Summary: What is the dark but an omen of the sun. New threats emerge, friendships are tested and secrets start to come to light.
He leaves like a shadow in the night. Here one day and gone by the first light of the next. With him travels Ivan, two other Heartrenders and his usual contingent of guards. Alina watches him leave just before dawn, her eyes filled with tears. His hurried goodbye the night before sits like a lead weight in her stomach, too close to another farewell all those years ago and the sinking suspicious that just like then he doesn't mean to return.
It's been two weeks since the incident in the training yard, four days since she was given her freedom from the Infirmary and only one since she sat on her bed in the Vezda suite and decided it was time to take control of her life once more. The news came that morning, there had been an incursion on the border with Shu Han, the largest seen for many years. Two Imperial infantry units had crossed the border and razed two of the villages nearby, searching for Grisha, after unconfirmed reports had reached the Royal Taban court that the Sun Summoner had been born in that area.
Crisis talks were called at the Imperial Palace, and within moments of the news arriving Aleksander had left in a swirl of his cloak, his shadows whipping behind him. The rest of the day had passed normally for the Grisha in the Little Palace; lessons continued and meal times took place as scheduled. If there was a general disquiet among the students and teachers, well, who could blame them. For Alina, the news came as a shock. A shock that sent shivers down her spine and turned her mind upside down, as for the first time she was confronted with the darker side of the 'glorious discovery of the Sun Summoner'.
Despite the personal suffering and inconvenience she has endured, so far all she had be told were the positives for the people of Ravka. This was something else. This was an atrocity committed because of her, because of her parentage, because of where she might have been born. It didn't matter whether it was true or not; people were suffering – dying – because of her. The realisation ruined her appetite and eroded the fragile confidence she had been building.
This was because of her. Women and children, mothers and fathers, dead and why? Because of her. Because of who and what she had been born.
The injustice burned like the sun within her. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. But there was nothing she could do, and somehow that just made the hurt worse.
He came to her just after dinner, his face gaunt and pale with strain. His eyes had been so afraid, so fearful as he tried to explain that he had to leave.
"I have to go, Alina," he had said. "I have a duty to stop this. An incursion like this into Ravka cannot be allowed to go unanswered."
"But why can't I go with you?" Alina had pleaded, her desperation clear. "I can help… I can-"
"NO!" he had interrupted her, voice cold and distant, "you will stay here where its safe. I would be a fool to bring you within fifty leagues of Shu Han."
She had drawn back then, stung by his fierce denial and his cutting tone. "But I can help," she had said again. "It's me they're after… why won't you let me-"
"NEVER!" he had growled fiercely, eyes almost wild with fear as his fingers bit into her arms where he gripped her. "What help would you be – a part trained Sun Summoner with neither knowledge nor control. No. I will not consider it."
In one sentence she felt her shaky confidence cut from under her. He didn't trust her. Worse than that, Aleksander thought her a liability. He was afraid of her, of what she did to Zoya, she could see it in his eyes, hear it in his tone – he was frightened. Her oldest, dearest friend, her Aleks, was scared… of her.
It was the heartbreak of the training yard all over again. Numbly she had nodded. Frozen she had felt as Aleksander brushed a kiss against her forehead, his arms circling her for one last tight hug and then he was gone, and Alina felt her legs give out from under her as she slumped to the floor. There were no tears, the pain was too great, so vast and unending that all she felt was numb.
It took time, how long she could not say, but she had picked herself up, eyes hardening as her resolve firmed within her. All night she sat by her window, waiting for that last glimpse of him before he was gone from her again. But as she waited, she planned. He said she would be a liability. She cannot change who she was born, nor alter the powers the saints have granted her – no matter how much she may want to – but on this she can, and will, prove him wrong.
When he returns – and he will – she will be stronger, wiser, more powerful. No longer a liability to be left, but a partner, an equal.
Time passes slowly for Alina and she watches the season change as October slips into November; fiery reds and ambers turning to dull mottled brown as the leaves fall from the trees. Her classes are going well - even Baghra is reluctantly impressed with the progress she's made since the disastrous episode in Botkin's training yard. It's the one good thing that has come of that awful day - where before it was a struggle to summon even sparks now it is difficult to not scorch whatever is around her whenever she summons. The sun whispers to her and she feels it burning beneath her skin, her gift right there - now a proper part of her, as it should always have been. It's sings in her veins and burns in her heart. She is the sun, and the sun is her.
It's a heady feeling, this power inside her. Control is still a problem though and it is something both Botkin and Baghra work tirelessly on improving. Every day that passes her control gets that little bit better, a little bit surer as the unruly force of nature that is the sun obeys her will that little bit more.
Not all the changes are good though. Zoya sits heavily on her conscience. The other girl left the Little Palace two days after Aleksander did. Alina cannot regret what she did, but she does feel guilty that it has cost the Squaller her home and her job. The last she had heard, Marie thought she was returning to her family in Novokribirsk.
"Good riddance, I say," Marie had told her over breakfast the morning after Zoya's departure. "No one liked her. She was always so proud of her abilities, so convinced she was better than the rest of us. The saints did us a favour there, in getting rid of her." Nadia had nodded in agreement. "I mean, she attacked the Sun Summoner, for saints sake. I'm surprised she was only thrown out of the order - did you see the General's face that day, he looked murderous. I'm surprised he didn't cut off her head there and then."
The words leave a bitter taste in Alina's mouth as she sits quietly listening to the gossiping of her friends. Zoya's scarring is widely put down to an intercession from the saints who saw and condemned her actions in the training yard: there's not even a whisper of rumour that the squaller lost her power, or Alina's part in it, for which she can only be thankful. Aleksander and Botkin had worked hard during her recovery to create a plausible cover story. She knows why they did it, why they are so worried about others discovering what she did - and what it means she can do again. She understands it, is thankful for it, but it's also this that causes her disquiet. Zoya had been sent away so that no one would find out about her suppressed powers. It's a sensible decision, but it's still cost the squaller her home… and probably the last vestiges of her self-respect.
Alina had seen her the morning she left. She'd asked if she could say goodbye, but the Squaller had refused, and Alina understood all too well why. If Aleksander had left like a dream or a shadow, Zoya had left like a thunderstorm, all rolling, roiling emotions and not dealt with grief, and Alina had again felt that faint stirring of guilt. She had done what she could though. With Genya's help, Alina had made sure that Zoya was well provisioned for her trip, with a heavy purse and enough food to see her well stocked for several weeks. Aleksander had refused her one of the horses, but Genya's friend David had been able to find her passage with a caravan travelling west to Kribirsk, which at least would give her company and greater safety.
It wasn't much, but it was all she could do. Aleksander had ruled that Zoya leave, not as her friend, but as the General of the Second Army, and she had to respect that – even if it meant she had to live with the guilt.
As often happens when Alina is upset or anxious she finds her feet turning towards the library. Books have long been a refuge for her, and she has come to love the large library with its tall windows and peaceful quiet. Few of the Grisha at the Little Palace come to this room – the junior members because they are not yet old enough to have been granted library privileges, and the older because there is always something else they would rather be doing with their precious free time.
While she cannot say she is sad to have seen the Squaller leave, she is feeling out of sorts and in desperate need to be away from the well-intentioned gossiping of her friends. She is fond of Nadia, Marie and Fedyor, but when they are together it is often overwhelming for Alina, who had grown up often alone. Had Genya been available, or even David, she would have sought them out, but the Tailor is busy today dealing with some imaginary crisis up at the Imperial Palace and when she had looked in on David, the Fabrikator had been so deep in concentration that he completely failed to notice her entrance or her speaking to him.
Which had led her here. The smell of old books soothes her frazzled nerves as she walks down the aisles, fingers occasionally reaching out to brush the butter soft leather spines. Normally she has no problem finding something of interest to read in this immense collection, but today nothing catches her eye, and she is left to drift listlessly through the stacks.
He finds her down the cartography aisle, her fingers brushing over maps of the Ravkan-Shu Han border. She knows from the reports that the incursion occurred southeast of the town of Caryeva, destroying at least two villages. There has been precious little news since that report, which does little to settle Alina's anxious thoughts. At five days fast ride away from Os Alta news is slow: she knows that a division of the First Army and Second Army stationed at Kribirsk were to meet Aleksander in Caryeva, but that is all, and she can only hope that the troops moved faster this time than the First Army usually does.
It's while she is perusing the maps, eyes intent on the tiny dots listing the outlying villages, that her peace is interrupted.
"Ahem," a voice says behind her, making Alina jump, eyes wrenched away from the map as she spins round. The man before her looks vaguely familiar, but for the life of her she can't place where she's seen him before. He's an average looking man with short brown hair, a pleasant, if unremarkable face, and dark brown eyes. The odd thing about him though is that he's garbed in a brown monk's robe, a brown so dark that even in the bright light of the library it looks almost black.
"Do I know you?" Alina asks, the question slipping out before her brain has a chance to catchup with her mouth. The man smiles thinly at her.
"Not as such, Sankta," he replies with a slight bow. "You will have seen me during your presentation to their Imperial Majesties, but we have not been formerly introduced."
Frowning, Alina tries to remember if she had seen the man there, but her memories of that day are disjointed and sketchy from the whirlwind speed of the events. "I think," she begins, then stops. "The dais," she murmurs, eyes closing in her concentration. "Were you on the dais?"
The man smiles, brighter this time, visibly pleased at her recollection. "Indeed, I was Sankta. I am the Apparat – the spiritual advisor to his Imperial Majesty and the Royal family."
"Okay," she breathes as she steps back, uncertainty suddenly making her nervous. She has never felt alone in the library before, until now, that is.
The Apparat notices the change in her immediately, a frown pulling his mouth down as he regards her with serious eyes. "You have no need to fear, Santka. I will not harm you. Indeed, I have waited a long time to speak with you. There is much you do not know, much which has been kept from you, and still more that you have yet to discover about yourself."
Alina inches back further, until her legs hit the desk she had just been using, jarring the table and causing some of the maps to fall.
The Apparat frowns again, but steps back, a gentle smile tugging at his lips as he sees Alina lose some of the tension in her bearing at his retreat.
"One day I hope we will be friends and you will be comfortable in my presence, but I see that today is not that day. Today, all I had hoped was to meet you, to give you a gift that belongs in your keeping."
"Why would we be friends?" Alina asks softly as she watches the man with a troubled expression. "I'm sorry, but I've never been a religious person and well… surely you have more important things to do than talk to silly little Grisha girls."
The Apparat laughs, his amusement clear. "I hope we will be friends, Sankta, because you have a very important role to play, one which I have devoted my life too. Did you know that people all over Ravka call you Sankta Alina? They light candles for you and pray for you intercession and blessing." His look gentled and became slightly sad. "But even before your discovery there were those who believed – who knew – that one day you would come, and that when you did we had to be ready."
"Ready for what?"
"Many things." The Apparat answers calmly. "The Soldat Sol has been waiting a long time for the Sun Summoner to arrive. Centuries we have waited in the shadows, and never did we give up our faith – and here you are, at last. We are your army, Sankta. Sworn to serve only one – our Sun Queen."
"What do you mean?" the question bursts out of her as Alina shifts uneasily, uncertainty ramping up into something closer to panic. "I'm… I'm not a saint and I'm certainly no queen."
The Apparat shakes his head, eyes alight with fervour. "Not yet," he agrees quietly, "but one day you will be. Sankta you are already, Queen is what you will become."
She looks away, her denial clear in the stubborn set of her jaw and the first stirrings of angry gold flecks in her eyes.
The Apparat merely gazes sadly at her. "Time will reveal all," is his response, voice gentle but firm, before glancing behind him as if he is expecting someone.
"I fear I have told you too much too soon, Sankta." He says, for the first time looking nervous as he looks over his shoulder again. "I beg your pardon, if in my haste and desire to see you come into your own, that I have alarmed you. Such was not my intention." He bows his head, his hands pressed together as if in prayer.
When he raises his head again he is holding out a book for her to take – a familiar looking book with a red cloth binding. Curiosity drives Alina forwards to take the proffered gift and stares at it mutely in wonder. It's the book she found on her first visit to the library; the book she has not been able to find since.
There are voices now, loud and panicked sounding, accompanied by the noise of booted feet echoing along the corridor outside the library. Surprised by the sudden cacophony of sounds she clutches the book to her, the Lore of Old Ravka pressed firmly against her chest.
"But how… how did you get this?" Alina asks, her heart starting to hammer against her ribs as the volume of the shouts grow outside her refuge.
Darting a glance over his shoulder again, the Apparat steps back until he is in one of the thin walkways between the stacks. His expression is growing alarmed, and he looks as if he is poised about to flee, but Alina cannot stop herself from moving closer, instinct pushing her to understand how he came about this book.
"There is not time now to explain, Sankta." The monk whispers as shifts uneasily. "Suffice it to say that this book is one that should be with you, and I have been trying to get it to you for some time."
Outside the noise is getting louder; so loud, in fact, that Alina can start to make out the shouted words. "Find him!" one voice shouts, while another more familiar one bellows, "Where is the Sun Summoner. Secure the Sun Summoner."
"You will read it," her strange visitor presses, eyes oddly intent. Alina nods, she'd wanted to read the book weeks ago, but when she had returned to the library it was nowhere to be found. Just to compound the mystery, when she had checked the index listing all the books in the library it hadn't been there. For a time she had thought she'd imagined the book, but now she wonders if maybe the Apparat had something to do with the there-one-day-and-missing-the-next volume in her hands.
With deep sigh of what could only be relief and a final, hurried bow, the Apparat vanishes between the stacks.
Seconds later the door to the library bursts open with a deafening clang, and the sound of boots smacking on the polished stone floor shakes Alina out of her strange daze as she hears Fedyor's familiar voice calling for her.
"Here," she shouts back, "I'm here, Fedyor."
Moments later the Heartrender finds her, his normally jovial face is lined with grim determination and the vestiges of what looks like panic. "Thank the Saints," he murmurs, as he checks her over before shouting, "All clear. I have the Sun Summoner. Secure the route to the safe room."
With a surprisingly strong grip, Fedyor takes Alina's elbow and tows her through the library. As they move, Alina sees the tension thrumming through her friend and can't help the frown that crosses her face.
"What's going on?" she asks when it becomes clear that the Heartrender has no plans to release her any time soon.
"An intruder was spotted in the Little Palace, Alina," he replies as they wait by the now closed Library doors. "Secure," a voice shouts from the hall and the door is opened to reveal a contingent of Oprinichki standing outside, their backs to the door and rifles raised. "We've had threats regarding your safety, so when the intruder was spotted and you couldn't be found, the Little Palace went to high alert. I'm under strict instructions that in the case of a breach we are to get you to the safe room so that you're secure while others make safe the Little Palace."
It's another shock and Alina feels her head spin and her stomach churn as the words sink in. "Threats?" she asks weakly. "What threats?"
The Oprinichki guards surround them, boxing her and Fedyor in as they move slowly down the hall, each intersection or door checked before the group is allowed to pass. Her pulse is thrumming as her anxiety builds, making her simultaneously lightheaded and jumpy. There have been threats made against her. Threats bad enough that Aleksander has clearly gone to a lot of time and effort to plan for them, and yet this is the first she has heard of it. It's yet more evidence of his lack of trust in her and it galls her even as she is strangely touched at how concerned he is for her safety.
While they wait at a corner for the 'all clear', Fedyor looks at her, face grim and tight with worry. "Most of them are nothing," he says, in an attempt to encourage her.
"What about the others?"
He looks away, jaw tightening with anger. "We get two types of those. The first are from some of the more militant religious fanatics who think we're holding you imprisoned and that you need rescuing from our dastardly clutches," a hint of Fedyor's usual cheeky smile flashes across his face as he tweaks Alina's nose as if to show what nonsense that thought is.
"And the second," Alina prompts as they finally get moving again.
The smile vanishes from Fedyor's face, his eyes growing cold. "The second sort are from those who want to see you dead."
It shouldn't surprise her and yet somehow it does. It's not as if she hasn't had plenty of evidence that the world is not universally singing and dancing with happiness at the discovery of a Sun Summoner, but still… somehow it feels more personal that there are people sending letters to her home threatening to kill her than the knowledge that Shu Han and Fjerda are both actively plotting her imminent demise. That's political… but this? This is personal and it makes her feel irrationally angry – what right have these people got to decide whether she should live or die.
The thoughts consume her as they traverse the labyrinthine corridors of the Little Palace, anger wiping out the panicked anxiety of before. So consumed is she that she misses the command to stop and almost walks into the back of the Oprinichki in front of her, and it's only Fedyor's lightening fast reflexes that save her from that embarrassment. Looking up, she sees a familiar blue wallpapered corridor. The place they've stopped is only a few feet away from the Vezda suite and she turns uneasily as she wonders why they're standing here and not moving towards her doorway.
Letting go of her elbow, Fedyor answers her unspoken question as he reaches out to an empty section of wall and knocks five times in a distinctive pattern. Before Alina can do more than wonder at this strange behaviour, the wall shimmers and turns opaque, creating a doorway through to a now visible room.
Through the shimming opacity she can just see Marie standing in the room along with Nadia and Alexi. They all bow as she's hustled through the invisible door, and Alina feels Nadia coming to stand with her, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulder. "Go," the Tidemaker tells Fedyor. "Alina's secure. We can guard her here – you go find the intruder."
With a last glance at her, Fedyor nods and leaves, the door shimmering back into the wall as if it had never been.
It takes three long, boring hours before both the Vladislav, the Oprinichki head of security, and Fedyor are convinced the Little Palace is secure and Alina is allowed out of the safe room. Dinner that night is a horrid affair. Everyone is jumpy and conversation is hushed and tense. Evidence has been found of two intruders, entering from different points. One was tracked back to Os Alta before the Heartrenders finally lost him amongst the slums, but of the second they have no idea. He simply melted away, and there is some talk about whether he might have been a clandestine lover sneaking in to see his paramour.
For Alina the speculation is uncomfortable. She's unsure whether the Apparat was one of these intruders, but she fears speaking up. How could she explain their strange conversation – or his even stranger gift. Then there are the political ramifications. Fedyor is as furious as Alina had ever seen him, as are the guards who seem to feel that the breach is a personal insult to each and every one of them. No. No good would come from her speaking up on this. The Apparat is the political and spiritual advisor of the Tsar himself. With Aleksander away, she fears what might happen if she tells of her strange afternoon. She has no doubt that loyal Fedyor would raise it with the Imperial Palace – would demand answers - but what then. For all her uneasiness and the creepiness of the man, she didn't think he was a threat to her. With a nod, Alina is decided. She will keep this to herself for the moment. If the time comes she needs to speak up then she will, but not before.
Alina is dreaming again. It's the same dreams she's had for the last three weeks. The same images that appear, the same feeling of dread, loss and of needing to find something, and just like all those other nights dream Alina knows that come morning she will only remember the faintest memory of what she had seen. Even in this strange dream world the knowledge sends a spark of frustration zinging down her phantom body, making her ghostly hands clench into tight fists. In this strange world she is powerless, a mere passenger as something greater than her plays a game she still doesn't understand.
Tonight is no different as she sees the tracks across the frozen tundra only to be whisked away just before she can see what creature made those unusual prints. Again, she watches helplessly as the man wrapped in shadows is confronted by Imperial soldiers, again she hears the nightmarish scream and sees the dark of the Fold starts coalescing around his figure as the soldiers transform before her eyes into inhuman creatures - the monsters of her nightmares taking flight as the Fold spreads and grows wiping out all before it as it advances.
Again she hears the whispered pleas of the sole survivor – the source of the Fold – as he screams his fury and betrayal to the universe. She wants to go to him, to enfold him in a hug, to show him he's not alone, but she cannot move. It hurts her to see him so alone, so devoid of comfort.
This is normally where the dream stops, but tonight it inches further, it shows him stagger to his feet, face grey and broken, as he limps away from the carnage ruby red tears streaming down his face. Around her the whispers which should have quieted are instead louder. "Make them pay. Make them see. Betrayed us. They betrayed us. All for nothing… Merzost. Merzost hear me, answer me. Make them fear, make them pay, make them regret."
Merzost. Well fuck.
Even in her ghostly state, Alina trembles with fear at the name. There had been many theories over the years about the Fold, about how it was created. Black magic was the usual answer. Every child in Ravka is told the tale: how the Black Heretic, using forbidden blood magic, had tried to raise an army to overthrow the rightful Tsar and how magic had rebelled and instead of creating the desired army had instead turned on its caster and killed him, creating the Fold and the Volcra in the process.
It was a tale used as a cautionary lesson to beat out sedition from those who might seek to change things in Ravka. Another way for the Imperial family to keep control – if even magic was on their side, what hope did the average Ravkan have.
And it was wrong. Alina had always doubted the accuracy of the tale, it was too neat, too perfect, too bland. It had a villain and a hero, but it made no sense – why would the Black Heretic have wanted to rebel? According to the tale he had been rewarded beyond measure, lauded and feted from Os Alta to the True Sea. If that was the case, why would he have sought to overthrow the Tsar who raised him from obscurity to such power and prominence. It made no sense. There had to be more to the story, more that had been left out – and was now forgotten in the mists of time.
But now she knows. Merzost, not blood magic, created the Fold, and Merzost doesn't make mistakes. As a child she had been fascinated with Aleksander's explanation of the natural order which their people could control to differing degrees. She had loved her lessons on the small science and had eagerly lapped up the rules that governed what could and couldn't be done – "even nature has limits," Aleksander had told her, "and we are no different to the otkazat'syas in that we must obey them, our limits are just different." But along side those lessons had been another one, a more important one about the dangers of Merzost.
She could recall Baghra sitting in her normal chair, stick hitting the floor as if to punctuate the importance of the lesson, as she explained in a cold, hard voice, the nature of Merzost and the dangers of calling on it. "It's dangerous, girl. Only the desperate or the mad dabble in Merzost, for you always lose more than you gain."
"What do you mean, Baghra?" her younger self had asked, innocent curiosity driving her to ask question after question.
The stick thumped the stone floor with more than usual force, sending sparks flying in all directions. "Merzost is the heart of creation, Alina. It's the force that binds life together, the blocks that make up the world. As Grisha we may rearrange certain blocks within limits…"
Alina had tilted her head as she considered this new puzzle, "like how a Squaller can control the air or a Tidemaker can control water?" she asked at last.
It was an answer that had earned her a rare smile from the normally cold and inscrutable older woman. "Yes," she said. "Just like that. Grisha can move the blocks that correspond to their abilities. A Squaller can summon and direct air, a Tidemaker water, a Frabrikator can mould iron or stone to his will, but a Squaller cannot do what a Frabrikator does, just as a Frabrikator cannot summon wind or water. Merzost is the force that shapes the blocks and links them. It's the glue of the natural order. In using Merzost you can disrupt and change that order."
"But isn't that useful?" Alina had asked, her confusion evident. "If something is wrong, isn't it good that you can change it?"
"It is an abomination!" Baghra had cried, hands shaking with rage as her shadows swarmed the cottage, making Alina draw back in fear. She had never been scared of Aleksander's shadows, not once, not even during that awful half remembered day her papa had died when she had seen shadows slicing through the air like scythes, leaving devastation in their wake – but she feared Baghra's now as they swirled ominously around her. This was not the protective, friendly darkness of Aleksander's shadows, but another force, one that bound her to her chair in fright.
Lost in her own inner world, Baghra had not noticed the reaction of her charge. "To meddle in Merzost is unnatural, girl. No one should have the power to unmake creation, or to change it to their whim." It was a lesson that had stuck with her, even long after the event. She had never seen Baghra so angry, so cold, so… so pained.
At the time she hadn't understood the older woman's reaction. She did now. "You always lose more than you gain." Prophetic words, or perhaps more accurately, perceptive advice based on personal experience. Merzost had created the Fold and in doing so it had cost everyone, not just the man who had invoked it.
But then wasn't that the point. In her insubstantial form, Alina has been drifting over the Fold, watching as it grew and the world around it changed as if time has been sped up to a dizzying degree. In the space of minutes she watches as decades pass, towns and villages changing in the blink of an eye. But she ignores this as she chases the thought to its logical end, something pressing her that this is important, vital even, and she must understand it. Kribirsk is still a tiny village, not the large town and army encampment from her time, but as the seconds tick by its changing, morphing, evolving. There is the church she remembers, and the first dry dock is under construction.
Think Alina. Think! She groans in annoyance. What were the words,
"Make them pay. Make them see. Betrayed us. They betrayed us. All for nothing… Merzost. Merzost hear me, answer me. Make them fear, make them pay, make them regret."
Oh. Oh. In a sickening moment of clarity, Alina understands. Betrayal. Botkin had mentioned something about a betrayal during one of his visits to her in the Infirmary while she had been recovering. He had told many stories during that lonely week, but this one had stood out, the words sinking in even as they had lulled Alina into a deep healing sleep. It had been about a man gifted with unique abilities and a resentful Tsar many years ago. A Tsar who had been only too pleased to use the talents of the man for his own ends, winning unwinnable wars and defeating any who opposed him. Together the man and Tsar united the disparate lands of Ravka into a united country and pushed their borders out into Fjerdan and Shu territory. It had been a halcyon period until, that is, the time came when his weapon grew too powerful, too popular, and then the Tsar, driven by jealousy and paranoia, had turned on him, betraying the man's trust as he sought to annihilate both him and the people who shared the man's gifts. The kindly instructor had told her it was the origin of the Grisha, but she hadn't understood, hadn't put the pieces together, and now she had it broke her heart.
The Black Heretic hadn't been trying to summon an army, he had been calling for something to save his people – their people – from genocide, and Merzost had answered. An iridescent tear slides down her cheek. "Make them fear, make them pay, make them regret." Merzost had done that. In creating the Fold it had saved the Grisha, even as it had doomed so many others, but there is still that nagging feeling that something is missing. She has come so far tonight in understanding, but still there is an illusive piece missing from the puzzle she has been set.
Beneath her, Kribirsk is expanding; row after row of identical tents rippling out as the army encampment grows. It's almost the Kribirsk she knows now. Above her the sun shines weakly and she feels its pain, its fury. The whispers are louder now. "Make them see. Make them see." It isn't a request.
The comforting rays embrace her, and she feels the cold receding as she basks in the loving warmth of the sun. "She sees. She sees the middle, but not the start. Back, back we go," the voices in the light hiss, the words make Alina feel sick and dizzy as if she is being spun round and round and she catches glimpses of a starless sky giving way to blinding day. "In the beginning there was only light and darkness, nothing else existed. But light and dark were lonely…"
Someone is shaking her arm. No, correction, someone is shaking her arm and sounding increasingly cross. The sensation is dragging her from the dream and with each movement Alina feels herself wrenched further from the dreamworld. This time, however, the images do not immediately start fading, creating a bizarre disconnect as her mind struggles to reconcile two very different realities. Next to her the arm shaker lets out a curse and an unfortunate comparison between Alina and a horse's backside. It's enough to galvanise the Sun Summoner, and with rapidly increasing annoyance Alina forces her eyes open to glare at the offending individual. Kira, stares back at the visibly angry sun saint with the smug look of someone who has just achieved a personal best at something.
Turning her back, the curmudgeonly maid adds insult to injury by informing someone else that, "The Sun Summoner is now awake and ready to be seen to," and a whole bevy of her compatriots descend, plucking her out of her warm covers with a ruthlessness Alina hasn't seen since that first never to be repeated morning of her stay here in the Little Palace. Since then, Alina has mostly been left to her own devices. Genya usually appears sometime after Alina has started getting dressed for their usual morning routine of tea and a chat, but that is all the assistance she is subjected too. This morning, however, there is no sign of her friend, and it makes it all the more bewildering as Alina is bundled into a too cold bath before being rushed out to don an outfit she has never seen before. The dress the maids try to force over her head is like those court monstrosities she had glimpsed the day of her presentation and it makes her even more resistant as she is pulled and pushed around with bewildering force.
"Enough!" she shouts as one of the maids pulls the corset strings so tight it nearly stops her breathing. The sun sparkles beneath her skin, and as one the group shy away from her, awe in their eyes. "What in the Saint's names is going on," Alina barks, patience well and truly at an end. "Why am I wearing this and not my usual kefta, and where's Genya."
"Your pardon, madam," one of the quieter maids finally ventures, sending a nasty look at Kira and Olga who still look far too pleased with themselves. "We thought you knew. The Tsarina has requested you join her for breakfast. Madam Genya is of course with her Imperial Highness, assisting the Tsarina with her preparations."
"What?" Alina demands, feeling more than a bit faint. "What do you mean breakfast with the Tsarina. Who, what…"
"Kira was meant to tell you, madam." And Alina can't quite suppress the smile that wants to break free as the unknown maid cheerfully chucks the unpleasant Kira under the proverbial carriage.
"There was no time," Kira sniffs, her expression haughty and promising vengeance as she casts a glance at the other maid. "The Sun Saint would not rouse herself, and there was not time after to explain, the Tsarina awaits."
Alina growls low in her throat, the sparkles along her skin growing brighter in her annoyance. "You should have made time. Things would have gone a lot more smoothly if you'd bothered to explain." Kira's eyes are dark and narrowed with contempt as they watch her the mirror. "Forgive, me, madam," she says, voice showing no contrition whatsoever. "I had thought you would be well versed in the demands of your diary… as any proper Ravkan lady would be."
In the grand scheme of things it's only a little dig, and certainly nothing to what she has had to put up with over the years, yet the casual derision burns Alina, turning her blood to acid as she feels the sun flare inside her mind. Such disdain, such contempt, and yet Alina would bet all the money she has that Kira still expects Alina to destroy the Fold, to lay down her life if required in pursuit of the destiny expected of her. She doesn't have enough Ravkan blood to merit politeness, or kindness, or even consideration, but she is Ravkan enough to do their bidding and die for their desires. The bile stings her throat as she considers the contradiction, and it makes her sharper than she would normally be.
"But then I'm not just any Ravkan lady," she says, voice low and dark with unspoken promise. In the mirror her brown eyes look almost golden as she raises her bowed head to look at the maid. She meets Kira's stare head on, a part of her rejoicing in the hiss of fear as the truculent servant steps back in shock. "I am the Sun Summoner." Her skin shimmers with inner light as she lets the sun slip out of her tight control. The maids all step back, visibly unnerved by the display, and Alina feels sadness tug at her. With a long sigh she lets the light go, her skin dimming to its normal human tones, but her eyes are still hard as they stare at Kira. "I will not be bullied or belittled. I'm quite aware of what you say about me and my parentage and I say no. Get. Out."
There is a faint noise of protest, but another look at the uncompromising expression on Alina's face has Kira and her posse scampering from her rooms, faces pale and lacking their customary hauteur.
Already tired, Alina rubs a hand over her eyes, exhaustion pulling at her. This isn't how she wanted to spend her morning and remorse is already curdling in her stomach, her mother's voice ringing in her mind about proper conduct and the importance of rising above such behaviour. Another sigh escapes her as she realises that having dismissed the maids she will have to work out how to get into the awful gown herself. Court dress is costly, impractical and, in her opinion, a ridiculous waste of time and money. How on earth is anyone meant to do anything in a dress with a corset that reshapes your organs and has a hoops to poof the dress out on either side of the wearer so that they can't walk through a door without having to turns sideways and scuttle through it like a crab. Even the colour is horrid. Green has never suited her complexion.
She has no wish to have breakfast with the Tsarina and is quite certain that no good will come of her attending – especially given the less than pleasant introduction she'd had to the primping consort of the Ravkan throne - but without Aleksander's protective presence she has no idea how to turn down what is clearly an imperial order.
Looking up, she's greeted not with an empty room exactly, but certainly one that is far emptier than it had been five minutes before. The quiet servant from before is still standing there along with one other, faces serene as they wait for Alina to finish having her minor meltdown before introducing themselves as Elizaveta and Greta. She likes the pair immediately, they remind her of Genya with their soft, carefully hidden wit and playful personalities masked by the dull white of the uniform that seeks to sap individuality from the wearer, and the process of preparing goes a lot more smoothly without the peanut gallery 'helping'.
Breakfast is just as horrid as she had feared and the only good thing going for it is the absence of pickled herring so often found on offer in the Little Palace. There are six courses, each more sumptuous and costly than the last, but instead of making Alina's mouth water, it makes her stomach churn with anger. The expense of the breakfast is astonishing, breath taking, nauseating. Across Ravka people are starving. Winter is always hard, but winter in Ravka is especially hard since the creation of the Fold. Food is a precious resource, but here in the Imperial Palace it's wasted without thought. She remembers the bite of hunger in the First Army, the feeling that there was never quite enough to stop the feeling of gnawing emptiness, and seeing the waste before her nearly makes her sick. This breakfast could feed a whole battalion and instead its being wasted on the ten guests present, the Tsarina and her unpleasant looking son, the Tsarevitch.
If the food weren't bad enough, the accommodation makes it a hundred times worse. The salon she was escorted to is garish and cluttered in that fashionable way; with far too many chairs and tables which makes walking around the room in her ridiculous court dress nearly impossible. Orange upholstery clashes with the yellow and green wallpaper and, just to make it worse, it is suffocatingly hot. For a large room it is surprisingly airless and claustrophobic, and Alina hates it immediately, especially once she has a chance to see who else has been invited to this 'intimate breakfast'. All the guests, with the exception of the Tsarevitch, are female, and are seated in groups around the ridiculously undersized tables, their eyes fixed with rapt attention on the crown prince as they titter behind their fluttering fans each competing for his attention.
As Alina is escorted to her chair she has a horrible suspicion that this breakfast is less about eating and more about something else entirely.
With each new course brought in, Vasily changes groups in what is clearly a choreographed dance. She had paid little attention to the preening peacock over the first course, but by the second her attention had been caught as he drifted to a different group, whispering in the ear of one lady as another leaned forward showing far too much cleavage in her bid to get his attention. Over the third course she watches with growing dismay as the Tsarevitch schmoozes another girl, his hand resting on her arm with a familiarity that makes alarm start to simmer in Alina's heart. But it's the fifth course when she starts to feel truly concerned, as Vasily makes his way over to her group.
Alina has never been the most social or gregarious of people. She's not shy, not in the truest sense of the word, but she is naturally reserved; preferring the company of close friends to large groups and, like her mother, she has always disliked loud parties. The company in the Tsarina's breakfast room are divided between six tables, with two or three ladies being placed at each tiny table. Her breakfast companion is a girl not much older than Alina, but one with a far better pedigree – as she makes sure to inform the Sun Summoner. She is the Countess Gabrielle Belosselsky-Belozersky, daughter of the Count and Countess Belosselsky-Belozersky, second cousin three times removed of the Tsarina. Alina just nods her head at the introduction before replying with a teasing grin, "Alina Starkov, Sun Summoner, the one and only."
It does the trick, and she watches as the girl next to her wilts slightly, her haughty grin turning real as she bows her head slightly. "Well met, Santka Alina," she murmurs, a light blush bringing a flash of colour to her pale cheeks. She is a typical Ravkan beauty, all blonde hair, pale skin and blue eyes – the opposite of Alina. The ice is broken now though, and the only part of the decadent feast Alina enjoys is her new companion's commentary as she guides the Sun Summoner through the daunting task of working out which silverware to use and which glass to drink from.
Once knocked off her perch, Gabrielle is more relaxed and is happy to regale Alina with tales of life in the Imperial Palace, the balls and parties, the hunts and Masques. That changes as the fifth course is wheeled out and Vasily starts to make his way over. As soon as she spots the Tsarevitch approach Gabrielle is gone and in her place is Countess Belosselsky-Belozersky as she simpers her greetings to her second cousin four times removed. Vasily looks much like he did the first – and only – time Alina had seen him; bored, irritable and slightly vacuous, as if the power supply needed upgrading to his brain.
He bows low over Gabrielle's hand, making a great show of his courtly manners, before he turns to Alina, lifting her hand without her permission to place a long lingering kiss on the back of it, light blue eyes burning into her own. The sensation makes Alina shiver, and she tries to pull her hand back, but it's to no avail, for Vasily has a strong grip and he is determined not to let go. Ignoring his distant relative, he seats himself by Alina in a vacant chair that has miraculously appeared, his grip tight, bordering on the point of painful as he stares at her, his eyes slowly raking over her features before they travel lower, lingering on the wide open neckline of the court gown with blatant appreciation.
"Mother has been kind to me today," he murmurs as he completes his inspection. The churning in Alina's stomach picks up the pace and she has a sudden, very real fear that she might be about to throw up over the crown prince of Ravka. "I knew mother was going to ask you to one of her breakfasts, but I had no idea she would also make sure you were dressed appropriately for the occasion – and in my favourite colour no less." His appreciative gaze slides over her again, pale blue eyes fixing on the low cut of the dress, making Alina shy away in distress. She's not a stranger to male attention or lust, has seen it before in the boys who tried to woo her, but it's never been like this – invasive, proprietary, predatory. It makes her uncomfortable and uncertain, her skin flushing in discomfort.
"Yes, mother has been very kind." One hand lets go of her to reach over and finger the delicate brocade of her sleeve. "It suites you," he says, his voice pitched deliberately low and intimate. "You should wear court dress more often. It suites you better than that dreadful uniform they make you wear in the Second Army. You should be dressed in silks and satins, as befits a living saint, not whatever riff-raff they use to make those coats."
Alarm has kept Alina still and quiet up to this point, but Vasily's questing fingers are a step too far and with a forceful tug she pulls her left hand free, intertwining it with her right and folding them in the safety of her lap as she steadies herself to reply. "Quite possibly, your highness, but it's much harder to save the world in a dress – say what you like about our keftas, but they are wonderfully practical." For a moment the Tsarevitch is still, like a snake about to strike, and Alina wonders if her impertinent comment is about to land her in more trouble, when he throws his head back and laughs. It's not a nice laugh. The shivers are now racing up and down her spine like a relay race and she curses her instinctive need to defend Aleksander in all things, even his fashion choices, as the Tsarevitch continues to laugh. The whole salon has frozen, watching the crown prince.
"A wit as well as a beauty and a saint. You are a rare gem, my Lady," Vasily shifts forwards, his knees now pressing against Alina's own, as one hand rests carelessly on her chair mere millimetres from her arm. "I like rare things," he says in a low voice, dark with heat and promise. Alina freezes, her breath stolen from her as his fingers brush against her arm. Next to her Gabrielle stirs, a practised whine distracting the prince as she calls his name and redirects his attention to herself.
It gives Alina breathing space, for which she can only be supremely thankful, as she gulps down air like it's been rationed. The tight corset digs in, restricting her breathing and for a moment she worries that she's about to faint, but then a glass is pressed into her hand, cool and refreshing and it grounds her. Looking up to find and thank the helpful servant, her eyes land not on an unfamiliar face but into Genya's concerned eyes. Her face pale with something that might be fear or could be fury as she glances at the now distracted Tsarevitch before she leans down, head close to Alina's ear whispering softly, "you need to get out of here, Alina. This is not a place you should be. Get out now!"
"Ahh, Genya," Vasily drawls, "what can we do for you?" the question is innocently phrased but his tone is decidedly hostile, and Alina suddenly feels like an insect caught in a large and dangerous web that she only partially understands. "Apologies, Moi Tsarevitch," the redhead says, her head bowed low and eyes on the floor. "The Sun Summoner looked unwell, I was concerned."
"Is this so, my lady?" he asks, his eyes fastening onto Alina's with lightning speed and with an intensity that makes her feel breathless again for all the wrong reasons. "Yes," Alina gasps, the corset murdering her ability to take a decent breath. "I'm not used to such rich food," she manages as she desperately tries to control the sun that wants to wrap around her and protect her from the darkness in his gaze. She likes the dark, has always feels safe in it, but this isn't like the darkness in Aleksander's eyes, this is something else, something predatory, and it scares her to the point where her heart is pounding and the faintness lingering at the edges of her mind is very real.
"You do look pale," the Tsarevitch concedes with narrow eyes, one hand reaching out as if to touch her face, making her skitter back to maintain her distance and depriving her of yet more precious oxygen. Distracted from her own conversation, the Tsarina looks over and calls out in a strident voice enquiring what the disruption is. The servants hovering around the room in anxious silence wish to clear the fifth course and lay the sixth, but the addition of two additional persons at her little table has rendered this impossible. With a light laugh that betrays the concern in her light blue eyes, Gabrielle answers, "The Sun Summoner has been taken ill, aunt."
"Ill?" The Tsarina shrieks in concern, one hand holding a frilly, flimsy handkerchief that is more lace than substance waving about her nose as if to dispel a foul odour.
"Nothing contagious, I'm sure," Gabrielle continues, her voice soothing, "she just isn't used to such a lavish table." The surrounding ladies laugh and the Tsarina titters, her handkerchief forgotten as she coyly flutters her fan as if to conceal the amusement she feels at such a demonstration of the Sun Summoner's lowly origins. The unkindness brings a flush to Alina's pale face and anger makes her eyes sparkle with suppressed power, but she allows the remark to pass her by, her desire to leave stronger than her smarting pride.
"Of course," the Tsarina laughs again, "The Sun Summoner has our permission to withdraw. Next time we will make sure there is more suitable fare available for her." It's as ominous a statement as it is unkind and Alina grumbles under her breath as she dips a curtsey before Genya whisks her from the room.
Out of the perishing warmth of the Tsarina's breakfast room and away from the heated gaze of the Tsarevitch, Alina feels better, the ache in her chest reducing as she draws deep lungful's of heavily scented air. If she had hoped that this was the end of her horrible morning, she's quickly disappointed. The walk back to the Little Palace is fraught and strained as Genya hustles Alina as fast as her corset will allow across the paths and laws and through the vestibule doors. Huffing, Alina finds herself towed into her bedroom and pushed onto the plush velvet of the dressing table stool, out of breath and feeling like she could do with a bath… or several.
What is normally a companionable moment between the two girls and time for sharing laughter and jokes is full of unspoken tension Alina still doesn't understand as Genya picks up the brush and starts attacking Alina's hair. Instead of calming her, each stroke of the brush seems only to increase the Tailor's agitation, until she is almost vibrating with it. "Can't believe he did this." She mutters under her breath as Genya yanks the brush through a particularly tangled section, making Alina yelp and glance reproachfully at her friend. "What was that mutton head thinking? They never would have dared if he was here. Never. How could he be so stupid as to pick now to leave!"
It doesn't take a genius to guess who he is, even if Alina is lost as to what Aleksander's presence, or lack thereof, has to do with this morning's unfortunate misadventure.
"Genya, what's wrong?" She asks her friend for the third time. The Tailor stops, the brush hanging limply by her side as she stares at the Alina in the mirror, still decked out in her borrowed finery, her eyes worried as they watch her.
"You mustn't go back there, Alina," Genya says forcefully, her eyes deadly serious as she starts to smooth the tangled and pulled hair in silent apology for the hurt she has caused. "The Imperial Palace is a dangerous place. You must promise me, you're not to go back there. Do whatever it takes, but don't get caught in the…"
There's more here than Alina knows, and she feels it pricking at her; the sense of something not right gnawing away in her stomach.
"Why Genya," she presses gently, "I didn't want to go today, of course I'll do my best, but why is it so important, surely they wouldn't let something harm me?"
"There's more than one way you can be hurt, Alina, and I couldn't bear it if Vasily does to you what…"
"What?" she asks softly, eyes sad and watchful as she tries to understand what has shaken her brave friend so much.
"What his father does to me." The laugh that escapes her friend at that moment is bitter and holds so much pain that all Alina can do is leap to her side, enfolding her in a tight embrace as the tears of rage and shame escape – and with them the whole sordid tale of a beautiful child with an unusual talent and a Tsar with a taste for depravity, youth and power.
"He likes it," Genya explains softly once her tears have dried. "He gets off on making people feel powerless. Sex is just one way he does it. For a stupid man, he is very inventive when the mood strikes." Her fingers run over the bare, unmarked skin of her arms and Alina feels sick as the dots connect in her mind. "It helps that I can hide what he does, it means he can do what he likes and no one knows."
"But surely, Ale-the General, surely he could protect you." The faith and trust in Alina's voice almost makes Genya smile, but instead shakes her head. "The General did his best," she explains softly, "when he saw the Tsar's eye turn in my direction he tried to stop it by giving me to the Tsarina – she knows her husband is a philanderer, so she long ago set the rules so he wouldn't dare to touch her household, but it only delayed the inevitable," she shrugs and looks away, her discomfort clear. Up until now shock has kept Alina's emotions frozen, but as the new reality seeps in so the ice in her minds thaws. She thinks of her beloved mama who even now after all these years still fears the attention of men, and she thinks of Genya; the fierce, funny, wonderous girl who had been her first friend in this strange place, and rage burns through her veins like a tornado. This. Is. Wrong.
Genya - beautiful, funny, kind - Genya doesn't deserve this. This isn't right. The powerful should protect; not abuse, not hurt, not harm those under their protection. Hate is unfamiliar emotion to Alina, she was too young when her family had been attacked and her father killed for that feeling to take root, but she is old enough now and her fury is like a living thing roiling and snapping insider her, desperate to avenge her friend and lay waste to those who took pleasure in hurting such a bright, beautiful soul. The riot of her emotions distracts her, and it almost makes her miss what her friend says next.
"It's too late for me now. What's done is done, but one day I'll have my reward for it." Genya grips her hand tighter, eyes bright with devastation. "It's you I worry for, Lina. I thought you at least would be kept out of it, that the General could manage that much, but when I saw you in that room today, I realised that the apple truly doesn't fall far from the tree and it's all happening again. Only this time it isn't me, it's you. The Tsarevitch wants you, and I've heard enough tales and seen enough ruined maids to know that he won't take no for an answer."
The Tailor swallows roughly. "The Imperial Palace is his playground, his domain. So you must promise me not to go back there. Plead illness, hide, do whatever it takes, but do not go back there before the General is home."
Alina can only nod in agreement. Her morning has been a chaotic whirlwind of unexpected revelations and unwanted events. She knows she ought to be worried about the dire warning Genya has just given her. She knows she ought to be frightened to have caught the attention of a man like the Tsarevitch, but instead all she feels are the burning flames of her anger. How dare they. How dare that family abuse those under their care. How. Dare. They.
Alina protective fury erupts at this. "How can you bear it?" She asks, her voice quivering with suppressed emotion, "why didn't you just run away? You could be free, away from this place and that… that vile, despicable man."
Genya looks away, fear flashing across her face, "because leaving would mean I'd have to leave the only home I've ever known. I can't deny that the thought has crossed my mind, but it's not a simple choice, Alina. I-my family were not kind like yours, they were only too pleased to get rid of me. This place is my home and there are people I love here, like you. I'd lose so much more if I left, and I won't let him take anything more away from me…" she looks away, eyes pained and distant, there is a long pause and then she snarls, "and because I was promised," and Alina sees true fear in her eyes as Genya meets her questioning gaze. "The General promised that I would have my revenge."
It takes a long moment for Alina to understand what her friend is not saying, but then she does and suddenly her friend's fear at telling her makes sense. Aleksander hadn't been able to save Genya, so instead he'd promised her the means to save herself - a way to right the injustice done to her, to take back some of what had been stollen from her. It's a very Aleksander like solution and for a moment it makes her smile in nostalgic affection. Then the second part of the promise sinks in and her smile turns dark and shark like. "Good," she says firmly, surprising the Tailor, who has already turned away in the certainty that the Sun Summoner will condemn her plan.
"Good?" the redhead questions, and Alina reaches over to clasp her hands where they are knotted in the hateful white uniform of her slavery. "Yes," she says with a nod, "very good. He should pay. And on that day, I'll burn every white uniform they gave you and you'll wear the kefta that should always have been yours." The vow is pulled out of her, and she feels the glow of the sun burst through her control to enfold Genya in its loving warmth.
Distantly, as her friend pulls her into a fierce embrace, she wonders what it says about her – about who she is becoming – that she is so readily accepting of murder; for that is clearly Genya's plan. Shouldn't she be feeling guilt or even some desire to save their sovereign – the man ordained to rule them by the Saints?
Perhaps if Alina hadn't come to know the Tailor as well as she has, or perhaps if there had been more secrets between them, Alina would feel differently, would feel horrified and disgusted at such coldly premeditated revenge. But she doesn't. Instead, a cold resolution is forming in her mind. A certainty that if ever such an action was merited, this situation did.
One thing she is certain of is that she won't be like the Tsarina and look away. She will stand with Genya and she will honour her choice. Murder may not sit comfortably with Alina, but then she hasn't endured what her friend has, and with a man as powerful as the Tsar what other option is there. He is not a man who can be contained – or constrained – as she had done to Zoya. No, this isn't just justice, this is necessary. How can Ravka heal and become the nation it ought to be with such an abhorrent excuse for a human as its head? The answer is it couldn't. The rot in Ravka came from the top and that meant for all their sakes it had to go.
Starting with the Tsar.