The Crown's Game (The Crown's Game, #1)(16)
Pasha opened the book and sank into his favorite armchair at the same time, his movements easy and graceful, a subconscious compilation of all his experiences growing up in the imperial household, from participating in formal court functions to learning to fence, from watching ballet to being reprimanded when his own posture faltered.
He flipped to the table of contents. The page was yellow and crackled with age.
Chapter 1. Mysticism in Ancient Russia
Chapter 2. Mystics, Enchanters, and Faith Healers
Chapter 3. Extinction of Nymphs and Faeries
Chapter 4. Power, the Wellspring, and the Crown’s Game
He stopped skimming when he saw the subject of chapter 15, the last one in the book: “Mysticism in Modern Times.”
Pasha smiled so broadly, it was as if he’d discovered the secret to eternal life. This was the sort of book one ought to read in pieces, to properly appreciate and savor each bit. And yet he wanted to devour it whole. Messily and all at once.
But he didn’t, because he was the tsesarevich, and crown princes had better manners than that, even when it came to tomes that promised to unveil an entire new world inside. I should, however, at least have the luxury of reading out of order, he thought.
And he thumbed his way to the last chapter, for although this book had been written ages ago, he figured this was the best place to try to understand the girl—what she did and what she was. Pasha hooked a leather ottoman with his foot and dragged it closer, then settled deep into his armchair for a long afternoon of reading.
But he did not admit to himself, either aloud or even quietly in his own head, that he was interested in the girl for more than just her magic.
CHAPTER TEN
They could be coming for me right now, Vika thought as she cast shields around the cottage. Father had warned her not to be seen using magic, and now she’d been caught, and those boys could be summoning a mob to burn her at the stake. She fortified the windows a third time, especially the ones in Sergei’s bedroom. He didn’t deserve to die for her indiscretion. He didn’t deserve to die at all.
Where was he?
She ran outside again, for it was possible that he’d arrived while she was inside and been unable to get in, given how tightly she’d protected their home. She saw him emerge from the forest just as she crossed the threshold of the cottage.
“Father! You’re all right.” She lifted the edge of the shield around the front door to let him in. He stumbled into the entry.
“No, I’m not all right.”
“Were you attacked?” Vika secured the protection charm and rushed to his side. Sergei was a big man, but right now, he seemed . . . small. Not literally, but he didn’t take up as much space in the entry as he normally did. On the contrary, it was as if the space pushed on him and shoved him inside himself. “I’m sorry,” Vika said. “I didn’t mean to be seen, but I got carried away, and—”
“You were seen?”
“Yes, and now they’ve come after you.”
Her father laughed, but in a mirthless way. “Oh, Vikochka, don’t worry about being seen. Because things are so much worse than that.” He tromped away from her and into their tiny kitchen.
Vika rushed in on his heels. “What are you talking about?”
“You will have to meet my sister soon, as if that weren’t bad enough.”
“You have a sister?”
“In Saint Petersburg. It’s all related to . . .” He sank into a chair at their small dining table. “I need some kvass first.”
Vika brought a bottle of Sergei’s homemade brew and poured him a mug. He downed it in a single gulp.
“We leave tomorrow for Bolshebnoie Duplo,” he said.
“What?” The Enchanted Hollow. Vika knew the name like a pilgrim knew of Jerusalem. Every country—every country that still believed in the old ways, that is—had a physical, mystical heart from which its magic emanated, and Russia’s heart was Bolshebnoie Duplo. Vika leaned across the table. “You know where Bolshebnoie Duplo is?” The name had always sounded to her captivating and wicked all at once.
“Yes. Knowing its location is part of my duty as your mentor.”
“Your duty? Why exactly are we going there?”
“It is where you will take the oath for the Crown’s Game.”
“The Crown’s Game.” Vika did not even bother to inflect her tone upward this time, for everything now was a question mark. She was beyond using punctuation. “I don’t know what that is.”
“I didn’t think there was a need for it. . . . I thought you were the only enchanter. But you’re not, and that means there will be a . . . a test. A competition.”
Vika wrapped her fingers tightly around her father’s mug. The glaze on the ceramic heated at her touch. There’s another enchanter. And there will be a competition.
Sergei didn’t meet her eyes. He reached for a stale slice of bread on the table instead. “I’m in as much shock as you are. I had no clue my sister was mentoring an enchanter. I haven’t heard from her since I left Saint Petersburg twenty-five years ago.”
He tore the bread into pieces. And then into smaller and smaller pieces until it disintegrated into a pile of fine crumbs.
“What aren’t you telling me, Father?”