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“I wasn’t supposed to be the heir,” she said weakly.
“You are, or you wouldn’t be.” Grigor tightened his crossed arms. A sinewy outline shaped his shirt along his forearm, a reminder he was more beast than man. “You have the blood of every powerful people in this realm. Vjestik. Meduwyn. Medvedev. And yes, even Ravenwood.” He lifted his shoulders, and his bulky furs crowded his angular face. “Youare what others envision when they dream of becoming a warrior.”
Ana had never heard her uncle say so much at one time. They’d always had a bond, but it had been more about fondness than closeness. But he would never say something he didn’t mean. “If that’s true, then how do I become one?”
Grigor twitched his nose. “I cannot answer that for you.”
Ana lowered her eyes with a grim sigh. It was tempting to share her concerns about Magda, but if anyone had the power to slow the koldyna, it was Grigor Arsenyev, and he’d done nothing.
“You are not helpless. Your problems are solvable. Your victories are plausible.” Grigor clapped a hand on her shoulder, so quick she almost wondered if she’d imagined it. He cleared his throat. “Your tavern boy is safe.”
Ana stopped breathing. “What?”
“I’ll check in on him. Butyoucannot be seen there.” Grigor shrugged his furs higher onto his shoulders and started to leave. “Use your illusions, Anastazja. Dobranok.”
“Dobranok,” she answered distantly.
Grigor marched away, his heavy steps an echoing gong as they bounced along the cavern walls.
Ana inched back until she was almost sitting on Imryll’s boot.
Use your illusions, Anastazja.
Her eyes widened, a flurry of thoughts catching up and threading together. Her mouth dropped open as an idea—an insane, laughable, imperfect idea—took shape.
Use your illusions.
Grigor Arsenyev walked into the Tavern at the Top of the World right as Tyr was about to lock the doors for the daily service pause. Anyone still in the tavern when the time arrived could stay but wouldn’t get served again until the Penhallows had finished their morning preparations.
Tyr looked up from the bar and started to tell his newest patron to come back in an hour when he realized who it was.
Grigor was what Tyr thought of as “old Vjestik.” He was built like a bear, solid and rugged, but his face was all angular lines, a beast both beautiful and terrible. Tyr knew from Ana that her uncle wasn’t in the Cross often, and when he was, he didn’t squander time frequenting taverns—least of all in the middle of the night.
Tyr spread his hands along the bar and watched the man, to see what he’d do or say next. He forged an aloof expression to hide the unease spreading through his limbs like wildfire.
Grigor approached the bar with a stern, lineless countenance. “Two.”
Objections formed but died. Tyr fumbled his next words. “Two mugs of ale, you mean? Will, uh, someone be joining you?”
“No.” Grigor crossed his bulky arms and waited to be served.
“Very well.” Tyreste’s nod was so feverish, he wondered how it looked to the stoic mercenary waiting, irritably, for him to pull himself together. With a harried head shake, he turned and poured two ales from the mugs he’d just cleaned for the morning rush. He had to start over twice when his hands forgot how to work.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Ana. Always cursed Ana.
Even when she wasn’t there, he couldn’t escape her.
Had she sent her ox of an uncle to spy on him?
With a foreboding swallow, he considered another possibility.
Is she all right?
Tyr remembered the phoenix streaking across the sky... a raven in hot pursuit. His pulse raced, thinking also of the clandestine midnight visit between the high priestess of Midnight Crest and Arkhady Wynter.
Grigor grunted his thanks, tossed a heavy sack of coin on the bar, and retreated to a table near the dark corner of the room.
