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WE DREW CLOSER to the capital and I saw what Count Minkoff's guests had been talking about. A city of tents had sprung up around the walls, and a long line of people waited at the gates. Several of them were arguing with the guards, no doubt petitioning for entry. Armed soldiers kept 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 sprang open for the princes of Ravka, and the procession continued through the crowd without pause.
Many of the tents and wagons were marked with crudely drawn waves and/or moon crescents; as we rode through the makeshift camp, I heard the now-familiar cries of "Sankta Angelique."
I felt foolish doing it, but I made myself do it anyways. My smile looked real as I waved. The pilgrims cheered and waved back, many running to keep pace with us.
But some of the other refugees stood silent by the side of the road, arms crossed, expressions skeptical and even blatantly hostile. I don't blame them. I can imagine I would I have been one of them if I were a pilgrim.
I would have seen another privileged Grisha going to her safe, luxurious palace on the hill while the pilgrims cooked on open fires and slept in the shadow of a city that refused them sanctuary. Or something worse? A liar? A fraud? A girl who dares to style herself as a living Saint?
I was grateful when we passed into the protection of the city walls.
Once inside, the procession slowed to a crawl. The lower town was full to bursting, the sidewalks crammed with people who spilled onto the street and halted traffic. The windows of the shops were plastered with signs declaring which goods were available, and long lines stretched out of every doorway. The stink of urine and garbage lay over everything. I wanted to pinch the bridge of my nose but I settled for breathing through my mouth.
