The Crown’s Game (20 page)

The boys walked deeper into the park. It was easy to maintain their bearings; like the Summer Garden, the island was laid out geometrically, with paths running parallel and perpendicular. Unlike the Summer Garden, however, Nikolai noticed an absence of statues and fountains. In fact, there was nothing resembling the man-made here—no benches, no sculptures, no columns
and iron-grille fences. Perhaps because that was not Vika’s strength.

But it was his.

Nikolai’s scar seared against his skin, and it suddenly occurred to him that the lack of a dock and the dearth of statuary were deliberate. It was an open invitation for him to play. This island was not Vika’s alone; it could also be Nikolai’s.

He looked overhead to the canopy of leaves and smiled.

But then
his smile faded. Had she created this island for them to collaborate? Or was it a trap, waiting to be sprung? Nikolai might have forgotten about the Game the other night at the ball, but it was possible she had not.

No, it was
likely
she had not.

Pasha waved to him from an outcropping that overlooked the Neva Bay to Saint Petersburg. Beside him rose a pillar of rock shaped like an enormous candle.

“Hey-o, Nikolai, come see the view.”

Nikolai sighed. “I’ll be right there.”

He trudged over to where Pasha stood. But he did not take in the bay or Saint Petersburg. All he could focus on was the pillar of rock.

It looked just like a candle that had been snuffed out.

S
ince work at the Zakrevsky household had slowed to a tortoise’s crawl, Renata was permitted to set up a tea stall next to Ludmila’s pumpkin kiosk to make some extra money. Her station consisted of a simple table and several large copper samovars and a set of barely chipped cups and saucers Renata had salvaged when the countess declared them wanting. For a few kopecks, Renata
would sell Ludmila’s customers a cup of tea to go with their pastry. For a few more coins, she would read their leaves.

As soon as she opened her stall, the first customer arrived. “I understand you read leaves,” she said.

Renata gaped at her. It was the lightning girl, Lady Snow, the other enchanter in Nikolai’s Game. She tried to look Vika in the eyes but had to turn away. There was something
too vibrant about them. Too green. Too intense. “Y-yes, miss. I read leaves.” She fumbled with setting up the samovar.

“Will you read mine?”

“Uh . . .” She could not seem to form a coherent sentence. Although she and Vika were close to the same age, Vika’s confidence and the way she carried herself made her infinitely more formidable than Renata could ever be.

“You were the girl at the ball
with Nikolai, were you not? In the peacock gown. I recognize your braids. They’re very intricate.”

“Yes, that was me.”

Vika reached over to help Renata with the stubborn spigot on the samovar. “There. That ought to be better.”

“Thank you. Your dress was, er, exquisite.”

Vika beamed. “Thank you. I was lucky to have such a gown. Now, if I may inquire about the tea?”

“Oh, yes. I . . .” Renata
could think of no excuse for not serving Vika. It also seemed unwise to defy her. She grabbed one of the clean cups and a saucer and filled it with tea.

“Come join me.” Vika glanced behind her as if to confirm there was no one else waiting for Renata’s services. Renata instinctively looked down the street, toward the Zakrevsky house, as if Nikolai could come to her rescue. But he couldn’t. He
was on the new island with the tsesarevich. She followed Vika to one of the tables by the canal that Ludmila had set up for her patrons. Renata waited until Vika was seated before she herself sat.

“I’m Vika Andreyeva, by the way.”

Renata stood up again and curtsied.

“I hardly think that’s necessary. It’s not as if I’m the grand princess. What is your name?”

“Renata. Renata Galygina.”

“It’s
nice to meet you, Renata. Please do sit.”

She obeyed.

“Are you . . .” Vika spun her cup back and forth on the saucer. “Are you Nikolai’s betrothed?”

Renata’s eyes widened. “Me? Oh, no! I wish I . . . I mean, no, miss. He’s my friend, but I’m a servant in the Zakrevsky household. Nikolai would never marry someone like me.”

“I’m not so sure of that.” Vika tilted her head, as if to get a better,
deeper look at Renata. “He seems rather fond of you. He took you to the ball.” Her voice lifted at the end, almost like a question tinged with the hope that Renata would deny it.

Which, of course, she had to, not only because it was the truth, but also because Renata was trained to speak honestly to her superiors. “No, miss,” she said. “I came to the ball on my own. I wanted to . . .” The words
drained away, along with the color in Renata’s face.

Vika seemed to relax into her chair. “Let me guess. Keep an eye on me?” She smiled kindly.

Renata stared at the table and focused on the floral pattern of the tablecloth.

“You know about the Game,” Vika said.

Renata considered hiding under her table. She had promised Nikolai she wouldn’t tell anyone about the Game. Of course, her promise
probably did not cover telling the other enchanter, since Vika already knew, but as Renata nodded, she still felt she had breached her word.

“I understand if you don’t want to read my leaves,” Vika said.

“I think I already know what they will say. I think you do, too.”

“That either Nikolai or I will die in the Game.” She cast her eyes downward to the table.

“Yes.”

“I suppose I was hoping
this Game would be different from the ones in the past. That perhaps the tsar somehow wouldn’t have to choose only one of us.” Vika looked back up. “I was hoping for a miracle.”

Renata was, as well. She wanted so badly to read Vika’s leaves, and yet, what was the point? If she already knew what they would say . . .

But morbid curiosity latched onto her, and she reached across the table to take
Vika’s cup. This would be her only chance to see into Nikolai’s future again. He had refused to let her read his leaves after she’d read so much darkness in them the last time. Perhaps Vika’s cup would shed some light.

The leaves were grouped in three small clusters. Three separate but related prophecies. At the top of the cup were two curved leaves that almost formed a heart, but for a third
leaf that jutted into it. It represented love—possibly from a lover, but possibly from parents, siblings, or friends—and it foretold that love for Vika would always come with suffering. But Renata didn’t tell her so. It seemed cruel. And, selfishly, Renata didn’t want to say anything about love. She didn’t want Vika to think about the word “love” when she was asking about the Game and Nikolai.

So Renata skipped those leaves and went to the next cluster, three arched leaves, one right after another. “This could mean movement.”

“Like a journey?”

“Yes. Or emotional movement, internal change. I don’t know. It’s a bit vague.”

“I see.” Vika bit her lip. “And what about that one?”

Renata swallowed. The leaf she’d indicated was a sharp line with a jagged edge. There was another short leaf
across the top, like a hilt. “A knife. Death.”

“Oh.” Vika sagged in her chair.

“The crookedness means it is not as expected.”

“But one of us will still die.”

“One of you will still die.” Renata clutched the sides of the cup tightly. Both she and Vika stared at the leaves, as if they could will them to move and prophesy something else instead. In that moment, it seemed that the canal next to
them turned black. But when Renata looked again, the water was purple.

And there was something else in the leaves, although Renata didn’t say it, for she suddenly felt as if she’d revealed too much.

But Vika stared at her. “What is it?”

“What is what?”

“The thing you’re keeping from me.”

“I’m not—”

“Renata.” Vika curled her fingers. Was it a threat? What would she do to Renata if she didn’t
tell her what was in the cup? Or worse, what would she do to Nikolai?

Renata’s heart rose into her throat. “The knife,” she blurted in her panic over Nikolai. “The leaves that form the knife are close to the inner circle—the bottom—of the cup.”

“Which means?” Vika’s fingers tensed.

“It means death is coming soon.”

B
eneath one of the bridges that traversed Ekaterinsky Canal, a hooded figure loitered, listening. She kept her distance from the girls discussing their tea leaves, for the woman stank of rot, like scraps of meat left out in the garbage on a midsummer day. But because there was no one else at the pumpkin bakery at this early hour, she was still close enough to hear.

After
the steppe, Aizhana had traveled to Moscow. There, she lurked outside restaurants and horse races and anywhere she could find nobility, hoping for a glimpse of her son. Of course, she did not know what he looked like. So she’d done the only thing she could think of—stalk the aristocracy and hope she would recognize her boy, if only because she was his mother.

But then word reached Moscow of the
wonders springing forth in the capital city, and Aizhana knew the source must be Nikolai. From the stories her village had told of his powers, it had to be him.

Aizhana rushed to Saint Petersburg then, her putrefied heart swelling with pride. She tracked him down to a house along Ekaterinsky Canal, and it was here that she had hidden, hoping for a glimpse of her son.

But now, as she eavesdropped
on the girls, a different horror set in. For it was apparent Nikolai was involved in a game of sorts, a competition, from which only one enchanter could emerge victorious. And the tsar would choose the winner.

Aizhana had to lean against the walls of the dank underpass for support as her weak leg crumpled beneath her. Her son could die when she had only just found him. Was this the purpose for
which the noblewoman had purchased Nikolai from the tribe? To enter him as a pawn in a game for the tsar’s amusement?

Aizhana’s blood boiled, threatening to rupture her brittle veins.

But then her rage settled at a simmer.
It is because of me that he was lost in the first place. I was not strong enough. I nearly let Death take me. Nikolai’s misfortunes stem from my failure as his mother.

She
pulled herself deeper into the shadows beneath the bridge. She was not worthy of meeting her son now.

It did not mean, however, that she could not make herself so.

As flies began to swarm around her, attracted to her stench, Aizhana adjusted the hood around her face and smiled a rotten, gap-toothed smile.

I will find you again, Nikolai. As soon as I redeem myself as your mother.

And she had
a plan. She would kill the tsar.

T
he next day, Pasha stood in the archery yard with a bow and a quiver of arrows. The weaponry master, Maxim, had cleared not only the archery range, but also the entire practice arena where the Tsar’s Guard ordinarily trained and sparred, because Pasha’s aim was so accurate, he needed twice the normal distance in which to practice.

“Ready?” Maxim hollered.

“Ready,” Pasha
said.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Your Imperial Highness.”

“So little faith in me, Maxim.” Pasha grinned. “I said I’m ready. Now shoot.”

Maxim shook his head but lifted his bow. He pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back. He aimed it straight at Pasha. “All right, Your Imperial Highness. Ready?”

“Yes! Shoot!”

“I pray to the Lord you know what you’re doing.” Maxim aimed again, making sure
his line was directly to Pasha’s chest, took a deep breath, and let an arrow fly.

Pasha drew back his own arrow and shot it straight at the incoming one. He knocked Maxim’s out of the air, and the arrows clattered to the dirt below.

Maxim’s jaw dropped so far, his gray beard met the armor on his chest.

“Again,” Pasha said, grinning even harder than before. “I like this trick.”

“Your Imperial
Highness, I can’t. If I strike you, the tsar will have my head.”

At that moment, Yuliana appeared on the gravel path leading to the archery range. “What nonsense are you up to that would cause Maxim to lose his head?” The way she moved always appeared elegant but sounded like an angry stampede of wildebeests, even when she wasn’t angry or irritated—which, to be honest, was rare. But she wasn’t
upset now; although her footsteps were vehement, the tone of her question was woven through with genuine curiosity. Pasha’s archery practice was one of the few settings where he and his sister were both consistently pleasant.

Well, Pasha was
always
pleasant. But yes, watching him shoot arrows somehow soothed Yuliana’s ruffled edges.

Maxim bowed to Yuliana.

Pasha wiped the sweat off his brow.
“Oh, nothing. Maxim’s being overly cautious. He refuses to shoot any more arrows at me.”

“I’d say that Maxim is the wiser of the two of you, although that’s nothing we don’t already know.”

Pasha laughed.

“Maxim, I believe you’re finished here. Pasha and I will shoot at something safer. A stationary, nonhuman target.” She gestured at the bull’s-eyes that were set up a hundred
fifty feet away,
at the end of what was the
normal
archery range, not Pasha’s extended one.

“Yes, Your Imperial Highness.” Maxim bowed to both Pasha and Yuliana, hung his bow and quiver on the weaponry rack, and left the field.

“You’re no fun,” Pasha said through a smile.

“But I’m rather good at keeping my brother alive,” Yuliana said.

Pasha set down his bow for a second to roll his sleeves to his elbows.
After an hour of shooting—much of it involving running while hitting moving targets that Maxim threw in the air—Pasha was hot, and the muscles in his forearms were taut from the exertion. But if Yuliana wanted to shoot with him, he’d press on. There was no holding back anyway when it came to target practice, for it was one thing for certain in which Pasha was better than Nikolai, and he wouldn’t cede
that ground. Even if archery was a completely useless hobby.

“What are you musing on?” Yuliana asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You come out here when you need to think. Something’s on your mind.”

Pasha laughed. He actually hadn’t realized that he came to the archery range to think, but now that his sister mentioned it, he found that it was true. The library and the range were solace to him.

“Nothing slips your notice,” he said.

“As a general rule, no,” Yuliana said. “So what is it that’s preoccupying you?”

Pasha picked up his bow again and drew an arrow from his quiver. “Do you think she likes me?” he asked Yuliana.

“Who?”

“The girl from the ball.” Pasha’s stomach somersaulted just thinking about her.

“Which girl? You danced with half the room.”

Pasha lowered his bow and cast
a wry smile at his sister. “You know the one. Lady Snow. She was, as far as I’m concerned, the
only
girl in the room.”

Yuliana walked—or rather, stomped—her way to the weapons rack and lifted a small bow. She strapped on a quiver, too, then returned to Pasha’s side. “Well, if she’s the one you’re pining after, I’d say you ought to move on.”

“And why’s that?” Pasha aimed at the target again.

“She’s not at all your equal.”

Pasha let three arrows fly in rapid succession. Two of them hit their marks, but the third landed far awry with a
thwack
in the outer ring. He sighed. “I know. She’d probably like Nikolai better than me.”

Yuliana rolled her eyes at him. “I didn’t mean that she’s
above
you! You’re the tsesarevich. You have few equals, if any at all.” She sighted her arrow and shot.
It hit two rings off center. “And Nikolai is no competition. He’s a commoner. At best, he can aspire to work for you someday.”

Pasha laughed. Nikolai, working for him! He could only imagine what that would be like, having Nikolai in his Guard. He could probably slay an entire enemy army with a single scowl. “I cannot picture Nikolai taking orders from me.”

“It’s your future,” Yuliana said. “Not
necessarily Nikolai, but people in general. You have to get used to the idea that you’re better than everyone else.”

“That sounds horrible and lonely.”

She shrugged. “It’s not so bad, being horrible.”

“Yuliana . . .”

She glide-stomped over and stood up on her toes. She pecked him on the cheek. “Oh, don’t worry about me, brother. It’s I who ought to worry about you. You haven’t a horrid bone
in your body, which means you’ll make a wretched tsar.”

Pasha smiled down at her. She was chilly, to be sure, but it was impossible for him not to respect her. His sister knew what she wanted, and she knew how to get it. That certainly couldn’t be said of himself.

“So do you think she likes me, even though I’m destined to be a disaster of a tsar with no friends and sadly un-horrible bones?”

Yuliana sighed, but there was a light in her eyes. “Pasha, if you want her to like you, she’ll like you. You’re the tsesarevich. It’s time you got that into your pretty little head.”