Ruin and Rising (The Grisha Trilogy)(5)

The remaining soldiers would have to wait for a turn to fight. There were simply too few Grisha. Genya and David kept to themselves, and weren’t much for combat, anyway. Maxim was a Healer and preferred to practice his craft in the infirmary, though few of the Apparat’s flock trusted Grisha enough to take advantage of his services. Sergei was a powerful Heartrender, but I’d been told he was too unstable to be considered safe around students. He’d been in the thick of the fighting when the Darkling launched his surprise attack, had seen the girl he loved torn open by monsters. We’d lost our only other Heartrender to the nichevo’ya somewhere between the Little Palace and the chapel.

Because of you, said a voice in my head. Because you failed them.

I was drawn from my bleak thoughts by the Apparat’s voice. “The boy oversteps.”

I followed his gaze to where Mal was moving between the soldiers, speaking to one or correcting another. “He’s helping them train,” I said.

“He’s giving orders. Oretsev,” the priest called, beckoning him over. I tensed, watching Mal approach. I’d barely seen him since he’d been banned from my chamber. Aside from my carefully rationed interactions with Genya, the Apparat kept me isolated from potential allies.

Mal looked different. He wore the peasant roughspun that had served as his uniform at the Little Palace, but he was leaner, paler from time spent belowground. The narrow scar on his jaw stood out in sharp relief.

He stopped before us and bowed. It was the closest we’d been allowed to each other in months.

“You are not the captain here,” said the Apparat. “Tolya and Tamar outrank you.”

Mal nodded. “They do.”

“So why are you leading the exercises?”

“I wasn’t leading anything,” he said. “I have something to teach. They have something to learn.”

True enough, I thought bitterly. Mal had gotten very good at fighting Grisha. I remembered him bruised and bleeding, standing over a Squaller in the stables of the Little Palace, a look of challenge and contempt in his eyes. Another memory I could do without.

“Why haven’t those recruits been marked?” the Apparat asked, gesturing toward a group sparring with wooden swords near the far wall. None of them could have been more than twelve years old.

“Because they’re children,” Mal replied, ice in his voice.

“It’s their choice. Would you deny them the chance to show fealty to our cause?”

“I’d deny them regret.”

“No one has that power.”

A muscle ticked in Mal’s jaw. “If we lose, those tattoos will brand them as sun soldiers. They might as well sign up to face the firing squad now.”

“Is that why your own features bear no mark? Because you have so little faith in our victory?”

Mal glanced at me, then back at the Apparat. “I save my faith for Saints,” he said evenly. “Not men who send children to die.”

The priest’s eyes narrowed.

“Mal’s right,” I interjected. “Let them remain unmarked.” The Apparat scrutinized me with that flat black gaze. “Please,” I said softly, “as a kindness to me.”

I knew how much he liked that voice—gentle, warm, a lullaby voice.

“Such a tender heart,” he said, clucking his tongue. But I could tell he was pleased. Though I’d spoken against his wishes, this was the Saint he wanted me to be, a loving mother, a comfort to her people. I dug my fingernails into my palm.

“That’s Ruby, isn’t it?” I asked, eager to change the subject and divert the Apparat’s attention.

“She got here a few weeks back,” Mal said. “She’s good—came from the infantry.” Despite myself, I felt the tiniest twinge of envy.

“Stigg doesn’t look happy,” I said, bobbing my head toward where the Inferni seemed to be taking out his loss on Ruby. The girl was doing her best to hold her own, but she was clearly outmatched.

“He doesn’t like getting beaten.”

“I don’t think you even broke a sweat.”

“No,” he said. “It’s a problem.”

“Why is that?” asked the Apparat.

Mal’s eyes darted to me for the briefest second. “You learn more by losing.” He shrugged. “At least Tolya’s around to keep kicking my ass.”

“Mind your tongue,” the Apparat snapped.

Mal ignored him. Abruptly, he put two fingers to his lips and gave a sharp whistle. “Ruby, you’re leaving yourself open!”

Too late. Her braid was on fire. Another young soldier ran at her with a bucket of water and tossed it over her head.

I winced. “Try not to get them too crispy.”

Mal bowed. “Moi soverenyi.” He jogged back to the troops.

That title. He said it without any of the rancor he had seemed to carry at Os Alta, but it still hit me like a punch to the gut.

“He should not address you so,” complained the Apparat.

“Why not?”

“It was the Darkling’s title and is unfitting for a Saint.”

“Then what should he call me?”

“He should not address you directly at all.”

I sighed. “Next time he has something to say, I’ll have him write me a letter.”