When I reached the lakeshore, I made my way to one of the white stone Summoners’ pavilions. They weren’t really buildings, just domed shells where young Summoners could practice using their gifts without fear of blowing the roof off the school or setting fire to the Little Palace. I sat down in the shade of the pavilion’s steps and buried my head in my hands, willing my tears away, trying to catch my breath. I’d been so sure that Baghra would know something about the firebird and so positive that she’d be willing to help. I hadn’t realized just how much hope I’d invested in her until it was gone.

I smoothed the glittering folds of my kefta over my lap and had to choke back a sob. I’d thought Baghra would laugh at me, mock the little Saint all dressed up in her finery. Why had I ever believed the Darkling might show his mother mercy?

And why had I acted that way? How could I have threatened to take away her few comforts? The ugliness of it made me feel ill. I could blame my desperation, but it didn’t ease my shame. Or change the reality that some part of me wanted to march back to her hut and make good on those threats, haul her out into the sunlight and wrest answers from her sour, sunken mouth. What was wrong with me?

I took my copy of the Istorii Sankt’ya out of my pocket and ran my hands over the worn red leather cover. I’d looked at it so many times that it fell right open to the illustration of Sankt Ilya, though now the pages were waterlogged from the crash of the Hummingbird.

A Grisha Saint? Or another greedy fool who couldn’t resist the temptation of power? A greedy fool like me. Forget Morozova and his madness. I ran my finger along the curve of the arch. It might be meaningless. It might be some reference to Ilya’s past that had nothing to do with amplifiers, or just an artist’s flourish. Even if we were right and it was some kind of signpost, it could be anywhere. Nikolai had traveled most of Ravka, and he’d never seen it. For all we knew, it had fallen into rubble hundreds of years ago.

A bell rang at the school across the lake, and a gaggle of Grisha children rushed from its doors, shouting, laughing, eager to be out in the summer sunshine. The school had continued to run, despite the disasters of the last months. But if the Darkling was coming, I’d have to evacuate it. I didn’t want children in the path of the nichevo’ya.

The ox feels the yoke, but does the bird feel the weight of its wings?

Had Baghra ever really spoken those words to me? Or had I only heard them in a dream?

I stood up and brushed the dust from my kefta. I wasn’t sure what had shaken me more, Baghra’s refusal to help or how broken she seemed. She wasn’t just an old woman. She was a woman without hope, and I’d helped to take it from her.