Siege and Storm (The Grisha 2)

But neither of these creatures held our attention. Mountains crowded the background behind the Saint’s left shoulder, and there, barely visible in the distance, a bird circled a towering stone arch.

Mal’s finger traced its long tailfeathers, rendered in white and the same pale gold that illuminated Sankt Ilya’s halo. “It can’t be,” he said.

“The stag was real. So was the sea whip. ”

“But this is … different. ”

He was right. The firebird didn’t belong to one story, but to a thousand. It was at the heart of every Ravkan myth, the inspiration for countless plays and ballads, novels and operas. Ravka’s borders were said to have been sketched by the firebird’s flight. Its rivers ran with the firebird’s tears. Its capital was said to have been founded where a firebird’s feather fell to earth. A young warrior had picked up that feather and carried it into battle. No army had been able to stand against him, and he became the first king of Ravka. Or so the legend went.

The firebird was Ravka. It was not meant to be brought down by a tracker’s arrow, its bones worn for the greater glory of some upstart orphan.

“Sankt Ilya,” Mal said.

“Ilya Morozova. ”

“A Grisha Saint?”

I touched the tip of my finger to the page, to the collar, to the two fetters on Morozova’s wrists. “Three amplifiers. Three creatures. And we have two of them. ”

Mal gave his head a firm shake, probably trying to clear away the haze of wine. Abruptly, he shut the book. For a second, I thought he might throw it into the sea, but then he handed it back to me.

“What are we supposed to do with this?” he said. He sounded almost angry.

I’d thought about that all afternoon, all evening, throughout that interminable dinner, my fingers straying to the sea whip’s scales again and again, as if anxious for the feel of them.

“Mal, Sturmhond has Fabrikators in his crew. He thinks I should use the scales … and I think he might be right. ”

Mal’s head snapped around. “What?”

I swallowed nervously and plunged ahead. “The stag’s power isn’t enough. Not to fight the Darkling. Not to destroy the Fold. ”

“And your answer is a second amplifier?”

“For now. ”

“For now?” He ran a hand through his hair. “Saints,” he swore. “You want all three. You want to hunt the firebird. ”

I felt suddenly foolish, greedy, even a little ridiculous. “The illustration—”

“It’s just a picture, Alina,” he whispered furiously. “It’s a drawing by some dead monk. ”

“But what if it’s more? The Darkling said Morozova’s amplifiers were different, that they were meant to be used together. ”

“So now you’re taking advice from murderers?”

“No, but—”

“Did you make any other plans with the Darkling while you were holed up together belowdecks?”

“We weren’t holed up together,” I said sharply. “He was just trying to get under your skin. ”

“Well, it worked. ” He gripped the ship’s railing, his knuckles flexing white. “Someday I’m going to put an arrow through that bastard’s neck. ”

I heard the echo of the Darkling’s voice. There are no others like us. I pushed it aside and reached out to lay my hand on Mal’s arm. “You found the stag, and you found the sea whip. Maybe you were meant to find the firebird, too. ”

He laughed outright, a rueful sound, but I was relieved to hear the bitter edge was gone. “I’m a good tracker, Alina, but I’m not that good. We need someplace to start. The firebird could be anywhere in the world. ”

“You can do it. I know you can. ”

Finally, he sighed and covered my hand with his own. “I don’t remember anything about Sankt Ilya. ”

That was no surprise. There were hundreds of Saints, one for every tiny village and backwater in Ravka. Besides, at Keramzin, religion was considered a peasant preoccupation. We’d gone to church only once or twice a year. My thoughts strayed to the Apparat. He had given me the Istorii Sankt’ya, but I had no way of knowing what he intended by it, or if he even knew the secret it contained.

“Me neither,” I said. “But that arch must mean something. ”

“Do you recognize it?”

When I’d first glanced at the illustration, the arch had seemed almost familiar. But I’d looked at countless books of maps during my training as a cartographer. My memory was a blur of valleys and monuments from Ravka and beyond. I shook my head. “No. ”

“Of course not. That would be too easy. ” He released a long breath, then drew me closer, studying my face in the moonlight. He touched the collar at my neck. “Alina,” he said, “how do we know what these things will do to you?”

“We don’t,” I admitted.