Kribirsk and life in the First Army, Mei-Xing had feared every tap on the door and every letter in the post box. She would twitch if she heard the sound of horses hooves down her little street, convinced they were coming to tell her that her beloved child was dead. As time passed, that worry did not ease but it did recede as she became used to its presence and learned to live with the fear.
She had thought upon hearing that Alina was now in the Little Palace that she could at last relax. The General would not allow harm to come to her and the Little Palace was renowned for its safety and security. Surely her girl would be safe in such a place, surrounded as she was by her fellow Grisha and with a contingent of guards.
Baghra's appearance at her home early that morning had turned her world upside down and shown her the folly in her assumption. Alina had been hurt, badly hurt, and by one of their own. It had only been the older woman's conviction and assurance that her daughter was out of danger that stopped Mei-Xing from ignoring the instruction in the accompanying letter and storming the Little Palace, Darkling or no Darkling.
The five day wait before she could see her own child was torture to Mei-Xing even as she accepted the necessity of the delay. Each day a note would arrive with an update from the General, delivered by Baghra, all with the same news. Alina continued to recover but was not yet well enough for visitors. Then, at last, on the sixth morning there is no note – only Baghra who has come to collect her to take her to Alina. As they walk towards the Little Palace, the older woman explains in a hushed voice about the meeting that afternoon, the desperate urgency to understand what had actually happened and the task they need Mei-Xing to undertake to speak to Alina and find out.
Alina's tale troubles her greatly. She has not her daughter's youthful sensibilities, at 51 Mei-Xing is old enough to know and understand the ways of men much better than her tender-hearted daughter. It doesn't surprise her that the General has had lovers over the years, but what does make her pause is Alina's reaction to it. Her daughter is not by nature cruel, vindictive or prone to anger and yet she is candid in her recounting as she speaks of the pain the other girl inflicted and what it drove her to do. But more than this is her renewed confusion around the Aleksander, and with it Mei-Xing fears for Alina's fragile trust, fears what such pain could do to her precious girl, what it could one day turn her into.
It's in this state that Botkin finds her, pacing in front of a large bay window, eyes fixed on the floor as her thoughts whirl around her head.
"What troubles you, sister," his familiar voice calls, jolting her out of her ruminations. Looking up, her eyes alight on the larger figure of the Shu-hanese man. Bowing low in the customary greeting of their homeland, Mei-Xing rattles off the normal salutation, her mind only half attending to her words.
Frowning slightly, Botkin gestures for her to follow him as he turns and leads her to a quieter, less frequented, part of the Infirmary.
"What troubles you so, sister?" he asks again as he shuts the door of the room he has led her into.
Mei-Xing clasps her hands together, the white of her fingers the only visible sign of the strain she is feeling. "I am concerned," she says at last, "and troubled. I have just come from Alina."
Botkin nods, "you have spoken?" he asks gently, reading the answer in the worried mother's eyes. He nods again. "Troubling it is. Heard of its like before, I have not."
In 11 words the Martial Arts instructor has summarised the root of her worries. Her daughter is already so unusual, so different, that Mei-Xing cannot help but wish that in one way at least Alina could be normal, but it's clearly not to be. Already she stands apart from the other Grisha for being the Sun Summoner, but now it seems she will be set apart further still for what has happened to the other girl. Worse than its uniqueness, however, are the implications of this ability. It is one that will make others fear her – even, or perhaps, especially her own kind. For a parent it is the worst sort of realisation.
Smiling at the worried mother, Botkin pats her hand. "Fear not, daughter will be well for she has us to guide her."
The gentle kindness of the man before her brings tears to eyes, tears of gratitude and worry and fear – tears a lifetime of training will not allow to fall. Eyes bright and glassy, Mei-Xing smiles at the stalwart man. "The General has called a meeting this evening to discuss the event," she confides softly, keenly aware that in a place like the Little Palace it would be easy for someone to over hear something that they shouldn't. "He wishes to know what Alina remembers."
Botkin nods solemnly, "there is disquiet amongst the Grisha. They know something has happened to the Sankta but not what, and in the silence rumours start to spread." Both instructor and mother understand the reason behind the delay in what would ordinarily have been a minor matter, but in this case the delay is creating problems of its own and Mei-Xing worries what they will mean for her daughter. They need answers and a strategy to keep Alina safe. Botkin pats her shoulder comfortingly as he gently shepherds her back towards her daughter's room. "I will speak to General," he announces, "and I will attend with you. Thoughts I have, insight from Zoya, which should be shared."
"Worry not," he continues as he opens the door. "No harm will come to the Sankta, on this I swear." It is a meagre comfort. Alina has already been hurt in this place, and yet it lights a gentle warmth in Mei-Xing that pushes back the dark thoughts that have been clamouring for attention, a warmth she hasn't felt for many long years. Watching her friend leave, Mei-Xing can't help the thought that flits across her mind – maybe time really does mend all wounds.
The first Aleksander knows of this latest Alina related hiccough is when Botkin materializes in his study just after the midday meal. The large instructor sits serene and composed on a chair at least two sizes smaller than it needs to be for one of his stature.
"Yes?" Aleksander states, eyes still fixed on the report he is reviewing.
Botkin frowns at the obviously dismissal conveyed in his general's tone but otherwise remains still and silent; patient in his determination to wait out the General's studied concentration.
At last, Aleksander looks up, his gaze meeting that of his silent guest. He lets the silence question hang in the air for a moment. With an exhalation too gentle to be sigh Botkin nods and with his usual directness states, "I wish to join the council meeting."
"What?" Aleksander demands in bewildered confusion, at least half of his mind still devoted to the news imparted in the report he had been reading.
This time it is definitely a sigh that escapes the larger man. "There is a meeting today, yes? Regarding the sun summoner and the events in my class. I will join."
Aleksander frowns as he places his pen back in its holder. "How did you hear of it?" He responds evasively, but Botkin just levels a serene gaze at him and refuses to answer.
The answer arrives almost immediately as his brain recalls the events of the morning. Barely suppressing a groan he says, "Mei-Xing."
Botkin nods regally. "Sister was concerned, she wished for my opinion."
"Of course," Aleksander says, frustration leaking into his tone. Saints dammit, could nothing be kept secret in the Little Palace at the moment.
"This meeting does not involve you," the general says firmly as his gaze returns to the mountain of paperwork on his desk.
"Spoken with Zoya, I have." Botkin says as if it's explanation enough, and perhaps it is. "Thoughts I have," the man continues, "thoughts which must be shared with the other guardians."
"Guardians?"
"The guardians of the Sun Summoner. Guards to protect and guide the Sankta in her first steps. A sacred duty," Botkin explains, features uncharacteristically stern as his gaze searches Aleksander's with more perception and intelligence than Aleksander is comfortable with.
The examination makes him bristle with uncharacteristic agitation. He feels wrong footed, caught off guard, exposed in a way that unsettles him. It makes him defensive and belligerent as he tries to regain control of the situation he fears has spiralled far from the sphere of his influence. "Of course." The condescending drawl is obvious enough to earn a disappointed glare from the normally unflappable martial arts instructor. "And you think you're one of these… guardians?" Aleksander asks, his distaste for the topic evident in his tone.
Botkin sighs again, this time looking at the General like he is a particularly stupid child who should have learnt their lesson by now but keeps making the same mistake.
"Four guardians there are spoken of in the texts of my people," he says, his tone full of gentle reproach.
Aleksander sighs, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he feels the beginnings of a headache start to niggle. "And what do these guardians do?"
"They guide and protect the Sankta," the instructor says as if it should be self-evident.
"And you're one of these guardians?"
Botkin inclines his head and Aleksander sighs.
"Who are the others?" he asks, his headache ramping up a notch, but the instructor just sits there calm, serene and resolutely silent on the matter. "Do you know?" he presses, keen eyes watching the other man. Botkin raises an amused eyebrow. "Yes." He says simply and leaves it at that.
"Alina won't thank you for calling her a saint," Aleksander says as he settles back in the cushions of his chair, experience telling him to let this go - for now at least. Botkin could be like an immovable object when he made his mind up about something and there was little point giving himself a migraine trying to get answers out of the man at this very moment when patience would likely soon reveal all.
The larger man nods again as if he expects this. "And yet it does not change her nature." His eyes become serious and darken slightly, "just as it has not changed who - and what - you are."
Aleksander cannot repress the flinch even as his mind rushes to reassure his finely honed sense of paranoia that the instructor cannot possibly be referring to that – his greatest secret.
"Morozova."
One word. Just one, and his whole world tumbles down around him.
Aleksander freezes, barely breathing as the word hits him with all the force of the cut and with the same devastating effect.
"You know?" He gasps. Botkin's nod feels like the final nail in his coffin.
"How?" Aleksander demands hoarsely, once the power of speech returns to him, in a tone of voice that would normally have a lesser man quaking in his seat. Botkin is no such man - he continues to sit in serene silence as if he hadn't just upended Aleksander's world with those few words.
At last, the larger man takes pity on his surprised leader and he pats the other man comfortingly on the arm. "It is a good disguise," he says in his usual lilting voice, "but not good enough to fool Botkin. Long I have known who you are. Many years now."
How did you know?" Aleksander askes quietly as he desperately represses the anxious need to fidget in his chair.
Botkin smiles grimly, "because only one there was of you at a time. One Shadow Summoner to take the place of the last. Most unlikely that there would be only one if a family there was – surely there would be others. More likely that there was only one – the same one as before."
Then why stay silent?" The general demands, fingers clenched under the table as his shadows try to escape his iron control to deal with the threat before him. There are many who would pay handsomely for this information – some of them only a stones throw away from this very room.
Botkin looks at him for a long moment as if contemplating his answer. "Because," he says at last, "these last years have shown that while you are undoubtedly a great man you also have the potential to be a good one."
Of all the answers he had been prepared for that wasn't one of them, and for the second time in as many minutes the general finds himself speechless. Botkin on the other hand has no such difficulties.
The instructor's eyes are serious in his jovial face as he continues. "The histories of my homeland remember the events that led to the Fold's existence - we at least remember the betrayal and greed, the malice… the genocide. We do not forget as Ravka has forgotten. Such events did more than create the Fold, it also birthed my country's fear of Grisha, and with it their need to understand, to learn how to combat such powers. Much pain and evil has come from your creation, but so too has good."
Aleksander closes his eyes, fists clenched as he tries to suppress the reflexive guilt along with the memories, which even after 400 years are still as fresh and as painful as if the events had happened only weeks ago.
"Such pain and treachery," Botkin says, voice sad and pained. "A lesser man would have run away. A lesser man would have abdicated responsibility. A lesser man would have lost his heart and soul to the quest for vengeance against those who drove him to such a desperate act."
Aleksander's opened of their own accord to meet the level stare Botkin levels at him. "A lesser man would have done these things. You have not. You stayed to confront your mistakes and have fought to provide a place of safety and belonging for your people. History has made a villain of a victim. You have done much which is wrong, but always you strive for what is right – what is needed to protect Grisha."
"I'm not a good man," Aleksander says, his voice barely more than a murmur in the stillness of his study. Botkin shakes his head, "not always," he agrees. "Many times I have feared that you were loosing your way. It is easy to wander down dark paths when there is no light shining to show you the way." The instructor's eyes are sad and full of empathy as his gaze remains fixed on Aleksander's. "War has no room for good men. Much has been asked of you, many sacrifices you have made, you have done great things for Ravka – more than I think many realise – and greater things still for the Grisha. A great man with great powers and a greater burden can make terrible choices, choices which could destroy all he has worked for and sought to achieve."
Aleksander can only nod, there is truth in that – just look at what he had planned originally for the Sun Summoner – but Botkin isn't finished. "Great men are seldom allowed to be good also, necessity prohibits it. I had feared that goodness had been beaten out of you, but these last years I see it has not. You are a great man, Moi Soverengi, but with the Sun Summoner you could yet be a good one."
Botkin stands, his chair creaking as he pushes it back. "That is why I keep my silence."
He smiles and bows low to the still figure of the general. "I await your summons," he says as he straightens and proceeds to leave, his confidence clear in what his General's decision will be. As the door shuts with a soft click, Aleksander lets his head fall into hands, fingers rubbing at his temples as if they can banish the lingering fear and distress through sheer will power, and idly wonders if Ivan might be willing to share some of his special tea – if the morning he's had is any indication, he will need it. What a saints forsaken mess.
Aleksander's day only gets worse from there, for shortly after Botkin's departure a note bearing the double headed eagle of the Tsar arrives - complete with a level of pageantry and fanfare more normally seen on a royal progress than in the delivery of a simple letter. In keeping with its delivery the missive is written in the Tsar's usual overly florid and rambling style and it takes the Darkling several minutes of intense effort to decipher what the incompetent moron is after now.
"What time is his Imperial Highness expecting me?" he asks, not bothering to hide his annoyance at the peremptory summons. The three footmen who attended the letter turn to the fourth man present who is clearly in charge of this little pantomime. Aleksander has never liked the second under-steward at the Imperial Palace. Erik Dimitrov is a pompous fool with an enormous quivering moustache and an ego that if it could be weaponised would decimate the Fjerdan army. Like many at the Imperial Palace, he's also a small minded, xenophobic misogynist, more concerned with jockeying for position than common decency and has a vexing habit of treating any Grisha who has the misfortune to cross his path with contempt and a complete lack of anything approaching appropriate behaviour.
Dread curdling in his stomach, Aleksander picks up the carefully worded report he and Ivan have crafted to account for the training incident and leaves, shutting the door to his study with a heavy heart. With every step he takes, the lead weight grows and it's only made worse when he spies the Apparat waiting for him with ominous intent by the small side door Dimitrov has led him to.
As the priest dismisses the moustached under-steward, Aleksander braces himself for what he is certain will be a campaign by the royal family to have Alina moved to the safety of the Imperial Palace. He need not have worried. True to form, the Tsar – assuming he even knows about the incident that has been keeping the inhabitants of the Little Palace up at night – seems content to ignore it in favour of much more pressing concerns: last night's bad dream.
As they walk down the gaudy corridor toward the Imperial Study the Apparat explains. Last night, after a late supper of cheese, breads and cold cuts, The Tsar had retired to bed only to be woken a few hours later by a dream at which point their venerable leader - once again demonstrating his maturity and sense of proportion - had awoken half the Imperial Palace with his shouts and demands.
The night staff had been the first to be disturbed. They had then gone to find the Senior Night Butler. The Senior Night Butler had summoned his Imperial Highness' Under-Valet, who had then been tasked with waking the Senior Valet. The Senior Valet's contribution had been to wake up The Tsarina's dresser, who then alerted the Tsarina to the fracas occurring in her husband's room.
The Tsarina had then decided to assist matters by joining her husband in his room, and within a few minutes had joined him in his hysteria as well. It was at this point in the unfolding drama that the Night-Groom of the Stool had the sense to go find the Apparat, who with a cool head used to the mercurial moods of his lord and master had calmly taken charge – dispatching the hoard of watching servants back to their beds and the Tsarina to the tender clutches of her dresser and a strong sleeping draft, before turning his attentions on the Tsar himself.
It had taken some time to make sense of the ramblings, but finally he understood the gist. The Tsar had had a bad dream. A nightmare in which he saw his throne toppled from its dais in the great hall, a mighty white stag standing in its place, light shining down on it as a benediction, as the double headed eagle of the Lantsov line lay quiescent under its hooves.
The logical conclusion the Tsar had reached upon waking was to believe it an omen of his impending demise and that of his family's ruination. With a heavy sigh, the Apparat wiped a hand across his eyes. "I managed to settle him last night and had hoped that when he woke in the morning he would have forgotten such a dream – as indeed has happened before. Alas, when he woke just before luncheon he remembered it just as clearly the second time as the first, and nothing would do but for him to speak to you about possible sedition. He's convinced it means someone will attempt a coup."
Aleksander raised an eyebrow. "But you do not?" he queries, voice deliberately light and dismissive, as they round a corner. The other man stops him with a hand to his elbow, his voice dropping to barely a whisper as he says, "General, let us be frank. I know you do not trust me – no more than I trust you – but on this we must be united as we are united in the care of one who is precious to us both - you know of who I speak. General Zlatan is a threat, but we both know the stag is not his symbol… no matter how much he tries to claim it. That symbol belongs to another, one who the Tsar must not suspect."
A shiver races down Aleksander's spine and he has to fight to repress the shadows licking at his skin as the words and their importance sink in. Alina. The priest means Alina. This vile, slimy politician is threatening his precious girl. The fine hair on his arms stand on end as he resists the protective urge to slam the other man against the wall and demand answers, to let his shadows swarm until this otkazat'sya confesses all to him and begs his forgiveness for daring to speak of Alina.
The priest's eyes are dark and serious as they bore into Aleksander's own with unusual fervour and perceptiveness. "His Highness must be pacified. I have tried to assure him that this was but a dream, one brought on by too much cheese, but the Tsar remains convinced that this is an omen. Much harm could result if this tumult continues. He must be reassured – which is why I persuaded him to call you." Impossibly, the Apparat's voice grows even quieter, and it's these words which save him from Aleksander's fury. "We both know to whom the stag belongs. You must persuade him that it is Zlatan to which the vision refers. We must protect the Sankta. Until she has come into her full power she is in great danger. Already her popularity is starting to worry the Tsar. I have heard murmurings within the royal circle, and I fear for what this means for the Sankta, especially if the Tsar were to realise what the stag symbolises."
These are not the words he wants to hear. He already has enough problems on his plate without adding this one at the moment. That the Apparat appears to be allied with him on this matter is as unsettling as it is unexpected, and it brings a whole new set of issues with it. He has never cared for the Tsar's spiritual advisor and first minister. He is a greasy, obsequious sort of man who lacks the dignity and charisma which might have accorded him some respect. The courtiers laugh at him behind his back and have little time for his words – other than at official ceremonies when he is wheeled out in suitably gaudy robes to laud the Lantsov name and command public devotion to the Imperial family. Aleksander has long thought him a fool. A grovelling, unctuous idiot, consumed with his own piety and a willing servant of a corrupt and useless regime.
In light of that speech, it appears Aleksander will need to amend at least some of that assessment – in the last few minutes the Apparat has shown not just courage, but conviction and loyalty – not to his paymaster – but to the Saints. He's surprised Aleksander, and after so many years living amongst the royal court that is a rare thing. One thing is clear, no matter what game the Apparat is playing, on this he can only agree – the Tsar's attention must be turned to safer topics… and targets.
With a slight nod, he agrees and together the pair walk down the corridor and into the Tsar's study, two unlikely allies as they work together to sooth their Imperial leader's disturbed mind.
It's two long, laborious hours before Aleksander is finally dismissed and can escape the dismal grandeur of the Imperial Palace for the safety and comfort of his home. The meeting with the toddler Tsar proved just as ridiculous as he had feared it would be. He has never been one to believe in omens. His mother had raised him to be above such superstitions – his is a life of science, of logic and rationality, for all that Grisha gifts more closely resemble magic than science at times. There is no place for saints and divine plans. Yet… the Tsar's dream gnaws at him, unsettling him - made worse by the Apparat's uncharacteristic behaviour. These are yet more badly shaped pieces he cannot – as yet – fit into the puzzle that is the Sun Summoner. He knows what the priest was hinting at, the fabled stag of Morozova. The stag he had once thought to use as an amplifier to bind the Sun Summoner to his will. It's an unsettling coincidence and one that gnaws at him.
Still, some good has come from the last couple of hours: the Tsar is now convinced of the need to remove Zlatan once and for all. It's a decision which means Aleksander is finally authorised to act – something he has long advised and just as long been denied. The other First Army Generals will moan and complain, but this is a very necessary victory and a significant step forward in Aleksander's plan for Ravka.
As he makes his way across the cold grounds, the icy wind biting through the thick lining of his cloak and gloves, he turns over in his mind the other positive from the meeting. The Tsar – mutton headed moron that he is – remains blissfully unaware of the dramatic events involving the Sun Summoner, something for which Aleksander can only thank the Saints. Even the Apparat appears to be ignorant of the chaos which has infolded the Little Palace over the last week, although on this point the General is less certain and secure. The discussion earlier with the priest has shown him to have more cunning, intelligence and skills in subterfuge than he had previously thought and it would be folly to continue underestimating the other man given this new evidence. One thing is clear, the Apparat needs to be watched. Friend of foe, ally or enemy, Aleksander knows only too well how blurred these lines can be in politics and how quickly they can shift. Alina is vulnerable, naïve to the ways of the Imperial Court and their particular brand of realpolitik.
The Apparat may be aligned to Aleksander in protecting Alina at the moment, but that could change in a heartbeat, and Aleksander has no doubt that the priest has a plan involving the Sun Summoner. It's a worrying thought.
If Aleksander had hoped for a moments reprieve from the insanity of the day he is to be disappointed as Ivan ambushes him as he enters the vestibule, face set in a ferocious scowl muttering about unscheduled meetings and wicked old women. The reason for Ivan's pique becomes apparent as they round the corner into the corridor that houses his suite of rooms.
"You…you - you turnip head!" A familiar cantankerous voice screeches from behind the heavy wood doors at the far end of the corridor.
The two guards stationed outside wince at the sound and share a commiserating look with each other as they grip their rifles a bit tighter, both looking a bit peaky in the orange glow of the lamps.
"See," Ivan grunts in an aggrieved tone. "Moi Soverengi, I must protest. How am I meant to keep your diary if you do not schedule appointments, and those you do, you do not keep. Diary disorder leads to confusion. Confusion leads to chaos. Chaos leads to mistakes. Mistakes lead to more paperwork!"
"My apologies, Ivan." Aleksander says as a loud thud emanates from his study. "Our illustrious Tsar required my services. Had I known you the chaos this would cause my diary I would of course have put him off to as to keep to my itinerary."
Ivan grunts, and gives an approving nod. Clearly pleased to see his leader has his priorities in the right order, and makes a note in the leather bound book in his hands.
Aleksander winces and suppresses the desire to bang his head against the nearest wall. Ivan, like the Tsar, is immune to the gods gift to humour that is sarcasm. A more literally minded man it would be hard to find and things like irony and sarcasm were water off a duck's back to him.
Another crash and an inarticulate screech of rage from behind the closed doors decides him. Letting out a displeased sigh, Aleksander dismisses Ivan to check the midday reports and dispatches the two grateful Oprichniki to a suitable point some distance away, where they can continue guarding the passage to his rooms, but will no longer have their eardrums assaulted by his mother's dulcet tones.
Taking a deep breath, the feared general of the Second Army opens the door to his study valiantly ignoring the trepidation singing in his chest.
The sight that greets him when he enters the room makes him pause for a moment in surprise at the tableau. His mother, perched on his favourite chair is apoplectic with anger, her stick clenched in a grip so tight he's surprised it hasn't broken either the handle or her fingers. Over in the corner, the large figure of Botkin blots out much of the light from the west window, shoulders tense and as bothered as Aleksander has ever seen him. In the middle of the chaos is Mei-Xing, a bastion of calm serenity and she continues to pour tea, looking for all the world as if she's unaware of the other occupants currently lobbing insults and heated looks at each other.
So consumed are they that his entrance – which was not particularly quiet or stealthy – has completely escaped their notice. Only Mei-Xing with her habitual attention to detail looks over and nods a greeting.
It's a rare sight to find his mother near speechless and Aleksander can't help a moment of puerile glee to see his normally unflappable and superior mother in such a state. The source of her ire, however, is equally surprising - for its Botkin, a man with such impeccable manners and gentle behaviour as he'd thought incapable of upsetting anyone - even his difficult mother - but for the first time ever the man has lost his habitual serenity and is instead starting to look displeased. There is a deep rattled frown on his normally jovial features, and he is sitting forward, the chair beneath him groaning it's complaint, as he locks eyes with the old woman.
"And you are a termagant. You do not teach madam, you batter."
"My students learn just fine you overly muscled moron!"
"At least I have use. What use have you other than to be rude and unpleasant."
"Only as a pin cushion, you over cooked pudding." Baghra hollers in response, her stick only narrowly missing his telescope as it expresses her fury.
This is evidently too far for the normally mild man as he starts to draw himself up to his full - and rather impressive - height. It's at this point that Aleksander decides it is time to intervene and does so by slamming the folder he's carrying down on his desk with a satisfying thump. Two out of the three intruders jump and he has the unique experience of seeing his mother look like a small child who's been caught raiding the sweet bin.
Sadly, it doesn't take long for the old woman to recover and in a loud, belligerent tone she barks, "you're late."
Aleksander looks at the grandfather clock and raises an amused eyebrow. "No, I'm on time, which means you're all early." He checks the time again, "very early. I thought we agreed on the hour before dinner."
Baghra huffs, but looks away. It's a small victory, but when conversing with his mother small victories are often all he has, and the woman has already scored two points by being in his study before his return and nabbing his favourite seat to vex him. He cannot allow her to increase her score.
After quickly checking to make sure nothing has been fiddled with or moved on his desk, Aleksander crosses the room to the only unoccupied chair and sits, suppressing a sigh as he spots the look of triumph that flashes across his mother's features. Within seconds a cup of tea is pressed into his hands by Mei-Xing who despite being the only non-resident of the Little Palace appears to have adopted hostess duties with her usual calm efficiency. The tea is a welcome balm to his frazzled temper and he enjoys the warmth that sinks into his cold hands as he nurses the drink.
"Well?" He asks when it becomes clear no one else is willing to break the silence. It's a decision he regrets almost as soon as the word is out of his mouth as his stomach churns with dread at the secrets about to be discussed. Into the void Botkin steps, his deep calm tones a soothing contrast to the painful hammering of Aleksander's heart as the instructor recounts the fateful class.
By the time Botkin has finished his narrative his mother has unfortunately rediscovered her voice as she demonstrated by starting to berate him.
"This is your fault, boy. What insanity drove you to ask that girl to help the Alina?" Baghra demands crossly once Botkin has finished explaining what he saw. "I warned you, boy – I warned you that this would be a recipe for disaster!"
Aleksander sighs, "Yes, well…" he begins only to be interrupted as his mother turns her attention to the instructor, eyes flashing with anger. "And you!" she hisses, "I expected it of him - his brain has been operating from a different address since that girl came to this place – but you? What in the Saints names were you thinking you thinking pairing those two together? Anyone with eyes could see that jumped up Squaller was angrier than a kicked hornet. What sort of incompetent moron allows this to happen in their class?"
"A misjudgement," Botkin corrects reproachfully his habitual serenity restored as he sits calmly on the too small chair, looking totally unconcerned with the old lady's heckling. "Thought Zoya ready to teach, that in doing so it would help her and Daughter both."
"Poor girl," Mei-Xing says quietly with a sad shake of her head before his mother can continue her barrage of opinions.
"What?" Baghra splutters in surprise as she whirls her attention from the instructor to Alina's mother. It's a response Aleksander can for once both understand and agree with. Of all the possible reactions his mind had considered when he thought about Mei-Xing finding out, feeling pity for the unfortunate Zoya had not been one of them.
"Are you mad? That 'poor girl' is the same wretch who just tried to murder your daughter."
The other woman looks up, her golden gaze meeting his mother's without flinching as she nods, "yes," she repeats firmly, "poor girl." She turns her gaze on Aleksander, watching him for a long moment. "For she is a poor girl. To have felt so much and been so wrong – done so much wrong – for that she is deserving of our pity."
In his corner Botkin nods in agreement, "she has paid a high price for her folly. A price possibly without end."
On this matter the room is divided - as he is very much of his mother's opinion: but even so he cannot help but marvel at the graceful compassion Mei-Xing demonstrates in a moment when no one would blame her for demanding her pound of flesh in recompense.
It creates an uncomfortable atmosphere as the two sides struggle to find common ground. Things do not improve as Mei-Xing takes the floor and recounts her conversation with her daughter. Alina's distress and confusion is palpable, despite her mother's calm and efficient retelling, and it hurts something deep inside him to hear it even, or perhaps especially because it is second hand. He aches to see her, to hold her, to reassure her. How confused, how frightened she must be and here they are with more questions and few answers to give her.
Silence descends as Mei-Xing stops speaking. It is an uneasy quiet, one pregnant with horror and realisation. Aleksander's heart pounds and his shadows writhe beneath his skin as his mind struggles to accept the conclusion before him.
It is Botkin - loyal, courageous, honest Botkin - who breaks the stillness and says what Aleksander's heart already knows.
"Then it is as I thought," Botkin muses quietly, his voice sounding unnaturally loud such is the stillness in the room. "Daughter did this."
"How did you come to that conclusion," Baghra demands, her tone icy. "I've heard the rumours circulating. Many believe this is a punishment by the Saints. Is that not also equally as possible as a part trained Sun Summoner somehow stripping another Grisha of their powers?"
Botkin frowns deeply as he draws breath to reply, but it's Mei-Xing who plunges into the fray to answer his mother's question. "Because Alina told me she did."
Six simple words and Baghra nods, accepting the point with more grace than she normally shows when people disagree with her.
Botkin nods in agreement. "Judgement of the Sun Summoner," he says, serenely ignoring the irritated scowl Baghra shoots him. "Zoya raised her hand against a god and was punished for it. Alina alone there was who could have enacted such a judgement. Saw I did the golden net that trapped Zoya and held her still. Such power could only have come from the Sun Summoner."
Mei-Xing folds her hands carefully in her lap, a thoughtful expression on her face as she watches Botkin and Baghra eye each other like prize fighters in a ring, the hostility between the pair palpable. "The question," the younger woman says softly, "is what happens now. I cannot think such a gift will be easily accepted among her fellow Grisha. How can Alina learn to control such a power?"
"The girl lost control," Baghra muses in her usual acerbic tone. "Not surprising really, given the provocation. Well that's simple enough," her gimlet stare is fixed on a subdued Aleksander, "she just needs practice, lots of practice."
Botkin shakes his head, "No!" he corrects sharply, "not simple at all. Daughter did not lose control. Daughter was in control the whole time. Daughter lost temper."
"And how, exactly, did you reach that conclusion, you oversized dumpling?" Baghra demands in affront, very much taking umbrage at being contradicted.
Botkin remains unmoved. "Because Daughter got exactly what she wished," he said, matching Baghra's glare.
"Botkin has a point," Madam Starkov interjects gently, placing a soothing, or possibly restraining, hand on the old woman's arm, and Aleksander is again impressed with both the woman's courage and diplomacy. There are few people who would dare to openly contradict or disagree with his mother and most of them are sitting in this room.
"Alina told me that she wanted that girl – Zoya, did you say her name was? – to experience a taste of her own medicine, to feel powerless and understand the fear that brings, and that's what happened."
Baghra lets out an annoyed harrumph and crosses her arms as Mei-Xing continues in her usual soft tones, "Alina wanted her to be powerless. I do not believe that what happened was a fluke, not given Alina's description – she might not know how she did it now, but I am certain that in that moment she knew exactly what she was doing."
His mother's eyes have narrowed as she turns a dark on her only child. "Well?" she demands, "I assume you tested Zoya, what do you think has been done to her?"
It's a good question and it makes Aleksander pause as he martials his tired thoughts, trying to recall the strange ice like sensation, as if his call were sliding off a pane of glass.
"She's still Grisha," he says at last, "that much was clear when I touched her. Alina didn't take Zoya's power away – I could feel it, but it's like its trapped – blocked – behind a wall."
Botkin's eye twitches as Baghra starts tapping the floor with her stick, eyes closed in thought. "Hmmm," the old woman murmurs.
"Blocked or taken, what difference does it make?" Botkin asks, "the result is the same. What matters is Daughter's training – she must learn to control her temper."
"It matters, pudding brain." The walking stick thumps the ground as if to emphasise Baghra's point and Botkin's eye twitches again. "It matters because it changes what she did." The old woman's eyes open, their dark brown irises looking black in the weak wintery light, "and, more importantly, it tells us how she did it."
The stick thumps the floor again as the old woman continues her voice wintry and sharp. "Cabbage brained the lot of you! So consumed with who and why that you've lost sight of what and how! The how changes everything… everything! If Alina was in control, then what happened was deliberate and not an accident. Stop thinking about why she did it and instead focus your miniscule minds on what it means." Her eyes snap to her son's and there is such a look of raw, unbridled emotion that it hits him like an arrow to the gut. "There's no point arguing about whether she lost control or lost her temper, we're just moving chairs on a sinking ship when there's a much bigger problem heading straight for us."
There is a deep, troubled frown on Mei-Xing's face and her eyes are glassy and overbright as she fiddles with her teacup, and Aleksander realises this is the most emotion he's ever seen the normally composed woman show. He sits forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees as he thinks over the point his mother is hinting at, a disturbed hiss escaping him as his mind reaches a conclusion that sends shivers down his spine.
"You mean… You think that Alina can suppress Grisha powers?" he demands, stomach churning as the implications race around his thoughts.
"Why not?" Baghra murmurs, one eyebrow raised in challenge at her son's incredulous question, "after all, nature exists in balance…"
Around him chaos breaks out as Botkin and his mother resume arguing but Aleksander tunes it out, instead sinking into a thoughtful silence, turning this new idea over his mind. It has merit - curse his mother - and despite how much he might wish to he can't deny the evidence of what he had felt. Something had stopped Zoya from accessing her Squaller abilities. Something, or rather someone. Someone who had once had her abilities trapped in the same way. Hadn't he thought it at the time, that trying to call the Squaller's power had an eerily familiar feel to it.
Is it really so crazy an idea? After all, he is a living amplifier – could his mother be right and Alina is a living suppressor? Like calls to like. He had theorised years ago that the Sun Summoner would be his balance, his match, he just hadn't thought it would extend to this; although now that the possibility has been presented to him he realises how foolish and short-sighted his arrogance has made him. How could Alina be his equal unless she had some way to balance his abilities – all of them… including amplification. What hubris had led him to assume the Sun Summoner would be all he wished, all he planned and yet still inferior to him, a weapon to wield and control.
If his mother is correct, then Alina is truly his equal: not just theoretically, but in actuality. He now has no gift, no power she cannot match or annul.
It's a chilling thought, far more so than the prospect of another amplifier - that at least empowered Grisha. A living suppressor though, someone who on a whim could take that power away, who could nullify the workings of the small science, that is worse even than the possibility that Alina had transformed Zoya from a Grisha into an otkazat'sya - that at least was a limited power and one she was unlikely to use. Suppression – assuming it mirrored his own gift of amplification - didn't just apply to the Grisha, but to their workings as well. Just as he could increase the power, potency or effect of another Grisha's summoning or craft could Alina nullify or reduce it?
In the wrong hands such an ability would be devastating, terrifying – it would effectively negate any advantage Grisha have over the otkazat'syas, even potentially his own. According to Botkin, she hadn't even needed to touch Zoya to do this, it was done at a distance of over 20 feet. What could such a power do on a battlefield. It's the type of ability that changes the course of history and dominates wars. Should the wielder of such a gift take up arms against their own people the consequences would be horrific – a civil war the likes of which his people had never before seen. A war he doubts even he could win, not without appalling losses and the destruction of all he holds dear.
This could undo everything he has spent so long working towards because his mother is right – this discovery has the potential to change everything! If the Tsar finds out, he would undoubtedly try to use it to give him the control over and the Second Army that Aleksander had always resisted. But there are other dangers. What would the Shu or the Fjerdans do with such an ability – both countries would do anything to gain such an advantage over Ravka – and if this news reached them, they would stop at nothing to claim such an ability for themselves. Thousands of Grisha would die, everything he had worked so hard for, every hard-won gain they had made – all gone in an instant.
In anyone other than the Sun Summoner the discovery of such a power would be met with only one answer. It would tear at what remained of his torn and battered soul, but to protect his Grisha Aleksander would have no choice but to remove such a player from the board. Had it been anyone other than Alina, he would already be planning a counter move, a way to either kill or control the person cursed with of such a gift. Unbidden, the image of a great white stag dances across his minds eye and he cannot suppress the flinch. Had the Sun Summoner been the anonymous girl he had long planned for, he would even now be searching for his grandfather's stag - the perfect way to collar and control the Sun Saint's powers - and he would have stopped at nothing to bind both their person, their will, and their light to him for eternity.
Distantly, as if from a long way away, he hears his mother and Botkin continue their argument, Mei-Xing's quiet tones gently attempting to mediate between the two combatants, but he cannot spare them any attention lost as he is in his torturous thoughts; the guilt racing through him making him feel sick and shaky. He can see it so clearly in his mind – a vision of his precious girl, a collar of bones wrapped around her beautiful neck in a terrible parody of a lover's necklace. It's a sight that nearly drives him to his knees in shame, his heart crying out at the image.
A living suppressor, someone who can truly be his equal is a terrifying possibility. Truly terrifying, and yet - and yet - even if they are right, this is Alina.
His Alina.
His Alinochka.
Alina, who he would be lost without. Alina, who he loves wholly, completely and unconditionally. Alina, who he could no more think of killing then he could kill himself or his mother. Alina, who above all things is kind and loyal.
The truth sits like a heavy stone in his stomach. It doesn't matter what power the Sun Summoner has - or that she is now not just his greatest weakness but quite possibly the weapon of their people's destruction - to him Alina will always be his precious girl and he could never harm her, never act against her in such a way.
If he cannot remove the piece from the board then he must protect it – and to do that Alina needs to train and to master her powers, only then will they be safe. Yes, she had lost her temper, but Alina hadn't known what she could do; or what it would mean. The Alina he knows, and loves, is kind and fiercely loyal – she'd never want to cause such harm to her fellow Grisha – he believes that with all that is left of his heart and soul. Trust is an unfamiliar emotion to him. Too many years and far too many betrayals have taught him the danger in trusting, and yet in this moment he now has no choice. He has to trust Alina; trust her character and loyalty, trust her control… trust her judgement. There is no other option open to him – he cannot kill her, and he will not control her, which leaves trusting her. With anyone else such a thing would be unthinkable, but for Alina – for his precious girl – he will try.
His mother and Botkin are right though. If this incident has proved anything, it's how fragile their current peace is and they can't afford for a repeat of the last few days. Alina needs to learn control – both of how abilities and of her temper. The next time could be worse - something too big to be hidden or repaired - next time it might not cost the object of her ire their power, it might be their life. Instead of suppression it might be the cut. Anxiety curdles in his stomach at the horrifying thought and the potential ramifications, the worry made worse by the feeling itching at his finely honed senses. There is a storm coming, he can feel it – plans are in motion, events beyond his control. Time is running out and they must be ready. Alina must be ready, or it could spell ruin for them all.
A/N Dun dun duuuun. What did everyone think of the big reveal?