The Crown’s Game (31 page)

N
ikolai was still standing. He didn’t feel a thing, when he should have felt the blade slicing through muscle and grating against bone. When he should have been buckling in a pool of red. When Death was supposed to have come to claim him.

He looked down at himself. There was no knife in his hands. What? How?

And then he looked up at Vika, who had just screamed. Her eyes were
wide, and a hilt protruded from her chest. Blood drenched the bodice of her dress.

“Nikolai . . . ,” she gasped.

“Vika!” Unlike the night along the canal, he was quick enough this time to catch her before she hit the ground. He cradled her tenderly against his body. Her breathing was already shallow.

Galina had said the knife would not miss. So how . . . ?

Nikolai drew in a guillotine-sharp
breath. Galina. The conniving, venomous harpy. She had known before Nikolai
did that his weakness—his compassion for the tiger, for the lorises, for Vika—might lead him to attempt to end the Game by killing himself. So Galina had charmed the knife to hit the target she thought it ought to. Like she’d said, the knife would never miss.

“Vika. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know . . . It was supposed to
be me, not you.”

She turned her head toward him, but her eyes were far away. Even the green in them seemed diluted.

He pressed his fingers to her throat and felt her pulse beneath her skin. The beat faltered. Then it recovered, but the rhythm was uneven.

What have I done, what have I done, what have I done?

“Vika, listen to me. I’ll fix this. There must be some way to reverse it. You need
to hold on. Hold on while I figure out how to right this.”

She wheezed and more blood gushed from her wound.

I have to close it,
Nikolai thought. But he had never done anything like it before. Galina had trained him as a master of mechanics. But what good was shipbuilding and fabric manipulating at a time like this? And the only way she had taught him to handle life was to end it. Damn her and
her blasted tigers.

If only Vika could heal herself, like she did for the animals on her island. But she hadn’t the strength. “Why can’t I give you mine?” Nikolai let out a tortured wail.

But why couldn’t he?

Sergei had channeled his energy into Vika. And Aizhana had taken life from other life. Nikolai didn’t know how it was done, but the fact was, it
had
been done. And now it was his only
hope. He would have to cobble together a way how.

“I don’t know how to heal you, Vika, but I’m going to try to siphon some of my energy to you. And then . . . I don’t know. Then I hope you’ll have enough strength that you can heal yourself.”

She didn’t respond.

Nikolai squeezed his eyes shut for a second. “Please let this work.” Then he opened them again and gritted his teeth.

Go.
He tried
to command his energy, in the same way he ordinarily directed his thoughts toward objects he wanted to move.
Go.

He waved his hands. Nothing.

He pointed with his fingers. No response.

He even tried blowing energy out through his mouth, to no avail.

Go, go, go.

Vika’s head drooped in his arms.

He propped her up and cradled her tighter, so close it was as if they were waltzing rather than
dying. The panic rose in his chest; his own heartbeat accelerated to the speed of a mazurka.

And then . . . yes.

Like a dance
.
Like my enchantment at the masquerade.

But this time, instead of the rhythm of the orchestra, it would be the rhythm of Nikolai’s own heart. And instead of charming Vika’s feet to follow the tune of the mazurka, he would charm her stumbling pulse to follow his stronger
one. Like any good dancer, he would lead her where he needed her to go.

Please work.

Nikolai closed his eyes. He focused on the steady beat of
his heart.
Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump.
He charmed Vika’s heart next, convincing himself it was the same as charming her feet, and he channeled the rhythm of his pulse like music into her veins.

Her heart tripped.

“Listen to the rhythm,” he whispered.
Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump.

Her heart stumbled again.

No. Like this:
Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump.

There was a pause. And then hers went,
Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump.
The raggedness of Vika’s breath smoothed a little.

Yes. Nikolai kept his eyes closed.
Now, beat harder
, he urged, like a conductor asking his drummers to play louder.
Ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP.

He felt her shift in his
arms.
Ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP.

The frigid wind whipped around him. It was like the snow flurry of Vika’s dress in the ballroom, lifting their dancing to a frenzy. Nikolai harnessed the memory of that energy—the blistering tempo of the orchestra, the rapid movements of their feet—and propelled it into Vika’s body.

She gasped and sat upright.

Nikolai linked his arms around her and pulled
her close again. There was no telling what would happen if he lost the connection with her heart.

“Vika, listen. I’m going to extract the knife. But I don’t know how to stanch the bleeding, so you’ll have to do it. Can you manage?” He continued to listen to their rhythms as he spoke.

She blinked at him twice. Weakly.

It was all she could muster. He would have to take that as a yes.

“Don’t
worry. We can do this,” he said, even though he wasn’t sure if it was true. “I’ll keep your heart strong.”

Nikolai held her tight. Then he took a deep breath and wrenched the knife from her chest. He felt the sickening give of soft flesh as he did it, and it was only because he had to keep rhythm for Vika’s heart that he didn’t throw up.

As the blade came out, Vika shrieked, and the sound was
a thousand banshees ripping Nikolai’s soul apart. He trembled as he pinned down her arms to keep her from flailing. Vika’s pulse stuttered, and a torrent of fresh blood surged from the wound.

We are not at Death’s door,
he told himself.
We are at Pasha’s ball. Our feet are stamping and skipping, our hearts kicking and leaping.
“Remember the masquerade,” he whispered into Vika’s ear. “Remember
how we danced.”

Ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP, ka-THUMP.

Her heart reluctantly rejoined the mazurka.

She took in saw-toothed gulps of air. Her lungs were as fragile as the unlit paper lanterns in the sky. But Nikolai would not let her heart stop dancing.

And then he felt her tense against him, the muscles in her shoulders drawn back and growing strong. She doubled over again, then stretched out, twisted,
and unwound. She moaned and cried. He held her tight as she carried out her work.

But soon Nikolai’s arms began to quiver, and he was cold. So very, very cold. He had felt like this when he created the benches, and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer. “Hurry . . . ,” he whispered.

Vika took in a sharp inhale in response.

Now her heartbeat was solid, and his was flimsy, but still he continued
to pour his energy into her. Her body kept contracting and writhing and contorting against his.

After what seemed an eternity, all her muscles relaxed. She collapsed against his neck and whispered, “I did it. I . . . I closed the wound.” Her voice was her own again. “You can let go now, Nikolai.”

His head was cloudy, and he didn’t have the strength to unlink his arms from her. So he chose instead
to open his eyes.

The knife was discarded by her side. She was alive.

But he felt as if he were not.

Vika sat up on her own. Then she let out a plaintive cry. “Nikolai.” Her hand fluttered to her mouth. “Nikolai, what have you done?”

He shook his head. He didn’t know.

He crumpled in a heap.

At least I die with her in my arms.

T
he Russe Quill began to scratch on the Scroll. Pasha’s stomach turned. He grabbed the vase again.

The Quill had written something else earlier in the morning, not long after dawn. But Pasha had not been able to muster the courage to look at it, to see what Nikolai’s first play had been. He had lain on the floor instead, waiting for Vika to make a move.

The ensuing silence of
the Quill had been too loud.

Now there was something new, and Pasha clenched his fists and forced himself to rise. Were they fighting, as Yuliana had told Pasha needed to be done? Or had Vika and Nikolai found a way around the rules of the Game?
Please let it be the latter.
. . .

But deep inside, Pasha knew there was no way out other than victory for one and death for the other.

He wrung his
hands as he walked to his desk, dragging his feet to make the distance across the room longer. But he was there before he knew it. He hesitated before he picked
up the parchment, looking around his bedroom for another excuse. Perhaps he ought to wait for Yuliana? But she was occupied with entertaining the English ambassador’s wife, and if Pasha waited, she would only yell at him that if he was
going to be tsar, he had better find the backbone soon to act like it.

So he reached for the Scroll, hands shaking. The parchment crinkled in his grasp. He didn’t want to look, but there was nothing else to do.

1 December 1825: Winner—Vika Andreyeva

Pasha dropped his head to his hands and sobbed.

O
ne week after the end of the Game, Vika sat on the steppe bench and immersed herself in the dream. Soon, she would have to return to Saint Petersburg to take her post as Imperial Enchanter, but for now, she watched Nikolai’s golden eagle fly over the barren plains. It was so unfair that his benches were still here when he wasn’t. And yet, it was something. So she listened
to the rustle of the dry grasses and felt the cool breeze on her face and remembered him.

Pasha had ordered an elaborate memorial service for Nikolai, but Vika hadn’t attended. Despite Pasha’s grief and his attempts to apologize for demanding the duel, Vika didn’t want anything to do with him. At least not for now. Until he was officially installed as tsar and she had no choice but to serve him,
Vika needed space. The wounds Pasha had inflicted were too deep and too raw.

There was another reason, however, that Vika hadn’t wanted to attend Nikolai’s memorial. It horrified her, but
she was unable to cry for him. Perhaps she had used up all her tears before the duel. Perhaps the grief was so vast, mere tears could never be adequate. Or perhaps it was that something nagged at her, and she
felt he wasn’t entirely gone.

Nikolai had crumpled in her lap at the end of the Game. But instead of the wands bursting into flame and consuming him, as she’d expected, he’d disintegrated into nothing. As if, with all his energy drained, he’d simply ceased to exist. And because he did not exist, there was no scar to alight and burn. Then Vika’s own scar had vanished from her skin. The Game had
officially been won.

But even with Nikolai gone, there had remained a heaviness in the air, a lack of finality, as if his magic still lingered. It had been impossible to attend his memorial when it felt as if something of Nikolai was still there. Here.

The wind on the steppe whipped up, and the eagle soared on its gust. Behind Vika, someone pushed through the long grass. The footsteps on the
hard-packed dirt were neither quiet nor particularly loud, as if the person could tread lighter but wanted to be sure Vika was not startled. She turned.

It was Pasha.

“I thought you might be here,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind me joining your dream.”

Vika bit her lip, but she tilted her chin in greeting. “It isn’t mine to keep.”

He lifted his gaze up to the sky. For a second, it seemed
as if the eagle turned its head at Pasha and glared. But then it was back to focusing on the ground. Vika probably imagined it.

“I miss him, too, you know,” Pasha said.

The emptiness in Vika’s chest echoed with Nikolai’s absence. “It’s no fault but your own,” she said.

Pasha sighed heavily. “I know. Trust me, I know.”

Vika looked at him then, really looked at him. His face was gaunt, his blue
eyes almost gray and ringed with dark circles. His hair was irretrievable chaos. He was Pasha, if Pasha were a ghost.

“If I could take it back, I would,” he said. “I was . . .
angry
that Nikolai hadn’t told me he was an enchanter. And I was irrational with grief over my parents. Then Yuliana said I had to declare the duel, and she’s so sure of everything while I am sure of nothing, so I listened.
It’s no excuse. I still made the decision. But I am acutely sorry for it. I didn’t think it through.”

“You didn’t realize that if you demanded a duel to the death, one of us would die?”

Pasha shook his head. “I did, but I didn’t. I was all emotion and reaction. I wasn’t thinking.”

Vika frowned. “I hope you clear your head before you become tsar.”

“That’s why I need you, Vika. I can’t do this
alone, or with only Yuliana by my side.”

The look Vika cast him was so stony, it was worthy of the grand princess. “I’ll be your Imperial Enchanter. I committed to it in my oath to your father.”

“But you won’t be there of your own accord.”

In the distance, the eagle circled in the sky, then plummeted down toward the ground. A moment later, it flapped its mighty wings and emerged from the grass
with a small animal drooping from its talons. The eagle rose into the air with its prey.

“Forgiveness doesn’t come so easily,” Vika said, as much to herself as to Pasha.

He smiled sadly. But he nodded. “I understand. But perhaps with time—”

“Perhaps.”

He swallowed. “Right . . . Well . . . I’ll leave you alone then. I shall see you after I return from my coronation.”

Vika glanced at him. “I
will be there in Moscow.”

“You will?” The blue in Pasha’s eyes flickered through the gray.

“Yes. To ensure no harm comes to you. I promised Father I would do my best to serve the empire, and that begins with the tsar.”

“Oh . . . all right. I . . . I appreciate it.”

Vika gave him a curt nod. “Good-bye, Your Imperial Highness.”

He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, but then bowed and retreated.
There was a rustle through the grass as he awoke and exited the dream.

Vika closed her eyes and rubbed her face with her hands. If only the past could be undone.

But at least there was this. This dream where time was suspended. This bench bridging then and now.

Vika turned her focus back to the sky. But the eagle was gone, having successfully killed its prey. She squinted at the horizon, hoping
to find it again. It would be with its
berkutchi
, its master.

They were difficult to see at first. But eventually, she made out a shadow at the mountain’s base. The
berkutchi
sat atop his horse, the eagle perched regally on his arm. They were camouflaged in the shade.

Vika craned her neck and squinted harder. The outline of the rider sharpened. But it was not the profile of a burly Kazakh hunter,
as Vika expected. It was instead the graceful silhouette of a gentleman, in a top hat.

She inhaled sharply.

The string at Vika’s chest tugged at her. The shadow turned in her direction, as if he, too, had felt the pull. He paused for a moment when he saw her. But then he dipped his head, like their mutual presence was no surprise at all, and he raised his hat in a distant hello.

She was supposed
to be invisible to the people in the dream.

Vika lifted her hand to wave, her heart pounding to the beat of a mazurka.

He was almost the same as he’d been at Bolshebnoie Duplo. Almost, because the shadow boy on the horse wasn’t entirely there. Right now, he could only exist in this reverie.

But his silhouette was identical. Vika had been right that she could still feel his presence, and she
could almost hear him in the wind, invoking the words he’d once written on her armoire:

Imagine, and it shall be.

There are no limits.

Vika smiled. Her magic was not alone.

The shadow was undeniably Nikolai.