I scanned the names:
Stepan Ruschkin, 57
Anya Sirenka, 13
Mikah Lasky, 45
Rebeka Lasky, 44
Petyr Ozerov, 22
Marina Koska, 19
Valentin Yomki, 72
Sasha Penkin, 8 months
They went on and on. My fingers tightened on the reins as a cold fist closed over my heart. Memories came back to me unbidden: a mother running with a child in her arms, a man stumbling as the darkness caught him, his mouth open in a scream, an old woman, confused and frightened, swallowed by the panicked crowd. I’d seen it all. I’d made it possible.
These were the people of Novokribirsk, the city that had once stood directly across from Kribirsk on the other side of the Fold. A sister city full of relatives, friends, business partners. People who had worked the docks and manned the skiffs, some who must have survived multiple crossings. They’d lived on the edge of a horror, thinking they were safe in their own homes, walking the streets of their little port town. And now they were all gone because I’d failed to stop the Darkling.
Mal brought his horse up beside mine.
“Alina,” he said softly. “Come away. ”
I shook my head. I wanted to remember. Tasha Stol, Andrei Bazin, Shura Rychenko. As many as I could. They’d been murdered by the Darkling. Did they haunt his sleep the way they haunted mine?
“We have to stop him, Mal,” I said hoarsely. “We have to find a way. ”
I don’t know what I hoped he would say, but he remained silent. I wasn’t sure Mal wanted to make me any more promises.
Eventually, he rode on, but I forced myself to read every single name, and only then did I turn to go, guiding my horse back into the deserted street.
A bit of life seemed to return to Kribirsk as we moved farther away from the Fold. A few shops were open, and there were still merchants hawking their wares on the stretch of the Vy known as Peddlers’ Way. Rickety tables lined the road, their surfaces covered in brightly colored cloth and spread with a jumble of merchandise: boots and prayer shawls, wooden toys, shoddy knives in hand-tooled sheaths. Many of the tables were littered with what looked like bits of rock and chicken bones.
“Provin’ye osti!” the peddlers shouted. “Autchen’ye osti!” Real bone. Genuine bone.
As I leaned over my horse’s head to get a better look, an old man called out, “Alina!”
I looked up in surprise. Did he know me?
Nikolai was suddenly beside me. He nudged his horse close to mine and snatched my reins, giving them a hard yank to draw me away from the table.
“Net, spasibo,” he said to the old man.
“Alina!” the peddler cried. “Autchen’ye Alina!”
“Wait,” I said, twisting in my saddle, trying to get a better look at the old man’s face. He was tidying the display on his table. Without the possibility of a sale, he seemed to have lost all interest in us.
“Wait,” I insisted. “He knew me. ”
“No he didn’t. ”
“He knew my name,” I said, angrily grabbing the reins back from him.
“He was trying to sell you relics. Finger bones. Genuine Sankta Alina. ”
I froze, a deep chill stealing over me. My oblivious horse kept steadily on.
“Genuine Alina,” I repeated numbly.
Nikolai shifted uneasily. “There are rumors that you died on the Fold. People have been selling off parts of you all over Ravka and West Ravka for months. You’re quite the good luck charm. ”
“Those are supposed to be my fingers?”
“Knuckles, toes, fragments of rib. ”
I felt sick. I looked around, hoping to spot Mal, needing to see something familiar.
“Of course,” Nikolai continued, “if half of those were really your toes, you’d have about a hundred feet. But superstition is a powerful thing. ”
“So is faith,” said a voice behind me, and when I turned, I was surprised to see Tolya there, mounted on a huge black warhorse, his broad face solemn.
It was all too much. The optimism I’d felt only an hour ago had vanished. It suddenly seemed as if the sky were pressing down on me, closing in like a trap. I kicked my horse into a canter. I’d always been a clumsy rider, but I held on tight and did not stop until Kribirsk was far behind me and I no longer heard the rattling of bones.
* * *
THAT NIGHT WE stayed at an inn in the little village of Vernost, where we met up with a heavily armed group of soldiers from the First Army. I soon learned that many of them were from the Twenty-Second, the regiment Nikolai had served with and eventually helped lead in the northern campaign. Apparently, the prince wanted to be surrounded by friends when he entered Os Alta. I couldn’t blame him.
He seemed to relax in their presence and, once again, I noticed his demeanor change. He’d transitioned effortlessly from the role of glib adventurer to arrogant prince, and now he became a beloved commander, a soldier who laughed easily with his companions and knew each commoner’s name.
The soldiers had a lavish coach in tow. It was lacquered in pale Ravkan blue and emblazoned with the King’s double eagle on one side. Nikolai had ordered a golden sunburst added to the other, and it was drawn by a matched team of six white horses. As the glittering contraption rumbled into the inn’s courtyard, I had to roll my eyes, remembering the excesses of the Grand Palace. Maybe bad taste was inherited.
I had hoped to eat dinner alone with Mal in my room, but Nikolai had insisted that we all dine together in the inn’s common room. So instead of relaxing by the fire in peace, we were jammed elbow to elbow at a noisy table packed with officers. Mal hadn’t said a word throughout the entire meal, but Nikolai talked enough for all three of us.
As he dug into a dish of braised oxtail, he ran through a seemingly endless list of places he intended to stop on the way to Os Alta. Just listening to him wore me out.