The Crown's Game
Page 78
God forgive me, Nikolai thought. I’ve led the devil into Your sanctuary.
“It is truly I. My name is Aizhana Karimova, and I was a faith healer on the steppe. The village thought I had died, but I actually lay in ante-death, the amorphous space between life and death. It took eighteen years, but I healed myself, leaching energy from the worms and maggots that squirmed over me. And when I emerged from ante-death, I went in search of the only thing that mattered: you.”
Nikolai clutched a book of psalms that had been left in his pew. “It’s not possible to rise from death.”
Aizhana sighed, and all her audacity fell away. “It is when you are motivated by love.” She frowned. Or what would have been a frown had the muscles of her face worked as they were supposed to, rather than pulling taut in some places and hanging loose in others. “But, my dear, why should you not believe in ante-death, simply because you did not know it exists? Healing is the business of transferring energy; resurrection is healing, but more ambitious. And there is nothing too ambitious for a mother separated from her son.”
Nikolai remained in his pew, but his grip on the book of psalms eased. Just a fraction. It was nonsense, what she spoke of, and yet . . . it seemed possible that there could be a kernel of truth. Perhaps even more than a kernel.
She inched closer and opened her arms as if to embrace him.
“Stay back.”
Her entire body slumped, but she did not try to advance farther. “I have been in the city a while now, but I did not feel worthy of you, Nikolai. I failed to protect you, and protection was my job as your mother. I could not face you until I felt I had been redeemed.” Her face drooped. The skin near her mouth looked as if it might fall off her chin. It was a ghoul’s rendition of regret.
“And are you redeemed now?”
Her eyes brightened. “I am.”
“How?”
Now the skin near her mouth tightened, and she bared her rotten jaw in a monstrous, gap-toothed smile. “The villagers who neglected you have been punished. When I find Galina Zakrevskaya, she will feel my wrath as well. And the tsar . . . let us simply say his death was not accidental.”
Nikolai clung to the psalter again. “You killed the tsar?”
“Believe me, he did not deserve to live.”
“And the tsarina?” Nikolai’s voice was hardly audible.
“She died of natural causes. She meant nothing to me.”
If Nikolai hadn’t already been sitting, he would have buckled onto the floor. His mother had come back from the dead. And she had murdered the tsar, who she claimed was his father.
He summoned the power to rise from the pew. “You may have been my mother in your past life, but not in your current reincarnation.”
Aizhana’s shriveled lips twisted with a sob. “But—”
“The bubble I’ve cast around you will remain to spare others from your fetor. But please leave Saint Petersburg. I do not wish your presence here.”
“Nikolai.” She whimpered. She attempted to stand. She fell back into the pew.
“I have charmed you to the bench. The spell will wear off in a few hours. Meanwhile, it may do you good to spend some time in this holy place. To think about what you’ve done.”
“No! My son! I did everything for you. I love you, Nikolai.”
But he strode out of the church without looking back. He had a mother who was a demon of the dead. He had a father who was actually dead. And he had a duel tomorrow, at the end of which either he or Vika would be dead.
Again, Renata’s tea leaves were correct. Nikolai was born of Death, and Death would always follow him. The only question that remained was, would he also help usher in Death?
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
In the evening, Vika woke in her bed on Ovchinin Island with her eyes nearly glued together from salt crust, and her mouth pasty and dry. Her flat in Saint Petersburg had been too quiet without Ludmila, and the city too big and impersonal. Vika had needed stillness and familiarity to sort through her thoughts, so she’d come home. And cried and cried.
It was worse than after she’d first learned of Sergei’s death. Then, she had been sad, but she’d also been furious. She’d been upset that he lied to her about her mother, and that he never dispelled her delusion that he was her real father. Her grief had been diluted by her sense of betrayal. It had taken time to come to terms with his untruths, and to understand that whether or not he was her biological father, he had cared for her and taught her everything he knew, and he’d been her father in everything but name.
However, unlike the letter about Sergei’s death, Galina’s accusation that Vika had been the one who took his life hit Vika directly. There was no one else to blame. And so she cried.
But now she scraped the salt from her eyes. It wasn’t my fault, Vika realized. I couldn’t have known and couldn’t have stopped what happened. Sergei had never taught her it was possible to channel energy as he had done. And it must have been his plan that when the Game began, he would sacrifice himself if he had to in order to help her. Oh, Father.
With this understanding, Vika rose from bed and cobbled together supper from the tins of fish in the cupboard and some old beets from the garden. Then she dived into her last few hours before the duel.
She did little in preparation for the duel itself. She figured that what she already knew would have to suffice; there was little else she could learn in these final hours. Besides, she wanted to save her strength.
Vika also had no inkling of what to expect from Nikolai. In fact, she had no clue about what to expect from herself. If he attacked, she would react. If he didn’t, well . . . she did not know.
What Vika did do was tidy up the loose ends of her life. She made a list of all her valuables—there weren’t many, but the contents of the chest buried under the valerian root (Father’s “hiding spot”) would be enough to last a comfortable lifetime—and left instructions that they were to go to Ludmila in the event Vika died. She also composed a letter to Ludmila and charmed both the list and the letter to self-destruct should Vika survive the Game, and to find their way to Ludmila if she did not.
After she’d run out of chores, Vika hiked into the forest to say good-bye to her longtime refuge. She climbed over icy logs and pushed her way through snow-covered shrubs until she reached Preobrazhensky Creek. It was frozen over, but she could still imagine its soft burbling, the fish glistening silver beneath its surface, and the frogs croaking their deep, vibrating songs on midsummer nights.
“It is truly I. My name is Aizhana Karimova, and I was a faith healer on the steppe. The village thought I had died, but I actually lay in ante-death, the amorphous space between life and death. It took eighteen years, but I healed myself, leaching energy from the worms and maggots that squirmed over me. And when I emerged from ante-death, I went in search of the only thing that mattered: you.”
Nikolai clutched a book of psalms that had been left in his pew. “It’s not possible to rise from death.”
Aizhana sighed, and all her audacity fell away. “It is when you are motivated by love.” She frowned. Or what would have been a frown had the muscles of her face worked as they were supposed to, rather than pulling taut in some places and hanging loose in others. “But, my dear, why should you not believe in ante-death, simply because you did not know it exists? Healing is the business of transferring energy; resurrection is healing, but more ambitious. And there is nothing too ambitious for a mother separated from her son.”
Nikolai remained in his pew, but his grip on the book of psalms eased. Just a fraction. It was nonsense, what she spoke of, and yet . . . it seemed possible that there could be a kernel of truth. Perhaps even more than a kernel.
She inched closer and opened her arms as if to embrace him.
“Stay back.”
Her entire body slumped, but she did not try to advance farther. “I have been in the city a while now, but I did not feel worthy of you, Nikolai. I failed to protect you, and protection was my job as your mother. I could not face you until I felt I had been redeemed.” Her face drooped. The skin near her mouth looked as if it might fall off her chin. It was a ghoul’s rendition of regret.
“And are you redeemed now?”
Her eyes brightened. “I am.”
“How?”
Now the skin near her mouth tightened, and she bared her rotten jaw in a monstrous, gap-toothed smile. “The villagers who neglected you have been punished. When I find Galina Zakrevskaya, she will feel my wrath as well. And the tsar . . . let us simply say his death was not accidental.”
Nikolai clung to the psalter again. “You killed the tsar?”
“Believe me, he did not deserve to live.”
“And the tsarina?” Nikolai’s voice was hardly audible.
“She died of natural causes. She meant nothing to me.”
If Nikolai hadn’t already been sitting, he would have buckled onto the floor. His mother had come back from the dead. And she had murdered the tsar, who she claimed was his father.
He summoned the power to rise from the pew. “You may have been my mother in your past life, but not in your current reincarnation.”
Aizhana’s shriveled lips twisted with a sob. “But—”
“The bubble I’ve cast around you will remain to spare others from your fetor. But please leave Saint Petersburg. I do not wish your presence here.”
“Nikolai.” She whimpered. She attempted to stand. She fell back into the pew.
“I have charmed you to the bench. The spell will wear off in a few hours. Meanwhile, it may do you good to spend some time in this holy place. To think about what you’ve done.”
“No! My son! I did everything for you. I love you, Nikolai.”
But he strode out of the church without looking back. He had a mother who was a demon of the dead. He had a father who was actually dead. And he had a duel tomorrow, at the end of which either he or Vika would be dead.
Again, Renata’s tea leaves were correct. Nikolai was born of Death, and Death would always follow him. The only question that remained was, would he also help usher in Death?
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
In the evening, Vika woke in her bed on Ovchinin Island with her eyes nearly glued together from salt crust, and her mouth pasty and dry. Her flat in Saint Petersburg had been too quiet without Ludmila, and the city too big and impersonal. Vika had needed stillness and familiarity to sort through her thoughts, so she’d come home. And cried and cried.
It was worse than after she’d first learned of Sergei’s death. Then, she had been sad, but she’d also been furious. She’d been upset that he lied to her about her mother, and that he never dispelled her delusion that he was her real father. Her grief had been diluted by her sense of betrayal. It had taken time to come to terms with his untruths, and to understand that whether or not he was her biological father, he had cared for her and taught her everything he knew, and he’d been her father in everything but name.
However, unlike the letter about Sergei’s death, Galina’s accusation that Vika had been the one who took his life hit Vika directly. There was no one else to blame. And so she cried.
But now she scraped the salt from her eyes. It wasn’t my fault, Vika realized. I couldn’t have known and couldn’t have stopped what happened. Sergei had never taught her it was possible to channel energy as he had done. And it must have been his plan that when the Game began, he would sacrifice himself if he had to in order to help her. Oh, Father.
With this understanding, Vika rose from bed and cobbled together supper from the tins of fish in the cupboard and some old beets from the garden. Then she dived into her last few hours before the duel.
She did little in preparation for the duel itself. She figured that what she already knew would have to suffice; there was little else she could learn in these final hours. Besides, she wanted to save her strength.
Vika also had no inkling of what to expect from Nikolai. In fact, she had no clue about what to expect from herself. If he attacked, she would react. If he didn’t, well . . . she did not know.
What Vika did do was tidy up the loose ends of her life. She made a list of all her valuables—there weren’t many, but the contents of the chest buried under the valerian root (Father’s “hiding spot”) would be enough to last a comfortable lifetime—and left instructions that they were to go to Ludmila in the event Vika died. She also composed a letter to Ludmila and charmed both the list and the letter to self-destruct should Vika survive the Game, and to find their way to Ludmila if she did not.
After she’d run out of chores, Vika hiked into the forest to say good-bye to her longtime refuge. She climbed over icy logs and pushed her way through snow-covered shrubs until she reached Preobrazhensky Creek. It was frozen over, but she could still imagine its soft burbling, the fish glistening silver beneath its surface, and the frogs croaking their deep, vibrating songs on midsummer nights.
