Summary: There is an old Ravkan saying: three can keep a secret if two of them are dead. Unfortunately for Aleksander his mother is very much alive, and she's in a rare communicative mood. Dark secrets have a bad habit of coming to light, usually at the most inconvenient time. In the Little Palace truth has got her boots on, and it isn't just Aleksander's secrets that are being revealed.
The first time it happened it seemed like a happy accident. The second time a strange coincidence. By the third time it was starting to seem a bit suspicious, but by the sixth occasion it was definitely looking like a conspiracy.
After that first ghastly breakfast at the imperial palace and the even more horrifying things she'd learnt after it, Alina had every intention of avoiding that awful place and every member of the Lantsov family. Unfortunately for Alina and Genya, the royal family had other ideas.
Every morning for the past fortnight an invitation for breakfast had arrived and every day Alina sent back her polite refusal with the increasingly sour faced Kira. Far from upsetting the Lantsov's, or dissuading them from issuing invitations, Alina's continued absence seemed to excite the Tsarina and her creepy son to new heights as they tried to tempt her back into the lion's den.
Invitations for breakfast became invitations to lunch or to join the Tsarina for afternoon tea. When food failed to illicit Alina's interest the approach changed again - now she was beset with invitations go riding with the crown prince, to be driven in one of the Tsarevitch's racing carriages through the beautiful gardens of the Imperial Palace, or even for him to escort her to the grand cathedral in Os Alta for them to hear mass together.
When that failed as well, Vasily started popping up in odd places, ambushing the Sun Summoner as she walked across the grounds to Baghra's cottage or to the stables. At first, she had written the crown prince's sudden appearance in the grounds of the Little Palace as a strange one off, but by the sixth occasion she'd been forced to let go of that thought and accept that Vasily's perfectly timed appearances were less unfortunate coincidence and more outright stalking.
Alina has always loved the outdoors. Perhaps because of her illness as a child which led to her spending so much time inside, she has always seen the outside world as a wonderful place, one full of adventure and joy. Being immersed in nature has long been her refuge when she starts feeling stressed or anxious. It was no coincidence that Aleksander had taken her to that glade on their first ride – she had seen in his choice of destination his acknowledgement of the pressure she had been under and his desire to give her what solace he could. Now, however, instead of being her refuge it has become a prison. A large, open plan prison where at any moment she could be hounded by entitled crown princes with more hormones than brains.
It makes her angry. It doesn't seem to matter how many times she politely – and not so politely – refuses the Tsarevitch. The stupid boy seems immune to the word 'no' and incapable of understanding her lack of interest. The only thing holding her back from making her point more forcefully is her fear of what will become of Genya, for surely the crown prince would tell his father. But even if he doesn't, there's a cruelty to Vasily that Alina has seen - a monster lurking just below the surface - and she has no doubt if he thought it would buy her compliance that he would use any tool at his disposal to get his way.
Already he's made comments about her friend. Leud remarks written off as humour, but Alina sees them for what they are – a bully testing the water, trying to see where her soft belly is. Unfortunately for the Tsarevitch, where his iron fist in an overpriced velvet glove approach may coerce others into doing his bidding, Alina has too much experience of bullies to show the reaction he's looking for. Years of exposure to misogyny and hatred because of her heritage has given her a thick skin and taught her how to appear bland and disinterested.
In some ways it's a pyrrhic victory. Genya is safe, but Alina's unusual lack of interest and outright refusal to fawn over him seems only to excite the Tsarevitch further.
The gifts start ten days after that dreadful morning in the Tsarina's breakfast parlour. The first one is a miniature of Vasily, dressed in his full court regalia complete with a crown. Its arrival drives the colour from Genya's face so fast that for a horrifying moment Alina thinks she's about to faint. That it is a message is only too clear – a visual reminder, as if Alina needed one, of who she is refusing. The painting is rewrapped and handed back to the maid with a polite note saying that while she is grateful for the crown prince's generosity a lowly Grisha such as herself could never accept such a costly gift.
The second gift arrives that afternoon. One hundred yellow roses – the official Lantsov flower - from the Tsarina's personal hothouse. It takes ten servants to bring the enormous vases across from the Imperial Palace and they are presented to her at dinner with enough pomp and circumstance that it causes her to flush a bright scarlet with embarrassment. The note does little to improve her blush as she reads the ornate cursive script: "Golden roses for our golden saint. A small token of my esteem that I hope my saint will accept." It isn't signed, but then it doesn't need to be, the imperial servants are enough of a giveaway even without the enormous gold stamp of the double headed firebird that takes up almost half the space on the parchment.
Perhaps on another occasion – and from a different sender – Alina might have been touched by such a display. However, even if she didn't dislike Vasily to the extent that she does, the flowers still wouldn't have done much in the way of winning her favour. She's never cared for yellow flowers, particularly yellow roses, and now she has a hundred of them in gaudy gold vases cluttering up the senior dinning hall and giving her fellow Grisha yet another thing to gossip about.
Unsure, she looks to her friends, but they are all cooing and drooling over the flowers as if they see nothing wrong with such a present. In the end, she gets the waiting servants to gather the roses from the three enormous urns and directs them to distribute the roses at the public gate that leads to Os Alta with her good will and blessings. Fedyor told her only a few days before that peasants have been gathering at that gate for weeks, hoping for a glimpse of the Sun Saint. She has no need for the flowers but she hopes that they bring someone joy and it seems a little enough thing to share with those so much less fortunate then herself.
It had been a kind gesture, meant to make the best of a bad situation. What Alina had not expected is the level of reaction. Overnight Alina's fame skyrockets and in addition to her title of Sun Summoner, she is now known as Sankta Alina the kind, and Sankta Alina the merciful. It's enough to make her want to hide under her blankets and not come out for a week. If Vasily is annoyed by her redistribution of his flowers he shows no sign of it, instead accosting her the next day with an extremely cringe worthy sonnet composed by his own hand, lauding her beneficence and magnanimity towards the undeserving poor. And that is only the start. Inspired by her generosity and kindness, the Tsarina has decided that she too will give a number of blooms every day to the poor gathering at the public gate, and sales of yellow roses shoot up across the capital as everyone wants to be seen wearing the saint's rose.
Any hope that the flowers might have been the end of Vasily's gift giving extravaganza is quickly extinguished as two days after the debacle of the earache inducing sonnet – and just as Alina starts to let out a sigh of relief – gift number three arrives. The horse is beautiful, there's no denying that, with her golden palomino coat and soft white mane. She's a costly and extravagant gift, and for a moment Alina wavers. With so many of the horses at the Little Palace taken by Aleksander for his hair-raising dash across Ravka, there are precious few horses left in the stables for she and her fellow Grisha to ride, and she misses the freedom and peace she would find during those few hours a week she could escape with Beauty into the wider park of the Palace. Behind her Marie and Nadia are whispering excitedly about this latest gift and the symbolism of giving a golden horse to the only Sun Summoner. They think its romantic. Sweet. Something out of their trashy penny dreadful romances novels that they like to read after lights out.
Alina flushes and closes her eyes as Marie giggles, "just wait. How amazing will it be when the Tsarevitch declares his love and marries Alina, then there'll be a Grisha on the throne of Ravka. How romantic, he's willing to throw away centuries of tradition to follow his heart."
It's this comment which cements her resolve and with a hard glint in her eyes, she shakes her head, dismissing the groom and sending both him and the palomino back to the Imperial stables. She will not be bought. Where Marie sees romance, Alina sees a trap. Where Marie sees it as a declaration of marriage, Alina sees it as political trickery. Where Marie thinks there could be no better outcome than Alina married to the Tsarevich and the future Tsarina of Ravka, Alina knows it will be anything but, such a marriage will destroy her and any hope in Ravka of change.
No, she would not be bought, and the price for accepting the horse would likely be far more than she is willing to pay. No good would come from accepting a gift from one of the Lantsov's. There's an old saying the commander of the Medical Corps was fond of – before accepting a gift horse, make sure to check its teeth. The devil, as the lawyers like to say, is in the detail and until she knows exactly what Vasily wants and what his plans are she will not accept anything that might indebt her to him.
The ongoing battle with the Tsarevitch's attentions is draining and consumes far more of Alina's attention than she is comfortable with. It also has the unfortunate side effect of making her miss Aleksander all the more. She misses his steady, comforting presence, misses the reassurance he provided her and the security of knowing he would not let another harm her, but most of all she misses his political acumen and the surety with which he can navigate political waters. Alina is afraid – afraid of the danger that might come from her saying no, but more afraid still of what it might mean if she gives in and says yes.
In sticking with 'no' she is safe, but she risks everything – everyone – else. It's a horrifying position to be placed in, balancing on the edge of a knife as she dances to maintain her precarious position just outside the Lantsov reach without falling – and it makes her miss Aleksander fiercely. Genya is right, Aleks would know what to do, he would be able to guide her, show her, how to maintain this dance, but he isn't here, and she worries incessantly about stumbling.
The only place she finds peace now is in Baghra's little cottage, a place which is soothing in its familiarity and unchanging appearance. Not even the crown prince would both her here, not after his last meeting with Aleksander's mother anyway.
Genya's warning haunts her, the words echoing round her mind. She feels hunted, trapped. She's lost and in desperate need of advice and yet she can't quite bring herself to speak of it - as if voicing her fears will make them real. The thoughts dog her steps, but they are worst at night. In the darkness with no distractions she has plenty of time for them to run riot – and riot they do.
She tries meditating, as Botkin has shown her, but with little effect - there are too many thoughts, too many worries. Finally, a month after Aleksander left and two weeks after that dreadful breakfast, Alina breaks her silence to ask one of the questions plaguing her. She can't yet talk about the events of the breakfast, the worries Genya has left her with, or Vasily's concerning behaviour, but she can tackle this fear. Her mama had always told her it is better to know than to wonder, and on this she has to know.
"He left because he fears me, didn't he? That's why he wouldn't let me go with him." She asks Baghra during one of their lessons, the question slipping out of her before she can second guess herself again. The miniature sun cupped in her hands should warm her, but it only feels cold and dull, a fitting metaphor for how she's felt since she watched Aleksander ride away.
Baghra harrumphs. "That is one interpretation, certainly." She answers. But Alina has not spent over a decade with this woman without learning that with Baghra what she doesn't say is often more important than what she does. The sun flares brighter in her hands as unruly hope flashes through her.
"What other interpretation is there?" Alina's voice soft and hushed in the quiet room, but her heart is pounding within her chest as she waits to see if the older woman will continue. Her mentor has a mercurial nature and is just as likely not to explain as she is to answer her favourite student.
Baghra sighs, her dark gaze fixed on the dancing flames and for a long endless moment Alina fears that this is one of those times when she will not answer. "When Aleksander was seven he made what he thought were his first friends." Though the voice is clinical, Baghra's eyes are pinched and Alina can see that her knuckles are white where the grip her walking stick. It's an odd non-sequitur, but then Alina is used to tangents and riddles during their conversations, and so she sits back and forces her impatient heart to wait and listen to what Aleksander's mother has to say.
"He was always a quiet boy," the old woman reminisces, "with our gifts it was dangerous to stay in one place too long - especially as no seven year old, no matter how brilliant or powerful they are – has the control to conceal such abilities. Normally we would on stay a few days, a week at most. This time though we stayed for some months, and Aleksander made friends with the village children - some were even like us, though we had not yet been given the name Grisha by which to identify those who were gifted."
The old woman sighs again, her tone turning darker as her shadows creep around her shoulders giving her an otherworldly look. "For a time all was good, but then something happened and they found out his unique gift for amplification. I found them one day, holding his head under the water in the pond just beyond the village. They intended to murder my boy to gain his bones, believing they would amplify their own gifts." Baghra looks up, her eyes filled with pain and the still simmering embers of anger never forgotten. "We both learnt a lesson that day."
Alina's hands tremble in horror and fury, her breath coming in fast pants as she wrangles with the sun burning through her veins as it tries to escape her control. To murder another for their bones is an unthinkable sin and her heart aches as she thinks of the damage this will have done to her dearest friend. She knows so little of Aleksander's past that she is greedy for any information, knowledge or insight into it – yet for all she hungrily hoards this information, tucking it away safely inside her mind, she cannot see why Baghra has confessed it.
As if she heard Alina's confused thoughts, Baghra's gaze leaves the flames and fixes instead on her student, face hard and resolute.
"So, no, girl. I don't think he fled this place because he feared you. I think he fled as fast his horse could go because he feared for you. The incident with Shu Han gave him an excuse, a way to turn prying eyes away from the Little Palace and from you. He knows better than many the terrible price you pay for being born different."
"But he said…" Alina began only to be cut off by a sharp shake of her mentor's head.
"Think, girl. Use that brain of yours. If he feared you, he would be looking for ways of controlling you and controlling your power. He wouldn't have left you alone in his home. That incursion is an opening gambit for a war – a war his Imperial Uselessness will almost certainly want to send you to fight. I'd say he was trying – albeit with his usual ineptitude – to protect you. And that doesn't sound like he fears you, to me."
Baghra sits back in her chair, her ice white hair almost glowing in the darkness of the cottage, her eyes returning to the fire in a clear dismissal. She's said all she means to say, has given Alina the pieces she needs in order to figure out the puzzle before her, and now she expects her student to go away and assemble it.
Alina leaves, pressing a kiss to Baghra's smooth cheek as she passes on the way to door. The old woman's words spinning and dancing, in her head.
Perhaps because there have been so many revelations recently, but it takes Alina longer than she thinks it should have to spot an oddity in Baghra's tale. She knows Aleksander is old - older than he looks anyway. In appearance her friend appears to be in his early thirties. It's common knowledge amongst the otkazat'syas that Grisha can live longer – a lot longer in some cases – than those not blessed with Grisha magic and that Grisha age slower and heal faster. Aleksander, she knows has been in charge of the Second Army for more than forty years already, which would surely make him above sixty or seventy years of age, yet he is still young and vital, with the appearance of a man half that age.
Baghra said that the terrible incident occurred in a time before Grisha had been given their collective name. But how could that be? Grisha is a name given to them centuries ago, not long after the creation of the Fold, when the Tsar discovered his need for those born with special abilities in order to cross the dangerous dark of the Fold safely. Either Baghra is mistaken… or,… or Aleksander was born before the Fold – but that's impossible, that would make him a contemporary of the Black Heretic, of the man she sees in her dreams.
Her dreams.
Oh.
Her dreams. Dreams where she is never close enough to see the man's face and yet she feels drawn to him, desperate to soothe his pain and anguish. The words from the dream echo in her ears. "Make them suffer. Make them fear. Betrayed. They betrayed us. Show them. Show them. Make them feel our pain. Make them regret."
Oh.
Oh, her poor Aleksander. A single tear slides down her cheek and she roughly brushes it away. That poor, darling man. What a burden he's carried, and for so many years. She thinks again of Botkin's impromptu history lesson, of her mother's disdain towards the history of Ravka, of the way the Black Heretic is reviled and hated for what he did, and yet there is no attempt to understand, nor compassion shown, to the point where even his name has been obliterated from history.
Perhaps if she hadn't known Aleksander for most of her life, or if she hadn't seen in her dreams a different perspective on the official version of events, she might have felt differently; might have been afraid to know that the man she has grown to love – who she loves above all else – is the Black Heretic. Instead, she only feels relief. She knows his secret now, the dark thing he has tried so hard to keep from her for so many years and at last she understands the crushing sense of responsibility that has long weighed him down, the desperate need to atone, to save their people, which has influenced all his steps – for good and for ill. She sees it and she understands it. That poor, poor man.
She's dreaming again. It starts off the same way as all the others, with white tundra and dark forests, but then it changes and a new sight meets her curious eyes. Instead of mountains there is only darkness. This isn't the fogginess of The Fold, but something different. It's more like a void. As if in a play, she sees two thrones, illuminated against the dark, standing tall and proud. The thrones are strange, not at all like the carved monstrosities the Tsar and Tsarina sit on with the Tsar's so much larger than that of his consort to emphasise the disparity in their station. These two are equal in size and oddly delicate, made from some strange golden substance that seems to glow from within. Unlike the rigidity and straight angular lines of Tsar's throne, these are all soft curves, the backs arranged in a low, half a circle, so that the spines only come up to midback. Separate, Alina thinks they look odd, but when placed together they make up a perfect circle that glows like the stars.
Carved into each throne is an image: a sun on one and on the other there is what looks like a new moon. Upon each throne sits a crown, both glowing white, and made of what could be bone weaved together to form a perfect circlet designed not to sit on a head – like the Ravkan crown – but around it, lying gently above the ears with the front resting against the forehead. One is decorated with myosotis and irises, the other with Antirrhinum and ivy. Both are beautiful and draw the eye, luminescent and otherworldly in appearance.
The images fade to be replaced by the crowns broken upon the floor, shattered into a thousand pieces, no longer glowing in that unearthly way. Alina is just stooping to look closer at the debris when the dream changes suddenly and she feels as if she has been wrenched away, propelled or called with such force that her mind spins. Gone is the void like dark of the previous moment and in its place is weak afternoon sunlight, the sound of clashing swords and pained grunts. There's musket fire and smoke and when vision returns Alina almost wishes it had stayed in darkness. All around her is blood and death amidst a sea of Ravkan green and the red coats of the Shu army. Next to her she sees a boy, younger than she is, die as a Shu officer spears him with his bayonet. Behind her there is shouting and cursing, while in front is carnage such that it turns her ghostly stomach.
There's a whoosh from somewhere on her right and Alina's eyes are drawn to the swirling darkness lashing out in all directions, a one man battering ram that is disseminating any before him. She can feel his anger from across the battlefield, the desperation with which he is fighting and she knows that they are losing. The Shu are pushing the Ravkan forces back, their numbers so much greater than the original report had suggested and far too great for the small number of reinforcements that the Tsar had authorised to support the Second Army.
Again she hears Baghra's voice: "That incursion is an opening gambit for a war – a war his Imperial Uselessness will almost certainly want to send you to fight. I'd say he was trying – albeit with his usual ineptitude – to protect you." Whether the old woman is right about Aleksander's motivations, she's on the money with regard to Shu Han. This isn't an exploratory force testing border defences, this is a full-scale invasion.
And Shu Han has upped the ante even more. Something is wrong. The spinning shadows lack Aleksander's normal elegance and control, appearing wild and frenzied. Stretching out her mind she tries to sense Aleksander as Baghra has been teaching her too, and promptly wishes she hadn't because she can feel it now - the tortured howl of Aleksander's shadows, the pain and panic as he desperately tries to retain control, control that he is rapidly losing.
It takes only a thought for Alina's spectral form to materialise next to the General, cutting through the inky whirlwind as if it were a gently summer wind and not a lethal storm of barely restrained power.
"Nonononono!" Aleksander groans, eyes wide and wild as they look straight at her. "She can't be here. Can't be. Can't be. It's the drug, making me see things. Alina is safe, I know she is. She's safe, far away from here in the Little Palace. This is a trick. Has to be a trick."
"Aleks?" she asks desperately, fear gnawing at her. "What's going on? What's wrong?" She's never seen her friend so uncontrolled, almost hysterical, as he rocks back and forwards, hands tearing at his hair. There's a deranged look on his handsome features, an encroaching madness that sends chills down her spine.
"You're not here," he spits, the shadows roiling and writhing about him growing darker by the second. There's a difference in the air, a different type of darkness infecting the murky depths of the shadows – they're blacker, thicker, more ominous somehow.
Unconsciously, Alina steps forward in concern, only to flinch back as her friend throws up a commanding hand. "Stay back," he yells, his voice hoarse with pain and fear. "Don't come any closer."
Rocking back on her heels, Alina pauses uncertain and unsure. This isn't her Aleksander, this isn't her best friend. Desperation makes her ask again, her voice sounding plaintive and anxious as she calls his name, begging him silently to tell her what's wrong.
"Stupid, stupid fool," Aleksander moans, one hand leaving his hair to claw at the ground, his fingers sinking into sticky mud.
"I am here, Aleks. You're not alone," she steps forward again, hovering anxiously just out of his reach. "Tell me what's wrong, please, you need help."
"No help for me, precious," he gasps, his head jerking back as a horrifying spasm jolts through him. "My fault, didn't see."
"See what?" she demands, his eyes have a brittle light in them, fevered and no longer lucid.
"The assassin…" he waves a hand at a needle lying a few feet from him, panting with exertion and pain. "Clever bastards…used…jurda parem…now I'll…kill…them…all," he giggles at the end, an unnatural high-pitched sound that grates against her ears and brings tears to her eyes at the wrongness of it.
"What can I do, Aleksander?" she's already looking around, her eyes scanning frantically for something, or someone, who might be able to help, but all she can see is the oily, inky vortex that surrounds them.
"It's…too…late…going…mad already." He's on his knees before her, mud stained hands tearing at his hair as he fights against the drug burning through his mind. He giggles again but it's a short lived hysteria that's choked off by another spasm, this one longer and more vicious than the first. His eyes are fixed on Alina, the feverish light burning brighter now. "Still…if I…have…to die…at least…I got…to…see you one…last…time…even if…it's…just…me going…mad."
"You're not mad," Alina snaps, frustration and panic making her voice sharp. "Stop saying that. I'm right here."
His face contorts in pain, but where before there had been a feverish light, now he looks raw and wrecked, devastated by her words.
"No… you should… be…safe…How?" he croaks, the arm that had been supporting him in his semi-sitting position giving out under the strain of another tremor, forcing him to the ground as he shakes and cries, biting his lip in an attempt to stop the sound escaping.
"I don't know," she answers absently as she tries to remember what she's been taught about jurda parem. "I've been having strange dreams lately. I went to sleep tonight and now I'm here." There's a lot more to it than that, and if Aleksander were in a better state she would happily debate metaphysical reality and true dreams with him until the cows came home. But he isn't, and Alina has a terrifying feeling that time is running out if she wants to save Aleksander. The clock is ticking, she can feel it in her blood. There has to be something she can do, some way to save him, there just has to be.
She's heard Botkin and the other teachers talk of the drug in hushed tones as they warn the students of its dangers. It was invented some years before by Bo Yul-Bayur, one of the many scientists employed by the Taban government to find and control the source of grisha power. In that aim they failed – the drug couldn't give the giver control over grisha power, nor could it suppress it, but that didn't detract from either its potency or the harm it could cause. Jurda parem is highly addictive and often fatal to grisha, even after only one dose of it, but that's the least of what the detestable compound does. What's worse is what it does to the mind and body of any grisha unlucky enough – or stupid enough – to take it, as it twists the mind, corrupting it so that the imbiber can no longer recognise friend from foe, while turning their grisha gift into an aberration of itself. Shu Han might not have been able to usurp control of grisha, but with this drug they could turn them into a walking liability – who would want to fight alongside someone who once dosed with this drug would turn into a psychotic and unpredictable monster, one with devastating powers and no control.
To her mind it is the ultimate insult, the ultimate sin of her mother's homeland – they have taken something beautiful and made it turn in on itself until it becomes sick and diseased, lethal to any and all around it. They have made the gift of being a grisha a ticking time bomb and it is a battle that Aleksander is losing fast.
The sun crackles in her veins with her despair and impotent fury. What she wants is to lash out, to decimate and destroy those who have taken Aleksander from her – for even if he survives the carnage he is about to cause he will never be the same after it, this will take something precious and irreplaceable from him. Her poor love, he has lived through so much – survived so much – and now he will be destroyed by his very essence. It's a bitter irony - one made worse by the fact that for the first time in one of these dreams Aleksander is aware of her.
She is desperate to act, but she is powerless in this strange dream state; unable to interfere, and that is ironic too – so much power burns through her veins, and yet in this moment when she is most needed, she is powerless. It makes her want to scream with rage at the unfairness, the injustice of it all.
Alina is jolted out of her thoughts by Aleksander's pained cry. "I don't know…how you…came to be here, but leave…Alina. Leave now…Before I cannot…control it." His beautiful dark eyes are pitch black from the drug and haunted, so very haunted.
Even if she wished to she could not – would not – leave him. "No!" Her voice is resolute and full of steel. She will not leave him to fight this alone. Through the swirling cyclone of Aleksander's powers, Alina can just make out the fighting going on around them and it tears at her. How many will he kill – how many of his own grisha? Even if she cannot stop him or help him, she can be with him to the bitter end.
Aleksander cries out, his back bowing until his head is almost on the floor, around them his shadows swirl faster and faster until it looks like they are in the middle of a black tornado. Instinct drives her forward, forgetting in her haste that she cannot touch in her ghostly state. The moment her translucent hand makes contact with his bare hand, devoid of his habitual gloves, it's like a circuit has been completed – she can feel the drug rampaging through his blood, twisting and deforming as it goes on its merry way, unstoppable and inescapable. She feels the pain he is in. The torture of knowing what will happen if he gives in and lets the jurda parem consume him.
She feels the thousand razor sharp shadows kept at bay only by a tremendous – almost inhuman – act of will power. She can feel the battle her love is fighting and losing as with each breath the drug gains more ground and a surer foothold in Aleksander's mind. She can feel it all. A tear slides down her cheek at his pained gasp, a final desperate plea not for himself but for her. "Please, saints no. Not…my Alinochka. Not her too. Saints…preserve me. I cannot…hold it. I…cannot…hold…it."
Aleks is shaking now, writhing in agony on the sticky, blood drenched mud of the battlefield. Around them the fight continues unabated and unrelenting. Inside the maelstrom of swirling shadows Alina is still, her hand clenched firmly around Aleksander's, her eyes fixed on his. She has never feared his darkness and she won't start now. She can still feel the tenuous grasp he has on his powers and the tumult of them as they attempt to evade and escape the inexorable pull of the jurda parem. It's a link though, a connection. Intuition drives her forward, the sun singing through her mind, as she finds the seat of Aleksander's powers, encasing his shadows in light so bright it burns the compound to dust as it batters against the shield she's wrapped around him.
Exhaustion forces her to her knees, panting for air, the world tilting alarmingly around her, and yet still she won't let go - her hand wrapped around Aleksander's like a lifeline anchoring him to her.
Vaguely she's aware of the dark whirlwind that has been shrouding them from view of the battlefield slowing, the winds dropping until all she can see is the weak winter sun, low on the horizon, its gentle light setting the red streaks in the sky ablaze with colour.
As if from a long way away she hears a voice that sounds like Ivan barking orders and hands not her own grasping the still figure in black next to her, pulling him from her, his hand slipping out of her own phantom hold.
The world swims, but Alina is too tired to move, or even to care. The Sun croons to her as it bathes her in its warmth, her vision washing in and out like a guttering lamp. Familiar darkness hovers, welcoming in its embrace and finally she sleeps.
Screaming is what jolts Alina from her exhausted sleep. Something – someone is screaming – normally this would concern her, probably quite a lot truth be told as it sounds like someone is screaming bloody murder in her bedroom, but Alina is too tired, her eyes too heavy and her head too foggy to care and she lets herself be once more pulled under the dark waves of unconsciousness.
She wakes to the sight of Garin leaning over her, his ear pressed to a tube that's resting on her chest, and the familiar blue walls of the Vezda suite. Only one of these two things is reassuring and it isn't Garin's presence. Her hands feel like lead weights have been attached as she tries to push the healer away, earning herself a scowl and a swift rebuke as he returns to whatever has caught his attention.
The look he gives her when he finally steps away some minutes later is considering and worried. "Wha-?" she tries to ask only to be stopped by a poorly timed coughing fit, her throat is burning and red raw when the coughing finally stops.
Garin shakes his head as he passes her a glass of syrupy looking water, "best just sit quietly, lass, and get that down you. Your throat will be a mite painful I'd think, after the way you were screaming last night."
"Scream…ing?" her voice agrees with the healer's assessment. It's horribly painful to speak, but she pushes through, confusion overriding her body's desire for caution.
"Aye," the normally jovial man says, eyes stern as he checks her over. "you gave us quite the scare last night. I've seen a lot in my time as a healer, but I've not seen anything like that." Seeing the look of lost confusion on his charge's face, Garin sighs. "You were screaming, lass. Screaming like a banshee is how Marie put it, and then there was the light show. We couldn't even get near you for close to half an hour and by the time we did you had almost exhausted your reserves of power to the point where your energy levels were so low your heart was going into distress."
He notes something on her chart and pats her hand comfortingly, "still, no harm done from what I can tell. Your heart sounds fine now, but repeated stress like that isn't good for any organ and there are limits to what even Grisha healing can achieve."
"Can you tell me what happened, Alina?" he asks gently. "That's what we don't understand. Fedyor says you had a headache last night and that he gave you one of the standard tinctures we keep in stock, but that shouldn't cause a reaction like this."
Alina sips her water, jumbled memories and thoughts trying to piece themselves back together in some semblance of order. "I… I…dream…ing," she manages to croak at last. "Dre…aming, bad things. War. Death. Blood."
Garin nods, his face full of compassion and understanding. "Well, valerian root is known to sometimes cause powerfully vivid, almost lucid dreams, and there is a goodly sized dose in that particular headache tincture. Valerian can also affect heart rhythm, so maybe that's the answer. I'll put it in your notes that you shouldn't be given any of the medications containing valerian again."
The healer sounds satisfied by his deduction, but Alina is uncertain. Snatches of the dream return to her, the horror, the smell of blood and death – could this really just be an unfortunate reaction to one of the herbs in the headache tonic. She's certainly had cause to use it frequently over the last two months – is that why she's been having these odd dreams? But no… she's sure there's more to the dreams, they aren't just products of her confused and fevered mind. She knows it, feels that if she can just remember the one from the night before that she will know for certain whether they are real or imagined, but the images remain illusive, always just out of her mental grasp and the more she tries to force herself to remember the more they slip away.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The Tsarevitch's fourth gift arrives three days later. This time it's another court dress, dark verdant green in colour and even more richly embroidered than the dress sent to her prior to the first breakfast that got Alina into so much trouble. While the body of the dress is emerald, the embroidery is all in gold with the front panel of the skirt a golden lamé that matches the intricate detailing. If the horse had seemed extravagant then this gift is even more excessive.
She sends it back, but not before she sees the note, the writing etching itself on her brain. 'To my dearest one. How eagerly I await our next meeting when I hope to see you in my favourite colours. The first step, I hope, toward you wearing my colours.'
For a long moment Alina is paralyzed as her mind digests the words. It cannot mean what it's implying. It simply can't. It would be going against centuries of convention and the royal marriages act signed over a century ago that prohibits any prince of the main Lantsov line from marrying a commoner. But what other interpretation is there? For her to wear the Tsarevitch's colours would be tantamount to a declaration that she is his.
Fuck.
Double fuck!
Marriage is the only honourable inference of that note - but there are other down right dishonourable ones as well. Genya's words of caution are ringing in her ears as she goes over the wording of the note again.
Vasily has declared his intention that she be his, but the form of ownership - and ownership is what it will be - is deliberately vague. Without her meaning to, the note starts to curl and brown at the edges, the paper reacting to the light radiating from her as she wrestles with the desire to call the sun and decimate the architectural monstrosity that is the Imperial Palace.
The note leaves a bad taste in her mouth for the rest of day, destroying her appetite and her concentration in one fell swoop. Though the dress is sent back four times, it keeps reappearing in her bedroom, the ever surly Kira only looking more irate as the day goes on. By the fifth time she gives in and sends a letter that Genya helps her write, tactfully but firmly declining the gift.
She's so unsettled by the battle of the gifts and the persistent attention from the Tsarevitch that by dinner a headache has started to pound behind her eyes, one made worse by the happy chatter in the dining hall. Tonight is the senior only games night and the senior grisha are buzzing with excitement at the prospect of a night off for frivolity and fun. With so many of their number away on the Shu border or still in Kribirsk, games night has gained even more importance in the diary of the Little Palace. It also helps that the senior only game night is the only time that alcohol is permitted for the older grisha outside of feast days.
Like her friends, this is usually a night Alina enjoys, especially now that she has got to know many of the senior grisha. But the thought of staying in a room full of happy, playful, increasingly drunk people, trying to match their mood and conceal her own worries is more than she can manage, and she escapes to the safety of her bedroom citing a bad headache. Alina knows Fedyor is concerned about her, she sees it in the shadow that falls across his face when she gives her apologies and in the way he's taken to watching her with a thoughtful look when he thinks she's distracted. As her head of security, the Heartrender knows about some of the gifts, but he doesn't know about the notes, or how persistent her admirer is – and Alina doesn't know how to tell him without making the situation all the more precarious.
Fedyor is a wonderful friend, devoted and kind, but he's also hot-headed at times and passionate in his defence against anyone who would harm those under his care. This is a potentially lethal mix in a situation fraught with danger and peril, as Genya had pointed out that morning when Alina had raised the prospect of informing the Heartrender.
"Fedyor is wonderful, he truly is, but you know as well as I do, Lina, that if he knew what was going on he'd probably storm the Imperial Palace demanding Vasily leave you alone. Any intervention from those the Tsarevitch sees as beneath him will only escalate matters. The only grisha with the clout to get that disgusting worm to stop is the General, and he's 100 leagues away."
As ever Genya's advice is sound and pragmatic. However much Alina might wish to share her concerns with Fedyor the probability of it making the situation worse is too high for her to go through with it. The Tsarevitch's behaviour is isolating her, she can feel it getting worse with every gift he sends, and the notes make it worse, pushing her further and further away from the giggling grisha who think his behaviour as sweet and romantic. If it wasn't for Genya steadying presence, Alina thinks she would be quite afraid of the spider's web she has landed in. Strangely though, for all the worry it causes her, this dangerous dance is also starting to show Alina her own strength – it's a sink or swim challenge as she navigates the perilous waters of court politics, but she's learning: learning and growing in confidence. For all that the unknown scares her, for all she worries incessantly over what Vasily is planning beneath that vacuous exterior, she knows that she can handle him. She can manage on her own and she can defend herself.
It's a heady thought, and one that warms her as she sits in her bedroom, looking at the empty space where the garish dress had been returned so many times. She isn't some poor powerless serving girl or some brow beaten woman who will capitulate to the Tsarevitch's wiles and demands. She is the Sun Summoner, and by all the saints she will show him what that means if he tries to force her.
With the newly prescribed, valerian free, headache tincture inside her the painful pounding of her head slowly recedes, leaving her feeling calmer and more alert. Her nerves are still too unsettled by the day for her to sleep yet and she still has no desire to join the others in their revelry. As she looks around her room, wondering what she should do to settle her mind, her eyes land on the little red book the Apparat had pressed into her hands that day in the library.
It takes only three steps to move from the window she has been looking out of to the table where the book sits, the familiar feel of it soothing her like an old friend. Taking her prize to her bed, she climbs into the nest of pillows before cracking open the Lore of Old Ravka.
The book is much as she remembered it from her childhood lessons with each chapter telling a different folk tale. When she was little her mama and Aleksander would act out her favourite stories for her at bedtime, Mei-Xing adopting different voices for the different characters while Aleksander created their forms with his shadows so she could see the story play out in front of her like it was her own private stage. She loved those times, particularly in the early days when the loss of her papa was as still so very near, as it was one of the few occasions she would see her mother smile.
Tracing the contents page with a gentle finger, Alina spots something she hadn't noticed before, there is a place marker on one of the pages. The fine ribbon rests between the third and fourth stories, partially obscuring the title and the beautiful illuminated drawings that border it.
Looking down at the golden cloth, Alina frowns, tempted to ignore the fable so clearly marked for her attention. She's never been fond of this particular tale, finding it a sad reflection on humanity that they could willingly destroy such beauty in order to claim its power. Her fingers itch to flick to the next story in the book, the one about a piper and missing children or the one beyond that about the beggar woman who taught a cruel king humility and compassion. Those were the tales she liked best as a child, the ones where good triumphed and people got what they deserved.
This story though is a different kettle of fish, a tale about selfishness and greed. Her teacher at the time had said it was a celebration of human resourcefulness, but Alina been unconvinced then and remained unconvinced now.
As far as creation stories go, it's okay and nothing much out of the ordinary, except that it's old, ancient really. So old that no one could remember whether it was Ravkan, Shu, Fjerdan or even Kerch in origin. It's one of the few stories that transcended culture and could be found across every country. Details might differ between regions, but the base story is always the same, telling the tale of the fabled Court of Night and Day.
Mei-Xing had told her once that in the Shu version the legendary Queen of Day and King of Night were lesser gods who were captured - not killed – by humans and enslaved by their new masters. In Fjerda, they were evil spirits sent to torment and trick humanity, while in the heavily atheistic Ketterdam they were mortals gifted with fearsome powers.
The Ravkan version is different again. In this account the King and Queen were gods… gods that the Ravkan people killed in order to steal their power. It's by far the darkest of the translations Alina had heard but it did perhaps explain Ravka's rather bizarre relationship with religion; which ignored gods and instead deified Saints – ordinary people born with special abilities and even more special destinies.
Alina hesitates just as her fingers are about to flick past the marker. The temptation to ignore one of her least favourite tales is strong, but… the Apparat had surely placed the bookmark there for a reason. He had been so insistent that she needed to read this book that there had to be a reason for it.
She sits there for some minutes trapped by her irresolute thoughts, fingers tracing the careful illuminated title of the tale. It's as she's debating the merits of skipping versus slogging through the book in order that Alina spots the curious detail hidden within the beautiful border of the title page. There on the title page is a sun and a new moon, woven into the repeating flower pattern edging. It's like one of those magic images – at first all you see if the first image, but once you see the second hidden one, that is all you can see and you wonder how you ever missed it. Once noticed, she can clearly see that the pattern is repeated around the border, but more than that, hidden within the twining flower stems is another image – that of a stag.
The imagery is strange. Strange but also intriguing. It's the mystery that finally convinces Alina to settle herself comfortably and start reading the story as her curiosity gets the better of her.
In the beginning there was nothing and everything. All that was, all that wasn't, all that might be, all that might not come to pass. There was nothing and there was everything. An endless moment of total Potential. Then it exploded. Potential became reality and new things were created. Out of the nothing came light and its companion darkness. Stars were born and worlds created and slowly infinite Potential started getting smaller as new rules came to govern the new reality. With each new law, with each new creation, Potential shrunk further until it only existed in the future, in the worlds and decisions yet to be. As reality spread the force known as Potential disappeared into the cracks between the building blocks that made up reality.
At first only light and dark existed, but then life came into being - a final act of Potential to create beings of infinite potential, even if they, like their creator were doomed to lose their potential even as their strove to realise it. With each decision made, Potential disappeared even as other potential was created.
In this void of power two gods came into being: one had power over night and one who controlled the day. As life grew and expanded, they nurtured it with their powers. So the world continued, life spinning on under the care of the gods. But as time passed they grew lonely and confined in their solitary domains, until one day they left the heavens and instead journeyed to the land they had for so long kept watch over. There they enthralled the humans and animals they found, binding them to their Court of Night and Day. With their presence the land around them was prosperous and verdant, a beautiful garden filled with bounty.
But outside the territories claimed by the King and Queen the other lands languished, becoming a desolate and barren wasteland. Slowly, the humans from the desert grew jealous of the abundance they saw in the lands of the Court. They coveted the prosperity and wished it for themselves. They envied the plentiful food and the easy lives of those that lived in the garden. But most of all they grew angry at the power the King and Queen could wield – power that could defeat starvation, that could banish sickness; power that could win wars, decimating any who stood against them.
It wasn't fair, the people of the wilderness cried, that the protection of light and dark should only be extended to some. It wasn't right that people in other lands should starve so that some would never go without. It was unjust that the whole world should be subject to the whims of beings who cared only for a part of it.
As the discontent grew, more rallied to the cause and came to see that far from saving them, The King of Night and the Queen of Day had enslaved humanity, and people questioned whether gods should be the master or the servants of life.
Time passed and the rebellion grew, but as yet they had no way to right the injustice done to them, until one day the opportunity finally arrived. There was to be a grand celebration held, hosted by the Court, to celebrate the end of a particularly bad winter – one so fierce that even the Queen of Day had not been able to fully protect her beloved garden from the winter's wrath.
The rebellion, led by a brave man named Nikolai, hid themselves inside a gift for the King and Queen - a statue of the legendary double headed firebird – and there they waited until the perfect moment. As the King and Queen left their thrones of power to join the celebration, Nikolai's men jumped out from their hiding place and bound the gods. There in the legendary court, the King and Queen were stripped of their powers and cast back into the sky from whence they came, forever cursed to be apart, always chasing to catch a glimpse of the other but never again to meet.
As a final act, the people of the court tore asunder the crowns of the King of Night and Queen of Day and broke their golden thrones, scattering the pieces across the world so that never could the power of the gods be remade or regained.
In joy all the peoples of the land celebrated their reunion. No longer was there the garden and the wastelands, but instead all could enjoy the bounties of day and night. In reward for Nikolai's cunning and skill he was named King of the now united people and adopted as his symbol the double headed firebird that had won them their victory.
There's a horrid churning in her stomach as Alina finishes the story, an acidic, burning sensation as she fights against the nausea rocking through her. Oh gods. Her fingers tremble where they grip the edges of the book. It can't be true. Surely it can't be true. It's just a story. A stupid fairy-tale. Old folkore that's more nonsense than fact. It's clearly made up, especially that bit at the end involving Nikolai, the founding father of the Lantsov dynasty – they've only been ruling Ravka for some six hundred years, but this story must predate that by centuries. The first saints, for saints' sakes, were thought to have lived well over 1500 years ago. So no, that lovely imagery and symbolism at the end was clearly hogwash - probably inserted by one of the Tsar's greedy ancestors as a way to claim legitimacy
And yet… and yet the story speaks to her, calls to her as if it's a half forgotten memory of something that she ought to know but can't quite remember. The déjà vu is as disorientating as it is disturbing, and Alina cannot help it as she slams the book shut and throws it across the room, as if the act will somehow distance her from the words she has just read.
It's too much. Too much. Too much. Too much. What does it mean? Is she mad to see the parallels between the Queen of Day and her, the Sun Summoner. She feels mad, like her sanity is tumbling and tearing around her. It can't be true. It can't be.
Her mind is too chaotic now for sleep and the book, lying innocently on the floor, taunts her with every breath she takes. It can't be true… and yet she feels a horrible certainty that it is, or rather that parts of it are right. She feels the truth of it in her bones, in the sparkles shimmering along the bare skin of her arms.
Panic and her roiling thoughts drive her from her warm bed and, half in a daze, she pulls on her kefta over her thick winter nightdress before padding out into the dark, empty hallway. Her feet know the way and before she has consciously decided on where she should go, she has already reached her destination, her hand raised to knock on the familiar door. The Botkin who answers a second later looks as he always does, as if it isn't a quarter to the midnight hour and long past the time all Grisha should have been tucked up in their beds.
With a gentle smile, the giant man steps back, waving her into his rooms and towards the warmth of the fire still blazing in his hearth. As she settles herself in one of the two chairs before the fire, her teacher presents her with a warm cup, the familiar herbal scent doing more to calm her anxious nerves than her walk or the deep breaths she has been trying to surreptitiously take.
Her hand is shaking as she puts the book on the table between them, open to the title page of the Court of Night and Day, the gold lettering gleaming in the flickering light.
Botkin glances at the book and then resumes his careful perusal of Alina's features.
"You are troubled, daughter." He says softly. Alina can only nod. Troubled is an understatement.
"You know this story?" she asks the older man, tone oddly defiant and her jaw set in a stubborn line, as if she's expecting a battle to gain the answers she is certain her teacher holds. Why she is certain, she cannot say, but certain she is and it burns within her, keeping her back straight and her gaze unwavering even in the face of Botkin's silence.
Without words, Bodkin calmly walks over to a cupboard and removes a covered board and box from the dark shadows within. Still serene and calm he sets the board on the low table between the two chairs, methodically setting out the lines of white and black pieces on their squares.
"If it is answers you seek, daughter, then we play."
Alina's eyes drop to the tiny army glowing dimly in the reflected light of the flames, curious fingers reaching out to touch the white pieces he has placed before her. "Why?" she asks, her confusion clear. The chess set is beautiful and unusual. The pieces are all familiar and the usual form, but the detailing is unique, special. It is evidently a costly set, hand carved and with exquisite care and attention to detail. While the white king and queen have the large upright crowns of the Tsar and Tsarina the opposing monarchs are painted black and gold and have circlets of silver white interwoven with flowers set around their heads. They remind her of something, and she thinks of her the dream a few nights before, the one that is still fragmented and illusive. One of the few images she has since remembered is of crowns lying shattered on the floor, seeing the black king and queen before her, her mind jumps to the story that had brought her to this room at such a late hour, and she knows. This is no coincidence.
Without conscious thought, Alina spins the board, abdicating the white army in favour of the black and gold side. She's had enough of being cast in the white role to last a lifetime and something about the unusual detailing of the black army calls to her. Botkin nods and settles back, a pleased grin on his face. "You are anxious, daughter. Shock, I think. Chess will help – good for calming the mind and allowing time to think. Questions you have. Some I can answer, while other must be found. Be careful though, daughter," the larger man cautions softly, "in what questions you ask, for you may not like the answer."
He reaches a large hand over the board and moves the queen's pawn forward two squares. If Alina has any doubts about the sense of her teacher's plan they are quickly put to rest as in moments she feels her pounding heart start to calm and her jittery nerves start to still as her mind focuses on the game. Chess has never been one of her preferred games for all that she is a good player, reminding her of long days locked in doors when she was too poorly to go out. Still, Botkin is a challenging opponent and it takes all of Alina's skill to avoid the traps he neatly lays for her.
For a time, the only noise in that little room is the soft thunking sound of wooden pieces moving about the board.
At last, after half an hour of intense battle, Alina feels ready to ask the questions swarming around her mind. "You know the story?" She asks again.
Botkin nods, moving his castle three places and taking one of her pawns.
"You were expecting me," the thought troubles her. For all his serenity, surely even Botkin should have shown some surprise at her turning up at his door at such a late hour, yet he hadn't. He hadn't looked surprised – not by her presence and not by the book she had thrown on the table.
Again, Botkin nods, but this time he also elucidates. "Yes. Once I knew the book had made its way to you, I knew that sooner or later you would seek answers."
Irritation sweeps through her at the non-answer, the feeling that once again people are keeping things about her secret makes her heart twist and her stomach burn. Along her arms she feels a now familiar tingle as her skin starts shimmering with a bright, cold light, the sun reacting to her emotions.
With practiced ease Botkin moves his queen into play, distracting Alina from her frustration as she sees the danger to her knight. Swift fingers move a pawn, protecting the knight from the queen and increasing the pressure on the white king. If all goes to plan then she will have the white king in check in four moves.
And then Alina understands. The chess is there as a distraction, a safety net, to protect them both. Since her altercation with Zoya, the sun has been easier to call, but its also far more closely linked to her emotions then before. Genya has told her that when she's happy her skin glows, but it's also true when she's angry or frustrated. The light then, however, is not a gentle glow, but a gleaming, glittering light, like a thousand shards of glass are imbedded in her skin.
"You fear me?" her voice sounds numb to her own ears, flat and lifeless. It was too much to hope after her talk with Baghra that this would not come back to haunt her.
Botkin's eyes narrow as they watch her. "Yes," he says at last. "You have the power of a god, but the control of a human. It would be unwise not to fear. Fear is there for a reason, it is a caution to keep us alive."
"You fear yourself, also." Alina can only not her agreement, the words sticking in her throat, choking her.
"That is wise," the large man says gently. "The powers of a god, wielded indiscriminately and without care, can do much harm."
"Power must be yoked with compassion," she murmurs softly, recalling her father's favourite aphorism, one that has often been repeated throughout her life by her mama.
Botkin's smile is almost a benediction as he inclines his head, his approval clear. "Our General has forgotten this. Our Tsar as well. Too many men there are now in power who have become corrupted or lost. It is an important lesson, daughter. One you must remember."
"You say I have the powers of a god…do you think I'm a god?" Even to her own ears, her voice sounds thin and plaintive.
Botkin moves one of his pieces and studies the board. "What is a god?" His knight is challenging her castle now and one of her bishops. Either move she makes will result in the loss of one piece, the question she struggles with is deciding which is the least important in her greater strategy.
"I don't know," she answers after a moment, her fingers hovering above the castle, "something bigger than us, something ineffable." She's never been a religious person, and her mother's lack of enthusiasm on the subject meant it was often ignored and unacknowledged during her childhood.
Her hand moves like lightening to nudge her own knight to put the white king in check, earning her an approving nod from her teacher.
"Answer me this, daughter. Does it matter what you are?"
"I…I - I don't want to be a god – especially not like the ones in the book," she says softly as Botkin moves his king to safety. This is the crux of her problems, the same one that has dogged her steps since that day in The Fold.
"No one should have that sort of power." Botkin agrees, "that is what the storytellers wished to convey. Always more than one side to a tale though, and the one we have was written with purpose."
This makes Alina pause in the process of moving a pawn, her index finger resting gently on its curved head. It's one of the things she's always struggled with and was the most common cause of friction between her and Baghra when she was younger. Alina for all her intelligence is not naturally a critical thinker, she's not like Aeksander and his mother who can see circles within wheels, who can sniff out a plot at 600 paces, and think in spirals.
It's not that she's particularly gullible or innocent, it's just that, for the most part, Alina thinks in straight lines, and she tends to assume that the rest of the world does too. This tendency had caused no end of arguments between Alina and Baghra as she grew up - especially as the old woman seemed to get more cryptic with each passing year. At the time she had resented the endless lessons in critical reasoning that Baghra liked to spring on her, now though she can see the benefit and importance of what her teacher had been trying to explain in her own inimitable way.
That legend had been written, if not by the Lantsov's, then with that family in mind. It had been written to defend the decision to murder their gods to steal their powers. She thinks of her original feelings when she saw the marker, of the disquiet this tale has always caused her. Of course it was going to portray what the rebellion did as the only right course of action, this was a piece of carefully sculpted propaganda - it had a story to sell, one promoting the current order.
Something of her thoughts must show on her face as Botkin smiles again - his grin full of approval.
"Then it does not matter, daughter. You are as you are. What does the name matter? To an ant a human is a god. It does not mean that he is, nor change how he behaves."
The image this creates in her mind brings a smile to her lips. It is a fair point.
"Labels do not define us, daughter." Botkin's eyes are stern as the meet her own, holding her gaze until she looks away, conceding. It isn't a point she agrees with completely. She understands the point her teacher is trying make, the importance of not letting what other people think define her, but labels do have power – they create expectation and change how people behave around and to the object of the label. Labels are like an invisible force controlling the movements of people caught in their orbit.
Botkin is only part right. She might not think she's a god, but other people did – do – and that is dangerous. Already people are clamouring for her to destroy The Fold. No one had consulted her about what her plans were, what her thoughts were, or if she's even capable of it, they had simply assumed: she is the Sun Summoner, therefore she must destroy The Fold. Quod erat demonstrandum. The name of Sun Summoner is a noose around her neck, one she is desperate to escape.
In her mind's eye she sees again the broken thrones, the shattered crowns and for a moment she catches a glimpse of something else, of swirling black shadows and a bright golden light, before the images once more disappear.
"Do you think the story is true?" It's a painful question and one she's in two minds as to whether she wants answered. She knows this version has been written with an audience and purpose in mind, but the question niggles at her - what if the original Sun Summoner, for that is who she thinks the queen was, used her powers for evil. What if she was a cruel dictator as the story suggested. What if that is to be her fate - to save Ravka and then be murdered by the very people she had fought to save. There is ice in her veins at the thought. Many of the Saints so revered by the Ravkan people had met untimely and unpleasant ends by those they had tried to help.
"True enough," is all Botkin says as he puts her king in check mate. There is troubled frown on his face that does little for the nervous butterflies futtering in her stomach.
With trembling fingers she knocks over the black king and bows her head in the traditional Shu gesture acknowledging defeat. There's a sharp scraping sound as a chair is pushed back and then a warm hand rests on her shoulder.
"That does not mean though that her end will be your end, daughter. There are many who will not allow it. I will not allow it." It's a vow - an oath - the weight of which sinks into Alina's skin as her eyes lock with her teacher's. Botkin's expression is serious, with a fierce resolution burning in his eyes. "Trust that we will not let you fall to corruption, nor that we will allow others to hurt you. Long has the Soldat Sol stood watch, long have we waited. We will not fail now."
It's only later after Alina has been returned to the safety of her room that the oddity of Botkin's words strikes her. She has heard of the Soldat Sol before, but where she cannot think. The name has a familiar ring to it, a resonance that reminds her of something - of another strange conversation in a room full of books and secrets - but the thought fades as she slips at last into the welcoming embrace of sleep.
A/N
So, a couple of interesting for facts, for people like me who love them. The imagery in this chapter was chosen with a lot of care, particularly around the crowns and thrones. The flower interwoven with the crown of night is Antirrhinum – also known as Snapdragon. Snapdragon is associated with grace, benevolence, strength and protection. However, it can also symbolise indifference, deception and denial. While ivy is thought to symbolise the trust, affection and the bond between married couples. The crown of day is wreathed in Myosotis and irises. Myosotis, also known as forget me not, represents hope, remembrance and true and undying love, they're also associated with death and rebirth. Irises, which are Alina's favourite flower, commonly symbolise wisdom, power, faith and purity.
If you want an image of what the crowns look like, think Thranduil's circlet in the Battle of Five Armies, only made of glowing white material and interwoven with flowers.