The sergeant’s face registered surprise. “Da, moi tsarevich,” he said respectfully.

“‘Sir’ will do, sergeant. I’m an officer when I wear this uniform, not a prince.” Vasily’s lips twitched again. Like many noble sons, he had taken an honorary commission and done his military service in the comfort of the officers’ tents, well away from enemy lines. But Nikolai had served in the infantry. He’d earned his medals and rank.

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant. “Only bothers me when it rains.”

“Then I imagine the Fjerdans pray daily for storms. You put quite a few of them out of their misery, if I recall.”

“I seem to remember you doing the same, sir,” said the soldier with a grin.

I almost laughed. In a single exchange, Nikolai had seized control of the field from his brother. Tonight, when the soldiers gathered in the taverns of Os Alta or played cards in their barracks, this was what they would be talking about: the prince who remembered an ordinary soldier’s name, the prince who had fought side by side with them without concern for wealth or pedigree.

“Brother,” Nikolai said to Vasily. “Let’s get to the palace so we can dispense with our greetings. I have a case of Kerch whiskey that needs drinking, and I’d like to get your advice on a foal I spotted in Ketterdam. They tell me Dagrenner is his sire, but I have my doubts.”

Vasily tried to disguise his interest, but it was as if he couldn’t resist. “Dagrenner? Did they have papers?”

“Come have a look.”

Though his face was still wary, Vasily spoke a few words to one of the commanding officers and leapt into his saddle with practiced ease. The brothers took their places at the head of the column, and our procession was moving once again.

“Neatly done,” Mal murmured to me as we passed between the rows of soldiers. “Nikolai’s no fool.”

“I hope not,” I said. “For both our sakes.”

As we drew closer to the capital, I saw what Count Minkoff’s guests had been talking about. A city of tents had sprung up around the walls, and a long line of people waited at the gates. Several of them were arguing with the guards, no doubt petitioning for entry. Armed soldiers kept watch from the old battlements—a good precaution for a country at war, and a deadly reminder to the people below to keep things orderly.

Of course, the city gates sprang open for the princes of Ravka, and the procession continued through the crowd without pause.

Many of the tents and wagons were marked with crudely drawn suns, and as we rode through the makeshift camp, I heard the now-familiar cries of “Sankta Alina.”

I felt foolish doing it, but forced myself to lift my hand and wave, determined to at least make an effort. The pilgrims cheered and waved back, many running to keep pace with us. But some of the other refugees stood silent by the side of the road, arms crossed, expressions skeptical and even blatantly hostile.