The Crown's Game (The Crown's Game, #1)(75)

“I am looking forward to the Sea of Azov with you,” he said.

“As am I, love. You deserve the rest.”

“There is no rest for the tsar. But at least I will be with you.”

Elizabeth nodded. But then she coughed into her handkerchief again.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes . . .” She wheezed as she drew in a shallow breath and devolved into another fit of coughing so deep, blood sputtered from her throat.

“You need the doctors—”

“No.” Elizabeth waved her handkerchief at him. “I’ll be fine. I only need you and the sun in the South.” She leaned her cheek on the tsar’s arm. “Will you help me to my room, love?” Her voice frayed at the edges.

He softened. “Of course, dear.” He pulled her up to her feet, but she stumbled and collapsed against him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

The tsar shook his head. Then he wrapped one arm around her shoulders and slipped the other behind her knees. She had lost so much weight, he lifted her as easily as if she weren’t even there.

What a wicked twist of fate that Elizabeth might be ripped away from him when he had only now begun to appreciate her. He needed to get her to the South as soon as possible. It was the only hope of saving her.

As he carried her out of the study and into the hall, the captain of his Guard fell in line behind him. The tsar didn’t even look at him as he gave his order: “Get me Nikolai Karimov and Vika Andreyeva. Immediately.”





CHAPTER FORTY-SIX


The guard led Vika through the Winter Palace, past all the paintings and mirrors and wall upon wall of windows, all dark at this hour of night, until they reached a door flanked by more guards. They nodded at the soldier who escorted her, and he opened the doors and let her in.

Vika’s stomach had been in knots since the moment the guard appeared at her flat, and she’d hardly breathed the entire carriage ride here. The streets of Saint Petersburg had passed in a blur of nondescript night, and all she could think was that the Game was over. Either she or Nikolai was done. The tsar would declare a winner and a loser tonight.

But as she stepped into the room in the palace, some of the tension in her body eased. For this was no stern throne room. With its peach silk drapes and pale-yellow furniture and the scent of roses perfuming the air, it seemed completely opposite of a place from which the tsar would sentence one of the enchanters to die.

“You may sit until the others arrive,” the guard said.

Vika didn’t feel like sitting. Although the surroundings placated her a little, her nerves still jangled. But she sat on a daffodil-colored settee, because the guard wore a sword on his hip that she was quite certain he would use should she prove to be anything other than compliant.

Vika listened to the small clock in the nearby cabinet tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tick.

Tock.

Three hundred and fifty-two excruciating ticks and tocks later, Nikolai arrived.

“Vika,” he said as the guard who’d escorted him closed the door to the room. Nikolai’s face was composed, elegant as ever, but the slight quaver in his voice betrayed him.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Vika said, trying to lighten the sense of impending doom before it crushed them both. “You manage to dress impeccably, even in the middle of the night. Although I can’t say I’m surprised.”

His carefully controlled rigidity cracked, and he gave her his shy smile. “You look lovely, as well.”

“I thought I might attempt to be presentable if I’m to die.”

Nikolai’s smile wilted. Vika bit the inside of her cheek. So much for witty banter saving this night.

“Do you know why we were summoned?” Nikolai asked. He didn’t sit in any of the chairs, and the guard did not command him to.

Vika shook her head. “I haven’t a clue.”

An interior door burst open at that moment—Vika and Nikolai must have been in an antechamber of some sort—and the tsar strode out. Vika’s stomach again leaped to her throat. Nikolai gripped the back of a chair and appeared equally ill. But somehow, they both managed to curtsy and bow to the tsar.

“Rise,” he said. Then he waved his guard out of the room. When the soldier had shut the door firmly behind them, he said, “This is not about the Game, enchanters, so you can stop looking like cattle going to slaughter.”

Oh, thank heavens. Vika exhaled. Although the image of cattle going to slaughter stuck with her. It might not be tonight, but it would be some night (or day) not too far away.

“The tsarina is unwell,” the tsar continued, “and she and I need to go to the South, to the restorative weather of the Sea of Azov. But I fear she will not survive a weeks-long carriage ride. Therefore, I need your help.”

Nikolai bowed his head. “Your Imperial Majesty, I am happy to be of service. I can enchant your coach to carry you there faster.”

The tsar grunted. He turned to Vika. “And you? Can you do any better?”

Vika bristled. Was this part of the competition, or was it not? The tsar had claimed it was not technically part of the Game. So why did it still seem as if she and Nikolai were being pitted against each other?

And yet this was what Vika had always wanted. To use her magic for the tsar. Perhaps she could heal the tsarina.