Page 73 of The Crown's Game
“Yes.”
“Do you miss it?”
Nikolai shrugged. “I think I see the past more kindly than it treated me.”
She quirked a brow. “How do you mean?”
“I mean, when I was here, they didn’t know what to do with me. Although my mother had some abilities as a faith healer, they were very different from the things I could do. And without a proper teacher to show me how to hone my skills and to discipline me, all I did was wreak havoc on the village.”
“How?”
“All sorts of nonsense. I’d mute the dombras—they’re guitar-like instruments—while the men tried to play music, or I’d turn the other children’s suppers from rice into sand. Things like that.”
Vika laughed. “It sounds amusing.”
“Yes, well, the villagers didn’t think so. They tried to beat the magic—the demons—out of me. They were glad when Galina came and took me away. What I have here in this dream, however, are the good parts I recall.”
They walked into the center of the village, past yurts with elaborate wooden crowns and walls covered in bright embroidered fabric. There were lions and tigers and garudas stitched on the yurts, symbols of power, as well as pictures of fire, water, and earth, the elements of the universe. The village was a riot of colors and patterns.
“I understand why you think fondly of this place,” Vika said as they neared a group of women cooking skewered meat over a fire. “Even if they didn’t know what to make of you.”
The wood crackled, and a log broke, sending up a plume of smoke. It smelled like charred memories. Then the wind blew the smoke away and left behind only the glowing embers.
“But I’m also glad the countess found you,” Vika said.
Nikolai blushed, but it receded quickly. It was possible Vika didn’t mean it the way he’d first interpreted. And that was why he was supposed to keep up the walls to protect himself.
She stopped walking. “Are you glad for the Game?” she asked.
Nikolai stumbled. Vika gripped him tighter and held him up so he wouldn’t fall. Like when they’d met at Bolshebnoie Duplo, only with their roles reversed.
Nikolai wished, for a moment, that he could keep falling, and she could keep catching him.
But they couldn’t. He stood, and she released his hand so he could brush the dirt off his trousers.
“Thank you,” he said.
She nodded. But she did not reach for him again. Rather, she looked at him as if she expected something else.
All he wanted was her hand again, that quickening of his pulse when she touched him. But he answered her question instead. “No, I am not at all glad for the Game. Are you?”
Vika chewed on her lip as she considered. Finally, she said, “Yes. I’m glad for it. I both love it and hate it. Which, I think, means I both love and hate myself. I am the Game, and the Game is me. This is what my whole life has led up to, and this will determine the rest of it.”
Nikolai sighed. He knew she was right, despite these fleeting moments of peace they seemed to have. They would both continue to play the Game to win. His entire existence had been built upon fighting for this, fighting against powerlessness, fighting to be somebody who couldn’t be ignored, and he wouldn’t give it up so easily. He suspected Vika felt the same way. If only he’d never started calling her by her name.
But who was he kidding? He would’ve been drawn to her whether he’d said her name or not. Their enchantments might be pitted against each other, but they were also part of the same magic. Part of the same whole. It would make winning so much more bittersweet.
At that thought, the dream around them vanished suddenly. Nikolai found himself crumpled on the bench, with Vika kneeling at his side.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I . . . nothing. I just . . . I lost my grip.” Nikolai pushed himself upright, but unlike in the dreamworld, fatigue saturated him, and he could hardly keep his eyes open.
“The benches have taken a great deal out of you,” Vika said.
Why didn’t creating the island do that to you? he wanted to ask, but he was so thoroughly exhausted, his mouth couldn’t form the words.
“You should rest,” Vika said.
