The Crown’s Game (19 page)

“We just do.” Vika flew up the stairs and out the doors of the ballroom, with Ludmila panting to
catch up behind her. Vika didn’t even bid farewell to the imperial family. She certainly did not look back at Nikolai.

For it was too cruel of life to bring him to her now, only to remind her that one of them would soon be taken away.

“W
hat in the tsar’s name is wrong with you?” Galina asked, as she brought a steaming bowl of borscht to Sergei’s bedside. He lay on the mattress with his eyelids barely open, his book on medicinal herbs splayed on the pillow next to him but untouched in the last day.

“I’m . . . tired.”

“You had better not have a contagious disease while I’m locked up in this cabin with you.”
Galina helped prop her brother up against the wall. It was like lifting two hundred pounds of deadweight. If it weren’t for her magic, she would not have been able to manage. “Here, at least eat something.” She scooped up a spoonful of the dark-red borscht and lifted it to his mouth.

Sergei opened and swallowed the soup. He screwed up his face. “What is
that
?”

“Borscht.”

“It absolutely is not.”

“Well, I tried my best!” Since Sergei had been in bed the
last two days, Galina had had to do the cooking, which was a near-impossible task, seeing as she had a full kitchen staff at home and had never lifted a paring knife in her life. Add in the fact that most of her meals were French in nature, so she had forgotten what a proper Russian beet soup ought to taste like. She had attempted to make
the borscht herself, but she couldn’t figure out how to get the hairy little roots off the beets, and the beets stained her hands and rolled off the cutting board onto the floor. In a huff, she had finally resorted to conjuring the dish, even though she knew Sergei despised conjured food. Still, she had made an effort.

Sergei pushed her hand and the bowl away and slumped back onto the mattress.
His bare wrist hung off the edge of the bed.

That was when Galina remembered the leather bracelet that had been there at the oath. “
Mon frere
. . . what exactly did you give Vika that day in Bolshebnoie Duplo?”

“A bracelet,” he muttered.

“But not any bracelet. It was charmed, wasn’t it?”

“Of course it was. I’m sure the dagger you gave Nikolai was also enchanted.”

Galina set the soup bowl
on the nightstand. “I would be a fool if it wasn’t. But the bracelet is the problem. It must be. What is it? What is it doing to you?”

Sergei grumbled and turned away from her to face the wall.

“Sergei!”

He rolled back and scowled. “What does it matter?”

“Because I need to know how to help my brother.” Whether he knew it or not, she did actually care about him. She remembered how much it pained
her when they were
children, when she watched him trying to keep his pet chinchilla alive and suffering with each failure. It died at least five times, surviving a month in their home only because Sergei kept half succeeding in resurrecting it by siphoning some of his own energy into it. The chinchilla just had not had much will to live. Finally, after the sixth death, their father had ordered
the chinchilla be left in peace, partly in pity for the poor beast, but mostly because every resurrection left Sergei weakened and susceptible to pneumonia or other illness. He had always been so attached to animals.

Which was precisely the problem now, wasn’t it? Sergei was too attached to Vika. Because she’d come into his life as a helpless baby, she must have seemed more like one of his gentle
forest animals than the preening people of Saint Petersburg society he so despised. And his current fatigued state must have very much to do with that bracelet he’d given his adopted daughter.

“You’re giving her your energy, aren’t you? The bracelet is a magical conduit you’ve created?”

Sergei sighed. “She’s strong, but this way, she’ll have even more stamina.”

“Oh, Sergei. Is there a limit?”

“No.”

Galina sank to her brother’s bedside. “So if the Game continues for much longer, she could drain your entire life away.”

Sergei shrugged. “If she wins, it will have been worth it.” His eyelids drooped, and he buried his face into the rough pillow.

“But the problem is, she won’t win.”

Sergei didn’t answer. Instead, he sang himself a wistful
lullaby that their mother had sung to them when
they were children.

     
Na ulitse dozhdik,

     
S vedra polivaet,

     
S vedra polivaet,

     
Zemlyu pribivaet.

     
It is raining, outdoors,

     
As if from a bucket.

     
Pouring from a bucket,

     
Rain is settling dirt down.

Galina stirred the borscht, around and around, with no intention of eating it. She stayed by her brother’s bed until he fell asleep.

The fact was, she did not
care a mite about the girl. Nikolai, whom she had trained to be a fighter, would ultimately prevail. But for Sergei’s sake, she hoped the Game ended sooner rather than later.

The snow kept falling endlessly outside.

N
ikolai slept the entire day after the masquerade. When he woke thirty or so hours later, he was groggy and felt as if he could sleep another day more. But his scar throbbed, and the realization that he was still in the Game—that the dance with Vika had changed everything and yet changed nothing at all—catapulted him out of bed.

He had thought, during the mazurka, that they’d
had something. Their touch had both frenzied and frozen the ballroom. Their breathing had synchronized, heatedly. And then they’d had all the dances afterward, where she’d let him charm her feet and he’d felt as if they’d spent the entire evening wrapped around each other, the warm silk of his magic against the strangely comforting chill of her dress, their magic and their bodies moving as one.

But then she’d suddenly run away without so much as a “Thank you for the dances” or even “I’ll see you again in the Game.” It was as if the mazurka had never happened at all.

And now Nikolai’s scar burned again. She had already
made her move.
But how? How could she have the energy to play the Game after the exhausting night at the ball?
He splashed cold water on his face. Of course, it had been
his
powers used during her dances, but conjuring those two dresses—the blizzard and the chocolate gowns—would have been enough to take Nikolai out completely. How had she managed not only to create them, but also to appear so fresh-faced at the ball, full of wit and vibrance? And then to follow it up with a move in the Game? He shook his head at his reflection in the mirror.

He was getting dressed
when Renata knocked and said through the door, “You have a message from the tsesarevich.”

Nikolai hopped into his trousers, unbolted the locks, and flung open the door without even tucking in his shirttail.

Renata stood in the hall, her hair neatly braided, as always. She seemed to have grown an inch, and grown prettier, since the ball. But he didn’t have time to dwell on that.

“What does he
say?”

“I didn’t open it.” She held out the envelope in her hands.

Nikolai took it and tore it open. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I tried, but you didn’t answer. I’ve been pounding on your door off and on for the last hour.”

“Oh.” Nikolai glanced at her and had the decency to look sheepish. “Sorry.”

She stepped into the room and leaned over his arm so she could see as he unfolded the heavy stationery.

N—

Come quickly. There is a new island in the bay.

—P

“What?” Renata said.

“Vika’s third move.”

“But—”

“I have to go.”

Nikolai ran to his wardrobe and threw on a waistcoat, shoved his feet into his boots, and snatched a frock coat that didn’t match. Then he slid down the banister and was out the front door before he realized that, like Vika the night before, he’d run off without saying
good-bye.

Nikolai saw Pasha pacing the dock before he even saw the new island. Not that the island was far from the shores of Saint Petersburg. But Pasha’s pacing was so frenetic, it was hard to focus on anything else. From the looks of his hair, Pasha had been pacing for quite some time. There was probably a path already worn onto the wood planks beneath him.

Pasha glanced up and caught sight
of Nikolai. “Gavriil!” he hollered to the captain of his Guard. “Ready the ferry.” Then he bounded down the pier to meet Nikolai.

“What took you so long?” Pasha asked when he reached his friend.

“It’s not even eight o’clock in the morning. I was asleep.”

“How could you sleep when a new island has cropped up in the middle of the night?”

Nikolai twisted his mouth. “Because in my slumber, I was
unaware that a new island had cropped up in the middle of the night.”

Pasha laughed and slapped him on the back. “Fair enough. Besides, you’re here now. I was about to give up on you, although I vastly prefer doing this together.” He started down the dock. “Come on. I forbade anyone to land
on the island before we had a chance to explore it.”

Nikolai hung back. “Are you sure it’s wise for you
to be the first? We know nothing of this island.” Which was true. It could very well be dangerous. But it was also true that a selfish part of Nikolai wanted Vika’s magic to himself, even though she’d left him at the ball. He didn’t want the experience of her new island spoiled by anyone else, even if it was Pasha.

“I doubt that the enchanter, whichever one it is, would be so bold as to build
a trap for me. It would be suicide to harm the tsesarevich.” Pasha grinned, as if he were amused with himself for actually admitting that he was the heir to the throne.

But Nikolai hardly heard the last part of what Pasha had said. “Did you say ‘the enchanter, whichever one it is’?”

“Indeed. Can you believe it? The lightning girl is not the only one. She didn’t mean for it to slip out, but I
caught it. I gather enchanters are rather protective of their identities.” Pasha hopped onto the ferry.

Nikolai bit on his knuckle. Then he followed Pasha, although Nikolai didn’t hop. He almost tripped on a rope snaking across the deck. One of Pasha’s guards caught him and helped him onto the ferry. The rest of the guards clambered on right behind him.

So Pasha knew there was another enchanter.
But he didn’t seem to suspect Nikolai at all. Still, Nikolai’s stomach lurched, and he leaned over the railing. Damn seasickness. Except Nikolai never got seasick. And they hadn’t even left the dock. Which meant it was the guilt of lying to his best friend that was making him feel this way. Splendid.

A few minutes later, the ferry pushed off from shore,
leaving behind the throngs already amassed
along the embankment, gawking both at the island (they’d managed to convince themselves that it was an artificial one, installed overnight as a birthday gift from the King of Sweden) and at the sight of the tsesarevich in their midst. They didn’t know Pasha often walked among them in disguise. To the people of Saint Petersburg, Pasha was a rare snow leopard who kept to his gilded cage in the palace.

Pasha waved jauntily as he and Nikolai sailed into the bay, and a few onlookers waved and blew kisses back. Then he strode to the ferry’s bow.

Nikolai took several deep breaths and pulled himself together. He took one more breath for good measure—what he’d do if the river tried to rope him in and drown him again, he didn’t know—then he followed Pasha, and the two watched the new island as they
approached.

The island was a small one, perhaps a half mile squared or a little more, but what it lacked in size, it made up for in appearance. Its banks were composed not of sand, but of low granite ridges, sparkling in the sun. Bright flowers freckled the shoreline, and trees reached halfway up to the clouds. It was also very green with all those trees.
Unnaturally green for this time of year,
Nikolai thought,
when the leaves ought to be turning shades of red and gold.

“It reminds me of the Summer Garden,” Pasha said.

Nikolai nodded. “Except the summer here is eternal.” He wondered if the island, like the Summer Garden in the city, was also full of rare flowers and plants and marble statues and fountains. But regardless . . . Vika had created an
entire
island
. Nikolai’s chest tightened
as their ferry sailed closer.

They arrived not long afterward. However, the ferry master could not find a place to bring the boat to shore. Nikolai frowned. It would have been easy for Vika to create a natural dock, an extension of land or an outcropping of rock. It wasn’t as if she were unfamiliar with ferries and ports; she lived on an island herself.

Unless she did it intentionally, to make
it harder to approach. But why? Why would she go to all the effort of conjuring something as magnificent as an island, only to make it difficult for anyone to come ashore?

“You’re already building it, aren’t you?” Pasha asked.

Nikolai jumped. “What?”

“I wager you’re already mentally calculating how to construct a dock or a bridge to the main part of Petersburg,” Pasha asked.

“Oh, right.” Nikolai
forced a smile. “Yes, it would be possible to erect an iron bridge, perhaps like the one in Coalbrookdale in England. Although more recently there has been talk among engineers of truss systems, such as the Gaunless Bridge that was just finished, also in England . . . Why are you laughing?”

Pasha shook his head. “I don’t understand that brain of yours. It’s unfair, really. How is it possible
for one person to know so much?”

Nikolai shrugged. “I just like bridges.”

“All right, well, if you ever find you don’t need all that genius for yourself, I’m happy to take some off your hands. And when it comes time to build a bridge, I’ll be sure our corps of engineers consults with you. But for now”—Pasha turned to the ferry master—“we’ll take the skiff.” He pointed to the small vessel kept
on board as a lifeboat.

“Yes, Your Imperial Highness.” The ferry master shouted to his crew to prepare the boat. “One of my men will row you to shore.”

“That will not be necessary, thank you. Nikolai and I will manage on our own.” He glanced at his Guard, who had gathered nearby. Gavriil cleared his throat. “No, Gavriil, I am not going to allow you to explore the island first. I’m quite sure
it’s harmless.”

“I am sure it is as well, Your Imperial Highness. The tsar ordered a regiment to ensure its safety shortly after sunrise this morning. The island is small enough that they were able to scour it from coast to coast. I was merely about to suggest that I accompany you to shore, just in case.”

Pasha scowled. Nikolai knew he didn’t like that his father’s men had beaten him to the
island, especially since Pasha had declared it off-limits. And even more so, Pasha hated that his father could anticipate that he would come to the island first thing. Pasha didn’t like to think himself so predictable.

“All right, Gavriil, you can come with us—but only you. The skiff will capsize if there are more than three of us in it.”

Gavriil boarded the skiff first to verify that it was
sturdy—Pasha scowled again at being handled so gently—and once its fitness for the tsesarevich was confirmed, Pasha and Nikolai were permitted to climb aboard. The boat rocked with the weight of all three of them, but once they were settled in, it was stable. The ferry’s crew lowered the skiff into the water.

“I can row,” Nikolai said.

“I’ll do it,” Pasha said.

“Your Imperial Highness,” Gavriil
said, “either Nikolai or I can—”

“No.” Pasha grabbed the oars. “I said,
I’ll
do it.”

Nikolai relented. Pasha was much better at sea than he was, anyway. After all, Pasha had been on ships to Stockholm and Amsterdam, not to mention he’d sailed on the Sea of Azov. And where had Nikolai been all his life? On the ground, following yaks on the steppe, or delivering packages on the streets of Saint
Petersburg. Nikolai sighed. It wasn’t even a contest.

Nikolai leaned back and focused on conjuring a shield around their little boat, in case the Neva decided to grow violent again.

Pasha’s strokes were long and strong, pushing and pulling the water in a steady rhythm.
Swish, swash. Swish, swash. Swish, swash.
The cadence almost hypnotized Nikolai back to sleep. He was still so tired from creating
the Masquerade and Imagination Boxes, and from staying up all night at the ball.

He didn’t get the chance to doze off, though, for he needed to keep the shield intact, and a
few minutes later, they were at the island.

As soon as the skiff pulled close to the rocky shore, Gavriil jumped out to tie the boat to a maple on the coast. The tree was fully leafed and green. Eternal summer, indeed.

Pasha climbed out next, and finally, Nikolai. All three of them stood with mouths agape as they took in the scenery.

It was, as Nikolai had guessed, very much like the Summer Garden in Saint Petersburg. The breeze from the bay rustled through trees and pink flowering bushes. The burbling of water indicated fountains or waterfalls in the distance.
Warblers chirped and ducks quacked.

And everywhere
in the air was her magic.

Nikolai closed his eyes and felt the tingle of it on his skin, like a sprinkle of rain or a dusting of snow. Her enchantment pulsed in the ground beneath his boots. And he could smell it in the wind, the scent of honeysuckle mixed with cinnamon, the same fragrance that wafted from Vika’s hair when she danced. He felt hot and cold again, found and lost, like he’d felt
with her in his arms at the ball.

“Are you asleep again, Nikolai?”

His eyes fluttered open, and Pasha stood in front of him, grinning. How long had he been there? Nikolai really had lost track of space and time.

“Gavriil has gone off to inspect and secure the coast. But I thought we might head inside.” Pasha pointed at the wide gravel path that led into the park. It was a long promenade lined
with oaks and shaded overhead by their leaves.

“Yes, of course,” Nikolai said. “Lead the way.”

They followed the path and entered the boulevard of trees. Everywhere they looked, there were larks and wrens, peeping a melody that sounded almost like an old Russian folk song. If Nikolai listened too closely, the song disintegrated into random notes, but if he softened his focus, the tune came back
together again, like the whistling of panpipes and the strumming of a balalaika.

“This is a wonderland,” Pasha said.

Nikolai could only nod, for he did not have the words to express how true a statement that was. For every leaf that Pasha saw, Nikolai also saw every stem and vein on that leaf. For every pond that Pasha marveled at, Nikolai sensed every droplet of water that filled it. A boulder
was not merely a
boulder, but a rock face full of detailed crags and slivers of crystal. None of it was as simple as it seemed, and it had all been conjured out of nothing.

“This island is the best enchantment yet,” Pasha said.

Nikolai suppressed a grimace. Ever since dancing with Vika, it had been harder to think of the Game as a competition. But here was proof once more that it was, and she
had bested him yet again.