The Crown's Fate
Page 6
Not that he was dead now. He was something . . . in between. The end of the Game had made him like this, neither corporeal nor mere spirit. He was a literal shadow of himself. Which also meant that his ability to enchant was a shadow of what it used to be.
The wind around Nikolai gusted, heralding the arrival of someone else on the steppe. He paused to look over his shoulder. Who has come now? This scene was accessible to anyone.
Whoever you are, Nikolai thought, welcome to the nightmare bench. “Nightmare,” because he hadn’t been able to escape the dream no matter how ferociously he tried to wake up, and reality marched onward everywhere else, without him. It was as if his state of in-between-ness had condemned him to existing in a place of in-between-ness, too.
Still, he watched the visitor as she materialized into the steppe dream, and when he recognized her, Nikolai’s entire body went to pins and needles. Her red hair flamed in the sunlight, broken only by a single streak of ash black. Even though she was tiny, she stood proud and powerful, as if she were twice her size. And she wore a green gown, years out of fashion, the same one she’d worn at the very beginning of the Game. It could still be improved by a yellow ribbon.
“Bonjour, Vika,” he whispered to himself, as he shifted his horse and his shadow-self into the shade of the mountain nearby.
Vika squinted at the vast horizon before her, in his direction, as if she could hear him, even though he knew she could not. But then again, they’d always had an undeniable connection. They’d been the only two enchanters in Russia. Destined to come together. Destined to tear each other apart.
He slouched a little at the last thought.
“Nikolai! Are you here?” Vika called into the never-ending sky.
The golden eagle wavered at the sound of her voice. Because Nikolai faltered at the sound of it, too.
She’d come in search of him, and he couldn’t bear it. Not when he looked like a shadow. Not when he loved her but couldn’t have her. And most of all, not when he felt both glad that he’d sacrificed himself at the end of the Game in order for her to live and resentful that he’d ended up in this nebulous state of ante-death.
Vika pushed through the tall grass, clearly not caring a whit whether burrs scratched and clung to her gown. But Nikolai wouldn’t allow her to reach him. For every foot that Vika marched forward, he extended the dream’s landscape another foot. It was the least—and the most—his magic could do.
And yet, slowly, Vika began to make progress toward the base of the mountain where he sat on his horse.
But then she stopped. She was close enough that he could smell the honeysuckle-cinnamon scent of her magic. Close enough that he could feel the wildness and warmth of it. Yet still far enough that he could remain hidden.
She frowned. “Why won’t you show yourself to me?”
The sad edge in her voice was a chipped blade, still sharp but no longer whole.
“I just . . .” Vika sighed. “It’s been a long night. Although I suppose it’s daytime here. . . . You are here, aren’t you?” She looked around her, at the grass and the sky and the yurt village in the distance.
Nikolai closed his eyes.
“You can’t stay here forever. You have to come back.”
Give me a reason, he thought. Because at the end of the Game, Nikolai had confessed that he loved her. But Vika hadn’t said it back. Was she here because she wanted him? Or was she here out of guilt that he’d funneled all his energy into her and was left but a dark-gray echo of his former self?
“Pasha is a mess,” Vika said. “Not that you should forgive him for what he did to us. I certainly haven’t.” She scowled, took several deep breaths, and continued. “But even though I’m furious at him, I feel for him, too. He’s lost his sense of self. Yet flickers of it still appear every now and then. You should have seen the elaborate memorial he held in your honor, and he even made public that the tsar was your father. I’m sorry . . . I didn’t know. But if you came back, you would be royalty, Nikolai.”
His eyes flew open. He’d known before the Game ended that his mother, Aizhana, had been spreading word throughout Saint Petersburg that he was the tsar’s illegitimate son. But he hadn’t realized the news had reached Pasha, and that it had been made official.
I could be royalty. Nikolai laughed quietly to himself, in part because it was what he’d always wanted—as an orphan from the steppe, he’d never quite fit into Saint Petersburg society, no matter how hard he tried—and in part because it was cruelly ironic that his acceptance into the nobility’s ranks came only when he couldn’t enjoy it.
“And perhaps,” Vika was saying, “Pasha’s guilt would be alleviated with your return. Maybe he’d be able to find his old self again.”
Nikolai sighed and looked away, even though she couldn’t see him. Of course she hadn’t actually come for him. It was about Pasha. Everyone was always so concerned with Pasha. Was that the only reason Vika wanted Nikolai to return?
It’s not enough, Nikolai thought. He had loved Pasha like a brother, before they knew they were actually brothers. In fact, he still loved him.
But did Pasha love him? For with a single twist of fate, Pasha had cast aside their entire history and demanded the end of the Game. It was because of him that Nikolai was here. That he was a shadow.
Nikolai’s heart ached.
“Is it that you can’t come back?” Vika asked.
Nikolai turned toward her voice again, unable to stay away from her for long. He was like a black lily that craved the sun.
“If you would let me,” she said, “I could try to help you.”
Say it, he thought. Say you want to help me because you want me back. Not because Pasha needs me. Because you need me.
But she didn’t.
Nikolai stayed in the black shadow of the mountain, his own darkness rendering him nearly invisible. He willed his horse to stay silent.
Vika looked up at the eagle still circling in the sky. Then she sighed, shook her head, and woke herself from the dream. Nikolai watched as her body faded till it was nothing. Nothing here, anyway. She’d be solid outside of the Dream Bench, on the island in the Neva where reality existed.
“For the record,” Nikolai said aloud, even though there was no one to hear him, “I don’t regret for an instant giving my life so you could live.”
The wind around Nikolai gusted, heralding the arrival of someone else on the steppe. He paused to look over his shoulder. Who has come now? This scene was accessible to anyone.
Whoever you are, Nikolai thought, welcome to the nightmare bench. “Nightmare,” because he hadn’t been able to escape the dream no matter how ferociously he tried to wake up, and reality marched onward everywhere else, without him. It was as if his state of in-between-ness had condemned him to existing in a place of in-between-ness, too.
Still, he watched the visitor as she materialized into the steppe dream, and when he recognized her, Nikolai’s entire body went to pins and needles. Her red hair flamed in the sunlight, broken only by a single streak of ash black. Even though she was tiny, she stood proud and powerful, as if she were twice her size. And she wore a green gown, years out of fashion, the same one she’d worn at the very beginning of the Game. It could still be improved by a yellow ribbon.
“Bonjour, Vika,” he whispered to himself, as he shifted his horse and his shadow-self into the shade of the mountain nearby.
Vika squinted at the vast horizon before her, in his direction, as if she could hear him, even though he knew she could not. But then again, they’d always had an undeniable connection. They’d been the only two enchanters in Russia. Destined to come together. Destined to tear each other apart.
He slouched a little at the last thought.
“Nikolai! Are you here?” Vika called into the never-ending sky.
The golden eagle wavered at the sound of her voice. Because Nikolai faltered at the sound of it, too.
She’d come in search of him, and he couldn’t bear it. Not when he looked like a shadow. Not when he loved her but couldn’t have her. And most of all, not when he felt both glad that he’d sacrificed himself at the end of the Game in order for her to live and resentful that he’d ended up in this nebulous state of ante-death.
Vika pushed through the tall grass, clearly not caring a whit whether burrs scratched and clung to her gown. But Nikolai wouldn’t allow her to reach him. For every foot that Vika marched forward, he extended the dream’s landscape another foot. It was the least—and the most—his magic could do.
And yet, slowly, Vika began to make progress toward the base of the mountain where he sat on his horse.
But then she stopped. She was close enough that he could smell the honeysuckle-cinnamon scent of her magic. Close enough that he could feel the wildness and warmth of it. Yet still far enough that he could remain hidden.
She frowned. “Why won’t you show yourself to me?”
The sad edge in her voice was a chipped blade, still sharp but no longer whole.
“I just . . .” Vika sighed. “It’s been a long night. Although I suppose it’s daytime here. . . . You are here, aren’t you?” She looked around her, at the grass and the sky and the yurt village in the distance.
Nikolai closed his eyes.
“You can’t stay here forever. You have to come back.”
Give me a reason, he thought. Because at the end of the Game, Nikolai had confessed that he loved her. But Vika hadn’t said it back. Was she here because she wanted him? Or was she here out of guilt that he’d funneled all his energy into her and was left but a dark-gray echo of his former self?
“Pasha is a mess,” Vika said. “Not that you should forgive him for what he did to us. I certainly haven’t.” She scowled, took several deep breaths, and continued. “But even though I’m furious at him, I feel for him, too. He’s lost his sense of self. Yet flickers of it still appear every now and then. You should have seen the elaborate memorial he held in your honor, and he even made public that the tsar was your father. I’m sorry . . . I didn’t know. But if you came back, you would be royalty, Nikolai.”
His eyes flew open. He’d known before the Game ended that his mother, Aizhana, had been spreading word throughout Saint Petersburg that he was the tsar’s illegitimate son. But he hadn’t realized the news had reached Pasha, and that it had been made official.
I could be royalty. Nikolai laughed quietly to himself, in part because it was what he’d always wanted—as an orphan from the steppe, he’d never quite fit into Saint Petersburg society, no matter how hard he tried—and in part because it was cruelly ironic that his acceptance into the nobility’s ranks came only when he couldn’t enjoy it.
“And perhaps,” Vika was saying, “Pasha’s guilt would be alleviated with your return. Maybe he’d be able to find his old self again.”
Nikolai sighed and looked away, even though she couldn’t see him. Of course she hadn’t actually come for him. It was about Pasha. Everyone was always so concerned with Pasha. Was that the only reason Vika wanted Nikolai to return?
It’s not enough, Nikolai thought. He had loved Pasha like a brother, before they knew they were actually brothers. In fact, he still loved him.
But did Pasha love him? For with a single twist of fate, Pasha had cast aside their entire history and demanded the end of the Game. It was because of him that Nikolai was here. That he was a shadow.
Nikolai’s heart ached.
“Is it that you can’t come back?” Vika asked.
Nikolai turned toward her voice again, unable to stay away from her for long. He was like a black lily that craved the sun.
“If you would let me,” she said, “I could try to help you.”
Say it, he thought. Say you want to help me because you want me back. Not because Pasha needs me. Because you need me.
But she didn’t.
Nikolai stayed in the black shadow of the mountain, his own darkness rendering him nearly invisible. He willed his horse to stay silent.
Vika looked up at the eagle still circling in the sky. Then she sighed, shook her head, and woke herself from the dream. Nikolai watched as her body faded till it was nothing. Nothing here, anyway. She’d be solid outside of the Dream Bench, on the island in the Neva where reality existed.
“For the record,” Nikolai said aloud, even though there was no one to hear him, “I don’t regret for an instant giving my life so you could live.”
