Ruin and Rising (The Grisha Trilogy)(11)

Mal had gotten hold of a sword, and his blade flashed as he cut through one guard, then the other. They toppled like trees.

Two more advanced, but Tolya and Tamar were there to stop them. David ran to Genya’s side. Nadia and Zoya flipped another guard in the air. I saw Priestguards on the periphery raising their rifles to open fire.

Rage coursed through me, and I fought to rein it in. No more, I told myself. No more deaths today. I hurled the Cut in a fiery arc. It crashed through a long table and tore into the earth before the Priestguards, opening a dark, yawning trench in the kitchen floor. There was no way of knowing how deep it went.

Terror was written on the Apparat’s face—terror and what might well have been awe. The guards fell to their knees, and a moment later, the priest followed. Some wept, chanting prayers. Beyond the kitchen doors, I heard fists pounding, voices wailing, “Sankta! Sankta!”

I was glad they were crying out for me and not the Apparat. I dropped my hands, letting the light recede. I didn’t want to let it go. I looked at the bodies of the fallen guards. One of them had sawdust in his beard. I had almost been the person to end his life.

I drew a little light and kept it burning in a warm halo around me. I had to be cautious. The power was feeding me, but I’d been too long without it. My weakened body was having trouble keeping up, and I wasn’t sure of my limits. Still, I’d been under the Apparat’s control for months, and I wouldn’t have an opportunity like this again.

Men lay dead and bleeding, and a crowd was waiting outside the Kettle doors. I could hear Nikolai’s voice in my head: The people like spectacle. The show wasn’t over yet.

I walked forward, stepping carefully around the trench I’d opened, and stood before one of the kneeling guards.

He was younger than the others—his beard just coming in; his gaze fastened on the ground as he mumbled prayers. I caught not just my name, but the names of real Saints, strung together as if in a single word. I touched my hand to his shoulder, and his eyes slid shut, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Forgive me.”

“Look at me,” I said gently.

He forced himself to look up. I cupped his face in my hand, gentle, like a mother, though he was barely older than I was. “What’s your name?”

“Vladim … Vladim Ozwal.”

“It’s good to doubt Saints, Vladim. And men.”

He gave a shaky nod as another tear spilled over.

“My soldiers bear my mark,” I said, referring to the tattoos borne by the Soldat Sol. “Until this day you have put yourself apart from them, buried yourself in books and prayer instead of hearing the people. Will you wear my mark now?”

“Yes,” he said, fervently.

“Will you swear loyalty to me and only me?”

“Gladly!” he cried. “Sol Koroleva!” Sun Queen.

My stomach turned. Part of me hated what I was about to do. Can’t I just make him sign something? Give a blood oath? Make me a really firm promise? But I had to be stronger than that. This boy and his comrades had taken up arms against me. I couldn’t let that happen again, and this was the language of Saints and suffering, the language they understood.

“Open your shirt,” I commanded. Not a loving mother now, but a different kind of Saint, a warrior wielding holy fire.

His fingers fumbled with his buttons, but he didn’t hesitate. He pulled the fabric apart, baring the skin of his chest. I was tired, still weak. I had to concentrate. I wanted to make a point, not kill him.

I felt the light in my hand. I pressed my palm to the smooth skin over his heart and let the power pulse. Vladim flinched when it connected, scorching his flesh, but he did not cry out. His eyes were wide and unblinking, his expression rapt. When I pulled my hand back, my palm print remained, the brand throbbing red and angry on his chest.

Not bad, I thought grimly, for your first time mutilating a man.

I let the power go, grateful to be finished.

“It is done.”

Vladim looked down at his chest, and his face broke into a beatific grin. He has dimples, I realized with a lurch. Dimples and a hideous scar he’ll bear for the rest of his life.

“Thank you, Sol Koroleva.”

“Rise,” I commanded.

He stood, beaming down at me, tears still running from his eyes.

The Apparat moved as if to stand. “Stay where you are,” I snapped, my rage returning. He was the reason I’d just had to brand a young man. He was the reason two men lay dead, their blood pooling over discarded onion skins and carrot shavings.

I looked down at him. I could feel the temptation to take his life, to be rid of him forever. It would be deeply stupid. I’d awed a few soldiers, but if I murdered the Apparat, who knew what chaos I might unleash? You want to, though, said a voice in my head. For the months underground, for the fear and intimidation, for every day sacrificed below the surface when I could have been hunting the firebird and seeking revenge on the Darkling.

He must have read the intent in my eyes.

“Sankta Alina, I only wanted for you to be safe, for you to be whole and well again,” he said shakily.

“Then consider your prayers answered.” That was a lie if I’d ever told one. The last words I would have chosen to describe myself were whole or well. “Priest,” I said. “You will offer sanctuary to all those who seek it, not just those who worship the Sun Saint.”