Summary: They say that trouble always comes in threes. With perplexing puzzles, cryptic clergy and the attentions of an increasingly persistent prince, Alina's in for a difficult couple of days.
A/N Hi everyone, and happy bank holiday weekend. To celebrate, I've been hard at work writing and you, my lucky readers, are in for a treat with a chapter posted per day :D. Thank you so much to everyone who commented on the last chapter. It really thrills me to see how much people are enjoying this story.
Just to clarify, I've change jurda parem quite a bit from what it did in canon – mostly because like a lot of grisha verse it wasn't used consistently and seemed to evolve through the books. In this version it only affects grisha. If a non-grisha were to come into contact with it, it would be a mild irritant, nothing more. In canon, the drug acts as an enhancer but it comes with a price, twisting the minds of the imbiber and causing a wasting effect on the body. In this story, jurda parem isn't an enhancer, but it does change the mental state of the user – it effectively takes away all conscious control and unleashes grisha powers, in doing this it also turns the grisha's powers on themselves, which is why it is so often fatal. Think of it like a petrol fire, it'll burn until its run out of fuel – in this case the fuel is what the body can sustain, a lot of which depends on how powerful they are. Hope that makes sense :).
The news arrives during lunch on a cold and blustery winters day. Since that last, only part remembered dream over a week ago, Alina has finally been blessed with dreamless sleep. Instead of reassuring her though the absence of the strange dreams leaves her unsettled and oddly anxious, as if part of her is missing but she can't explain what, or where, or why. It's so unsettling that she even ventures to the infirmary to ask a healer about it. Something feels wrong – off – but trying to articulate her nebulous worries only makes Alina feel foolish and uncertain, leaving her tongue tied and unusually inarticulate. Garin and Sonia, the two healers on duty at the early hour she drops by listen to her with varying degrees of scepticism.
Anya thinks that it's delayed shock from all the change of the last few months while Garin thinks she's suffering from a case of pre-display stress and performance jitters.
The Winter Fete is only three weeks away now, the date for her grand display edging ever nearer and nearer. Maybe a few weeks ago this would have made her anxious, but now with her newfound control Alina just looks upon the Fete as a necessary evil to be endured rather than something to be feared. She has no doubt she will be able to pull of a suitably impressive show that will dazzle and wow the Imperial Family's guests.
Both are wrong. Alina knows this in the same way that knows that she's the Sun Summoner. She's not feeling stressed, or even particularly concerned about the Winter Fete and the pomp, circumstance and disruption it will bring with it, and for the first time she's actually quite relaxed and accepting of all the upheaval her life has undergone recently. There's something else, a niggle she can't quite trace, a feeling of something being wrong, an absence that unsettles her, and the dreams are only part of it. She hasn't heard from Aleksander in nearly three weeks.
With the distance between Os Alta and Caryeva, lack of regular news is not particularly surprising as it takes three days on fast horses to journey between the two points. In the six weeks since Aleksander left the Little Palace, Alina has received two letters from him - both brief, hastily scribbled notes telling her not to worry - along with the weekly update from Ivan sent to both the Tsar and the senior officers in the Second Army who are deputising for the General. What is surprising though is the lack of any form of update in nearly two weeks.
Alina, like many of the senior grisha, has been relying on those updates to reassure her as to their leader's wellbeing and how the war is going, so the sudden silence is both unusual and unnerving, and she's not the only one to feel it.
In the last week the mood of the Little Palace has changed, growing more sombre and restive as each day passes without the expected update. For Alina though there is another element to it – that dream. There is much she cannot yet recall – and maybe never will – but she keeps seeing flashes in her mind, of a battlefield, of mud drenched in blood and a sea of dead bodies in Ravkan green and Shu red, of swirling darkness and pain. Oh saints, so much pain, and the heart-breaking certainty that whatever was about to happen would be a cataclysm. She sees roiling shadows, writhing in agony, as they fight some unseen foe.
Without information Alina has no way of knowing if what she has seen is somehow true, or whether the dream is just that – a dream, a horrible, horrifying nightmare of a dream, but still a dream all the same. The waiting makes her tense, anxious for reasons she can't explain to anyone lest they think her mad – not even Genya, who she trusts, knows about the strange dreams she has been having. Later, Alina will wonder if perhaps part of her, the subconscious part that remembered the dream, had been preparing her for the news as she was half expecting it when it finally arrived.
The dispatch rider arrives just as the senior dinning hall is finishing lunch on that cold Thursday afternoon. The day has been overcast since sunrise, dull and gloomy – the sort of weather befitting the news they are about to be told – when the rider, dirty and dishevelled from the road, practically falls into the dinning hall in his haste.
The sight of a corporal in the First Army falling flat on his face in the Little Palace would normally bring about raucous laughter from any grisha around to watch the comedic moment, but today there is only bemused silence as David and Anatoli help him to his feet.
Once vertical again, Alina can clearly see the dark stains on the green uniform, the crusty dark brown of dried blood, and she feels her face pale. Around her, her fellow grisha are rapidly coming to the same conclusion she has reached, and she feels Nadia and Marie both grip her hands tightly as they huddle closer together as if finding strength in proximity.
"Forgive me," the boy blushes as he attempts to straighten his ill fitting uniform. He's so young, is Alina's first thought, once the shock of seeing the old blood starts to fade. This isn't a soldier, this is a boy, one who is probably not yet 16 if she were to guess. There were rules in the First Army, setting the age for recruits. Any who wished to join the Imperial Army had to be over 16 years of age. In practice though boys are young as 12 or 13 would sign up believing that they would get better food and have a higher chance of survival in the army than living in poverty outside it, and the recruiters turned a blind eye, too desperate for canon fodder to do the due diligence their honour should have demanded.
"Could someone tell me where to find Second Commander Fedyor Kaminsky?"
"Here, boy," Feydor calls as he rises from the table next to Alina's. "What news do you have?"
"I have an urgent message, Commander – from First Commander Sokolov."
At the mention of his lover's name, Fedyor's face changes, paling slightly before becoming emotionless as he pulls his emotions under rigid control. "He is alive?"
"Aye, Commander. Alive and on his way here. He bid me bring you this letter."
Walking around the table, Fedyor grasps the boy's arm, directing him out of the hall. "Come," he says, in a tone of voice that brooks no opposition. "We will talk somewhere we will not disturb the others and you can tell me your message."
There is complete and utter silence in the dining hall as the heavy door closes behind the pair, then chaos erupts as everyone starts talking.
Genya finds her a few minutes after her escape. The red head has a steely look in her eye as she guides Alina towards the quiet comfort of the library.
"I heard a rumour that there's been a messenger," she says by way of a greeting. Alina nods, "he arrived a little while ago."
"Any news?"
"Not yet," Alina's reply is quiet and filled with worry. Anxiety is gnawing and swirling in her stomach, making her wish she hadn't had lunch with how unsettled it now is.
Genya plops down onto on of the benches, tugging Alina down with her, so that they are sitting side by side near Alina's favourite window.
"I'll wait with you then," the Tailor says with a grin, and they settle down to wait.
As it turns out they don't have to wait long, as little more than half an hour after they entered the library, Fedyor appears, a worried frown on his face.
"Where's the messenger?" Alina asks as Fedyor seats himself on the bench opposite her and Genya.
"In the kitchen, eating his fill."
Alina smiles, "that's kind of you." But Fedyor only shakes his head, "The boy has more than earnt it, and saints know he will not receive such compassion when he goes to the barracks at the Imperial Palace. He risked much coming here first with his message, such loyalty should be rewarded." The Heartrender sighs, a melancholy expression flitting across his face.
"Surely it can't be that bad," Genya asks, softly.
"Worse." Is all he says. For a moment he rests his head in his hands, heaving a huge sigh as his fingers dig deep into his scalp, then he straightens - his sad eyes meeting Alina's confused gaze.
"We won the war. The Shu have been pushed back," he starts, but then trails off, uncertain how to finish what needs to be said.
"But surely that's a good thing?" Genya levels a piercing look at her friend, frown in place as she fiddles with a book marker that has been left discarded and forgotten on the table.
"Our losses were very great," although his voice is distant and controlled, there is pain in his eyes and the way his fingers drum against the wood belies the calm tone he is striving to maintain. Through it all, Alina sits quietly, hands balled into fists in her kefta, as her thoughts whirl.
Next to her Genya gasps, her face paling. "The General?" she cries, turning to look at Alina like she expects her to crumble at any moment.
Fedyor nods slowly, his eyes never leaving Alina's, full of unspoken compassion that only makes her heart pound harder with worry. Still, she can't bring herself to speak, as if her asking the question she so desperately needs answered will make her greatest fear a reality.
"He was found unconscious on the battlefield," the Heartrender says gently, trying to soften the blow Alina knows is coming. "He'd been injected with jurda parem." Next to her she hears a cry and feels a warm hand wrap around her own. They both know what that drug is, and what is does. For a grisha it's a death sentence – death by torture and torment, survival is rare and those that do not succumb are left with but half a life.
"That he has survived this long is nothing short of a miracle given how strong he is and the dose he was given, but Ivan writes that he is very weak."
"What of the healers who went with him?" Genya demands, voice full of the pain Alina can't express.
Fedyor shakes here head solemnly, "both dead," he confirms sadly.
"Then what can be done?" Another tear slips down the Tailor's cheek.
"Ivan is bringing the General home," he answers. "He hopes that the healers here will have some solution, but truthfully it is in the hands of the saints now."
"Where?" Alina croaks, then coughs, clearing her throat before saying in a stronger, clearer voice, "how long until they get here?"
"A day, maybe more," Fedyor's eyes are searching as they flick across her features, he must see something for he reaches over the table to cup her cheek. It's an astonishingly intimate action, more so for a Heartrender for whom touch is integrally linked to their own gifts, but he keeps his hand there soothing her aching heart with his gentle hold. "Do not lose hope, Alina," he says firmly, "that the General still lives after six days shows his strength, and if any grisha can recover from this then I know it will be our General."
For some minutes the three friends sit in silence, two worried and one numb, until at last Fedyor stands and takes his leave, the noise echoing all the louder for the deafening silence in the library. Next to her Genya also gets up, wrapping her arms around the brunette in a fierce hug. The great bell is ringing a quarter to three and Alina knows that the Tailor is expected by the Tsarina on the hour. That she has stayed so long is a mark of her affection for Alina and one she appreciates even if she can't speak it at the moment.
On her own the silence is piercing and Alina feels the numbness grow as she stares out of the window, Fedyor's words ringing in her ears. Beneath the numbness though is something else, a strange sense of déjà vu, as if the news that has so shocked everyone else is something she already knew.
Still she thinks to herself, her damp eyes fixed on the horizon beyond the trees near the south gate, the worst has happened now, surely her day can only get better.
As if to prove Alina wrong, twenty minutes later the next gift arrives.
It's exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time. That's what Alina will say later to a highly amused Genya. It's one present too far on a day when all she desperately wants is to be left to fret in peace. Alina doubts she has ever felt less like being given a gift than at that moment with the news of Aleksander so raw and her mind full of worry. What turns her eyes molten gold with ire though is the callous insensitivity of the display with which the present is presented.
It isn't that Alina is a naturally short-tempered person, or even one who is normally quick to anger, it's just that the Tsarevitch is finding new and interesting ways of pushing her buttons and doing it with a gusto and lack of care normally seen with small children who have no appreciation for the possible consequences. Who knew that being given presents could be so vexatious.
Vasily's next offering arrives with as much ostentation and pageantry as possible. Six servants clad in immaculate imperial white uniforms appear at the door of the Little Palace, complete with a man who must have been a town crier in a previous life with the way his voice resonates through the vestibule and attracts attention. This man then proceeds to demonstrate his talent by bellowing through the doors for the Oprinichki to open up and allow them to enter as they have a gift for the Sankta from his Royal Highness, Prince Vasily Alexander Pyotr Ludovic Lantsov, Crown Prince of all Ravka. This proclamation is then followed by the sound for three horns blowing and boots thumping on the flagstones, before they start the whole bloody cacophony all over again.
Even under normal circumstances such behaviour would not have impressed Alina, nor for that matter, would it have encouraged Aleksander's exceedingly loyal Oprinichki to do as asked and 'open the doors'. As it is, all it achieves is to embarrass and annoy the Sun Summoner - who has the misfortune to be crossing the vestibule at exactly the wrong moment - and anger the guards who look at each and remain exactly where they were.
Their duty and instructions are clear. No unauthorised person is to be admitted or given entry to the Little Palace. They are once again on lockdown.
The knocking and hullabaloo continues, attracting yet more attention as curious grisha start milling around wondering what on earth is going on.
Eventually, to save all their ears, Alina strides towards the doors, murder flashing in her eyes, as she prepares to deliver a set down that will send the racket makers running for cover. Unsurprisingly, this decision is met by three unimpressed stares from the two Oprinichki and the newly arrived Fedyor, and whole lot of sighing from the group of girls and boys watching the show with keen interest, but it doesn't stop her.
Heaving an annoyed sigh, Alina opens the heavy front door and slips through before one of the guards has the wherewithal to stop her. She chose an unfortunate moment as she ends up with a horn being blown in her face by one of the enthusiastic trumpeters. It does nothing for her mood, which quickly becomes apparent to the servants who sensibly fall silent when they spot the storm clouds gathering on the Sun Saint's face.
Once quite has returned, Alina channels her best Aleksander impression, drawing herself up to her full height and looking down her nose at the assembled group with a gimlet stare even Baghra would have been impressed by. "What in the name of all the Saint's is going on?" she demands, voice cold and imperious, her skin glittering like she's been painted with gold dust.
Now looking a little shamefaced, the town crier steps up, wringing his hat in his hands. "Beggin' your pardon, my Lady. But the Tsarevitch has a gift for you."
Alina raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "And that required all this noise?" she asks acerbically. Internally, part of her winces at the blatant rudeness, her mother's views on proper behaviour swimming round her head, but the rest of her is too annoyed to watch her words, goaded beyond any desire to control her temper or refrain from excoriating the source of her keen embarrassment. As the Tsarevitch is wisely absent at this particular moment, that just leaves his lackies in the firing line.
"Aye, lady," the town crier, who has evidently been elected as the spokesman for the group, says, looking apologetic. "His Highness said we were to get this gift to you and put it into your own hands and that we weren't to come back with it, or t'would be our hides." The man is pale as he twists his hat between anxious fingers. "He weren't joking neither, not with what he did to old Roger," one of the other servants mutters under his breath, so quiet it might have gone unnoticed if not for the Sun Summoner's sensitive hearing.
Alina sighs, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, her ire deflating like a popped balloon. Bloody Vasily. She should have known better than to think he'd give up after the dress. What is she meant to do now? She can't send the gift back this time, not knowing that he might take his umbrage out on the poor staff, that wouldn't be right, but she also can't accept it. What a pickle. She's damned if she does and damned if she doesn't.
Behind her the door opens after a brief scuffle and Fedyor appears, righting his kefta and smoothing it back to its perfect fit - that in doing so it shows off the Heartrender's finely toned physique and strong muscles is of course a complete coincidence, as is the way he casually flexes his fingers with a grin that would put a shark to shame.
"Alina?" there's the question she's been dreading, and unfortunately she has no answer. The devil or the deep blue sea. What a choice.
If she takes the gift then the servants will likely be okay, but it will also encourage more outrageous behaviour from the prince – behaviour she is already concerned enough about at the moment without it escalating further. If he thinks she can be manoeuvred by threatening to hurt others then he won't stop here, he will use it and use it, backing her into a corner – a corner she knows instinctively she must not be caught in no matter what.
But what to do. Next to her wonderful, loyal Fedyor stands ready. That he can feel her stress and anxiety is clear, even if doesn't understand it – he's a Heartrender, she'd be frankly amazed if hadn't been listening to her heartbeat the moment she stepped through those doors, monitoring it for the slightest change. In this open forum she can't talk to him about it though, can't ask for his advice, or what she should do. This is all on her. It's a realisation that makes her heart speed up so that it feels like its galloping in her chest, beating against her ribs so hard it's probably visible to anyone watching, her thoughts whirling faster and faster.
She doesn't see him move, but she certainly feels the effects as her heart slows, returning to its normal steady rhythm and she feels calm creep over her. Now that her body isn't full of adrenalin she can think clearly again, and she sees the beckoning glimmer of a third path.
With a nod to her friend, she steps forward, one hand raised for the package. Taking it from the servant she opens it. This time it is a scarf, beautifully embroidered with yellow roses and made from the softest cashmere. If it wasn't for the green coloured cloth she might have even been tempted to keep it, but these are the Tsarevitch's favourite colours and she won't be tricked into wearing or accepting them. Turning to the gangly youth who had blown his horn in her face, she smiles and say jovially, "hello, and what's your name?"
"Vasya, m'lady,"
"Well met, Vasya. And do you have a lady love at home?"
The youth nods, a blush creeping over her cheeks. "Yes'm. Katryne. Prettiest lass I've ever met, she has the blondest hair and the bluest eyes."
Alina smiles, thanking the saints for her choice and the predictability of young men. "Wonderful," she says gently. "And are you thinking of getting married?"
"Oh yes," the boy replies, his head nodding so fast she thinks for a moment it might come off from the force of it. "In the spring."
"Then I have a midwinter's gift for your bride-to-be. Green is much better suited to fair hair, I always think. Take this with my blessings." And she hands him the scarf, watching with amusement at the way the boy's eyes grow big and round.
"M…M'lady," he stutters as he tries to give back the costly gift. "I can't take this."
Alina shakes her head, closing his hands around it. "I'm certain if he knew that the Tsarevtich would wish you to have such a fine gift in celebration of your forthcoming marriage." Next to her, Fedyor coughs, his disbelief telegraphed only too clearly. It's a skepticism she agrees with, but she can't see any other option available to her.
The town crier looks near tears as he says, "Please m'lady. It's a kindly thought, but this is a gift for you. The Prince will be mighty angry if we return and you do not have it."
"Oh, don't worry about that. You've done exactly as your master ordered," she smiles blandly at the worried man. "You delivered the scarf to me, and you will not be returning with it. Those were the parameters of your mission?"
"Yes," the man agrees miserably.
"Then I don't see the problem. You've acquitted your duty – the scarf has been delivered, and you will not be returning with it. That I have given it to someone else is out of your control. If the Tsarevitch is upset by this then it is me he should be angry with."
That seems to reassure the troupe who are only too happy to return to the Imperial Palace, crowing over receiving the blessings of the Sankta.
Exhausted, Alina drops to sit on one of the steps, her head resting on her knees. What a saints forsaken day. Silently, Fedyor settles himself next to her, wrapping a careful arm around her shoulders.
"Do you want to tell me what that was about?" He asks softly.
Next to him, the Alina shaped balls lets out a dry, sardonic laugh. "Not particularly."
"It's a risky thing you did, Alina, baiting the Tsarevitch in such a way. That item is a costly gift, likely worth more than that poor boy could earn in a year working in the Palace.
Alina can only nod miserably. "I know."
"Then why? It's a dangerous thing to play games with any prince, let alone this one." It's a sound caution and one Alina wishes she didn't have to listen too.
"I'm already caught up in the game," she confides softly. "I have been since that thrice damned breakfast." Fedyor's silence is telling as it takes on a chilly, foreboding quality.
"What do you mean, 'Lina?"
"The Tsarina invited – ordered - me to breakfast a few weeks ago. Vasily was the there…"
"and the presents?"
"Started after."
"Hmmm," the thoughtful noise sounds more like a growl in the stillness of the afternoon. "But you sent the others back, why not just send this one back as well?"
"He threatened the servants," its barely a whisper but Fedyor hears it and this time the noise that escapes him is definitely a growl, an inarticulate expression of rage.
Alina laughs, turning her head sideways on her knees so she can meet her friend's eyes. "We've been in this odd dance now for three weeks. He sends me presents, I send them back, he sends something even more expensive, I send it back. We were in a holding pattern. Today he changed the rules. I couldn't send it back, not without risking him punishing the servants." The arm around her tightens and she feels more of that unnatural calm push through her.
"He is a despicable villain," Fedyor growls lowly. "To treat those in his care in such a way. To treat you this way. It is…"
"I know," Alina interrupts his angry speech. "Believe me, I know. But what can I do? If Al-the General was here he would be able to help, but he isn't and even when he arrives he won't be in any state to take on over-privileged princes who don't understand the word 'no'."
"Say the word, 'Lina, and I will stop his miserable heart from beating." It's a tempting promise and Alina loves Fedyor all the more for it, but they both know it would only spell trouble.
Breaking Alina's thought train, Fedyor's looks her in the eye, dark and deadly serious. "I'm serious, Alina. I know the risks and I know the consequences of such an act. It is not a promise I would make lightly, but believe me, if he so much as lays a hand on you – may the saints have mercy on his soul, for I will not, and nor will any who know you."
It's a startling declaration and one that makes Alina flush, but Fedyor isn't finished.
"You aren't just the Sun Summoner to me, Alina. You're my friend, the sister of my heart. Know that I will do anything to protect you – whether that is from murderous Fjerdans, random nutjobs or depraved princes. I will always stand with you."
It's only a little thing, but Fedyor knowing about her princely stalker helps. She didn't expect it too, but it does. She feels as if a little bit of the weight that has been pressing on her has been lifted. She's not alone in dealing with Vasily's attentions, her friends are with her. In the absence of Aleksander, this is an unlooked for boon and it gives her renewed strength – she will not break and she will not bow, Vasily will not win this dangerous game he is playing.
The rest of the day passes smoothly and before she knows it's bedtime and Genya is brushing her hair, soothing her like her mama used to when she was worried about a test or was missing Aleksander. The familiar comfort lulls her and within minutes she is soundly asleep, curled up amongst the warm covers of her bed.
The next day dawns bright with no hint of cloud in the sky. The ground is frozen with frost and crunches underfoot as Alina walks with Fedyor along the familiar path to Baghra's cottage. The old woman, safely ensconced in her own private world has yet to be told about her son, and it's with this in mind that Alina set out that morning. For all Baghra's cantankerousness and sniping, Alina knows that she truly cares about Aleksander. This news will devastate her. No one should lose a child, it's not the natural way of things, even if that child is well over five hundred years old.
Fedyor leaves her at the door. However much she trusts the Heartrender, this is not her secret to give, and she will not betray the trust given her by mother and son in being careless now. That Baghra is surprised to see her so early in the morning, far before her usual lesson time, is clear. Her black eyes are narrowed in her confusion, shadows creeping around the edges of her shawl. Suspicious and half shadowed in the dark of the cottage the familial resemblance between Baghra and her son has never been clearer to Alina, and she feels her heart quake at the thought of the news she must impart.
"Well, get on with it, girl," Baghra says, her stick thumping on the floor as she walks over to her usual chair. "You clearly have a purpose for being here – just spit it out."
With anyone else, such a speech would be rude, but with Baghra Alina sees only the worry driving her to be snappish.
Carefully, she sits on the wobbly visitor's chair that the old woman insists on keeping, reaching out a comforting hand to grasp the deceptively frail hand of her teacher. "I have news, Baghra," she begins gently. "Aleksander has been hurt."
Whatever the older woman had been about to say dies in her throat as she stills, the shadows around her the only movement as they shift restlessly, coiling over her thin shoulders.
"He's been hurt before," she says at last, her voice lacking its usual bite.
Alina shakes her head. "Not like this," she counters. "He was injected with jurda parem."
"Then he is dead." The words are wooden, lifeless, like the hand held between Alina's own.
"No!" she denies sharply, "he still lives. Ivan is bringing him here, they think the healers will be able to help."
But Baghra just bows her head. "Folly and foolishness, girl. You know as I do what that drug does. My poor boy, my Sasha."
It's the most emotion she's ever seen from Aleksander's mother, and certainly the most maternal she's seen her. The cottage is darker now, swarming with shadows. For a moment it reminds her of something, a flash of swirling darkness, of something held at bay by blood, will and light, but in another second the image is gone, disappearing back into the void as she is distracted by Baghra's grief.
With an inarticulate cry, the old woman bends over in her chair, great wracking sobs shaking her frail frame, and Alina springs up to wrap her arms around her. "He will not die, Baghra," she whispers fiercely against her white hair, "I won't let him. Don't give up hope."
Immortality has its draw backs. No matter what Aleksander had done in the past, it must have been a comfort to the old woman to know that she wouldn't be alone throughout eternity. To have that suddenly threatened is a shock the likes of which she hasn't had since that night 15 years ago when she stumbled upon her son's greatest secret stashed away in a tiny house in Os Alta.
Alina leaves half an hour later, having tucked an exhausted Baghra back into her bed, a warm cup of tea on the stand within easy reach. Aleksander's mother is not a woman prone to emotional displays – or emotion in general – and the short time she's spent with her has clearly fatigued the older woman and depleted her limited emotional reserves.
Tidying up the little cottage, Alina leaves it stocked with firewood and with a plate of food waiting for Baghra should she wish it. It isn't much, but it's all the comfort she can provide, and it helps her aching heart to care for Aleksander's mother.
There are no lessons that day. With Baghra in bed, the only other lessons Alina is due to have are self-defence with Botkin and Theory of the Small Science, with Madam Anya Keremsinov, but both are cancelled. Madam Keremsinov is also a healer and all healers are with Garin in the Infirmary brain storming and frantically searching through every medical tome in the Little Palace. Botkin on the other hand takes one look at Alina and decides that for his – and everyone else's – safety that it would be better to postpone training for that day. It's a wise decision. The sun is glittering just under skin, burning and itching for a fight. She's angry and restive, agitated and anxious, thrumming with nervous pent up energy.
Instead of a lesson, Botkin sits with her and meditates. For hours on end she sits with her teacher trying corral her uncooperative thoughts into peace and tranquillity. By the end of the third hour, Botkin sends her away to eat lunch with orders that she is to rest that afternoon, she may have stopped glowing, but her thoughts are no less dark and she feels the sun simmering, just waiting to escape.
Lunch is a desultory affair, with grisha flowing in and out of the senior dining hall. Normally, they all eat together, but today there is too much to do and instead people flit in and out in pairs or on their own. It creates an odd atmosphere, one full of tension, and turns the food to ash in Alina's mouth. It's both a symptom and a foreshadowing of what's yet to come. Most of the grisha still do not know about their General, but unease is spreading rapidly, and with it go the rumours, which in some ways are far more damaging. Even Marie and Nadia, who are normally irrepressible, are quiet as they eat, and Alina can't help but miss their usual giggling as they debate whatever sordid romance novel they are reading at that moment in time.
Her afternoon is just as dull. Until, that is, an enormous carriage pulls up in front of the Little Palace and Vasily gets out. The Tsarevich's arrival is as unexpected as it is unwelcome.
The first she knows about this latest development is when Marie comes screaming into her room and starts rummaging through her wardrobe. Nadia appears only a few moments later, but even she is unsuccessful in restraining their bubbly friend, as Marie pulls garment after garment out, holding it up briefly against Alina and then flinging it away. In amongst the excited babble, the news comes out, the Crown Prince is here, standing just outside the vestibule doors and asking to see the Sun Summoner.
Perhaps if Fedyor had been there she might have avoided the meeting, but as it is, he's in a meeting with several First Army Generals and is no where to be found. The Oprinichki standing guard are concerned, but these are younger men and less experienced than the pair who had been with her the day before, they do not know what to do or how to turn away the Tsar's son, and with Marie's excited approval there is little for Alina to do but go down and see her royal guest.
"I have come to take you to a ball celebrating our glorious victory," he announces grandiloquently as Alina steps out of the front door and before she has even worked out how to politely ask him why he's there disturbing her again. There is an ingratiating smile fixed on his face as if it's been glued on that unnerves her, but it's his eyes which truly ignite her concern. Normally a vacuous light blue, they are now dark, the pupils expanded so that there is almost no iris visible around them.
Alina stares for a moment in disbelief, not trusting she heard correctly – surely she must be mistaken.
A ball. A ball tonight. A ball on the eve of the army's return. A ball celebrating the Tsar's grand victory while the very same men who paid for that victory in blood and death are limping home without so much as a thought given to their comfort or condition. And don't get her started on the so called 'glories of war' – there is nothing glorious about war, it's all blood and death, missing body bits and broken minds, its pain and suffering. Anyone who says that war is glorious has clearly never experienced it first-hand, just like the spoilt princeling before her.
Shock and revulsion have so far kept her still and silent. The Tsarevich wants to dance and cavort… and… and party while so many loyal men are lying dead or wounded, while their General – her Aleksander – fights for his very life. It disgusts her and makes her head swim with anger.
The prince smiles again, evidently taking her horrified silence to be one of surprised pleasure at such an invitation and maidenly modesty at the condescension which he is showing in making it, for he steps forward with a courtly bow, and reaches for her hand. "Yes, a ball. Mother has been beside herself these last two days with preparing for it since we heard the news, and who better to open it then Ravka's Crown Prince and very own Sun Saint." The smile changes, transforming into a self-satisfied grin, one full of entitlement and surety that lowly peasant that Alina is, she will never deny him.
The ice in her mind thaws as fire races through her veins. As if the harassment isn't bad enough, as if the embarrassing presents doesn't cross a line, as if threatening servants in order to force her to accept them doesn't show what a shallow villainous creature he is. This is beyond all of that. The callous lack of consideration, the blatant disregard of the human cost of the victory, the smug certainty in his own superiority. Gold flares in her eyes, the sun burning within her as it begs to be unleashed.
Sense reasserts itself just before the cataclysm is released and Alina takes a deep steadying breath, forcing both anger and light back down to simmer in the pit of her stomach.
"I… that is, I must decline, your highness," Alina tries, the distraction of her pent up fury and her seething powers making her tongue tied. "I'm not dressed for a ball, and I have doubt there is anything suitable in my wardrobe."
"Nonsense, my dear. My mother's dresser will see you right. I would not have my Sun Summoner embarrassed or lacking in anyway." He smiles again, an unsettling grin as if he is undressing her with his eyes. "My mother has set aside a diamond necklace and hair pins for you. They are known as the star diamonds, for they shine like the stars. You'll be ravishing and quite beyond compare."
The Tsarevich's voice is a gentle purr and without knowing how, Alina finds herself drawn away from the safety of the front steps and towards the waiting carriage.
"I can't, your highness," Alina tries again, the need to be tactful at war with the urgent desire to extricate herself from the prince's hold. "I should be here, with my fellow grisha. I do not belong at a Royal ball."
Vasily's laugh is as unctuous as it is unsettling, one gloved hand running down the sleeve of her blue kefta. "How I would love to see you in my colours," he murmurs, completely ignoring her resistance. "You are too fine for to be garbed in common blue." His eyes narrow suddenly, his grip tightening as his fingers circle her wrist. "I hear you did not like my gift, Sankta." His voice is low now, an ominous quality seeping into it as he looks at her.
Alina's breathing speeds up, unnerved by the intensity of his gaze. "I… that is, while I am honoured by your gift, sire, it is far too fine for one such as me. Better it be used to celebrate a wedding. What better use could there be for it and what praise there will be for the generosity of our prince." It's a gamble, appealing to the Tsarevich's vanity, but in that moment it's all she can think of.
Whether it works or not, Alina can't be sure. There is an odd look on the Tsarevich's face and the guards hovering behind him don't help. For a moment she thinks there is something dark and dangerous hovering just beneath the surface, but then Vasily throws his head back and laughs.
"Moi Sankta," he breathes, bending to kiss her hand. "Generous to a fault. Such a flare for dealing with the ordinary people." Though his words might be complimentary, his tone is anything but; especially when he mentions 'ordinary people' – which sounds far more like a curse.
"Forgive me," he says, as he straightens, still holding her hand in his. "I should have realised. You are no common girl to be clothed in green – it is not your colour. Something far more unusual is what our Sun Saint requires."
Unease trickles down Alina's spine.
"Now come, we must away, or we will be late. I know how long it takes you women to ready yourselves." There is mocking tilt to the prince's lips as he utters the words, a flash of something dark and unpleasant, but before Alina can think on it further, the Tsarevich nods at his guards to open the door of the carriage, and she knows the time for prevaricating has run out.
"No sir I will not," she says firmly, the fingers of the hand not in Vasily's grasp, balling into a fist behind her back
Vasily laughs, "Come now, you don't mean that," and once more tries to tug her towards the waiting vehicle.
Alina merely shakes her head, a dark look flashing across her eyes as she digs her heels into the shingle of the path. Tact has clearly got her nowhere so now its time to try being more direct. Either way, she will not be getting into that carriage.
An angry scowl starts to creep across the Tsarevich's face as his eyes darken, giving him what might have been a sinister air if not for the weak chin and heavy lidded eyes. "And why not?" He demands as his grips shifts from her hand to her elbow, trapping her with a punishing hold, "your prince commands you!"
It's the first real show of temper from her would be suitor, but Alina is undaunted. She has stood toe to toe with Baghra and Aleksander before – Vasily is nothing to them.
Alina pulls her arm out of his grasp, her eyes flickering gold. "Because I will not dishonour our fallen in such a way. Even now loyal officers, wounded defending our homeland, are on their way here. I will not celebrate while my… friends lie injured, maybe even dying."
It's not the whole truth, but it's the most she's willing to say at the moment – and certainly the most she thinks she ought to say. She might be a novice to courtly intrigue, but she's pretty sure that telling the Tsarevich that she would rather kiss a toad than dance with him, or that she's been in love with the General of the Second Army for years and has absolutely no intention of being with anyone but him, would be a bad idea on the scale of poking a sleeping skunk with a stick. The best outcome would be an uncomfortable encounter, the worst would require a quick evacuation of the immediate area.
A gentle cough interrupts the tense standoff. Looking around in surprise, Alina sees the Apparat standing only a few feet away, a curiously disapproving expression in his dark eyes as they rest on the crown prince.
In a flash the scowl is gone, and in its place is the Tsarevich's usual oily and fawning half smile, as he nods a dismissive greeting to his spiritual advisor. "Of course," he says, voice oozing with suggestion. "Your compassion does you credit, Sankta. We will dance another night – one where you are less…" he pauses, "burdened by your concerns."
Alina shivers, eyes wide. Mercifully, the Apparat chooses that moment to place a gentle hand on the crown prince's shoulder, distracting him from his heated inspection. "Forgive me Moi Tsarevich," the priest says, bowing his head deferentially, "but you mother, her most serene highness, requested that I find you."
"Now?" It's impossible to miss the snarl in Vasily's voice, nor the way his fist clenches at his side, at the interruption.
"Indeed, your highness. It is a matter of some import, I believe."
"Oh, very well," and with that the prince storms into his carriage, his two lackies trailing along behind him. The driver's whip cracks and in a spray of gravel the Tsarevich is away, the vehicle lumbering off into the foggy night.
Now alone, Alina feels her heart start to pound in a delayed reaction, fear coursing through her. Turning to her, the Apparat has a serious look in his eyes. "You must be careful, Sankta. There are many dangers in the Imperial Palace," his gaze turns in the direction the prince has just left in. "There are many who seek to use you, who do not care what they must do in order to possess your power.
Alina can only nod mutely, the courage she felt during the confrontation vanishing like mist under the noonday sun. Without the burning warmth of her anger, the cold starts seeping into her bones and Alina shivers. Without conscious thought she lifts her hands to start rubbing her arms but stops - her eyes fixed on her wrist. Already she can see the bruises from the prince's touch starting to form. A vivid ring of black marring the skin like a band… or a brand. Another shiver wracks her frame.
The Apparat's eyes grow darker and more troubled as he sees what has caught her attention. In the space of a few moment deft fingers have untied his heavy fur cloak to wrap it around the girl's shoulders, enclosing her with foreign warmth.
It's an unexpected kindness, especially as Alina knows it is the shock more than the cold itself which is causing her teeth to chatter and her body to shiver.
The priest utters a word under his breath, his tone full of suppressed fury. "Forgive me, Sankta. I was not here in time."
"Not your fault," Alina stutters, the tremors are calming now, but she still feels the icy fingers of shock running over her. The man only shakes his head, a deep sadness carved into the lines of his face.
"No, my dear, your safety is my responsibility, my duty. I was lax in my vigilance." It's a curious comment, but before Alina can question it, the priest continues. "Tell me, Sankta, do you know the meaning of the double headed firebird?"
Alina frowns, confused by the non sequitur, "the symbol of the Lantsov's?"
"Indeed," there is that flickering smile of the Apparat's again, as he if wishes to smile but his face can't quite remember how.
"It means nobility and royalty," she says, dredging up the childhood lessons her teacher had spent hours upon hours droning on about. "A mythical creature once thought to live in Ravka – and the means by which Nikolai and the rebellion overthrew the King of Night and Queen of Day." She shrugs, not understanding the relevance of the question. "That's all I can remember."
Far from looking disappointed, the Apparat is nodding approvingly. "Very good, Sankta."
His face becomes troubled again, "you are quite correct in what it means now, but many years ago it meant something quite different. It was not a symbol one would wish to be associated with for to be marked with the crest of a double headed eagle was a sign that you were not trustworthy."
Seeing Alina's confusion, the man continues. "The original meaning of the double headed firebird was to show that the bearer had two faces. It was a symbol branded on those who were found to have double crossed oaths, been double-dealing, or deceitful. In an age of illiteracy, the brand was a literal way to show untrustworthy characters."
"Then in the story?" Alina starts, her voice trailing off as her mind spins. There it is again, that story. It feels like she is being shown the piece of a puzzle, but she can't yet see where or how it fits with the rest of the jagged, part completed picture.
The Apparat nods again, eyes warm as they watch her. "An ironic image," he says softly. "Though they have all but forgotten it themselves, the symbol they laud now was not given to them as a reward, but a punishment – a testament to their betrayal, a betrayal which later won them their throne." He shook his head sadly, "It is one family trait that has, alas, stayed true throughout the centuries. But it is why you must be all the more careful. So far your innocence and integrity has kept you out of their reach, but as time moves on men get careless with frustration. Lantsov's are not known for their patience, nor are they known to only take that which is freely offered. It may not be long before he tires of the dance and seeks to end it."
There is a heavy silence in the air at the priest's pronouncement. Wrapped in the Apparat's heavy cloak, Alina is warm, her mind calmer now as she turns the warning over in her mind. It isn't a surprise to her but having someone else say it makes the danger feel far more real than it had, even moments before with Vasily's hand wrapped around her arm. That her resolute refusals have frustrated the prince had been evident, no matter how he tried to mask it behind humour – but Alina knows what she saw in those unguarded moments when the mask slipped; behind the veneer of civility, the Tsarevich is merciless, vindictive and domineering.
"Then what do I do?" she asks. How do you manage a man like that, one who has the power of royalty behind him. The Lantsov eagle is truly an apt symbol for that family – a family who all have two faces. Up until now she has been treated with kid gloves, and only shown Vasily's 'public' face, tonight though… tonight she has caught a glimpse of the other side – and it terrifies her.
The Apparat's eyes are full of concern as they meet her own. "You do as you must, Sankta. You dance until the music stops, knowing that your friends are with you, and they will not let you fall."
The worry dogs her long after the Apparat escorts her back inside the safety of the Little Palace. For all that she was only ever a few steps from the front door of her home during the altercation with Vasily she felt the distance. The Oprinichki stationed just inside the doors would have come running if she had screamed, but what help could they really be against the Crown Prince of Ravka – or the prince's royal guards. Such an act would all but have guaranteed a war between the Imperial and Little Palace and with Aleksander injured the last thing they need is an escalation in tensions.
Already she feels like the vultures are circling, waiting for word that the General has died so that they can benefit from the loss – and Alina has no doubt whatsoever that the pompous prig on the Ravkan throne would use the opportunity to assume control of the Second Army – especially if they were suspected of sedition. An act which would almost certainly spell disaster and ruination for her people.
It doesn't bear thinking about what would happen to the Grisha if that corpulent fool took over. She thinks of the children in the junior wing, so young and beautiful, so full of promise, and she thinks of Genya and the age she was when the Tsar first started noticing her. Without Aleksander's protective presence how many more girls will suffer the same fate as her beloved friend, how many more will be forced to whore themselves for the sick pleasure of a morally bankrupt monarch. Protective fury burns through her veins at the thought, and Alina has to grind her teeth to keep to keep the sun from escaping her control and levelling the Imperial Palace – something she no longer doubts she could do if properly motivated, and at this moment in time her motivation has never been greater.
As she stares out of the large windows of the upper landing towards the imposing structure of the Imperial Palace that is just visible through the thick fog, she makes a silent promise to herself: the Second Army and the grisha here at the Little Palace will never be under Lantsov control. Even if she has to rebel and declare civil war on the whole corrupt regime, the Tsar and his son will not touch another grisha. She will not allow it.
Time moves oddly, jolting forwards in fits and starts, as Alina waits anxiously for any word. At some point she does sleep, although how well or for how long, she could not say as every sound makes her twitch in anticipation. Part of the problem is her anxiety over Aleksander's condition. She knows its bad, that he's been given what should have been a lethal dose of jurda parem, and yet she feels itchy as if there is something she's forgetting. Snippets of that dream keep replaying over and over in her mind, but she feels no closer to understanding it now than she did before, and she can't even be certain that her dream was anything more than the fevered imaginings of a stressed brain and an unfortunate side-effect of a medicine taken just before sleep.
Of all her friends in the Little Palace, only Genya and Fedyor seem to suspect her feelings for the General: Fedyor because he's a Heartrender, and Genya, because of course she does, she's Genya. No matter how busy they are, both have taken to checking on her at frequent intervals, so regular, in fact, that Alina rather suspects a timetable is in operation. It's kindly meant and Alina loves them for it, even if the constant interruptions do little but increase her apprehension and nerves.
The mood is still sombre and tense in the Little Palace. Although Aleksander's condition is a closely guarded secret, rumours still abound and the senior grisha know enough to be able to guess that the General must at least be wounded. It's hardly the first time. Over the years Alina has seen some of the scars marring her friend's skin - some of them he has even told her the story behind – so she knows how strong he is, how hard he's fought over his long life and that he's survived what should have been fatal injuries before, but this time it's different. This time the injury is a drug that is designed to twist the very essence of a grisha, changing that which makes them hardier, more resilient and live longer than non-grisha into the thing that attacks their bodies and destroys them cell by cell. It's the ultimate irony: Aleksander is being killed by his own power and there is nothing they can do to stop it. There is no known cure, no medicine or treatment.
Fedyor is right – that Aleksander is still alive after a week is nothing short of a miracle, but for how much longer can this miracle last? Still, she can't write her oldest friend off. Others may have to plan for the unthinkable, but she will cling to hope. Yes, it's exceedingly rare for a grisha to survive jurda parem, but then they aren't a centuries old Darkling. As long as his heart beats then there is hope.
Aleksander arrives much as he left – like a wraith in the night. Exactly as planned, the convoy reaches the Little Palace just after the midnight bell. The timing carefully determined by Ivan so that the group should arrive under the cover of darkness and when most are safely tucked up in their beds – or meant to be, anyway. Alina sees them though, sees the torches moving backwards and forwards in a great hurry as wagons are unpacked and the wounded brought in via the backstair. Genya has not yet returned from her duties at the Imperial Palace, and it is yet another worry to add to the growing weight on Alina's shoulders. It has been several weeks now since the Tsar last waylaid her friend and both girls had hoped that it meant his interest in the Tailor was starting to wane, but with the late hour and no Genya, Alina fears that the weeks of peace were merely a brief respite.
Along her arms she feels the tingle as her anger ignites the sun in her veins. Looking down she is unsurprised to see her skin shining, the light a harsh, cold thing, like sunlight on a mirror. In the courtyard below her vantage point she sees two Oprinichki bearing a covered stretcher between them. At this distance she can't see more than the vague outline of a body covered by thick blankets, but she doesn't need to, she knows who it is in the same way she knows when he enters a room. This is her Aleks. Next to him, Garin is walking, his face noticeably grave even at this distance, and she feels her heart plummet. Something is very wrong.
A/N Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry *hides behind sofa*. Please don't hate me, this was only meant to be a short chapter and it's already pushing 10k, so this was the natural place to stop it. I promise the next chapter, A light to Live by, will be up soon.
Good news though – next chapter you start to get some answers. Anyone want to guess whether a) Alina's dream was real, and b) what she did to Aleks if it was.
I have to say, I'm having so much fun writing Vasily. I've missed writing a villain – and he's shaping up to be a grand one ?. More on the villainous Vasily and his plots coming up later. We may even be able to sneak in Nikolai. Poor Aleks, what a thing to wake up too.