Page 69 of Rule of Wolves

The Darkling said nothing. Zoya couldn’t stop herself.

“Grigori was eaten by a bear. Elizaveta was drawn and quartered. Still they returned. There are stories whispered in the Elbjen mountains of the Dark Mother. She crowds in when the nights grow long. She steals the heat from kitchen fires.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe. We all have stories to tell.”

Zoya pulled up the shade, then lowered her window, inhaling the cold winter air.

The woods were thick with snow, the branches of the birch trees glittering with frost.

She felt something in her stir, as if waking, as if whatever was inside her had also lifted its head to breathe deeply of the pines. These woods should have felt barren, maybe even sinister with their long shadows, but instead …

“Do you feel it?” the Darkling asked. “The world is more alive here.”

“Be silent.”

She didn’t want to share this with him. It was winter but she could still hear birdsong, the rustle of small creatures in the brush. She saw the tracks of a hare through the white drifts of snow.

She reached over and raised the shade on the Darkling’s side. From this vantage, they could see a low hill and the abandoned sanatorium.

“What is that place?” the Darkling asked.

“It was a duke’s dacha long ago. The hill was covered in his vineyards. Then it became a quarantine house during an outbreak of the wasting plague. They dug up the vines to bury the bodies. When the quarantine ended, the duke was dead and no one wanted the property. They said it was cursed. It seemed just the right spot for this wretched endeavor.”

The sanatorium was miles from any real village or town and had long been rumored to be haunted. They wouldn’t have to worry about unwanted visitors.

As they watched, a coach pulled up and three figures emerged—a man, a young boy accompanied by an orange cat that bolted for the trees, and a small, slender woman, her hair long and white as the first snowfall. She tilted her face up to the sky, as if letting the winter light pour through her. Alina Starkov, the Sun Saint.

Is she afraid? Zoya wondered. Eager? Angry? She felt the dragon stir as if called. No. She didn’t want to feel what Alina was feeling. Her own emotions were enough of a burden. Mal placed a shawl around Alina’s shoulders, wrapping his arms around her as they looked out over the old vineyard.

“Charming.”

Zoya studied the Darkling’s face. “You can sneer, but I see your hunger.”

“For the life of an otkazat’sya?”

“For a life of the kind you and I have never known and will never know—quiet, peace, the surety of love.”

“There is nothing sure about love. Do you think love will protect you when the Fjerdans come to capture the Stormwitch?”

She didn’t. But maybe she wanted to believe there was more to life than fear and being feared.

She yanked down the shade and tapped the roof. The coach traveled on, up the cramped cart track in slow switchbacks. At last, they rattled to a stop.

“Stay here,” she said, hooking his shackles to the seat.

She descended from the coach, closing the door behind her. Mal and Alina stood on the sanatorium’s stairs, but when Alina saw Zoya, she smiled and raced down the steps with arms open. Zoya blinked away an embarrassing prickle of tears. She hadn’t known how Alina might greet her, given the circumstances. She let herself be hugged. As always, Ravka’s Saint smelled of paint and pine.

“Is he in there?” Alina asked.

“He is.”

“You bring me the worst gifts.”

The tabby had returned from its sojourn and was twining through Misha’s legs. It padded over to Zoya. “Hello, Oncat,” she murmured, hefting the cat into her arms and feeling the comforting rumble of its purr.

Misha said nothing, just watched, his young face tense. He was only eleven years old, but he’d seen tragedy enough for ten lifetimes.