What do they see? I wondered. Another privileged Grisha going to her safe, luxurious palace on the hill while they cook on open fires and sleep in the shadow of a city that refuses them sanctuary? Or something worse? A liar? A fraud? A girl who dares to style herself as a living Saint?

I was grateful when we passed into the protection of the city walls.

Once inside, the procession slowed to a crawl. The lower town was full to bursting, the sidewalks crammed with people who spilled onto the street and halted traffic. The windows of the shops were plastered with signs declaring which goods were available, and long lines stretched out of every doorway. The stink of urine and garbage lay over everything. I wanted to bury my nose in my sleeve, but I had to settle for breathing through my mouth.

The crowds cheered and gawked here, but they were decidedly more subdued than those outside the gates.

“No pilgrims,” I observed.

“They’re not allowed within the city walls,” said Tamar. “The King has had the Apparat declared an apostate and his followers banned from Os Alta.”

The Apparat had conspired with the Darkling against the throne. Even if they’d since severed ties, there was no reason for the King to trust the priest and his cult. Or you, for that matter, I reminded myself. You’re just the one dumb enough to stroll into the Grand Palace and hope for clemency.

We crossed the wide canal and left the noise and tumult of the lower town behind. I noticed that the bridge’s gatehouse had been heavily fortified, but when we reached the far bank, it seemed that nothing in the upper town had changed. The broad boulevards were spotless and serene, the stately homes carefully maintained. We passed a park where fashionably turned out men and women strolled the manicured paths or took the air in open carriages. Children played at babki, watched over by their nannies, and a boy in a straw hat rode by on a pony with ribbons in its braided mane, the reins held by a uniformed servant.

They all turned to look as we passed, lifting their hats, whispering behind their hands, bowing and curtsying when they caught sight of Vasily and Nikolai. Were they really as calm and free of worry as they seemed? It was hard to fathom that they could be oblivious to the danger threatening Ravka or the turmoil on the other side of the bridge, but it was even harder for me to believe they trusted their King to keep them safe.

Sooner than I would have liked, we reached the golden gates of the Grand Palace. The sound of them clanging shut behind us sent a splinter of panic through me. The last time I’d passed through those gates, I’d been stowed away between pieces of scenery in a horse cart, fleeing from the Darkling, alone and on the run.

What if it’s a trap? I thought suddenly. What if there was no pardon? What if Nikolai never intended for me to lead the Second Army? What if they clamped Mal and me in irons and tossed us into some dank cell?