Ruin and Rising (The Grisha Trilogy)(54)

She shook her head. “I gave him his pride. I burdened him with ambition, but the worst thing I did was try to protect him. You must understand, even our own kind shunned us, feared the strangeness of our power.”

There are no others like us.

“I never wanted him to feel the way I had as a child,” said Baghra. “So I taught him that he had no equal, that he was destined to bow to no man. I wanted him to be hard, to be strong. I taught him the lesson my mother and father taught me: to rely on no one. That love—fragile and fickle and raw—was nothing compared to power. He was a brilliant boy. He learned too well.”

Baghra’s hand shot out. With surprising accuracy, she seized my wrist. “Put your hunger aside, Alina. Do what Morozova and my son could not and give this up.”

My cheeks were wet with tears. I hurt for her. I hurt for her son. But even so, I knew what my answer would be.

“I can’t.”

“What is infinite?” she recited.

I knew that text well. “The universe and the greed of men,” I quoted back to her.

“You may not be able to survive the sacrifice that merzost requires. You’ve tasted that power once, and it almost killed you.”

“I have to try.”

Baghra shook her head. “Stupid girl,” she said, but her voice was sad, as if she were chastising another girl, from long ago, lost and unwanted, driven by pain and fear.

“The journals—”

“Years later, I returned to the village of my birth. I wasn’t sure what I would find. My father’s workshop was long gone, but his journals were there, tucked away in the same hidden niche in the old cellar.” She released a disbelieving snort. “They’d built a church over it.”

I hesitated, then said, “If Morozova survived, what became of him?”

“He probably took his own life. It’s the way most Grisha of great power die.”

I sat back, stunned. “Why?”

“Do you think I never contemplated it? That my son didn’t? Lovers age. Children die. Kingdoms rise and fall, and we go on. Maybe Morozova is still wandering the earth, older and more bitter than I am. Or maybe he used his power on himself and ended it all. It’s simple enough. Like calls to like. Otherwise…” She chuckled again, that dry, rattling laugh. “You should warn your prince. If he really thinks a bullet will stop a Grisha with three amplifiers, he is much mistaken.”

I shuddered. Would I have the courage to take my own life if it came down to that? If I brought the amplifiers together, I might destroy the Fold, but I might well make something worse in its place. And when I faced the Darkling, even if I dared to use merzost to create an army of light, would it be enough to end him?

“Baghra,” I asked cautiously, “what would it take to kill a Grisha with that kind of power?”

Baghra tapped the bare skin of my wrist, the naked spot where the third amplifier might rest in a matter of days. “Little Saint,” she whispered. “Little martyr. I expect we’ll find out.”

* * *

I SPENT THE REST of the afternoon wording a plea for aid to the Apparat. The missive would be left beneath the altar at the Church of Sankt Lukin in Vernost and, hopefully, would make its way to the White Cathedral through the network of the faithful. We’d used a code that Tolya and Tamar knew from their time with the Soldat Sol, so if the message fell into the Darkling’s hands, he wouldn’t realize that in just over two weeks’ time, Mal and I would be waiting for the Apparat’s forces in Caryeva. The racing city was all but abandoned after the summer, and it was close to the southern border. Either we would have the firebird or we wouldn’t, but we’d be able to march whatever forces we had north under the cover of the Fold and meet with Nikolai’s troops south of Kribirsk.

I had two very different sets of luggage. One was nothing but a simple soldier’s pack that would be put aboard the Bittern. It was stocked with roughspun trousers, an olive drab coat treated to resist the rain, heavy boots, a small reserve of coin for any bribes or purchases I might need to make in Dva Stolba, a fur hat, and a scarf to cover Morozova’s collar. The other set was stowed on the Kingfisher—a collection of three matching trunks emblazoned with my golden sunburst and stuffed with silks and furs.

When evening came, I descended to the boiler level to say my goodbyes to Baghra and Misha. After her dire warning, I was hardly surprised that Baghra waved me off with a scowl. But I’d really come to see Misha. I reassured him that I had found someone to continue his lessons while we were gone, and I gifted him with one of the golden sunburst pins worn by my personal guard. Mal wouldn’t be able to wear it in the south, and the delight on Misha’s face was worth all of Baghra’s sneering.

I took my time wending my way back through the dark passages. It was quiet down here, and I’d barely had a moment to think since Baghra had told me her story. I knew she’d intended it as a cautionary tale, and yet my thoughts kept returning to the little girl who’d been thrown into the river with Ilya Morozova. Baghra thought she’d died. She’d dismissed her sister as otkazat’sya—but what if she simply hadn’t shown her power yet? She was Morozova’s child too. What if her gift was unique, like Baghra’s? If she had survived, her father might have taken her with him in pursuit of the firebird. She might have lived near the Sikurzoi, her power passed down from generation to generation, over hundreds of years. It might have finally shown itself in me.