Leigh Bardugo - Siege and Storm

I tossed the book aside. I didn’t know what to say to Mal. I never did these days. But maybe I could just start with the truth: that I was lost and confused, and maybe losing my mind, that I scared myself sometimes, and that I missed him so much it was like physical pain. I needed to at least try to heal the rift between us before it was completely beyond repair. No matter what he thought of me afterward, it couldn’t get much worse. I could survive another rejection, but I couldn’t bear the thought that I hadn’t even tried to put this right.

I peeked into the common room.

“Is Mal here?” I asked Tamar.

She shook her head.

I swallowed my pride and asked, “Do you know where he went?”

Tamar sighed. “Get your shoes. I’ll take you to him.”

“Where is he?”

“The stables.”

Unsettled, I ducked back into my bedroom and quickly pulled on my shoes. I followed Tamar out of the Little Palace and across the lawns.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” Tamar asked.

I didn’t reply. Whatever she had to show me, I knew I wasn’t going to like it. But I refused to just go back to my room and bury my head under the covers.

We made our way down the gentle slope that led past the banya . Horses whinnied in the paddocks. The stables were dark, but the training rooms were ablaze with light. I heard shouting.

The largest training room was little more than a barn with a dirt floor, its walls covered in every weapon imaginable. Usually, it was where Botkin doled out punishment to Grisha students and put them through their drills. But tonight it was crowded with people, mostly soldiers, some Grisha, even a few servants. They were all shouting and cheering, jostling and jockeying to try to get a better look at whatever was happening at the center of the room.

Unnoticed, Tamar and I worked our way through the crush of bodies. I glimpsed two royal trackers, several members of Nikolai’s regiment, a group of Corporalki, and Zoya, who was screaming and clapping with the rest of them.

I’d almost reached the front of the crowd when I caught sight of a Squaller, fists raised, chest bare, stalking his way around the circle the onlookers had formed. Eskil , I remembered, one of the Grisha who had been traveling with Fedyor. He was Fjerdan and he looked it—blue eyes, white-blond hair, tall and broad enough that he completely blocked my view.

It’s not too late , I thought. You can still turn around and pretend you were never here.

I stayed rooted to the spot. I knew what I would see, but it was still a shock when Eskil moved aside and I got my first glimpse of Mal. Like the Squaller, he was stripped to the waist, his muscled torso streaked with dirt and sweat. There were bruises on his knuckles. A trickle of blood coursed down his cheek from a cut below his eye, though he hardly seemed to notice.

The Squaller lunged. Mal blocked the first punch, but the next caught him beneath the kidneys. He grunted, dropped his elbow, and swung hard at the Squaller’s jaw.

Eskil bobbed out of Mal’s range and scooped his arm through the air in a swooping arc. With a stab of panic, I realized he was summoning. The gust rustled my hair, and in the next second, Mal was blown off his feet by Etherealki wind. Eskil threw out his other arm, and Mal’s body shot upward, slamming into the roof of the barn. He hung there for a moment, pinned to the wooden beams by the Grisha’s power. Then Eskil let him drop. He crashed to the dirt floor with bone-rattling force.

I screamed, but the sound was lost in the roar of the crowd. One of the Corporalki bellowed encouragement at Eskil while another was shouting at Mal to get up.

I pushed forward, light already blooming from my hands. Tamar grabbed my sleeve.

“He doesn’t want your help,” she said.

“I don’t care,” I yelled. “This isn’t a fair fight. That isn’t allowed!” Grisha were never permitted to use their powers in the training rooms.

“Botkin’s rules don’t apply after dark. Mal’s in the middle of a fight, not a lesson.”

I yanked away from her. Better Mal angry than Mal dead.

He was on his hands and knees, trying to get to his feet. I was amazed he could even move after the Squaller’s attack. Eskil raised his hands again. The air billowed up in a flurry of dust. I called the light to me, not caring what Tamar or Mal had to say about it. But this time, Mal rolled, dodging the current and launching to his feet with surprising speed.

Eskil scowled and scanned the perimeter, considering his options. I knew what he was weighing. He couldn’t just let loose without risking knocking us all down, and maybe part of the stables too. I waited, keeping a tenuous grasp on the light, unsure of what to do.

Mal was breathing hard, bent at the waist, hands resting on his thighs. He’d probably cracked at least one rib. He was lucky he hadn’t broken his spine. I willed him to get back down and stay there. Instead, he forced himself upright, hissing at the pain. He rolled his shoulders, cursed, spat blood. Then, to my horror, he curled his fingers and beckoned the Squaller forward. A cheer went up from the crowd.

“What is he doing?” I moaned. “He’s going to get himself killed.”

“He’ll be fine,” Tamar said. “I’ve seen him take worse.”

“ What? ”

“He fights here almost every night when he’s sober enough. Sometimes when he’s not.”

“He fights Grisha?”

Tamar shrugged. “He’s actually pretty good.”

This was what Mal did with his nights? I remembered all the mornings he’d appeared with bruises and scrapes. What was he trying to prove? I thought of my careless words as we’d returned from the fortune-telling party. I don’t want the burden of an army of helpless otkazat’sya.

I wished I could take them back.

The Squaller feinted left, then raised his hands for another attack. Wind blew through the circle, and I saw Mal’s feet lose contact with the floor. I gritted my teeth, sure I was about to see him tossed against the nearest wall. But at the last second, he spun, wrenching away from the blast of air and charging the startled Squaller.

Eskil let out a loud oof as Mal clamped his arms around him, keeping the Grisha’s limbs pinned so that he couldn’t summon his power. The big Fjerdan snarled, muscles straining, teeth bared as he tried to break Mal’s hold.

I knew it must have cost him, but Mal tightened his grip. He shifted, then drove his forehead into his opponent’s nose with a nauseating crunch. Before I could blink, he’d released Eskil and hammered a flurry of punches into the Squaller’s gut and sides.

Eskil hunched over, trying to protect himself, struggling for breath as blood gushed over his open mouth. Mal pivoted and delivered a brutal kick to the back of the Squaller’s legs. Eskil fell to his knees, swaying, but still somehow upright.

Mal backed away, surveying his work. The crowd was whooping and stomping, their screams rising to a frenzy, but Mal’s wary eyes were trained on the kneeling Squaller.

He studied his opponent, then dropped his fists. “Go on,” he said to the Grisha. The look on his face sent a chill through me. There was challenge there and a kind of grim satisfaction. What was he seeing when he looked at Eskil on his knees?

Eskil’s eyes were glassy. With an effort, the Grisha lifted his palms. The barest breeze fluttered toward Mal. A chorus of boos rose from the crowd.

Mal let it wash over him, then stepped forward. Eskil’s weak gust faltered. Mal planted his hand in the center of the Squaller’s chest and gave a single, disdainful shove.

Eskil toppled. His big body hit the ground, and he curled in on himself, moaning.