Free Ruin and Rising by Leigh Bardugo

Alina,” the Apparat said gently. “You must know that all I’ve ever wanted was to see you on Ravka’s throne.”
    I almost smiled at that. “I know, priest. On the throne and under your thumb.”
    He tilted his head to one side, contemplating me. The fanatical glint was gone from his eyes. He simply looked shrewd.
    “You are not what I expected,” he admitted.
    “Not quite the Saint you bargained for?”
    “A lesser Saint,” he said. “But perhaps a better queen. I will pray for you, Alina Starkov.”
    The strange thing was I believed him.
    *   *   *
    MAL AND I MET the others at Chetya’s Well, a natural fountain at the crossroads of four of the major tunnels. If the Apparat did decide to send a party after us, we’d be harder to track from there. At least that was the idea, but we hadn’t bargained on so many of the pilgrims turning out to see us off. They’d followed the Grisha from their quarters and crowded around the fountain.
    We were all in ordinary travel clothes, our kefta stowed in our packs. I’d exchanged my gold robes for a heavy coat, a fur hat, and the comforting weight of a gun belt at my hip. If it hadn’t been for my white hair, I doubted any of the pilgrims would have recognized me.
    Now they reached out to touch my sleeve or my hand. Some pressed little gifts on us, the only offerings they had: hoarded bread rolls gone tooth-breakingly hard, polished stones, bits of lace, a clutch of salt lilies. They murmured prayers for our health with tears in their eyes.
    I saw Genya’s surprise when a woman placed a dark green prayer shawl around her shoulders. “Not black,” she said. “For you, not black.”
    An ache began in my throat. It wasn’t just the Apparat who had kept me isolated from these people. I’d distanced myself from them as well. I distrusted their faith, but mostly I feared their hope. The love and care in these tiny gestures was a burden I didn’t want.
    I kissed cheeks, shook hands, made promises I wasn’t sure I could keep, and then we were on our way. I’d been carried into the White Cathedral on a stretcher. At least I was leaving on my feet.
    Mal took the lead. Tolya and Tamar brought up the rear, scouting behind us to make sure that no one followed.
    Through David’s access to the archives and Mal’s innate sense of direction, they’d managed to construct a rough map of the tunnel network. They had started plotting a course to Ryevost, but there were gaps in their information. No matter how accurate they’d been, we couldn’t be sure of what we might be walking into.
    After my escape from Os Alta, the Darkling’s men had tried to penetrate the network of tunnels beneath Ravka’s churches and holy sites. When their searches turned up empty, they’d begun bombing: closing off exit routes, trying to drive anyone seeking shelter to the surface. The Darkling’s Alkemi had created new explosives that collapsed buildings and forced combustible gases belowground. All it took was a single Inferni spark, and whole sections of the ancient network of tunnels collapsed. It was one of the reasons the Apparat had insisted I remain at the White Cathedral.
    There were rumors of cave-ins to the west of us, so Mal led us north. It wasn’t the most direct route, but we hoped it would be stable.
    It was a relief to be moving through the tunnels, to finally be doing something after so many weeks of confinement. My body was still weak, but I felt stronger than I had in months, and I pushed onward without complaint.
    I tried not to think too hard about what it would mean if the smuggling station at Ryevost wasn’t active. How were we supposed to find a prince who didn’t want to be found, and do it while remaining hidden ourselves? If Nikolai was alive, he might be looking for me, or he might have sought alliance elsewhere. For all he knew, I had died in the battle at the Little Palace.
    The tunnels grew darker as we moved farther from the White Cathedral and its