But Nikolai had little time to think on that, for as soon as he uttered the last words of the oath, a searing heat bit into his skin, just below his left collarbone. “What the—!” He stopped himself before he let out a string of obscenities in front of the tsar, but not quickly enough to save his dignity.

A pair of crossed wands branded themselves onto Nikolai’s chest as if by an invisible iron. Even after the branding was over, the scar still glowed red-orange on his skin like live embers. Nikolai bit the inside of his cheek to stave off the pain.

The girl had not protested or screamed or made any sound other than a sharp inhale. Nikolai flushed, both at the heat of the fresh scar and at his weakness compared to this elfin girl.

“Who is Enchanter One?” the tsar asked.

“I am,” Nikolai managed to answer through gritted teeth, the scar still faintly orange on his skin.

The tsar nodded. “The wands will burn until you have made your first move in the Game. Then they will go dormant as Enchanter Two takes her turn. They will reawaken on your skin once her turn has been taken. That is how you will know it is your move again.

“The wands will grow steadily hotter the longer you take to execute your turn. As days pass, the pain will become more unbearable. And if too much time elapses—if you dally or for some reason refuse to complete the Game—the scar will eventually ignite and consume you.”

Nikolai shuddered. Forfeiture by flame.

“Is that how the Game ends?” the girl asked. The tsar didn’t even bother to look surprised that she’d interrupted. It would be more of a surprise at this point if she didn’t. “Does the losing enchanter combust?”

“Yes. The scar will incinerate the loser of the Game.”

“It will be quick,” her father said quietly. It occurred to Nikolai, though, that it was not the girl who needed assuring but rather the mentor himself.

The tsar nodded curtly. “Your mentors have taught you what they could, and now, as tradition dictates, and to ensure that your volleys in the Game are yours and yours alone, the mentors will be banished to the far reaches of the empire until a winner is declared. But first, they may give you a parting gift.” The tsar turned to Galina and her brother. “You have a minute to say your good-byes.”

The girl’s father rocked his weight from his heels to his toes, as if he were contemplating moving toward the girl, but then he rocked back on his heels and stood firmly in place. “Practice every day it is not your turn,” he said to her. “Get enough sleep and enough food to eat. Check our hiding place—you know where it is—if you need money . . .”

“Father—”

He held up his hand. “And wear this. Do not take it off.” He yanked a braid of leather off his wrist and pushed it at her.

She slipped it onto her wrist, and it immediately tightened itself to fit. She winced. “What is it?”

“A good luck charm, of sorts.” He turned his back to her, visibly swallowing back his emotions. “We will see each other again soon, my dearest.”

The girl touched the necklace at her throat. “I promise.”

Galina smirked in her brother’s direction. Then she snapped her fingers, and a dagger in its sheath appeared in Nikolai’s shadow hands. “The gift I leave you is a new knife,” she said. “When you find the right occasion to use it, it will not miss its target. Remember all the practice you’ve received; killing is not so difficult and is the most direct way.”

Nikolai knitted his brow, although no one could see him do so in his current shadow form. He could not bring himself to look at the girl.

“And don’t take too long to win,” Galina continued. “I don’t fancy being trapped in limbo with my tiresome recluse of a brother. Oh, and try not to irritate the household staff while I’m away.”

Nikolai sighed. He had always known, from the day Galina came for him on the steppe, that she would not be a mother to him, but still, he had hoped for a little more than this before she saw him off to the Game, and, perhaps, to his death. But she was already gliding away.

Her brother offered her his arm, and although Galina curled her lip in disdain, she took it.

“I hope it isn’t too cold where we’re going,” she said.

“I hope you do not plan to complain the entire time,” he retorted.

“Oh, if it bothers you, mon frère, I shall. Ceaselessly.”

Dust began to swirl around them, first as individual particles, and then, picking up speed, as an opaque tornado. The storm swallowed the mentors inside itself, and Nikolai, being the closest to where the pair had stood, had to raise his hand to shield his eyes. The tornado grew taller and faster, and when it had almost reached the cavern ceiling, it shot out of the cave and into the labyrinth, the howling of the wind reverberating and deafening.

And then it was gone, out of Bolshebnoie Duplo and toward wherever mentors go to wait. Only silence remained.

“I have one more request,” the tsar said, as if a magical whirlwind had not just swooped away two entire people. “The tsesarevich’s birthday is next week. I suggest you consider that your theme for the Game. Impress him to impress me.”

Nikolai arched a shadow brow. Interesting. Perhaps the tsar cared more for Pasha than he let on, even to Pasha himself.

“Am I clear?” the tsar asked.

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” Nikolai and the girl said.

“Good.” After a long pause, the tsar rose from his wooden throne. “Then let the Crown’s Game begin.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Half a continent away, tall blades of grass trembled. The earth, still parched this early in the autumn, quaked in a cloud of dust. A fissure cleaved through the hard-packed dirt, and a shriveled hand punched its way to the surface, its sinewy muscle clinging to the bone like dried meat tethered to a brittle pole.

It didn’t take long for the rest of Aizhana’s body to emerge. During her many, many years underground, she had slowly, painstakingly stolen energy from worms and maggots to consolidate into a life force strong enough to resurrect herself. Now she climbed out of the earth and stretched, her limbs stiff from being dead—no, nearly dead—and she brushed the dirt off her withered skin.

She sucked in a breath between her teeth (what was left of her teeth, that is) and averted her eyes from the dry husk that hung from her body. The skin is the least important, she reminded herself. What matters is that my insides are healed.