Shadow and Bone by Leigh Bardugo (z-lib.org).mobi
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Shadow and Bone by Leigh Bardugo (z-lib.org).mobi

Jllivicota
07.07.2021 Views

Alina.I’ve been staring at your name for almost an hour. I hate trying to chase mythoughts down this way, hunting for words. The pen feels wrong in my hand.Makes my fingers itch for a bowstring or a trigger.But I better get to it. It’s late now, long past curfew, no sounds but snoring,Dubrov muttering in his sleep, and the wind, wrapping itself around the thinwalls of the tent, clawing to get in. Supplies are tight, and I’ve wasted most ofthe oil in the lamp sitting here, staring at your name.We’re two, maybe three miles south of the Fjerdan border, deep in thepermafrost. I thought I knew winter, but the cold up here is something elseentirely. It gets in your head.It doesn’t help that we’re tracking a creature no one is sure exists, that no onehas ever managed to get a look at. You should have seen our captain when hetold us we had new orders, that we were joining up with another unit to trackMorozova’s stag. None of us could keep a straight face, and when we finally gotback to the barracks, Mikhael laughed so hard I thought he might sprainsomething. “Are we tracking fairies next ? Khitkii? Elves?” No one’s laughingnow, not since winter set in.The first couple of months weren’t bad. We met up with the other trackerssouth of Ulensk and followed them east, then back south, skirting the Petrazoi.Some of them took the hunt seriously. Some didn’t. But we saw cropped grass inotherwise untouched fields, tracks that came from nowhere, even trace. (That’sright—we’ve seen magical deer scat. Mikhael thinks we should collect it and sellit as a cure-all. I’m not entirely sure it’s a bad idea. Or maybe the cold really ismaking me crazy.) But no one has actually seen the stag. Not yet. Apparentlythere have been units assigned to track the herd for years, depending on howcracked the current King or Darkling is. Now this Darkling wants the effortsstepped up. Rumors are he wants the stag for you. The orders came down and,mad as they seemed, we were happy to march, to get away from Kribirsk and putsome distance between ourselves and the Fold.No one’s been the same since the attack on the sandskiff. The memory is tooclear in my head, too sharp—lying on my back on the deck, my body goingnumb, realizing the dampness pooling beneath me was my own blood, then yourface lit by those last gasps of Grisha fire before everything went white. We don’ttalk about it much, but that’s why no one’s moaning at me to douse the lantern.Most of us can’t sleep without one burning. Even in the day, I see peoplewalking around hunched up, cricking their necks like they’re afraid something’sgoing to come at them from above. Everyone thinks that’s why I keep to myself

more, why I toss and turn, why my rations go uneaten. But it’s not volcra I seewhen I close my eyes.I need to sleep. I can’t afford not to be alert tomorrow. This isn’t a place thattolerates mistakes. Old Kovac used to say that you had to have a feel fortracking, that either the land spoke to you or it didn’t. Well, this land speaks—and when it does, it howls so loud I can’t hear myself think. It groans with theweight of snow, the rush of wind. That wind—the moment you step outside thetent, it grabs at you, hungry, snapping at any bit of exposed skin, gobbling upany little warmth and spitting it back out into the miserable gray sky.A few weeks ago we got caught in a blizzard. When a storm hits that way,hard and fast, tearing down from the north, the guides call it Gruzeburya, theBrute. We knew it would wipe out any sign of the herd, but there’s no way totravel in something like that, so we made camp and hunkered down to wait. ThenPilkin stepped outside to take a piss and didn’t come back. By then it was darkand the storm was on us. All you could see were sheets and whorls of snow.You’d take one step and suddenly it was like standing in the middle of nowhere,like the camp had just disappeared.We tied ropes to each other and waded out, looking for Pilkin, moving fromtent to tent. We shouted until our throats were raw. Nothing. Finally we gave itup, pulled each other in, one after another, shaking from the cold, holding tightto that thin, frozen tether. We figured Pilkin had gotten turned around, headed inthe wrong direction, away from camp. But the next morning we found him nextto the mess tent. He was there all along, probably just a few feet from us, juststeps from shelter. We must have walked right by him in the dark, our voicesdrowned by the shriek of the wind.That’s what this place is like. You can feel the cold waiting, patient, for you toput one foot wrong. It starts to wear on you. Each morning Mikhael makes thesame stupid joke about which part of him froze off in the night. I can just see yourolling your eyes at that, see you scowl and say, “You’re the only one who wouldmiss it, you miserable oaf.” This is going to sound ridiculous To hell with it—Imiss your scowl.I need to sleep, but I know I won’t. I can’t stop seeing the look on your facethat day in the Grisha tent, the fear and confusion, the blood dripping down yourarm. He cut you, Alina. I saw the knife in his hand. How many times has he cutyou since? How many times has he hurt you? How many times have I failed tostop him? I know if you were safe and whole you’d write.I felt sure there would be a letter waiting for me when we finally reachedChernast, felt it in my gut, but all I found were rumors, each one crazier than thelast. People are calling you a Saint or a fraud. They say you’ve been

more, why I toss and turn, why my rations go uneaten. But it’s not volcra I see

when I close my eyes.

I need to sleep. I can’t afford not to be alert tomorrow. This isn’t a place that

tolerates mistakes. Old Kovac used to say that you had to have a feel for

tracking, that either the land spoke to you or it didn’t. Well, this land speaks—

and when it does, it howls so loud I can’t hear myself think. It groans with the

weight of snow, the rush of wind. That wind—the moment you step outside the

tent, it grabs at you, hungry, snapping at any bit of exposed skin, gobbling up

any little warmth and spitting it back out into the miserable gray sky.

A few weeks ago we got caught in a blizzard. When a storm hits that way,

hard and fast, tearing down from the north, the guides call it Gruzeburya, the

Brute. We knew it would wipe out any sign of the herd, but there’s no way to

travel in something like that, so we made camp and hunkered down to wait. Then

Pilkin stepped outside to take a piss and didn’t come back. By then it was dark

and the storm was on us. All you could see were sheets and whorls of snow.

You’d take one step and suddenly it was like standing in the middle of nowhere,

like the camp had just disappeared.

We tied ropes to each other and waded out, looking for Pilkin, moving from

tent to tent. We shouted until our throats were raw. Nothing. Finally we gave it

up, pulled each other in, one after another, shaking from the cold, holding tight

to that thin, frozen tether. We figured Pilkin had gotten turned around, headed in

the wrong direction, away from camp. But the next morning we found him next

to the mess tent. He was there all along, probably just a few feet from us, just

steps from shelter. We must have walked right by him in the dark, our voices

drowned by the shriek of the wind.

That’s what this place is like. You can feel the cold waiting, patient, for you to

put one foot wrong. It starts to wear on you. Each morning Mikhael makes the

same stupid joke about which part of him froze off in the night. I can just see you

rolling your eyes at that, see you scowl and say, “You’re the only one who would

miss it, you miserable oaf.” This is going to sound ridiculous To hell with it—I

miss your scowl.

I need to sleep, but I know I won’t. I can’t stop seeing the look on your face

that day in the Grisha tent, the fear and confusion, the blood dripping down your

arm. He cut you, Alina. I saw the knife in his hand. How many times has he cut

you since? How many times has he hurt you? How many times have I failed to

stop him? I know if you were safe and whole you’d write.

I felt sure there would be a letter waiting for me when we finally reached

Chernast, felt it in my gut, but all I found were rumors, each one crazier than the

last. People are calling you a Saint or a fraud. They say you’ve been

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