Siege and Storm (Shadow and Bone #2)(44)

The pilgrims had come not just to see me but to follow me. They attached themselves to the royal processional, and their ragged band swelled with every passing day. They trailed us from town to town, camping in fallow fields, holding dawn vigils to pray for my safety and the salvation of Ravka. They were close to outnumbering Nikolai’s soldiers.

“This is the Apparat’s doing,” I complained to Tamar one night at dinner.

We were lodged at a roadhouse for the evening. Through the windows I could see the lights of the pilgrims’ cookfires, hear them singing peasant songs.

“These people should be home, working their fields and caring for their children, not following some false Saint.”

Tamar pushed a piece of overcooked potato around on her plate and said, “My mother told me that Grisha power is a divine gift.”

“And you believed her?”

“I don’t have a better explanation.”

I set my fork down. “Tamar, we don’t have a divine gift. Grisha power is just something you’re born with, like having big feet or a good singing voice.”

“That’s what the Shu believe. That it’s something physical, buried in your heart or your spleen, something that can be isolated and dissected.” She glanced out the window to the pilgrims’ camp. “I don’t think those people would agree.”

“Please don’t tell me you think I’m a Saint.”

“It doesn’t matter what you are. It matters what you can do.”

“Tamar—”

“Those people think you can save Ravka,” she said. “Obviously you do, too, or you wouldn’t be going to Os Alta.”

“I’m going to Os Alta to rebuild the Second Army.”

“And find the third amplifier?”

I nearly dropped my fork. “Keep your voice down,” I sputtered.

“We saw the Istorii Sankt’ya.”

So Sturmhond hadn’t kept the book a secret. “Who else knows?” I asked, trying to regain my composure.

“We’re not going to tell anyone, Alina. We know what’s at risk.” Tamar’s glass had left a damp circle on the table. She traced it with her finger and said, “You know, some people believe that all the first Saints were Grisha.”

I frowned. “Which people?”

Tamar shrugged. “Enough that their leaders were excommunicated. Some were even burned at the stake.”

“I’ve never heard that.”

“It was a long time ago. I don’t understand why that idea makes people so angry. Even if the Saints were Grisha, that doesn’t make what they did any less miraculous.”

I squirmed in my chair. “I don’t want to be a Saint, Tamar. I’m not trying to save the world. I just want to find a way to defeat the Darkling.”

“Rebuild the Second Army. Defeat the Darkling. Destroy the Fold. Free Ravka. Call it what you like, but that all sounds suspiciously like saving the world.”

Well, when she put it that way, it did seem a little ambitious. I took a sip of wine. It was sour stuff compared with the vintages aboard the Volkvolny.

“Mal is going to ask you and Tolya to be members of my personal guard.”

Tamar’s face broke into a beautiful grin. “Really?”

“You’re practically doing the job now, anyway. But if you’re going to be guarding me morning and night, you need to promise me something.”

“Anything,” she said, beaming.

“No more talk of Saints.”





CHAPTER


11





AS THE CROWDS of pilgrims grew, they became harder to control, and soon I was forced to ride in the coach. Some days Mal accompanied me, but usually he chose to ride outside, guarding the vehicle with Tolya and Tamar. As eager as I was for his company, I knew it was for the best. Being stuck in the lacquered little jewel box always seemed to put him in a bad mood.

Nikolai only joined me on our way into or out of every village, so that we would be seen arriving or departing together. He talked constantly. He was always thinking of some new thing to build—a contraption for paving roads, a new irrigation system, a boat that could row itself. He sketched on any piece of paper he could find, and each day he seemed to have a new way to improve the next version of the Hummingbird.

As nervous as it made me, he was also eager to talk about the third amplifier and the Darkling. He didn’t recognize the stone arch in the illustration either, and no matter how long we squinted at the page, Sankt Ilya wasn’t giving up his secrets. But that didn’t stop Nikolai from speculating endlessly on possible places to start hunting the firebird, or questioning me about the Darkling’s new power.

“We’re about to go to war together,” he said. “In case you’ve forgotten, the Darkling’s not particularly fond of me. I’d like us to have every advantage we can get.”

There was so little for me to tell. I barely understood what the Darkling was doing myself.

“Grisha can only use and alter what already exists. True creation is a different kind of power. Baghra called it ‘the making at the heart of the world.’”

“And you think that’s what the Darkling is after?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. We all have limits, and when we push them, we tire. But in the long term, using our power makes us stronger. It’s different when the Darkling calls the nichevo’ya. I think it costs him.” I described the strain that had shown on the Darkling’s face, his fatigue. “The power isn’t feeding him. It’s feeding on him.”