"Yes!" Vika yelled. "Go get them!"

Her birds charged straight into the enemy. Just as fearless, the stone sparrows did not alter their flight. Real beaks gouged out jeweled eyes. Rock talons tore at soft feathers. And the waves of birds kept coming.

Vika clenched her fists as the blue sky exploded in red and black and purple feathers and shards of dark-gray stone. For every gargoyle sparrow dispatched, a real bird died. "Their lives are on his soul," she muttered through her teeth as the carnage grew around her. And yet, she knew that was only partially true. She could have come up with a different defense. Vika was the one who'd chosen live birds as her soldiers.

There's no way my birds can win a physical fight against rock, she thought as her shield trembled under the nonstop attacks. But we could win a psychological one.

She whistled again and commanded her birds to form a barrier above her. They flew into defensive position, ten birds thick.

The stone sparrows regrouped even higher, near the clouds.

There was a moment of eerie peace.

"Come now," Vika said to the other enchanter's birds. "Isn't it tempting, seeing my flock lined up neatly, like targets waiting for you to knock them down?"

The stone sparrows seemed to come to the same conclusion as Vika taunted them. With shrieks as bloodcurdling as a thousand fingernails raking against blackboards, the gargoyle warriors plummeted as one, like a battering ram careening toward Vika's real birds.

Her army squawked as the monolith of stone came at them. But they held their positions. Then, at the last second, they darted aside. Vika also rolled out of the way.

The rock sparrows smashed into the ground and shattered into gravel and sand.

And then it was over, almost as quickly as the a.s.sault had begun. Death littered Nevsky Prospect, stone and feathered bodies, demolished. Vika's eyes watered.

But she didn't cry. She wouldn't. She summoned the wind instead and whisked away all the evidence of life-or lack thereof-so quickly that the early morning street sweeper who'd been gawking along the road suddenly questioned his own memory-or sanity, at having imagined such an improbably gruesome scene at all.

Only Vika knew for certain that it had been true. And she would get her revenge.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

The stone sparrow glided onto Nikolai's arm as he sat on the steps in front of the Zakrevsky house. He'd been watching the barges chug by on Ekaterinsky Ca.n.a.l and eavesdropping on pa.s.sersby as they chattered about their morning errands on Nevsky Prospect. Most had been pleased that the once renowned boulevard had been restored to its former grandeur. And everyone a.s.sumed it was the doing of an overnight crew of painters hired by the tsar, despite the fact that no one knew a single painter in the city who'd worked on the street. Nikolai was unsurprised. For a people who were so religious, Russians had an awfully difficult time seeing the otherworldly even when it was laid out before their eyes.

"What do you have for me?" Nikolai asked the sparrow. He rested his hand on the tiny thing's head. Its feathers were rough from being cast of rock, but they were impressively realistic in appearance. At least, Nikolai thought, from a distance.

The bird cooed and nuzzled against his fingers. Nikolai closed his eyes, and a stream of images rushed to him from the statue, as if Nikolai had been on Nevsky Prospect to see the series of bird's-eye views himself. It was a quiet picture, the undisturbed moments just after dawn. No shoppers carrying brown paper bundles out of the butcher shop or gentlemen emerging from Bissette & Sons, the tailors for whom Nikolai delivered packages. No one strolling out of the clockmaker's with a shiny new pocket watch dangling out of his waistcoat, or servant girls leaving the bakery with stacks of boxes full of cakes. Just a lone street sweeper and his thin, worn broom.

And then . . . there was the girl, leaving an apartment building.

His stone birds paused, high above her, all of them turning to her in sync. A moment later, they attacked.

Merde! Nikolai winced at the b.l.o.o.d.y, rocky battle that ensued.

"I'm sorry," he said to the sparrow, as if a statue could feel grief for his shattered friends. Or perhaps Nikolai was saying it for the actual birds who'd died. Or the girl herself. Regardless, he stroked the sparrow's stone wings.

It cooed, then flapped away, as light as if it were made of the breeze. Nikolai returned his gaze to the ca.n.a.ls and barges floating by, although he might as well have been seeing the stone bird's images replaying again and again.

Nikolai sagged against the steps and exhaled.

The girl still lived. The Game continued.

But at least he wasn't a murderer today.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

The tsar sat on one side of the open-air carriage with the tsarina, while Pasha and Yuliana sat facing them on the opposite velvet bench. It was a fine autumn day, crisp and cool without a cloud in sight, and since it was mere days before Pasha's birthday, the tsarina had decided the city ought to have the benefit of admiring her son.

They had been parading around Saint Petersburg in their coach for nearly an hour now, and the crowds showed no signs of thinning.

"Pavel Alexandrovich! Happy birthday!"

"Your Imperial Highness, Your Imperial Highness, over here!"

"Best wishes, dear prince, to you and your family!"

Pasha beamed and waved to each and every person who called to him from the streets and the windows and balconies above. The tsar and the rest of the imperial family sat around him but did not steal the limelight. It was the tsesarevich's afternoon.

That did not stop Yuliana, however, from unrolling a map.

The tsar shook his head affectionately. Of course she'd brought a map.

"Missolonghi is at a crisis point," Yuliana said, attempting to update her brother on the recent meeting of the Imperial Council, which he had again skipped. "The Ottomans have besieged the city, and although the Greek rebels have managed to break the blockade several times for supplies, it is not long before the noose is tightened. And while the Ottomans are facing increasing political unrest from their subject states, it doesn't make them weaker. It only aggravates them and calls them to stronger arms, which in turn is a rising threat to Russia, for they're nipping at the land we took away from them. And . . . Pasha! Are you listening?"

Pasha turned from a ma.s.s of children who were giggling and shrieking his name. His smile carried over as he looked at Yuliana. "Of course. You were talking about . . . England?"

"Ugh!" Yuliana shot the tsar an exasperated glare, as if to say, Why can't he be more like you and me?

At that moment, a man in a tattered farmer's hat shoved his way through the crowd and charged at the carriage. "You sit on your gilded thrones while our people toil to their deaths in the fields!"

The Tsar's Guard pounced on the man before the tsar could even react. The man continued shouting as the Guard dragged him away. "You promised us equality! We fought side by side with your n.o.blemen against Napoleon! But you lied! We died for you, and you lied!"

The tsar winced inside but did not show it. He knew he'd reneged on his earlier promises. But it was better for Russia this way. The principles he'd once believed in his youth had been tempered by experience and age.

One of the guards. .h.i.t the man with the b.u.t.t of his rifle. The man went silent.

The tsarina stiffened beside the tsar. Across the coach, Yuliana looked with indifference at the man being taken away. Pasha, on the other hand, watched them, then waved a guard to the carriage.

"See to it that that man is given medical attention," Pasha instructed. "And then take him home. I'm pardoning him. Tell him I know we all get a little carried away sometimes on birthdays."

Yuliana frowned at her brother. The tsar did, too.

Pasha had too soft a touch. And with the empire fraying both at the edges-from the Ottomans and the Kazakhs-and within-from men like the fool who'd charged the coach, the tsar realized more than ever how right Yuliana had been. He needed an Imperial Enchanter. For the country and Pasha's sake.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

The other enchanter wasn't the only one who could have spies. Vika had watched as the last stone sparrow flew away, and she'd sent a jackdaw after it. The jackdaw discovered where the other enchanter lived, and Vika had tailed him for the two days since he'd attacked her. It turned out the enchanter liked taking walks along the Neva River.

So now Vika stood at the granite embankments of the Neva, beside the enormous bronze statue of Peter the Great-the tsar who founded Saint Petersburg-atop his horse. It was a monument commissioned by Catherine the Great to pay tribute to Peter, and legend had it that as long as the statue stood guard, Saint Petersburg would never fall into enemy hands. It was only a legend, and most Russians dismissed it as such, or believed it out of superst.i.tion. But as she stood in such close proximity to the statue, Vika knew it was real. There was old magic-hefty, powerful magic-within the bronze.

As soon as the enchanter appeared for his afternoon stroll, Vika would make her own move in the Game. Of course, she wouldn't kill him straightaway. He'd labored over the charming of Nevsky Prospect, and she wanted to outdo him first.

She planned to enchant the city's waterways.

This was a grandiose task, however. In addition to the Neva River, there were over a hundred other rivers, tributaries, and ca.n.a.ls that ran through Saint Petersburg, totaling nearly two hundred miles in distance. There were more bridges in Petersburg than in Venice; water was the very essence, the life force, of the city. Even though Vika was skilled at manipulating natural elements-they were, after all, what was most abundant on Ovchinin Island and therefore what she had practiced most with-this move would require more energy and concentration than anything she had ever attempted.

After Vika had waited an hour, the other enchanter appeared. And despite wanting to hate him, she tingled at his presence. He was still some distance off, but it was unmistakably him. It was in the way his top hat was c.o.c.ked on his head, jaunty and taunting at the same time, impossibly balanced by magic. The elegant yet razor-edged manner with which he slid through the crowd, cutting through but never jostling, and always, always smooth. And it was also the memory of his hand on her arm at Bolshebnoie Duplo and the flash of his angular face. . . .

No. Stop. Focus. He tried to kill me. I have to get my turn underway before he draws too near.

Vika planted both feet firmly into the ground. She closed her eyes. A strong breeze rippled through her hair, carrying with it the autumn cold from the Gulf of Finland from whence it came. She inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of the Neva River. It smelled . . . green. Fresh water tinged with algae. A hint of aspen, and what was that? Ah yes, alder wood, too.

Vika also listened to the sounds of the river. Ducks paddling on the surface. Sturgeon swimming, and eels slithering beneath. She had to, in a way, become the river, or at least understand it, before she could expect it to do her bidding. People walked by, but n.o.body paid her any notice, for, other than the steady rise and fall of her chest, she was as still as the statue beside her.

Finally, when she could almost feel the Neva's chilly waters coursing through her own veins, Vika opened her eyes and stretched her arms out in front of her. "This is my move," she whispered, so that the Russe Quill would know that this magic-and not other charms that she cast-was the one to be recorded on the Scroll. Then she focused on the center of the river and tapped her right hand upward, a slight movement, as if she were tossing a small ball. A stream of water leaped ten yards into the air and fell in an elegant arc back to the river's surface.

"Prekrasno," she said to herself in satisfaction.

She tapped her left hand upward, and another stream of water mirrored the movement of the first. She followed with her right again, then left, alternating the height of the arcs as well as the speed, sometimes firing the streams in rapid succession, and other times slowing them languorously.

A crowd began to gather along the embankment, murmuring to one another and leaning out over the granite railings to get a better look. Still, no one noticed Vika. They don't believe in magic, she thought. That's why they don't see that I'm the one controlling the river. One or two men did notice her, but they just laughed dismissively at the girl playing at copying the water's movements. Vika rolled her eyes.

She could also feel the other enchanter, near now. Watching. She didn't look for him, but his presence was there. He didn't try to hide it.

Vika continued on. She drew corkscrews in the air, and the river water twirled high into the sky like jeweled helixes, the droplets glinting in the morning sun like so many diamonds. The people on sh.o.r.e released a collective gasp. She clenched her fists, then slowly unfurled her fingers, and the Neva responded in kind, creating tight buds of water that then blossomed in waves of petals, like chrysanthemums blooming in fall. The onlookers oohed and aahed. What a rush to finally have her magic out in the open, seen and appreciated by so many, even if they couldn't possibly understand what it was. The years of hiding away her powers in the shielded forest of Ovchinin Island seemed a distant past.

Vika scooped handfuls of air and flipped them up, then puffed on them with her breath. In the river, spheres of water flew up to the clouds, then burst like transparent fireworks and sprinkled down like rain. The audience cheered.

The other enchanter stood close to the river's edge. Perfectly close for Vika's purposes. Too close for his own.

Just where I want you. She made a slithering motion in the air, and a stream of water climbed up the embankment and puddled around the enchanter's feet. It swirled around his right ankle and tightened itself like liquid rope. As he realized what was happening, she flicked her wrist, and the water yanked him into the Neva. "Prekrasno," she said again as she grinned to herself.

A woman in the crowd screamed.

"Someone's fallen into the river!" a man yelled.

But the other enchanter didn't resurface.

Vika turned away from the water, even as she continued to direct it to hold her opponent down. Suddenly, she couldn't watch. But drowning him was a necessity, a part of the Game. If she didn't kill him, he'd kill her. And she wanted to be Imperial Enchanter; she'd wanted it all her life, to use her magic for the tsar.

And then there was Father . . . she had to see him again. If she lost the Game, she never would. It didn't make what she was doing any easier. But it made it possible. Unavoidable.

Vika held on to the watery rope as long as she could, and then she collapsed against the boulder at the base of the bronze statue.

People were still leaning over the embankment, searching for the drowned boy. Vika gasped for air, as badly as if she were the one underwater. Something inside her felt like it had drowned, too.

And then, behind her, shouts erupted. "There he is!"

"He's all right!"

"The d.a.m.n boy gave us a scare, but he was just diving the whole time!"

Vika pulled herself up by the base of Peter's statue and looked out onto the Neva. Sure enough, out in the river, the enchanter floated on what looked like a raft of sea foam. He reached the sh.o.r.es of Vasilyevsky Island, on the other side of the Neva, before Vika could use the water to reel him back in.

Not that she had the stomach to do it again. Her conscience was still waterlogged from the first attempt to drown him.

The crowd along sh.o.r.e realized the boy was all right and that the waterworks show was over. As they dispersed, they murmured their approval that the festivities for the tsesarevich were beginning ahead of schedule. They bounced as they walked, antic.i.p.ating what other surprises the tsar had in store. And they wondered if the Neva Fountain would turn on again.

The Neva Fountain, eh? How nice that they've already given it a name. Vika smiled despite her morally dubious insides. Or perhaps she smiled because of them. She did not want to know which.

She looked again across the Neva to the other enchanter. He seemed to be staring straight back at her. And then he tipped his top hat, as if saying, Nice try. Thank you for the amus.e.m.e.nt. Have a wonderful day.

Why, that arrogant, insufferable . . . argh! "It's not like you managed to kill me either," Vika said, even though he couldn't hear her.

All right. So the other enchanter had survived. Vika had created the Neva Fountain, which, enchanted once, would now retain the charms in the water and be able to replicate the show on its own, every hour. But she'd set out to far better the other enchanter, and if she couldn't win outright, she would make sure her first turn shone exponentially brighter than his.

Vika's eyes fluttered shut, and she imagined all the ca.n.a.ls flowing in and out and through the city. Then she thought of the colorful building fronts along Nevsky Prospect. As she stood there, bracing herself against the statue of Peter the Great, the waterways throughout Saint Petersburg began to shift in hue.

First ruby red, then fire-opal orange. Golden citrine and emerald green. Sapphire blue, violet amethyst, then back to red to start the rainbow again. Even though the other enchanter had painted Nevsky Prospect first, Vika's colors were so vivid, it was as if his palette of pastels were merely a faded reflection of hers.

The ca.n.a.ls were a jewel-toned taunt, really, at his move.

Vika finished charming the waterways enough to cycle through the colors on their own, then sank to the ground. The base of Peter the Great's statue was the only thing propping her up. But despite her exhaustion, Vika grinned.

The gleam in her eyes was one part gloat and ninety-nine parts mischief.