The Little Palace Alina awakes to the following morning is a different world to the one the night before where she astonished the stuck-up nobles of the royal courts and triumphantly stood her ground with the Fjerdan Ambassador. For a long moment upon waking Alina wonders at the empty, despairing feeling and the desire to cry, but then in a rush it all comes back to her.
Marie is dead.
Murdered.
Her friend was murdered while wearing her face. Murdered because she had been wearing her face.
Sitting up, the heavy black fur cloak falls from where is has been tucked around her. Glancing around, for a moment Alina doesn't recognise the strange dark room she has awoken in, but then a door opens allowing a spear of light to permeate the gloom and she just has time to glimpse the familiar furniture of Aleksander's study before the door is shut with a resolute click and she hears the sound of soft footsteps growing nearer.
Swinging her legs round, Alina moves so that she is now sitting on the sofa, the soft cushion her head had been pillowed on just minutes before now on her lap like a favoured doll that she can't help but squeeze as the emotions of the day before roll over her.
The footsteps halt beside her and she feels a gentle hand rest on her shoulder. "How are you, dear one?" Aleksander's beloved voice asks softly.
"As well as can be," Alina replies, her voice croaky and hoarse from the tears of the night before.
"I wished to leave you sleeping as long as you could," he says regretfully, "but Ivan made the valid point that after the…the disruption last night it's important we are both seen at breakfast today.
Standing, she disentangles herself from the heavy cloak that carries his scent, and hands it back to its owner. In the dimness she can just make out Aleksander staring at her before he pulls her into a fierce embrace, his arms tight and unyielding around her.
Seconds tick past before he steps back, eyes shadowed. That recent events have shaken him is clear to Alina. To those who do not know him, Aleksander might appear to be his usual calm and collected self, but she can see the strain he is under in the tense set of his shoulders and the pinched look in his eyes.
It soon becomes clear to Alina that by that first meal there isn't a grisha in the place that hasn't heard the news and it casts a dark pall over what had been a happy bustling place.
Marie is gone, and with her so too Is the feeling of safety and security. The senior grisha are quiet and pale faced as they poke listlessly at their morning meals. Even the younger years are quieter than usual, skittish and fearful as if they think the assassin is hiding around the corner. Just waiting to strike.
Fedyor tells her later that Aleksander had made a speech the night before, alerting everyone to what had happened and to the danger. "He knows, you see," the Heartrender explains softly, "there's no keeping secrets in this place. Not one like this, at any rate. Too many people involved, and you can bet that at least one will blab something they shouldn't, and that would have been that, cat out of the bag. This way, the General has been the one to deliver the news and he's made sure everyone's on the same page. "
Lessons are cancelled that day to give the inhabitants of the Little Palace time to grieve and recover from the shock of the announcement. For the younger ones, this is cause for cheer and celebration even if the fear of the phantom assassin is still very real to them. It's the first sign to the older ones that they can recover from the shock and pain of this tragedy, that in time normality will resume.
There is no normality for Alina, however. While her friends and peers might have a day to spend however they wish, there's little chance of that for the Sun Summoner. For once Ivan, Fedyor, Aleksander and Genya are in complete agreement. Until the Oprinichki and Fedyor's team of Heartrenders have finished their deep sweep of the palace and the grounds, there's no chance of Alina returning to her suite or being allowed out of Aleksander's rooms unless absolutely necessary. Visser had let slip something when Gregori brought his breakfast that morning which suggested he had an accomplice. The news had been met with horror, but not surprise, and the result was another complete search was now needed.
Too tired and shaken to protest, she merely settles herself in Aleksander's study with a blanket, a glass of warm milk and a book to pass the time. Gradually the warmth from the fire lulls her to sleep.
She's woken some time later by familiar voices and the sound of movement.
"The Tsar must be informed," Aleksander says tiredly, slumping into the padded seat of the sofa with evident exhaustion.
"For the trial?" Alina queries softly, sitting up from where she had been curled fast asleep. Smiling reflexively when Aleks takes her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles.
"Yes, precious," he says gently. "You commanded that there be a trial, so a trial there must be. Ivan and I are making the arrangements"
Ivan, sitting in the chair opposite her own, grunts and makes a note on the pad balanced on his knee. "Aye, Moi Soverenyi," he says as he scribbles.
Alina nods, angrily brushing the sleep from her tired eyes. "It's what Marie deserves," she says darkly. "A quick death is too good for Visser. I want every last secret dragged out into the light so that everyone knows what Zlatan is planning. I want everyone to know of Marie… of her bravery… of her sacrifice."
When she looks up its to find Ivan watching at her with a rare look of approval.
"Have the search teams found the accomplice?" Alina asks softly, half dreading the answer. Her frown deeps as Aleksander and Ivan share a speaking glance.
"No. Not yet." It's Aleksander who answers her question, but it's Ivan's face that reveals how put out by this news he is. The Heartrender looks thunderous.
"We've found evidence that he arrived with others in Os Alta, but it's unclear whether these individuals are a part of the plot or just convenient cover," Aleksander continues, his voice weary and showing how exhausted he is.
Troubled, Alina shifts her position, her eyes finding Ivan's. "Would you leave us please, Ivan," she asks. For a moment she fears he will disobey her, or else look to Aleksander for confirmation, but he does neither – merely picking up his papers and notebooks, before bowing to both of them and leaving without comment.
"Did you sleep at all last night, Aleks?" she asks as soon as the door has clicked into place.
The man before her looks exhausted, dark rings circling his grey eyes, his face pale and drawn.
Tiredly, Aleksander shakes his head. "There wasn't time," he answers truthfully. "There was so much… and I was needed by the search teams and the children. The younger years were particularly fearful and upset last night, it took a while to calm them."
Standing, Alina walks over to Aleksander's chair, perching on the arm so she can wrap a comforting arm around him. Leaning over she places a kiss on his temple. "My poor Aleks," she says softly, "you need to rest. No good will come of you working yourself to death."
It's the wrong thing to say – or, perhaps, the right thing – as with a choking gasp Aleksander pulls her into his arms, one hand cupping her head and gently stroking her hair as he holds her against his chest, the floodgates opening at last. "I could have lost you," he murmurs against her hair. "Saints, Alina, it could have been you… it… it could have been you." She feels something wet dripping onto her neck and realises with a start that Aleks is crying and its his tears she can feel.
Wrapping her arms him, she just holds him to her, letting him vent and cry out his pain and fear.
Ivan's message had clearly been relayed to the Tsar as three high ranking First Army officers appear after lunch to view the body, bearing orders from his Imperial Uselessness as regards Aleksander's request for a trial. With Aleks tucked up in a meeting with Vasily, it falls to Ivan and Alina as the two most senior officers to escort their First Army guests to the room where Marie's body is still lying under its sheet.
"Messy." Colonel Azimov sneers, his bushy moustache twitching as if he smells something unpleasant.
"Indeed," the man next to him agrees, "still, a better outcome than the alternative," he says directing a significant look at her.
"What does that mean?" Alina demands, bristling at the tone. "A girl has been murdered. My friend. I fail to see how this is 'better'."
The Major frowns severely at her, his dark eyes flashing with annoyance. "It is better young lady. You are irreplaceable, she is not. Much better the assassin killed her than he got the Sun Summoner."
Alina turns white with anger as she stares down the officer, beside her Ivan's stance changes, segueing from relaxed to lethal in the space of a blink.
It's at this point the third officer interjects. Up until now, Alina hadn't paid much attention to the third man, content to ignore him after finding out he's yet another Lantsov.
"What my colleague means," the man starts with an apologetic grin and soothing voice, "is that of course the loss is great - especially to those who know and love her - but strategically it would have been a catastrophic loss to the whole of Ravka if we lost our sun saint."
At the first word Alina's snap to the man, staring in surprise as she recognises her anonymous friend she met on the way back from Baghra's. He looks quite different to the man she had met those weeks ago, no longer dusty and dishevelled from the road, but dressed in an obviously expensive tailored military uniform of imperial white with the most ridiculous hat Alina has ever set eyes on. The thing is enormous, standing over a foot tall, and made taller still by the large red plume. She had thought the military headwear of the Colonel and Major had been bad enough, but the prince's is in a league of its own.
"Hello again," Alina says dumbly, shock stealing her words.
"Hello again, Sankta," Nikolai says, bowing lowly in her direction. "I only wish our second meeting had been under better circumstances." His tone is so considerate and commiserating, so like the friend she had made those days ago out in the gardens, that she feels her annoyance soften, and a smile flit across her face in welcome.
"You have to understand," she says, as the shock dissipates and she remembers the reason for her anger, "Marie was well loved. What to you may be an acceptable loss, is an unacceptable one to us. Let me remind you, gentleman that not only have we lost our friend, but that this is our home and it has been violated, desecrated by someone who's objective was to murder."
It's an eloquent rebuke and it has the desired impact. Azimov loses some of his puffed up pomposity, regarding her with understanding and what might be compassion. Nikolai smiles sadly and nods. "I am certain it was not the Major's intention to diminish the pain, nor the tragedy of this sorry event," he says in a conciliatory tone. He nudges Major Kerisimov.
"Indeed," the Major grunts, not sounding particularly apologetic, "no offence was intended."
Azimov lets out a relieved sigh, clapping his hands together. "Excellent," he says, moustache quivering. He looks to Ivan. "Perhaps we can now go over some of the finer details of this tragic…event."
In his usual calm and efficient way, Ivan explains the security plans for the previous evening; describing numbers, rotations and the checks that were carried out on guests.
"That all sounds very sensible. Do you know how the assassin got in?"
Here Ivan looks slightly uncomfortable and Alina listens with interest to the new information.
"Yes," the Heartrender says, shifting his weight and clasping his hands behind his back in a textbook parade rest. "A cloak and hat similar in design to those used by the General's Oprinichki were found in the room near the knife. We believe Visser must have seen the guards before had his own set made up, so that he could infiltrate the Little Palace."
It's a chilling thought, and she can see the importance of Ivan's suggestion hit home with Nikolai who then says, "Clever. Very clever. Of course, in such a uniform his presence would be unlikely to be questioned, if it was noticed at all. It's the same with servants."
"That is our working theory," Ivan agrees with a sour look. "With over two hundred Oprinichki guards stationed in Os Alta it is difficult to know them each by face alone. The guards that work within the Little Palace itself are all known to the senior staff, but those who are on grounds or gate detail are seldom seen regularly by those of us based here. With the increased security last night, an extra Oprinichki would draw little attention."
The explanation is accepted by both Nikolai and Azimov with little comment, but Kerisimov it seems cannot leave well enough alone.
"Of course," the Major says, flicking lint off a jacket that has clearly never seen war or any action outside of a billiards room, "this would not have happened had General Kirigan accepted his Imperial Highness' very magnanimous offer of providing and managing security."
For a moment there is complete stillness in the room but then chaos explodes as both Azimov and the prince start remonstrating with their thick-headed colleague.
Ivan, enraged by the slur against both grisha and the security he had personally overseen, steps forward with hands raised in a position Alina knows only too well from combat training.
It's only luck which allows her to grab hold of his arm as he passes her. Keeping a restraining hand on the Heartrender's elbow, Alina turns to face Major Kerisimov, brown eyes glowing a molten gold in her fury.
"Are you suggesting, Major, that Marie would not have died had your guards been in charge?" She asks incredulously.
"Certainly," the Major retorts, red faced and belligerent. "Such a failure would never happen in the First."
"Bollocks." "Nonsense." Alina and Nikolai say at the same time. Even the Colonel is looking decidedly uncomfortable with his subordinate's comment.
"Ahh," Azimov says, venturing somewhat nervously into the quicky escalating tensions. "Now then, let's not get distracted. Our purpose here isn't to assign blame, after all. His Imperial Highness was most clear in his instructions. Our job – our only job - is to determine whether a crime has been committed and, if so, what should be done about it."
Nikolai and the Major are both nodding, even Ivan looks reluctantly as if he is willing to let this go, but Alina can't – won't – not when the integrity and honour of her people, her friends, have been questioned. This is not a burden for Ivan to bear, this is not his fault, and she will not allow such accusations to go unchallenged simply because of political expediency. She won't allow it.
"Forgive me, Colonel, but a serious allegation has just been made. It cannot be simply swept aside, not when it shows such bigotry towards my officers. This is not the first slur from the Major, and I find it unacceptable."
"What would you know of it, madam!" Kerisimov barks.
She's just debating whether to point out to the pompous Major that she put outranks him when Nikolai does it for her.
Cuffing his fellow officer round the head, he said, "you do realise Kerisimov that she outranks you. Commander in the second army is equivalent to Colonel in the First."
What!" The Major splutters, turning puce.
"It's true." Nikolai continues unrepentant, "she outranks you."
Sadly for all, the Major chooses this moment to continue, this time catching hold of her wrist as he starts to say, "now see, here…"
"Back off," Ivan growls, voice low and if not actually threatening than not far from it.
"Pardon?" The Major scowls at the Heartrender.
Ivan looks down at where the Major has grabbed hold of Alina's wrist. "Otkazat'sya have no right to touch the Sun Summoner, especially stupid Otkazat'sya."
The insult clearly lands as intended as the Major straightens, letting go of Alina's arm so he can pull himself to his full height - which, while impressive, is still a good two inches shorter than the Ivan.
Ivan just continues to glower at the shorter man, his expression cold and immovable.
The situation is saved by Nikolai, who quickly steps between the two men, stating sharply – "Enough, Kerisimov. If you cannot behave with the respect due to your superior officers, then you will be made to wait outside. Do you understand?" the prince adds with a dark look at the Major who, faced with the evident ire of both Colonel and prince, subsides with ill grace.
"Good. Good." Azimov blusters, clearly unsettled by the display. "You've interrogated the man responsible?"
"Yes," Ivan grunts, still eyeing the Major with contempt.
"Goodo. He confessed?" The Colonel questions, tone deliberately blithe and light.
"Yes," Ivan and Alina confirm at the same time.
"He said he's working for General Zlatan," Alina adds and watches carefully as the three First Army Officers all still, brows furrowed. Even Major Kerisimov appears to be troubled by that little fact.
"Zlatan," Nikolai queries, "you're certain he meant General Zlatan."
"Yes," Alina replies quickly before Ivan's scowl of annoyance can ratchet up any further. "Visser said that Zlatan fears the destruction of the Fold and what it could mean for his plans to secede from Imperial Ravka to become a separate nation. It's why we wish for an open, public trial. His crimes must be shown and denounced so that everyone knows him for the traitor he is."
The three officers share another long speaking look. "You can confirm this?" Azimov asks Ivan, watching him with suddenly shrewd, cold eyes.
Ivan only nods. There is another look between Azimov and Nikolai, who then says with in a dark, troubled voice, "well, that puts a rather different interpretation on his absence."
"Aye," the Major adds, glancing at his Colonel. "His Imperial Highness specifically invited General Zlatan. He accepted the invitation, but has not yet arrived. The last communication we had from him was that had been renewed fighting along one of the contested border points."
"General Kirigan has been concerned about General Zlatan's separatist beliefs for some time, Colonel Azimov," Ivan adds. "I believe he has raised it several times before at the Senior Staffers Monthly briefing." No one could have missed the sardonic edge to the Heartrender's comment, nor the pointed barb, and Alina watches with a combination of amused horror at the very visible affront apparent on the faces of the Colonel and Major. Only Nikolai appears to share her amusement at Ivan's cutting comment, and he winks at her when he catches her eye.
Electing to ignore Ivan's provocative remark, Azimov simply nods and turns to his fellow officers, conferring in hushed, hurried whispers that Alina politely pretends not to be able to hear.
This continues for some minutes, accompanied by the occasional oath or angry gesture, and just for a moment Alina wonders if they will be refused a trial.
Such concern doesn't last for long, though, as not long after the officers emerge from their huddle, all three with matching grim expressions.
It's Nikolai who gives them the news. He and his fellow officers agree that there is ample evidence of a capital crime having been committed and, as such, the suspect is to be remanded by the Second Army to be brought to trial two days after the Winter Ball.
The three First Army officers leave shortly after reaching this decision, heads bent together in conference as they return to the Imperial Palace.
Watching them depart, Alina lets out a relieved sigh, they've achieved what they needed too. Marie's murderer will have his day in court and there will be no where left to hide for the traitorous General.
Marie's funeral happens two days later on a suitably grey and dismal day. The entirety of the Little Palace – teachers, students, guards and servants alike – are in attendance, their faces solemn as they fall into the sombre procession across the grounds behind the Little Palace to the little plot given to Aleksander years before by the then Tsar Nikolai III for use as a graveyard.
In keeping with grisha tradition, Marie's body is to be burnt, and the ashes scattered across the earth to nourish the flowers that grow there. It's a sweet tradition that hides an ugly past – of a time when the bodies of fallen grisha were desecrated, their internal organs and bones carved from them to be used in charms and potions. Even internment would not protect the dead from being defiled from those determined enough; and so the tradition of cremation had begun.
Along with the inhabitants of the Little Palace there are several representatives of the First Army – including Nikolai – and even the Apparat appears, his head bowed low as he prays over the casket containing her friend.
The farewell is shorter than the previous funerals Alina has been to, reminding her more of the Army where the dead are laid to rest in mass graves with little ceremony or tenderness. Aleks gives a short speech, his words promising justice for Marie and vowing to increase the security of the Little Palace so that grisha can once again feel safe there, but it is Nadia – Marie's closest friend – who gives the eulogy and closes the ceremony by singing the familiar lament.
All to soon – too soon for Alina – Marta steps forward, bringing her hands together with a loud clap. Fire, bright and hot, shoots from her outstretched hands to cover the coffin, setting it ablaze.
Watching the flames, all Alina feels is a numb sense of disbelief. She still can't believe it, can't believe that her friend has gone, has been taken from her. She thinks of Marie's awe when they first met, in her delight at seeing every new trick or skill she learnt. She thinks of her friend's open, almost childlike sense of fun, of her optimism and joy. She thinks of her friend, and a tear slips down her cheek.
The walk back from the pyre is almost worse than the trip there had been. There is no formal procession back to the Little Palace, instead people drift off in groups or on their own until only Alina, Nadia and Genya are left. Nikolai was one of the first to leave, the evident discomfort of his fellow officers pushing them to leave as soon as was reasonable. He'd smiled at her as he walked away, dipping his head in a show of respect. Aleksander had followed soon after with Ivan and Fedyor, probably to continue Arken Visser's interrogation.
"It shouldn't have happened," she says at last, her voice cracking and hoarse from the tears. Genya shakes her head, "No, it shouldn't," she agrees softly.
Tears are still falling from Nadia's eyes as she turns to the other two. "Do you remember," she says, voice trembling slightly, "that games night when David dared Marie to kiss Ivan?"
"What?" Genya cackles in surprise. "David? My David? When was that? And where was I?"
The laugh that escapes Nadia is high and slightly sharp with nerves and tears, but beneath it her amusement shines through. "About two months ago," she says with a giggle as she nudges Alina, "it was just after Alina came to the Little Palace, and David dared Marie to kiss Ivan the next time he came in the room…"
"Then what happened," the Tailor demands as she wipes tears of laughter from her eyes.
"He was so shocked he just walked straight back out again," Alina explains as Nadia descended into a fit of giggles. It leads on to another story, this time about a book Marie had misplaced, a certain romantic story that was a little on the raunchy side, which resulted in her trying to describe the novel to an increasingly confused Opinichki without telling him either the name or describing the picture on the front plate by which he could have identified the missing book.
And so it continues, the three of them sharing stories and laughter as they sit watching the dying flames. It feels freeing sitting here and talking like this, in remembering the fun and laughter. Healing, almost, in some vital and unknown way.
"Can I ask for one thing, Alina?" Nadia asks as they start to collect their scattered belongings.
Pausing, Alina looks at the other girl in surprise. "Of course," she says.
Nadia smiles, eyes still wet and glassy with tears. "Could you make the sun shine? Marie always loved the sunny days best and she'd… she'd have loved to know the sun was shining for her, just once."
It's nearly enough to start them all off crying again, and Alina watches as Genya wraps an arm around the Tidemaker, pulling her into a tender embrace. Alina doesn't answer, instead closing her eyes and reaching inside her for the place that burns with power.
High above them, the sun burns fiercely at the call, a beam of light pushing through the clouds to alight on the now smouldering embers of the pyre. It looks like a halo, bathing the ashes in a golden glow.
Next to her, Nadia and Genya both gasp with delight, and Alina opens her eyes to see the fruit of work. It's a fitting final tribute to her friend, she thinks as the three girls turn and slowly make their way back to the Little Palace.
The day after the funeral is nearly as bad as it involves yet another dress fitting, this time for the Winter Ball, which is now only a day away. It feels to Alina like yet another task she has to get through, an inconvenience delaying Visser's trial.
Irritated and irritable, Alina at last retires to her bedroom, determined to find something that will take her mind off both the ball and the trial. It's then that she spots the book Aleksander had so thoughtfully lent her before… before all this unpleasantness.
His grandfather's journal is old and sits heavily in her hands as she turns it over.
The writing is tiny and scraggly, rendering the text nearly illegible. Fortunately for all, Alina has never let a challenge get in the way of reading a book. Borrowing a high magnification lens from David, she sets to work. Many of the entries in the book have been damaged beyond understanding by time and water, but some are still legible enough for her read.
13th day of Janus in the Year of the Saints Eight Hundred and Eighty-Eight
Today my wife was delivered of a fine girl blot. Our little Bag-blot is a fine and healthy smudge. She has my dark hair, but I believe she has her mother's eyes.
This journal I shall keep separate to my workbooks to chronical our blot early life.
20th day of September in the Year of the Saints Eight Hundred and Ninety-five
My poor child. There can be no doubt blot. She has been twice cursed. Once by being born like me blot. The second to be smudge blot such a gift. The control of blot is not natural. May the saints forgive me.
1st day of December in the Year of the Saints Eight Hundred and Ninety-Nine
My little Baghra continues to grow, although she still struggles blot control the demons. My wife grows alarmed and fearful, for we have another child, soon to arrive. I continue my research into how to rid Baghra of blot and give her the life she blot.
2nd day of February in the Year of the Saints Nine Hundred
I am no longer convinced as my blot is that our little Baghra is possessed. Mother told me a tale shortly before blot died. A fantastical smudge blot blot blot blot. I can hardly believe it. Blot. But if it is true, then what a path my daughter must face. I must find if it is true, unlikely though it seems.
15th day of August in the year of the Saints Nine Hundred and three
For three long years I have looked, and no answers have I blot. My wife grows weary of our constant travels, yet how can I rest now. No answers, but so many more questions, I have. The search continues. I must find the smudge smudge that Mother spoke of – they will know.
5th day of October in the year of the Saints Nine Hundred and Four
I can scarce believe it, and yet… and yet… it would explain smudge blot blot…
7th day of December in the year of the Saints Nine Hundred and Four
I met a strange man today. My questions have apparently not gone unnoticed, for he was most interested in blot blot. There was little I could smudge, for fear that he might blot Baghra.
9th day of December in the year of the Saints Nine Hundred and Four
The mystery deepens. I met the man again today, quite by chance – or so I blot. He asked if I seek that which was lost. I replied that I seek that which may be found to protect one that I blot. By chance, this seemed blot blot smudge. He shook me by the hand then and introduced himself as Tomas and told me such a tale as I could hardly believe and I dare not write for fear it may smudge smudge blot.
Before we parted, Tomas told me where I might look, if I still wanted answers. It will be a wearisome journey, but I must go. His parting words to me, I cannot forget. Should I have the need look to the Sun, for her warriors are many and will answer the call.
22nd day of March in the year of the Saints Nine Hundred and Six
I've found it. At last I have found it. The sacred something blot blot. I hadn't wanted to believe the old tales, but this is proof blot smudge. Proof! Evidence that my mother was right. All these years I've thought her stories the rambling of an old dying woman, but she was right. They did exist. They court of Night and Day existed - and so too do their crowns. I can hardly believe smudge, but I can no longer deny the evidence of what my daughter's powers mean. Baghra is the answer. Young though she is now, little though she knows it, the royal line runs through our veins and it has run true in her. My little princess blot blot.
But the danger is great. Blot still exist, and they have not forgotten this history either. I fear for her safety. Bad enough to be born controlling shades, but if anyone realised what it means, her life will be in great danger.
My wife is stupid smudge, she doesn't understand. She fears our little Baghra because she is different. If she knew the truth though… smudge smudge blot.
23rd day of April in the years of the saints Nine Hundred and Six
There is nothing for it. I cannot tell my secret. Though I know the Soldat Sol would blot protect blot take blot smudge grace, and would guard blot, I cannot risk it. A secret is safe so long as only one blot it. There's no choice. I will have to take the blot and hide them. The broken blot can be remade, but not until it is safe blot. I will leave clues here for my daughter to find. Once the Sun Saint appears, then it will be smudge.
12th day of October in the year of the Saints Nine Hundred and Six
Things are getting worse. I fear blot smudge Baghra. We have had to move again from blot. The villagers were blot suspicious. I fear for our people, smudge. I fear that there may come a time when they will turn on us, those born with gifts they do not understand. My dreams grow dark.
18th day of November in the year of the Saints Nine Hundred and Ten
My journey is hard, only the thought of my little blot keeps me going. I have heard tell of a suitable herd in the mountains, but smudge old bones find this cold slows me. I must find smudge. Then my task will truly begin. My foolish wife does not believe blot. She must never know the truth of my life's great-blot work.
1st day of December in the year of the Saints Nine Hundred and Fifteen
I have at last found the blot. I followed the tracks deep into the mountains thinking to find smudge, but instead they found me. He is magnificent. Natures king. He will be the guardian, to keep smudge smudge. My only hope is that this is not a grave error of smudge. I must have faith. Merzost will not abandon its smudge-ren.
31st day of December in the Year of the Saints Nine Hundred and Fifteen
The deed is done, I have hidden the crowns. They are safe. Time is catching up with me, I fear. I hear the hoof beats of death following behind. My only hope is that my daughter understands the clues I have left. That I haven't blot another mistake.
15th day of March in the Year of the Saints Nine Hundred and Sixteen
Baghra… my daughter, forgive me…
Although many of the entries are damaged, almost beyond comprehension, there is enough still legible for Alina to gain a new understanding into Baghra's early life and it fills her with compassion. What a life the old woman had been born into. Again, Alina feels the great fortune she has in her Mama, who is a source of indefatigable strength, support and love to her daughter. Aleksander's mother didn't have that – instead, it seems she grew up with an absentee father and a mother who feared and disliked her. How damaging such a youth must have been. Small wonder that she grew to hold otkazat'syas in the contempt she does now.
Since the discovery of her power, Alina has been feted, celebrated and placed on a pedestal, which is bad enough, but she has little experience of being disliked and vilified in the way Baghra it seems – and likely Aleksander too – have had to live with. It's an unpleasant thought, an injustice that galls her. Because of circumstance and the cultural preference for light Alina is seen as a saviour. The reverse is true for Aleksander and his mother – their shadows damn them, condemn them to be seen as evil and untrustworthy.
There's something about the words in the journal though, which resonate with her, reminding her of something just beyond her grasp.
Exhausted and wrung out Alina feels her eyes getting heavier and heavier. The words of the journal blurring in and out of focus as her head nods and jerks as she tries to fight the siren call of sleep. It's a battle she soon loses, her head coming to rest on the desk pillowed by her outstretched arm.
When her eyes open, she is once again in the familiar frozen tundra she has come to recognise so well. This time though it's night, the sky a dark velvet blue speckled with stars.
There's no flying this time, no sense of chasing something that must be found. Instead, there's a pervading feeling of peace - as if she has come to her journeys end.
Behind her there is a soft crunching sound as if something large is walking across the snow, and then there is the sensation of breath on her neck. The warm puffs of air makes her shiver and the fine hairs on her arms stand up in alarm.
'I am only dreaming', she says to herself firmly, trying to command her pounding heart to slow. 'This is a dream - and things can't hurt you in dreams.'
As if to show her the folly of her thoughts, the thing behind her chooses that moment to nudge her in the small of her back, nearly sending her flying with the force of it.
When she remains still the thing nudges her again. This time with more force. Trembling, Alina steels herself and slowly turns.
Two large brown eyes set in a white face meet her own, and a shivering sigh escapes her.
'Oh, what magnificence', she thinks in awe as she gazes at the majestic stag. She has never seen one so tall or so proud before. Nor has she ever heard of deer being white.
The stag stands a good 17 hands tall, taller than Beauty or the Arabian she has seen in the stables. The creature is pure white, almost ethereal in its appearance, and upon its head lies the most impressive set of antlers she has ever seen.
The stag draws himself up under her assessing gaze, preening and stamping his hooves as if to say, 'yes, admire me, for an I not the most beautiful creature you have ever set eyes on.'
Unable to resist, Alina stretches one shaking hand out, the tips of her fingers cautiously brushing his nose. Instead of running away though, as she would expect any other wild creature to do, the white stag leans into her touch, nuzzling her palm as if welcoming her like a long-lost friend.
'Welcome,' his eyes seek to say, 'welcome, friend. I have been waiting for you.'
With a gasp Alina shoots up in her chair, once more finding herself in the familiar blue tones of her bedroom.
For a long moment the room seems to spin around her, and Aline is forced to close her eyes as she tries to stop the dizzy feeling and regain control of her rebelling stomach.
Once the world has righted itself, her eyes open and drop to the journal she had fallen asleep reading. Could it be it was just a dream brought about by Ilya's words. No, surely not. She's been having this dream for weeks now. Not the ending perhaps. But the lead up to it, certainly.
Uncertainly, she turns her attention again to the journal, only to take a deep shuddering breath at what she sees on a page her sleeping fingers have accidentally flicked too.
Not a dream, then.
She shoots to her feet, and rushes to the door, only remembering at the last moment to grab the journal before she out into the cool hallway.
Mal is loitering in the vestibule as she hurtles down the stairs, the precious book still clasped in her hands.
"'Lina," he calls when he spots her. His eyes lighting up in delight.
"Not now Mal," she says brusquely, rushing past him, guiltily calling back over her shoulder. "Bad time, try after the winter ball," and continues her mad flight down the familiar corridors to Aleksander's rooms.
"But, Firecracker," the tracker tries to protest, only its too late, Alina is already out of sight.
To say that Ivan is less than thrilled to see the Sun Summoner hurtling towards him at breakneck speed when he is mid-way through reorganising the accounts in his newly complete filing system is an understatement. He months ago concluded that Alina's superpower should have been chaos rather than sun summoning, and this is just one more example to add to his ever-growing list.
As if to prove him right, Alina barrels past a clerk, sending papers flying, as she calls out a hasty apology enroute down the corridor. Before Ivan can admonish her, however, the traitorous Oprinicki on guard outside the General's rooms, have opened the doors for her. Grinning to each other as she flies passed.
Scowling, Ivan directs his most fearsome glare at the two entirely unrepentant guards. 'Traitors, the lot of them', he mutters, bending to assist the clerk who is still staring starstruck at the once more closed to doors of the War Room.
"Was that the Sun Summoner?" the clerk, asks dazedly, a look of bemused adoration on his young face.
Papers in hand, Ivan shoots a disgusted look at the hapless clerk, and stomps grumpily to his desk. Open on top of a stack of paper is the General's diary. Balefully, the Heartrender glares at the neat entries listing the meetings and activities for the day with a sinking feeling. The appearance of that girl never bodes well for his orderly life.
"I've found it!" Alina exclaims as she bursts through the doors of his study, his concentration shattering like glass under a hammer at the unexpected intrusion.
"Alina?" He asks, confused, glancing up from a report to find the one and only Sun Summoner hopping about in her excitement.
"The answer," she cries, her eyes studying the book in her hands as she flips resolutely through the pages.
"Forgive me, Alinochka," he says at last, rubbing his tired eyes and replacing his pen carefully in the ink pot, "but I still don't have the pleasure of understanding you. What.."
"The answers been here the whole time, staring us in the face. Your grandfather's journals, Aleks. The answers in your grandfather's journal."
For a moment Aleksander pales, his eyes darting to the bookcase nearest his desk with something that looks like fear in the whites of his eyes, confused by such a reaction Alina pauses, but in a flash the moment is gone and Aleks is leaning forward on his elbows, his attention fixed on her, and Alina shakes it off as a trick of the light or her fevered mind.
"What answers, dear one?" her closest friend enquires, his interest as clear as his confusion.
"About what we are – where we come from." Bouncing with excitement, Alina hands him the journal. "Read the entries, Aleks. You need to see what he wrote."
It takes some minutes even for a fast reader like Aleksander to cover the pages and entries Alina points out to him, but when he does, he sits back against the soft leather of his chair and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Forgive me, Alina," he says, "but I don't understand. The diary is too damaged to make sense of – and saints know both mother and I have tried over the years – and where it is not damaged, the writing is nonsensical, the ramblings of a man losing touch with reality..."
"But don't you see," Alina exclaims excitedly, "your grandfather knew, Alek, he knew what you were, or rather what your mother's power meant. Those journeys he went on, he was looking for evidence of the fable, and when he found it, he protected it the best way he knew."
Aleksander looked blankly at his love, hardly able to follow as she seemed to make a jigsaw out of ill-fitting pieces.
"The stag, Aleksander," she says impatiently when it becomes clear that she alone knows what she's talking about, "what animal did nature gift a crown?"
"My grandfather was mad when he wrote those diaries, Alina," he reminds her carefully as he looks down at the page she has shoved under his nose. The diary is open to a drawing of his mythical stag, the stag he once thought to use as an amplifier for the Sun Summoner. The same stag that Oretsev appeared to have actually found. The scribble at the top is one he has seen a thousand times before and makes as little sense now as it did the first time he saw it: Nature's king is crowned.
Nonsense, utter nonsense. Even his mother – who revers her late father in a way she does no one else – agrees that Ilya Morozova was as mad as a hatter by the end of his life, always ranting and raving about some secret or other. "It was likely a blessing," his mother had told him one dark night long ago, "that the villagers did what they did. He was mad, unbalanced. At least the end was quick, better than a long lingering death."
"Of course you couldn't understand it, Aleks," she interrupts impatiently. "water damage stole some of the words and you didn't have the pieces needed in order to solve the puzzle!"
"And you do?" Aleksander questions dryly, running a hand through his hair.
"Not at first," Alina agrees with a nod, "but now I do, or if not all than certainly enough to understand a good deal more than you do."
"You've been searching for your grandfather's stag thinking it's an amplifier, but it's not - it's something far more precious and important."
From the bemused look on his face, Aleksander is no less confused now than he was when she barged into his study some twenty-minutes before waving the journal around in her excitement. Heaving a heavy sigh, Alina flops back
"I know I'm not explaining well," she said softly, "it's just, it feels like I finally understand something that's been bothering me for weeks."
The look Aleksander levels at her is piercing as he considers her words. "What mystery, Alina?" He asks gently.
So Alina tells him.
She tells him about the strange dreams that started not long after she came to the Little Palace. She tells him about the book the Apparat gave her with the story of the Court of Night and Day and the parallels she saw between the powers described in the story and their own.
She tells him about the frustrating sense of missing something, of the unanswered questions she has about the origin of their powers and how they came to inherit them.
Through it all Aleksander listens attentively, fingers steepled under his chin.
Finally, she explains, "that's what clicked when I read your grandfather's journal. It's coded, and he's careful in his wording, but he refers to the Court and to the Soldat Sol. He hid the crowns in the one place he thought no one would think to look, and he was right - but the story got out, or he told the story so people would remember, and people did start searching, only not for what he actually hid but for items of great power. Everyone assumed it was an amplifier, but they were wrong - or partly wrong, I don't know what the crowns do, exactly, but they aren't just amplifiers. They're so much more than that."
Her hands wave as her excitement grows, "but don't you see, Aleks, it means that the story is true, or bits of it at least. It means we're not the first with these gifts, and it means we need to find that stag.
"Hmm," Aleksander hums, studying his grandfather's journal again, brow furrowed in concentration. "The Soldat Sol is a myth, Alina. A legend."
"You mean like Morozova's stag?" Alina counters pertly. Her sarcastic remark draws a laugh from Aleks, but he then he shakes his head. "There was enough corroborating evidence about my grandfather's creation that I was reasonably confident it did actually exist and wasn't just a story. But there is no such evidence for the Soldat Sol. Maybe they lived many years ago, like the Templars in Kerch, but they've long since passed into myth and legend, Alina."
"No they aren't. They're real." Alina replies indignantly. "Ask Botkin, he'll tell you. He's Soldat Sol, I'm sure of it. Or the Apparat, he's one too. Ask them, please."
For a long moment he looks searchingly at her, looking for something, but then he nods and makes a note on a pad beside him. "Very well," he agrees. "We can investigate further - but after the winter ball, Alina. If they do exist than this secret has kept for hundreds of years. It can surely keep for a few more days," he adds when he sees her move to protest.
"There is much that needs to be done," he reminds her gently, "and not much time to do it all before the ball is upon us."
"Very well," Alina murmurs, trying not to feel too disheartened or down cast by the delay. She does understand though, with less than 24 hours to go before the ball there is a lot to be done in preparation, not least a final dress fitting and her daily sparring session with Baghra. More than that though is the preparation for the trial, which the Tsar had scheduled for three days time. The delay which had seemed to Alina the day before as being far too long now seems too short for all the work Aleksander has explained to her must be completed to ensure the trial is a success.
Little though Alina feels like praising anything a Lantsov has been part of, even she can't deny the splendour of the decorations for the Winter Ball. The theme this year is frost and everyone – even Aleksander – is bedecked in variations of icy blues and glittering whites. It's strange to see Aleks in a different colour to his habitual black, but as ever he cuts a handsome figure dressed in a military styled long white jacket and white trousers. Instead of black embroidery, Genya has replicated his distinct design in pale blue thread. It's gives him a powerful and ethereal look, accentuating his dark hair and grey eyes.
Alina's dress is another work of art. With the kefta specifically banned by the Tsarina, Genya has been free to design a masterpiece of a ballgown. The floor length white dress is made from rough silk that whispers when Alina moves. In comparison to the court, the dress appears quite plain and understated at first sight, with a modest straight neckline that sits just below her collar bones and long sleeves, but sewn into the silk are thousands and thousands of blue and white crystal beads. The effect when she moves is stunning, making her dress shimmer and shine. As with Aleksander, the Tailor has replicated the unique pattern of embroidery on Alina's kefta, arranging the tiny beads so that they look like miniature sun bursts.
Along the halls, grisha stop to compliment Alina on her dress and wish her luck for the ball. Genya preens with each admiring look or comment, visibly chuffed to have one of her creations so admired. All this pales into insignificance though to Aleksander's reaction when he sees her on the stairs. The sharp intake of breath is audible to Alina even some 30ft away, and she spots the amused glance Fedyor shares with his normally surly partner.
Aleksander's eyes though are riveted on her, the pupils large and dark in the well-lit room as he takes her in.
"Well?" Genya demands impatiently after a few seconds.
Aleks starts, seeming to come back to himself, as he darts an embarrassed look at the two beaming Heartrenders, before focussing on Genya.
"Adequate," he says with a straight face.
"What?" the Tailor shrieks, her cheeks matching her hair in outrage.
Amused, Aleks laughs, shaking his head fondly at the redhead. "Astonishing, Genya," he says with a grin. "Your dress is a vision. Alina is simply… she is simply breath-taking."
It's the clearest and most public declaration yet of where their relationship is heading, and Alina feels her heartbeat start to race in delight as he steps forward and lifts her hand to place a gentle lingering kiss on her palm, the look in his eye making her shiver. From behind his back he produces a bouquet of dark blue irises – her favourite flower – offering them to her with molten eyes and a deep bow.
Instead of walking, as they usually would, Alek's carriage is ready and waiting for them as they leave the warmth of the Little Palace. Such extravagance would normally have Alina frowning, but on this occasion she can see the sense. The gates of the Imperial Palace have been thrown open tonight and even here secure within the compound of the Little Palace she can see the orange glow of the torches of the peasant's ball. The annual commoner's dance is traditionally held on the same night as the Winter ball at the Imperial Palace as a way for them to show their appreciation of the work and efforts of the common people. Food and ale is provided by the Tsar and Tsarina and the gates to the Imperial park opened so that revellers can dance and enjoy the royal grounds.
Alina had attended one Peasant's ball with her mother when she was fifteen. It had been a memorable night, not least because of the sheer number of drunk men milling around. She had enjoyed the dancing though, and the music.
A few weeks ago, she would have thought nothing of the Peasant's ball. Now though she sees the worry in Aleksander's eyes and the tense posture of their guards and understands it. Marie's death is like a black cloud over the Little Palace. The unthinkable happened, one of their own was killed within the safety of the Little Palace, and she appreciates the awareness of risk in a way she could not before. What had seemed to her for years as a jolly party she now views with caution. It's for this reason she knows that Aleksander has ordered his carriage made ready, even if it is only a five-minute drive to the steps of the Imperial Palace. A carriage is safer than walking.
Bowing low, one of the guards opens the door for her, but it is Aleksander who offers his hand and helps her into the plush interior of the carriage, ensuring that she is settled before climbing in himself.
Looking around her, Alina has a strange sense of déjà vu as she takes in the familiar black velvet cushions and blue trimmings. "This is very like the carriage I woke up in the day Ivan kidnapped me," she comments conversationally as with a jolt they started moving.
"I should think so," Aleks says with a wry smile. "That was my favourite coach."
"That was your… oh dear," Alina murmurs, looking for the first time a bit worried. "Erm, Aleks, did you know…" she starts, then trails off unsure how to explain the fate of that particular conveyance.
"That my favourite coach while bullet proof proved less resistant to a flaming arrow? Yes, I am aware of that fact."
"Oh, good," Alina breathes, looking relieved.
"Although not at the time. I only realised when I went looking for it and found it missing. I'm sure Ivan enjoyed that debriefing greatly."
The last is said in Alek's driest and most sardonic tone, and it makes her chuckle. She's still giggling over his pithy remarks when the driver announces their arrival, and they disembark.
The laughter feels good, and it helps dispel her nerves as they join the line of sumptuously dressed guests waiting to be announced. Staring around her, Alina understands for the first time why Genya was so particular about her wearing jewellery and ornaments in her hair. All the guests are bedecked in their finest, and have clearly emptied their jewellery chests this evening – often resulting in gaudy rather than inspiring splendour – but the end result makes her feel shabby, like an imposter who has no right to attend the same event. Aware of the stares and the whispers around her, Alina's shoulders become hunched as she grows increasingly uncomfortable.
"You look beautiful, Alinochka," Aleks whispers, leaning down so that his lips touch the shell of her ear. "But where is my brave Alina, the girl who told the Tsarina off for being rude, who declared herself my equal."
It's the right thing to say and Alina feels her nerves settle. These are just people – expensively dressed, incredibly arrogant and self-opinionated people – but people all the same. She is their equal. Her back straightens and her shoulders pull back, her head held high.
It what feels like no time at all it is their turn.
It feels like every eye is fixed on them as the herald finishes announcing them and Aleks starts to escort her down the grand sweeping staircase and into the throng of watchers.
The ballroom, already Alina's favourite room in the Imperial Palace because of the enormous windows that take up two of the four walls and the fact that it has seemingly escaped the Tsarina's unique taste for interior decoration, is even more stunning than usual with traditional evergreen foliage wrapped around the stately columns and large displays of white and blue dyed roses.
But the wonder doesn't stop there, for above them, suspended from the high domed ceiling are 12 twinkling chandeliers, their crystal pendants gleaming and glittering as they reflect the light from hundreds of Fabrikator made candles. The effect is magical, transformative and Alina cannot help the way her head tilts back as she stares at the wonderous sight.
It's Aleks' amused laugh which eventually draws her back from her awestruck staring, and she blushes in embarrassment as he continues to chuckle under his breath, his gaze fond and warm where it rests on her.
"I forget that this is your first time attending a large party here," he says softly, leading her across the room to where there is a servant handing out flutes filled with a sparkling honey toned wine. "It feels like you've always been with me now, that before is nothing but a bad dream."
Pleased and flattered, Alina squeezes the arm her hand is resting on, smiling when his warm dark eyes meet hers.
"It is a magnificent sight though," he adds, with a nod to the ballroom, passing her a glass of the fizzing liquid. "Champagne," he explains when he catches her eyeing it dubiously.
With an exaggerated grimace, she takes a sip, the bubbles exploding over her tongue before the flavour hits. It has a sweeter taste than the wine she has tried before, and already she feels it relaxing her.
Conversation flows easily between them after that, and they spend the next half an hour happily milling about the large room as it grows ever more packed with people, sipping their champagne.
The first set is announced with all the pomp and pageantry to be expected of the Lantsov's, and Alina watches with interest as the corpulent Tsar leads his stick-thin Tsarina onto the floor at the head of the line. What the Tsar and Tsarina lack in taste or dancing ability, they make up for in hauteur as they move about in the complicated patterns with little grace.
It's an amusing sight, and one she and Aleksander enjoy watching. Even more amusing though is the sight of Vasily being pursued by what appears to be a very determined woman, who resolutely dogs his every step and movement in the dance.
Two more sets pass by in a similar fashion, with them hovering about the sides, enjoying champagne and the odd little nibbles Aleksander informs her are common at this sort of event. Gradually, however, she becomes aware of the whispers around them. Aleks, she knows, is doing his best to ignore them with all the fortitude of many years diplomatic experience, but as she becomes increasingly alert to them, so she find her temper fraying.
It's been a hope of hers for years that one day she will dance with Aleksander, and after three glasses of the bubbly wine, an idea strikes her. 'Why not', she thinks as she overhears another man wondering whether she has taken a lover, and if so whether she would be open to more than one. Why not dance with Aleks tonight.
The third set ends to loud applause, couples leaving the floor to find refreshments or their next partners while the musicians prepare for the next set to start.
Draining her glass, she all but shoves it at a nearby servant, as she grips Aleksander's wrist with clear intent.
"What are you doing?" He questions with a smile as he lets Alina pull him on to the dance floor.
Alina's smile is distinctly wicked and sharp as she replies. "Why giving the gawping old gossipers something to talk about, of course."
It makes Aleks laugh as he spins her into place just as the orchestra strike the beginning strains of the waltz. Although she hadn't known the order, Alina feels her grin widen as she recognises the melody. While the waltz is by no means a new dance – it having become common some years ago in Kerch – it's still new enough to be considered semi-scandalous by the more conservative members of the court, and Alina can hear the whispers growing louder when it becomes clear just who the Sun Summoner is dancing with and for what dance.
Aleks pulls her near, arranging his arms into a classic waltz hold. "Then let's give them a show," and off they go, swirling and twirling with 15 other couples.
Dancing with Aleksander is as heavenly as she thought it would be. The man is an excellent dancer – well, after 500 odd years of practice, he really ought to be – but Alina is pleased to have her suspicions confirmed. He's confident leading, but not in the assertive, almost dictatorial way, of her dancing instructor who was forever pulling her this way or that; instead, he's considerate, not so much leading as guiding as they spin in perfect timing with nary an incorrect step.
It's only after the initial thrill of satisfaction and novelty calms that she starts to realise the possible error in her plan… she is dancing with Aleksander. She is dancing pressed up against the man she loves in what is considered one of the most intimate dances, and only now does she really understand why the Waltz was considered scandalous for so many years.
His eyes catch her, warm and molten and full to bursting with emotion, and Alina feels her heart start to race. The arm around her back tightens slightly, the centimetres between them evaporating like mist so that they could almost be embracing rather than dancing.
The music continues, the tempo increasing along with the volume as the orchestra reach the crescendo. Around them the couples spin faster and faster. By some good fortune – or more likely, Aleksander's careful timing – they are in the centre of the floor now, surrounded in a ring by the other pairs and mostly hidden from the curious eyes of those watching.
It feels like falling in love all over again, like a promise and a new beginning.
With a final spin, Aleksander dips her over one arm and the dance is over, leaving them both breathless and reluctant to part from the closeness and intimacy they have found in these stolen moments.
"To be continued later?" Aleksander queries softly, his lips kissing her ear, so that she can hear him over the applause.
She tilts her head away so she can meet his burning gaze. "Maybe," she answers him as softly. "If you're very lucky." Her wicked smile showing the tease for what it is.
With heart stopping gentleness, he tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers trembling slightly where they rest again her pulse. "I am already lucky, my Alina. The luckiest man in Ravka, for I have your heart. There is not a man more fortunate or blessed than I."
They are just making their way to where the refreshments are when their progress is interrupted.
"My lord General, General Kirigan," a voice bellows from just behind them, and Alina watches as Aleks goes still and his expression changes from one of joy to distant displeasure in the blink of an eye.
"Yes," he says, tone quelling and unwelcoming.
The man in question is either inured to such a tone, or else doesn't notice it in his excitement, as he barrels towards them, a look of absolute delight on his face.
"General Kirigan, sir," he says again, this time with an incredibly low bow that almost sees his nose brushing the floor.
"And you are?
"I have so much I wish to talk to you about," the man blurts out excitedly, bowing again.
"Wonderful," Aleksander replies sarcastically. "Could it not wait until tomorrow, Mr…?"
"Oh," the man bleats, for the first time looking self-conscious. "Do forgive me, my Lord. Mertzov, General. David Mertzov, I've just been given the position of Major in the Ninth Imperial Infantry, and I was wondering…"
Seeing Aleks is fully occupied being talked at by the First Army Officer, Alina looks around, hoping to spot Gabrielle amongst the mass of people. It's not to be, there are too many people – too many blonde women in variations of white to be able to pick her friend out from the crowd. For a while, Alina meanders her way through the groups of people, just exploring and enjoying the ability to crowd watch. The musicians are playing a reel and it amuses her for some time watching the stately dressed members of the court dance, jump and cavort in time to the lively music.
She might have stayed there longer if not for a gentle touch to her elbow which has her almost jumping out of her skin in surprise. Wheeling around she is confronted by an apologetic Nikolai. The younger prince is dressed like the rest of the attendees in a white coat and trouser, his, however, has the addition of royal blue sash stamped with the Lantsov crest. It's the first time she's seen him wear the crest and it's an unfortunate reminder of the family he belongs too.
"Forgive me, Sankta," he says, bowing for a second time, "I did not mean to frighten you."
Heart still pounding, Alina crosses her arms and looks levelling at him. "Perhaps you'd be better to announce your presence in the usual way, then."
Nikolai puts a hand against his heart as if he has been mortally wounded by her words, "a hit," he cries, "a palpable hit… and a just rebuke from the finest lady here."
Alina laughs, blushing and shaking her head. "You, sir, are a terrible flatterer, and evidently one in need of glasses. There are many much more beautiful women here."
"I do not think so," Nikolai refutes, his jocular expression slipping for a moment to reveal a flash of something intent and serious. In a second though his jovial smile is back in place, leaving Alina to wonder if she had imagined the moment.
"Now, I'm afraid I must beg your forgiveness again, my Lady," Nikolai says, not looking repentant at all. "But I had been hoping for a dance all evening, and thought there was little chance of it while your guard dog was with you."
"What did you do," Alina frowns in mock rebuke, simultaneously trying to recapture their earlier camaraderie and bury the unease now curdling in her belly.
The prince scratches his ear, his cheeks pinking slightly. "Nothing bad," he hastens to explain. "I merely pointed him out to Major Mertzov, he's new and has many… thoughts he wished to share. He's a great admirer of the General, and… well, I thought…"
"Ahh," she breathes, her gaze returning to where the man in question is just visible through the crowd. Aleks who has the look of a man who wishes to be anywhere other than where he is. Following her eyeline, the prince winces theatrically.
"You may wish to hide if he ever finds out who was responsible," she advises, trying not to laugh at the look of concern which briefly replaces the prince's happy smile.
It doesn't take long though for Nikolai to rally, "Even should he kill me for it, I will consider it a worthy price to pay for the sake of a dance of the most radiant lady in Ravka."
"A sun pun," Alina groans, allowing the prince to escort to the floor, "you just couldn't resist, could you."
"Never!" Nikolai proclaims with a laugh and a wink, and then the music starts and their conversation is paused.
The heat of the room is oppressive and stifling. There are no windows open despite the crowd packed within the ballroom and Alina knows she can't be the only one feeling giddy and faint from the dangerous combination of heat, alcohol and dancing. The wine Aleksander had brought her earlier in the evening is a pleasant but far off memory now. Beside her, Nikolai must guess the direction of her thoughts as instead of leading her back towards the dance floor he instead directs them towards a slightly less crowded area. "Wait here, my Lady," he says with a gallant bow that makes her laugh, "while I set off on the dangerous quest to find refreshment." The sly wink he sends her as he turns only makes her laugh harder, gasping for air as her eyes shine with mirth.
Despite her worries and concerns she has enjoyed her first formal royal ball immensely. The staring she could do without, but as the night wore on her fellow guests seemed to forget her existence as they progressively got drunker and drunker. Even Vasily has behaved himself – although she rather suspects that's due to a lack of opportunity rather than a belated realisation in her complete lack of interest, he has been kept very busy by the Teban princess, after all – and dancing with Nikolai has been a joy. Her new friend is witty, charming and an excellent dancer, keeping her entertained throughout their set with his running commentary on the nobles in their vicinity and outrageous tales of his experiences abroad. She doesn't believe half of what comes out of his mouth, but she can't deny that this is the only Lantsov she even vaguely likes.
It's only natural that such thoughts remind her of another dance partner. Her cheeks heat as she recalls her dance with Aleksander, the way he felt against her as he spun her through the intricated steps of the waltz. Even the memory of it is enough to make her blood burn and she feels that giddy happiness of earlier threaten to turn her into a walking candle.
It's then she spots the doors leading to the terrace, one of the tall glass doors is open a crack, a beguiling draft caressing her overheated skin. It's a matter of seconds for her to slip out the doors and into the dark night. The terrace is empty except for the shadows cast by the twinkling lights of the Imperial Palace and with a deep, relieved sigh Alina gratefully slumps against the stone balustrade, breathing in great lungful's of fresh cold air.
The night is quiet and peaceful. Through the clouds she can just make out the pinprick glittering of a thousand stars, their majesty dulled by the flickering lights of the palace. Even with the windows and doors closed she can hear the faint melody from the orchestra. Rolling her shoulders, Alina shivers as the cold night air seeps into her skin. The chill is refreshing after the furnace like heat of the ballroom and for once she doesn't call the sun to warm it away. Instead, she lifts her head to stare at the night sky, absently noting the ever-shifting clouds. An unsettled sky her Mama called such a phenomenon, a sign she would say of a change in the weather, most likely heralding snow and an end to the unusually dry weather they had been enjoying.
Another shiver runs down her spine, this time unrelated to the wintry air. A sense of foreboding settles over her and unbidden she recalls the words of the old woman who had lived down their little lane used to say to her. Unsettled sky, gods roll the die.
Overhead an owl shrieks making her jump and twist around, the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing up.
Around her, the once peaceful shadows now feel ominous and menacing in a way she can't explain.
Worried now, and only too aware of the fact that no one knows she's out here, she turns her back on the garden and starts walking towards the doors as fast as the corset of her ballgown will allow her.
It's a mistake
Inside the ballroom, Aleksander tugs at the high collar of his jacket in annoyance. It's like a furnace in here, and the sweltering heat is doing nothing to aid his patience, which is rapidly running out as the bespectacled Major accosts him with yet more thoughts. It isn't that they're all bad, or even that he necessarily disagrees with some of the man's thoughts on ways to economise and improve supply lines, it's just that a ball isn't the best place for these sorts of discussions. The heat saps his patience, making him irritable, while the deafening music makes it difficult for anyone to discuss anything, let alone important points of strategy.
That the newly introduced Major Mertzov is eager to do well in his new career is clear – as is the reason why meritocracy and not nepotism based on birth should determine an officer's rank and occupation.
It's as the newly minted Major has just launched into yet another idea he's had – this time relating to the improved ballistic efficiency of First Army canons – that a lady in a white dress glides past them, distracting him. It's not so much the lady, although that is evidently the Major's thought as Aleksander pauses mid-sentence, but the dress, which bares a passing resemblance to Alina's, once more bringing his precious girl to the forefront of his mind.
A quick check of his pocket watch informs him that he and the Major have been conversing for the better part of an hour and that he really ought to find Alina and check that she has not been waylaid by the vacuous Vasily or any other unwelcome individuals. With their normal guards banned from the Imperial Palace for the Winter Ball, he and Alina are the only two Grisha in attendance tonight. It isn't the most comfortable position, nor the most welcome one, but he ruthlessly tamps down his instinctive worry. He has seen the security plans for the night – has been an active influence in improving them – the risk to Alina is minimal, not even the assembled hoards of the legendary Fjerdan warrior Sigrund would have much luck reaching her here in the Ballroom of the Imperial Palace.
With a bow and a promise of a much longer and more in-depth discussion at another time, Aleksander leaves the Major and begins looking for his wayward Sun Summoner.
When a quick scan of the surrounding people fails to find Alina he starts to search properly.
The last he had seen his precious girl, she was being swung around in an energetic dance by the younger and less odious Lantsov princeling. So he starts there. Alina isn't on the dance floor, but Nikolai is, this time with a striking blonde who is simpering and cosying up to him in a distinctly provocative fashion. It's a matter of moments for him to interrupt their dance as they move past him. The girl glares at his interruption, her eyes narrowed and angry, but he ignores her. "Moi Prince," he says offering the youngest Lantsov a bow, "Forgive me for the interruption, but we must speak."
With a nod and a bow of apology, the prince escorts his partner to a seat and gestures for the General to follow him to a slightly quieter part of the room. There is an amused smirk on his face as he eyes the Darkling's less than customary outfit. "Got you too, did she?" He queries in amusement. "Good old Mater, she does have a way of getting what she wants, doesn't she? Shame Father won't allow her into diplomatic talks – she'd have all the Generals and Kings dancing to her tune… assuming that tune is gossip or clothing related, not sure she's that interested in land or rights… or politics, for that matter."
"Have you seen Alina," Aleks demands irritably, his patience already stretched to breaking point, and not aided in this moment by Nikolai's facetious attitude so reminiscent of his brother.
The prince's grin widens. "Lost her have we?" He asks, tone mocking, "tut, tut."
"This isn't a game, boy," Aleks hisses, eyes darkening rapidly as the panic he has so far held at bay starts to grow exponentially. "I thought you her friend, she certainly claims you as such."
The smirk dies and instead there is a look of confusion on Nikolai's face. "I am her friend," he says earnestly, "she is a dear, sweet lady."
"Then you should be more concerned than you are. Have you forgotten so soon what happened the night of the presentation." The point evidently strikes home as Nikolai pales. "Of course," he says, "forgive me, General."
The prince's eyes drop to the floor for a long moment, fingers drumming against his thigh with restless energy as he considers his answer.
"Yes, we danced a set," he says at last, "but I left her by the west doors some time ago to get her a drink. When I returned she had vanished. I assumed she had been asked to dance or else spotted a friend she wished to speak to. Are you sure she is not here?" He asks, a frown marring his handsome features.
Aleksander shakes his head, the gnawing unease in his stomach becoming a full blown stampede. She isn't here, he can feel it – or rather he can't feel her, can't feel that gentle brush of warmth he has grown so used to over the past months.
"Very well," Nikolai says firmly, all traces of the jocular prince vanishing like morning mist. "I'll alert the palace guard. We need to conduct a full search of the Palace and the grounds."
The search takes time, especially given the need for discretion so as to not alarm the guests. The prince and his men have taken the inside of the Palace, while Aleksander instructs his guards to the do the same for the path between the two palaces. It's not beyond the realm of possibility that Alina had grown bored of the ball and thought to walk home – even if such a decision is a foolish one that they will be having words about later.
He has remained in the ballroom, ever hopeful that the missing sun saint will reappear as suddenly as she disappeared. It's as he's stalking around the periphery for the fourth time that he spots one of the servants locking the west doors.
"Ho, there," he calls striding towards the nervous servant.
"Moi Soverenyi," the servant mutters bowing low.
"You there, were these doors not locked?" he demands, voice pitched low, as he motions towards the keys still in the servant's grip.
"Aye, sir," the servant replies. "They were meant to be, but it must have been missed."
"And have you seen anyone going out onto the terrace?" he asks, half afraid of the answer.
"Aye, a young lady, sometime past now. I would think she'd have come back in. It's perishing cold tonight."
Hope wars with fear in his chest. It would be a very Alina-ish place to hide if she was in need of a break from the thronging masses inside, and given her powers its not as if she would feel the biting cold the way others would. She'd likely still be out there, star gazing and enjoying the respite from the stifling heat of the ballroom.
With a nod he commands the servant to wait while he steps outside.
The cold bites into him the moment he leaves the warmth of the palace, the icy winds sending shivers down his spine makes his chest hurt with each breath he takes.
The terrace is dark, shrouded in shadows but there is enough illumination from the pale light of a waxing moon and the twinkling lights from the ballroom for him to see that it's empty and devoid of life. For a moment he just stands there, cold seeping into his bones, and closes his eyes in defeat. Alina isn't here. For one moment he had hoped – been sure that this was her hiding place and that all would soon be well again – but clearly he had been wrong. She isn't here, likely it wasn't even her who the servant saw – there were many white clad women at the ball, after all.
He is just turning to leave when he catches a flash of blue in the corner of his eye.
There, draped haphazardly over the low stone balustrade, is the pale ice blue wrap he remembered Genya pressing into her hands just before they left.
A few steps and he has the soft garment in his hands, it's no longer the pristine item he recalls from earlier, but instead the wrap is now dirty and sporting a large tear from where the delicate fabric has caught on the rough granite. The clues don't end there, for once he starts looking, he can see the signs of a struggle, of damage to the undergrowth as something large forced its way through the dense shrubs that separate this section of the royal gardens from the next.
There is only conclusion to be reached.
Alina, his precious girl, is gone.
Someone has taken her.