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The sun had frozen in the winter sky. Time ground to a halt and yet Andrey Ulanov, Councillor of Forestry, did not stop for breath. He drew Zoya, Queen of Ravka, back to the lecture halls of the Little Palace where she had spent her least favourite parts of her schooling.
From what she had gathered, he was making a pitch to have the management Os Alta’s aqueduct system, and the associated funding, added to his ministerial portfolio. However, he seemed to be under the impression that the responsibility would be awarded to the councilman who gave the longest speech. If that were the case, he was winning.
The room was muggy with boredom. Desperately, the Queen glanced over her shoulder to where Genya sat, flame-red hair hanging limply from her head as if Councilman Ulanov’s speech had sapped it of its will to live. The tailor’s skin was more flushed than usual and, when her usually electric amber eye met the Queens’, it was as if someone had extinguished a flame.
A jolt ran through Zoya. Something was wrong. The dragon felt the tailor’s galloping heartbeat, watched her chest shake in too-shallow breaths. The time for polite smiles had passed.
“Enough!” The Queen snapped at the councilman. Her eyes burned in silver slits. The dragon stared down its prey.
A long, flowery description of his lineage caught in Councilman Ulanov’s throat. His jaw hung limply, transforming him into a confused goldfish.
“The people of Oz Alta do not live in trees so I see no reason for you to oversee their water supply. Indeed, I see no reason for you to have another coin pass your desk until you can account for the funding you received for the Northern Replanting Scheme. Now, who will speak next?”
Councilman Ulanov blanched. The Northern Replanting Scheme was an embarrassment of internal politics where the rapidly depleting forests of northern Ravka had precisely eighty-two trees added to their number rather than the promised twenty thousand. Meanwhile, Councilman Ulanov’s estate had doubled and he had obtained three motorised carriages, an amethyst diadem, a herd of purebred horses and several pieces of priceless art “in a wager”.
A nervous energy rumbled through her council and Zoya did not need the dragon’s heart to know what went through their heads. ‘King Nikolai would never have embarrassed a councillor so bluntly.’ Did it matter that the man was guilty? Not in the least. Nikolai would have charmingly suggested that management of Os Alta’s aqueduct system aligned most closely with Councilman Tsaplin’s expertise. Nikolai would have sent an impossibly golden smile around the room and lulled the councilmen into a sense of calm.
Unfortunately, Nikolai was no longer king. Instead, he was on a diplomatic mission to Ketterdam and the council were stuck with a snappy dragon, not a golden prince.
Zoya glanced around the room but the miserable silence only grew heavier. What fool of a councilman would present his case to an already agitated fire-breathing queen?
“Very well, we will recess for a moment. Let us taste some fresh air before we resume.” Zoya pushed to her feet and her council scrambled to follow suit.
Immediately, Genya was by her elbow. Her milky skin looked curdled and her lips were a desert. “A moment alone, Your Majesty?”
Zoya watched her councilmen preen and peacock for a moment. “Lead the way,” she ordered, threading her arm through Genya’s.
The pair wandered out the room’s white patio doors into the walled garden, leaving the guards at the doors. What protection could they offer a dragon queen?
They were hardly out of earshot before Zoya asked, “What is the matter? Are you unwell?”
“It is nothing.”
“You look like death. Do you need a healer?”
Genya glanced at the councilmen behind them. “Not here,” she murmured, pulling Zoya deeper into the garden with an iron grip. Had she always been that strong?
The pair crunched along the gravel path deeper and deeper into the paradise of perfumed flowers and birdsong. Soon the Queen’s council were no more than a half-remembered dream as hedges and trees hid them from the world like a secret. Sunlight wafted lazily down through the leafy canopy to kiss their skin and light the garden like a jewellery box, but Zoya could not take her eyes off her friend.
“Genya, you do not look like yourself.”
Genya’s amber eye snapped towards her, flashing an unfamiliar auburn.
Zoya continued, “Perhaps you should-”
The words were torn from her mouth by a speeding glint of titanium. Before she could register it, a chain as strong as her crown shackled Zoya’s arms to her waist like a sadistic corset.
What would have been a hinderance to any other Grisha failed to slow Zoya Nazyalensky. Her power was an unstoppable cyclone whipping inside her. The winds raced to obey as she ordered them to throw Genya to the ground.
One. Two. Three silver darts flew towards her but the sky was her domain. Zoya commanded the air around them to still and watched them clatter like raindrops to the ground.
Genya’s too-dark eye widened. Her hand reached for a blade but Zoya’s winds were already sweeping her into the air towards a lone pine tree.
Crack. The tree shook on impact, raining leaves around the assassin.
Wind after wind shot through the air like throwing stars, pinning the woman to the tree. She thrashed at the winds fruitlessly like a sprat on a fishing line.
“Guards!” Zoya bellowed. “Guards! Seize her!”
Footsteps clattered along the gravel. Two blue-liveried guards appeared, hesitating a moment at the thought of restraining a member of the Triumvirate and one of the most powerful Grisha in Ravka.
“Seize her!” Zoya ordered again as a third guard hurried to release his queen from her bonds.
The instant Zoya was freed, she lunged at her prisoner. Her hands grasped for the imposter’s too-long throat.
How had Zoya been so blinded? Genya would never forgive her for mistaking such a cheap replica for a diamond. Saints, where was Genya?
Unconsciously, Zoya brewed a storm as she stared down her prisoner. Icy winds bit at the imposter’s skin and pulled at her too-flat hair.
“Where is she?” She growled.
“Burn, witch!”
The ember ever burning in Zoya’s chest crackled past her humourless grin. “Be careful what you wish for,” she hissed. “Where is Genya Safin?”
The imposter squeaked, writhing in her invisible bonds. Unconsciously, she glanced towards the western tower.
The wind was beneath Zoya’s feet before she called it. Pushing her on and on and closer and closer. The dragon did not feel the glass shatter around her.
Mortal eyes would struggle to adjust to the dimness of the western tower, its stones seeped in memory and mould. However, Zoya did not slow in her journey towards a pile of red kefta pooled like blood on the floor, cloaked in shadow.
“Genya?”
The woman was a porcelain doll, fragile and unmoving. Zoya reached for her but the tailor did not stir.
The winds whipping around her was Zoya’s first indication that she was airborne. Not even gravity dared come between the dragon queen and the Corporalki in the Little Palace.
“A healer! Bring me a healer!”
Zoya trembled as she lowered Genya onto a bed. She focused her attention on the particles that formed Genya. The blood racing through her veins. The air being pulled through her lungs. Tentatively, she tried to reach out with the dragon’s powers but it was like speaking a different language. She could see the shapes but, without instruction, she could make no meaning of them.
“Praise all the Saints!” She exclaimed the doors finally opened. The jumpy rabbit of a healer looked about twelve years old and in need of a haircut. “What took you so long? Were you counting turnips?”
“Apologies, Your Majesty. I-”
“Quiet! Enough jabbering. What happened to her?”
The rabbit twitched as he lay his hands on Genya’s shoulders. Slowly, he ran his fingers to her heart, casting tentative glances at the monarch behind.
“Well? Your diagnosis?”
The healer ran his hands down towards Genya’s stomach as if mapping her. “A sedative, Your Majesty. Not enough to be fatal but I can help speed up her body’s processing of the drug.”
Zoya allowed herself a deep breath, her air filling with sweet, sweet air. “Well? Go on, then.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The Queen reached for Genya’s hand, clutching it like a lifeline. An eternity passed before she was answered with the softest of squeezes.
“Genya! Thank the Saints!”
“Zoya? What-”
“You were drugged. An assassin tried to steal your identity.”
Genya blinked slowly. Woozily, she managed, “Someone tried to kill me?”
“No, they tried to kill me by disguising themself as you.”
It took a moment for this to sink in. “How did they manage to they mimic my charming personality?”
Zoya allowed her shoulders to relax. This was Genya; brilliant, beautiful Genya. No third-rate imposter would ever hold a candle to her.
“They didn’t,” she shook her head ruefully, “your reputation is in tatters.”
“Curse it all,” Genya muttered before gently looking up at Zoya. Her eyelids fluttered like the gentlest of butterflies. “Are you alright?”
Zoya forced a nonchalant grin, but it was difficult to manage while ignoring her thumping heartbeat. “Fine. It was merely my quarterly assassination attempt.”
“Zoya,” Genya scolded.
The Queen studied her shoes. “I’ve been better. I was scared out of my mind when I didn’t know where you were.”
Genya gave Zoya’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I wasn’t afraid. I knew you would come for me.”