Siege and Storm (Shadow and Bone #2)(43)

On the road out of Sala, we were passing through a stand of white elms when Mal cleared his throat and said, “I was thinking.…”

I sat up straight and gave him my full attention. It was the first time he’d initiated a conversation since we’d left Kribirsk.

He shifted in his saddle, not meeting my eye. “I was thinking of who we could get to round out the guard.”

I frowned. “The guard?”

He cleared his throat. “For you. A few of Nikolai’s men seem all right, and I think Tolya and Tamar should be considered. They’re Shu, but they’re Grisha, so it shouldn’t be a problem. And there’s … well, me.”

I didn’t think I’d ever actually seen Mal blush.

I grinned. “Are you saying you want to be the captain of my personal guard?”

Mal glanced at me, his lips quirking in a smile. “Do I get to wear a fancy hat?”

“The fanciest,” I said. “And possibly a cape.”

“Will there be plumes?”

“Oh, yes. Several.”

“Then I’m in.”

I wanted to leave it at that, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. “I thought … I thought you might want to go back to your unit, to be a tracker again.”

Mal studied the knot in his reins. “I can’t go back. Hopefully, Nikolai can keep me from being hanged—”

“Hopefully?” I squeaked.

“I deserted my post, Alina. Not even the King can make me a tracker again.”

Mal’s voice was steady, untroubled.

He adapts, I thought. But I knew some part of him would always grieve for the life he’d been meant to have, the life he would have had without me.

He nodded up ahead to where Nikolai’s back was barely visible in the column of riders. “And there’s no way I’m leaving you alone with Prince Perfect.”

“So you don’t trust me to resist his charms?”

“I don’t even trust myself. I’ve never seen anyone work a crowd the way he does. I’m pretty sure the rocks and trees are getting ready to swear fealty to him.”

I laughed and leaned back, felt the sun warming my skin through the dappled shade of the tree boughs overhead. I touched my fingers to the sea whip’s fetter, safely hidden by my sleeve. For now, I wanted to keep the second amplifier a secret. Nikolai’s Grisha had been sworn to silence, and I could only hope they’d hold their tongues.

My thoughts strayed to the firebird. Some part of me still couldn’t quite believe it was real. Would it look the way it had in the pages of the red book, its feathers wrought in white and gold? Or would its wings be tipped with fire? And what kind of monster would nock an arrow and bring it down?

I had refused to take the stag’s life, and countless people had died because of it—the citizens of Novokribirsk, the Grisha and soldiers I’d abandoned on the Darkling’s skiff. I thought of those high church walls covered in the names of the dead.

Morozova’s stag. Rusalye. The firebird. Legends come to life before my eyes, just to die in front of me. I remembered the sea whip’s heaving sides, the thready whistle of its last breaths. It had been on the brink of death, and still I’d hesitated.

I don’t want to be a killer. But mercy might not be a gift the Sun Summoner could afford. I gave myself a shake. First we had to find the firebird. Until then, all our hopes rested on the shoulders of one untrustworthy prince.

*

THE NEXT DAY, the first pilgrims appeared. They looked like any other townspeople, waiting by the road to see the royal procession roll past, but they wore armbands and carried banners emblazoned with a rising sun. Dirty from long days of travel, they hefted satchels and sacks stuffed with their few belongings, and when they caught sight of me in my blue kefta, the stag’s collar around my neck, they swarmed toward my horse, murmuring Sankta, Sankta, and trying to grab my sleeve or my hem. Sometimes they fell to their knees, and I had to be careful or risk my horse trampling one of them.

I thought I’d grown used to all the attention, even being pawed at by strangers, but this felt different. I didn’t like being called “Saint,” and there was something hungry in their faces that set my nerves on edge.

As we pushed deeper into Ravka’s interior, the crowds grew. They came from every direction, from cities, towns, and ports. They clustered in village squares and by the side of the Vy, men and women, old and young, some on foot, some astride donkeys or crowded into haycarts. Wherever we went, they cried out to me.

Sometimes I was Sankta Alina, sometimes Alina the Just or the Bright or the Merciful. Daughter of Keramzin, they shouted, Daughter of Ravka. Daughter of the Fold. Rebe Dva Stolba, they called me, Daughter of Two Mills, after the valley that was home to the nameless settlement of my birth. I had the vaguest memory of the ruins the valley was named after, two rocky spindles by the side of a dusty road. The Apparat had been busy breaking open my past, sifting through the rubble to build the story of a Saint.

The pilgrims’ expectations terrified me. As far as they were concerned, I’d come to liberate Ravka from its enemies, from the Shadow Fold, from the Darkling, from poverty, from hunger, from sore feet and mosquitos and anything else that might trouble them. They begged for me to bless them, to cure them, but I could only summon light, wave, let them touch my hand. It was all part of Nikolai’s show.