Chapter 22: Pawn or Queen

1.6K 76 53
                                    

*Unedited

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ✷ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ✷ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ☽ ☪ ☾ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ✷ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ✷ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

𝕬𝖘 we draw closer to the capital, I see what Count Minkoff's guests had been talking about. A city of tents has sprung up around the walls, and a long line of people wait at the gates. Several of them are arguing with the guards, no doubt petitioning for entry. Armed soldiers keep watch from the old battlements—a good precaution for a country at war, and a deadly reminder to the people below to keep things orderly.

Of course, the city gates spring open for the princes of Ravka, and the procession continues through the crowd without pause.

Many of the tents and wagons are marked with crudely drawn suns, and as we ride through the makeshift camp, I hear the now-familiar cries of "Sankta Alina and Sankta Svetlana."

I lift my hand and wave, determined to put on the face of a savior. The pilgrims cheer and wave back, many running to keep pace with us. But some of the other refugees stand silent by the side of the road, arms crossed, expressions skeptical and even blatantly hostile.

What do they see? I wonder. Another privileged Grisha going to her safe, luxurious palace on the hill while they cook on open fires and sleep in the shadow of a city that refuses them sanctuary? Or something worse? A liar? A fraud? A girl who dares to style herself as a living Saint?

I decide then and there to find time to provide aid to the pilgrims. Though they moved here willingly, I can't help but feel like I owe it to them to be more than a shiny pawn. No, I won't sit by and only worry for the Grisha. I'm a queen on this chessboard and I will do better than the current leaders. Saints, I will be better than even Aleksander. The people have suffered due to the selfishness of those who rule them. I have felt that and refuse to be the same type of leader.

Once inside the city walls, the procession slows to a crawl. The lower town is full to bursting, the sidewalks crammed with people who spill onto the street and halt traffic. The windows of the shops are plastered with signs declaring which goods are available, and long lines stretch out of every doorway. The stink of urine and garbage covers everything. I want to bury my nose in my sleeve, but I have to settle for breathing through my mouth.

The crowds cheer and gawk here, but they are decidedly more subdued than those outside the gates.

"No pilgrims," I observe.

"They're not allowed within the city walls," Tamar says. "The King has had the Apparat declared an apostate and his followers banned from Os Alta."

The Apparat had conspired with the Darkling against the throne. Even if they have since severed ties, there is no reason for the King to trust the priest and his cult. Yet, these people are not to blame, and I disagree with his choice to treat them cruelly.

We cross the wide canal and leave the noise and tumult of the lower town behind. I notice that the bridge's gatehouse has been heavily fortified, but when we reach the far bank, it seems that nothing in the upper town has changed. The broad boulevards are spotless and serene, the stately homes carefully maintained. We pass a park where fashionably turned out men and women stroll the manicured paths or take the air in open carriages. Children play at babki, watched over by their nannies, and a boy in a straw hat rides by on a pony with ribbons in its braided mane, the reins held by a uniformed servant.

They all turn to look as we pass, lifting their hats, whispering behind their hands, bowing, and curtsying when they catch sight of Vasily and Nikolai.

Are they really as calm and free of worry as they seem? It is hard to fathom that they could be oblivious to the danger threatening Ravka or the turmoil on the other side of the bridge, but it is even harder for me to believe they trust their King to keep them safe.

Blood and Water - The DarklingWhere stories live. Discover now