At the edge of the beach, she pulled down cloud cover slowly to avoid drawing attention, then wreathed herself in sea mist. She summoned the wind, letting it carry her low over the waves as she skated across the water. This was the power that the amplifiers at her wrists, Juris’ scales, had given her. It was not quite flight and it required every bit of her focus, but the Apparat would be anticipating a disguised flyer or raft. She had a better chance of getting Nina out if she caught the priest and his men off guard.

And if Nina is dead?

Zoya had lost as many allies as she’d sent enemies to the grave. Nina wasn’t even a friend. She was a subordinate, an upstart student with a gift for languages who could always be counted on to make trouble if she couldn’t find some to get into. But Zoya had been her commander and her teacher, and that meant she was under Zoya’s protection.

Juris’ laugh rumbled through her. Zoya of the garden, when will you cease your lies?

As she approached the monstrous Fjerdan base, a chill swept through her. It was even bigger than it had seemed from the beach. She circled it slowly, peering through the mist she’d summoned, trying to get her bearings. The eastern tower was obvious enough, but it had to be twenty stories tall. Where was the Apparat keeping Nina? He’d said the cells and … there, nearly at the top of the structure, an expanse of smooth wall, its surface unbroken by windows. Those must be the holding cells.

But how was she meant to get up there? She could vault herself on the currents of the air, but not without being seen, and a sudden thunderstorm would be more than a little suspicious. She circled the base slowly and spotted a series of piers on its lower level, where small craft could dock. On one of them, two Fjerdan soldiers were repairing the battered hull of an armed boat.

Zoya stepped onto the dock and lifted her hands, clenching her fists. The soldiers gasped and clawed at their throats as the air left their lungs. She let them drop unconscious to the deck and set about stripping one of his uniform. She bound and gagged them both, then rolled them out of sight. She was grateful for the soldier’s heavy coat and hat. Women didn’t serve in Fjerda’s military.

She crept up the dock and climbed a metal staircase onto the main deck. She kept her head down and tried to make her walk determined. Zoya was not an actress and had no gift for subterfuge, but she only needed to make it to the tower. The naval base was moving through the waves, picking up speed, heading north, she was sure, to lend support to the rest of Fjerda’s forces.

Zoya reached the eastern observation tower and slipped inside. It didn’t seem safe to take the elevator, but when she ducked her head inside the stairwell, she heard the clamor of footsteps coming from above. She couldn’t speak Fjerdan. She didn’t want to risk meeting fellow soldiers. The elevator it would have to be.

She entered and jabbed the number for the floor just below the observation deck, unsure of what she would find there. On the tenth floor, the elevator jolted to a stop. Zoya kept her eyes on the ground as a pair of shiny black boots entered. Whoever it was pushed a button and they were moving upward again. He said something in Fjerdan.

She grunted a reply, her heart racing.

Now his voice was angry. He grabbed Zoya’s chin and shoved her head up.

Grizzled face. Black uniform emblazoned with the white wolf. Drüskelle.

He drew his sidearm, but Zoya’s hands were faster. Her gust struck his chest and he slammed against the elevator wall with a clang, then fell in a lifeless heap to the floor.

All Saints. Now she had a body on her hands.

Frantically, Zoya smacked the buttons of the high floors, praying that no one would be waiting when the doors opened.

The elevator stopped at what looked like a gunnery. She could see weapons pointing down from every window. And the place seemed to be deserted—for now. She rolled the body into the corridor, then took a moment to send lightning jolting through the guns, melting their long barrels. A small thing. But as long as she was here, she might as well leave some destruction in her wake.

The elevator doors closed, and at last she arrived at what she hoped was the prison floor. If she’d gotten her count right, this place would be heavily guarded. She raised her hands.

The doors opened on silence. Zoya saw two long gray hallways curving in either direction. Both walls were lined with doors. Were there Grisha behind them?

She took the hallway to the right and dropped the pressure, dampening the sound of her steps. But she needn’t have bothered. When she rounded the corner, she saw a thick-waisted woman with silky blond hair seated in a chair at the end of the hall, the Apparat behind her, bracketed by two Priestguards in their brown robes. Nina. Zoya hadn’t seen her since she’d left the Little Palace for her mission, and she’d forgotten the extent of Genya’s tailoring. It was like looking at a stranger—except for the stubborn glint in her eyes. That was pure Zenik.

The Apparat had a knife to her throat.

“Easy, General Nazyalensky. You see where you are, don’t you?” He gestured to the windowless walls. “A dead end. I doubt even the inimitable Nina Zenik would survive having her jugular cut.”

“Will it be so easy to explain a dead girl whom everyone knows to be a good and pious member of Jarl Brum’s household?”

The Apparat smiled. His gums were black. “When I show him the bone darts we took from her clothing and expose her spies in the Hringsa, I imagine Jarl Brum will give me a medal. We’ve taken Nina’s weapons, and her power is useless against my healthy Priestguards. Shall we see if she’d like to use her twisted gift to call some corpses to do her bidding?”

Nina said nothing, only pressed her lips together, her gaze focused on Zoya.

“I don’t think she will,” the Apparat continued. “She can’t call the dead without destroying her cover and putting dear Hanne Brum in danger of being charged with collusion. That would spoil her betrothal to the crown prince, now wouldn’t it?”

“What do you want?” Zoya said. “Take me as your prisoner and set Nina free.”

“No!” Nina cried.

“You mistake me, Zoya Nazyalensky. I do not want you as my captive, but as my comrade. Though be assured,” he said, “my monks stand at the ready. One step toward me and this whole room will be dosed with parem gas.”

Zoya’s eyes darted to the cells, the ceiling, the two Priestguards flanking the Apparat. There were vents in the walls, but he might be bluffing. She had antidote in her pocket. Was it worth the risk? She’d have to dose herself with antidote, then fight off the effects and the Priestguards at the same time.