Page 102 of The Crown's Game
But now she scraped the salt from her eyes. It wasn’t my fault, Vika realized. I couldn’t have known and couldn’t have stopped what happened. Sergei had never taught her it was possible to channel energy as he had done. And it must have been his plan that when the Game began, he would sacrifice himself if he had to in order to help her. Oh, Father.
With this understanding, Vika rose from bed and cobbled together supper from the tins of fish in the cupboard and some old beets from the garden. Then she dived into her last few hours before the duel.
She did little in preparation for the duel itself. She figured that what she already knew would have to suffice; there was little else she could learn in these final hours. Besides, she wanted to save her strength.
Vika also had no inkling of what to expect from Nikolai. In fact, she had no clue about what to expect from herself. If he attacked, she would react. If he didn’t, well . . . she did not know.
What Vika did do was tidy up the loose ends of her life. She made a list of all her valuables—there weren’t many, but the contents of the chest buried under the valerian root (Father’s “hiding spot”) would be enough to last a comfortable lifetime—and left instructions that they were to go to Ludmila in the event Vika died. She also composed a letter to Ludmila and charmed both the list and the letter to self-destruct should Vika survive the Game, and to find their way to Ludmila if she did not.
After she’d run out of chores, Vika hiked into the forest to say good-bye to her longtime refuge. She climbed over icy logs and pushed her way through snow-covered shrubs until she reached Preobrazhensky Creek. It was frozen over, but she could still imagine its soft burbling, the fish glistening silver beneath its surface, and the frogs croaking their deep, vibrating songs on midsummer nights.
“Farewell,” she whispered, and the wind between the trees stirred and carried her message through the woods.
Vika sat on a boulder on the creek’s bank and touched the basalt pendant at her neck. Sergei had made her promise, long before the Game began, to remain his little Vikochka, no matter what the future would bring. Had she done that? Had she played the Game in a way that would’ve made Sergei proud? Or had she changed too much and lost herself?
“It would have been impossible not to change,” Vika whispered. And as soon as she said it, she knew it was true, and she accepted it. But she didn’t know if she would be able to accept becoming an outright murderer.
She sat in the forest for a long time, until the winter cold truly set in, and even the branches shivered. She rose from her rock to leave, perhaps forever. “Good-bye, my island. Thank you for everything.” If she’d had any tears left, she might have wept.
As Vika returned to her cottage, the full moon glowed red in the sky. She thought of a saying Sergei had taught her when she was young.
White moon, angel moon.
Blood moon, demon moon.
She made haste and hurried inside.
At the stroke of midnight, as the calendar shifted to the date of the duel, a wolf howled at the red-black sky. It sounded like a funeral dirge.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
The duel would begin as soon as the sun rose.
Pasha crawled across his bedroom and threw up in a vase.
He would not allow himself to get up from the floor.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
At six o’clock in the morning, Nikolai stood on the banks of the Neva and looked out across the dark bay. In the distance, his lanterns lit up the island, but he knew there was no one there, for Pasha had declared it closed. Of course, if Nikolai had wanted to step foot on the island yesterday, he could have found a way. But he hadn’t wanted to. Why visit the execution block where he might be scheduled to die?
Today, however, he had no choice. With one last glance over his shoulder, a farewell to the city he loved, Nikolai conjured a pair of skates and allowed them to carry him over the ice. It was a simple charm, one that wouldn’t take too much from him before the duel commenced, and it would give him a few more moments of peace.
The calm was interrupted, though, by his scar, which scalded Nikolai’s skin so unbearably, he clutched at his collarbone and his knees almost gave out. If Nikolai’s skates hadn’t been charmed, he would not have been able to continue across the frozen bay. So many times yesterday, he had thought of taking his turn in the Game simply to alleviate the pain of the wands on his skin. And yet, he had refrained, for it was his fifth and final move. He could not waste it. So he had had to bear the scar’s searing.
He nearly crashed into the granite shore of the island. It had appeared too quickly. Perhaps his skates had glided faster than he anticipated. Perhaps he’d lost himself a little in the scorching wands. Or perhaps time had accelerated, the way it sometimes does when something dreadful is on the horizon. Regardless, Nikolai was at the island. The Game was upon him once again.
He clambered up the dock and changed his skates back into boots. He double-checked inside his coat that he had the knife Galina had given him, and then he began to walk straight to the center of the island. Here, the leaves were still green and the birds still sang in warm comfort, despite the winter that swirled in the bay and the river around it. The island was oblivious to its unhappy destiny.
Nikolai didn’t know where, exactly, to go, but the main promenade seemed an appropriate choice, the kind of field of honor typically found in duels. It was shielded from view from the embankments of Saint Petersburg to give them privacy from nosy onlookers. There was enough space for the enchanters to fight. And it was tragically beautiful, a cruel and perfect place for one of them to die.
Pasha wanted them to fight a classic duel. But there was nothing classic about it. There would be no seconds to check Nikolai’s and Vika’s weapons—for how could anyone check a weapon he cannot see?—and there would be no attempt at reconciliation, for the duel was not instigated at Vika’s or Nikolai’s request. There would be no counting of paces, because Nikolai did not intend to shoot at Vika with a pistol. And there would be no witnesses.
Or would there be? Nikolai quickened his pace. Was it possible that Pasha intended to witness the grand finale? It seemed unlikely, but with this new version of Pasha, Nikolai could not be sure.
As Nikolai turned onto the promenade, he stumbled. There, among the flowers and the oaks, stood two iron cages. Renata and Ludmila were inside. Nikolai ran.
“Renata! Madame Fanina! Are you all right?”
