Web of Frost

by Lindsay Smith

  “Is the tsar’s consort . . . unwell?” Fahed asked. Some of the polish had faded from his Russalkan.

  Katza considered playing dumb, but knew it for a childish measure. If she was to be married to this man, then better that she be forthright with him. No sense delaying the inevitable.

  “She’s always suffered from . . . ‘flights of fancy.’” Katza hated the way the physickers and medicinists referred to her mother’s ailment, but she had no better way to describe the condition. “They were not so pronounced when she was younger, I’m told, but after bearing five children, three of them stillborn—”

  Katza hitched on the words. She was all her mother had left.

  “—they grew more severe. Please, don’t take offense at what she says when she’s in one of her fits. She often sees and hears things that simply aren’t, and suspects the most absurd motives in those dearest to her.”

  Fahed nodded for a moment, as if processing this. Katza wondered, then, just how much—or how little—he’d been warned about the family he was marrying into. And the nation, besides. If Bintar really was run so differently, like Sveta claimed, then he might be in for a rude awakening. Structure, order—these were the things Russalka valued. With a pang, she wondered if Fahed might not have preferred Aleksei’s more relaxed approach.

  “I shall not take offense, though I can see how it distresses you. I’m very sorry, my love, that I can do nothing to help.”

  Katza’s jaw tightened. Already he was calling her his love, when she scarcely knew anything about him beyond that smirk. But she forced herself to nod and smile back. “My betrothed is most considerate.”

  Then they passed through the palace’s entrance, and the Golden Palace unfolded before them.

  “Oh,” Fahed said.

  Katza tried to see the palace as if through his eyes—the gilded columns surging toward painted ceilings, the marble statues of saints and tsars of old lining the colonnades, the squeak of freshly waxed wood beneath their soles. Fahed studied the parquetted floor with a tilt to his head, then his gaze followed the double set of staircases that coiled around the grand entrance toward the family rooms upstairs. Directly before them lay the archway toward the public spaces—the dining halls and ballrooms, the library, and the administrative rooms where her father entertained his advisers and the members of the Golden Court.

  Katza had thought nothing of the extravagance before, but now all she could see was how sharply it contrasted with the decay and stink she’d witnessed in the Zhukov District. Perhaps there was some truth to the agitators’ words. They had lodged in her thoughts like a grain in her shoe, and suddenly she felt embarrassed for her family’s opulence. And what did Fahed think, especially after what he must have seen on his procession through Petrovsk? Among that, the protesters’ chants, her mother’s fit—her embarrassment deepened.

  Katza squeezed Fahed’s arm. “And what is it your palaces look like back home, my prince?”

  Spell broken, he looked back at her and ushered them across the cavernous floor of the grand foyer. “Open. Airy. A home for all people, not just the emir’s family. Painted tiles to draw one’s focus and let them meditate on our place in the Fates’ design.” He shook his head. “It matters not. Bintar is my home no more.”

  Katza raised an eyebrow.

  Fahed laughed. “Because my home is with you, my love! Don’t look sad for me. It is the Fates’ design that has brought me to your side, and I am eager to see what else the Fates will bring to us.”

  But what he called fate, Katza felt was helplessness. That she was a puppet strung up in the kukulikov theatre, waiting for the performers to make her dance.

  When they entered the chambers of the Golden Court for the day’s proceedings, the feeling only grew. Katza had so rarely attended court that she’d forgotten how it functioned. Nadika, the ever-present shadow behind Katza and Fahed, ushered them to a low bench on the right-hand side of Tsar Nikilov’s high-backed chair, then melted into the wood paneling with the other royal guards. Only a cluster of courtiers had arrived, barely enough to fill a train car, though the lighting in the vast chamber focused solely on the tsar’s seat and made the other faces difficult to discern.

  “First, I wish to welcome my future son-in-law, Fahed, to the court,” the tsar said, after Prophet Mikhail had blessed the proceedings and waved his censer around the circular chamber. “I understand you journeyed to us on the newly opened rail line that connects our two nations.”

  “So I did.” Fahed stood to address the tsar. “The Bintari portion of the track has been open for some time, however—it is only the Russalkan tracks that recently opened up. I understand your trackwork was plagued with labor strikes and a number of unfortunate accidents.”

  Katza’s eyebrows drew down. She’d never heard of the difficulties in completing the rail line before.

  “I would wager, Your Highness, that many of your difficulties come from how you manage your workers. In Bintar, we find that the better we treat our workers, the happier they are, and also more careful in their duties.”

  The tsar’s mouth flapped open. Katza wanted to pull Fahed back down into his seat, but she feared how he might respond. No matter how they conducted their affairs in Bintar, surely he recognized he could not address the tsar of Russalka in this fashion.

  “Perhaps that works in the land of sea breezes and gentle dunes,” the tsar said curtly. “But in Russalka we must be made of firmer stuff. Those who cannot endure a hard day’s labor in Russalka will not survive winter’s first frost.”

  Fahed stroked his beard with a dark twinkle in his gaze. “And does this also apply to you, Your Highness?”

  A gasp rose from the courtiers, but some stifled nervous titters behind gloved hands. Duchess Andreeva leaned behind her to whisper something to one of her many attendants. Katza watched her with anger roiling in her veins. The duchess was often the first to speak ill of Tsar Nikilov whenever the chance arose, but when it came to offering suggestions, Aleksei said, she was always struck mute.

  Katza wished Aleksei were with her now to tell her how to navigate the court’s games. Too, she wished she could call upon the saints to guide her. But her father had begged her, her visions had warned her, and the priest at the Order of the Mouth of Boj had cemented it—she must be cautious with her gifts. Already she’d beseeched Saint Tikhona today, and nothing good came of it. She must resist.

  “What is to be done about the unrest amongst the laborers?” asked Prince Martinov—a distant cousin of Katza’s mother, if she remembered her genealogy correctly. The chart of marriages, siblings, and titles she’d been forced to memorize as a young girl more closely resembled a spiderweb. “They attack the palace on the eve of the tsarechek’s funeral and disrupt all of our proceedings.”

  “They’re taking orders from someone named Ulmarov. Some pamphlet-writer from the university, I hear,” Duke Frantsiskov said. “My foreman had to remove an entire shift of our factory workers because they were spreading his lies around.”

  “And the strikes are spilling into the residential districts,” Countess Barilova said.

  Frantsiskov bashed his fist on the railing before him. “Yet when I petitioned the Office of the Patriarch, he denied our request for a prophet of Millionov to come and quell their unrest. Claimed it wasn’t Boj’s will!”

  “All right, all right, I hear your concerns. And I will do what I can to address them,” the tsar said. “First, I wish to increase enlistment in the Russalkan army and the palace guards. Our conscription efforts in Mozgai always yield excellent recruits, and—”

  “More soldiers you cannot pay?” Fahed settled back onto the bench with a laugh. “You must be more careful with your finances, Your Highness. I understand the railway nearly bankrupted Russalka.”

  The tsar’s mustache bristled as he studied Fahed. Katza shrank back, wishing no part of their contest. She
was bound to be loyal to both of them, yet felt frustrated by both their arguments. Her heart went out to Fahed—he didn’t mean them ill, that much was plain. But he didn’t understand the way things had to be done, the way her father needed to maintain order. It was for Russalka’s good. Even though Aleksei had sought to change it, that effort came from years of building up their father’s trust. Neither she nor Fahed had the experience yet to play the Golden Court’s games.

  Katza feared she never would.

  The tsar turned to her. “What do you say, Tsarechka Katarzyna? You must have an opinion on the matter.” She heard more clearly, though, what he was not saying. That she was expected to have an opinion on these matters now, in Aleksei’s stead.

  “I . . . I am still considering the options,” she stammered. Aleksei had a knack for calming the people’s fears, but his compassion seemed to matter little to the agitators she’d overheard in the tavern. He’d listened to their concerns, but the people she’d heard—they’d seemed more interested in causing trouble than having any real solutions. What did Aleksei think of people like that? What was she supposed to think?

  She wished she could think more quickly. Like Aleksei, like Fahed—internally she cursed herself that he’d breezed into the court and so effortlessly challenged everything, where Aleksei had spent years trying to subtly bring about change. Maybe this, though, was her chance to prove she could do play this role, too.

  The protesters. They had plans, they followed orders. If there was a way to know their plans before they had a chance to execute them . . . But she could think of no way to uncover them—unless they turned to the insight of the saints. “Maybe it is best if we listen for the saints’ guidance. They will show us the way in time.”

  Fahed huffed beside her. Her father grimaced, clearly disappointed, though she knew not why. Had she answered poorly? Heat washed over her. What should she have said? What would Aleksei have said?

  And then the Duchess Andreeva leaned back to consult with her spiritual adviser once more.

  Her young, dark-haired spiritual adviser with a piercing gaze.

  Katza’s pulse cantered. It was him. The young prophet from the banquet, the one who’d taken her hand only when she’d offered it and gave her the reins to her fate. Katza wanted to cry out to him, or make some motion to catch his eye, but she couldn’t move for fear it might dispel the illusion—that he might vanish like a vision or startle like a songbird, and never be seen again.

  But it could not be coincidence that brought him here. Not after her visions urged her to seek him out; not as she found herself in need of the saints’ blessings more than ever before. She cared nothing for what the old priest had said, cared not that he was temnost. He’d aided her.

  No. More than that—he’d shown her how to aid herself.

  Their eyes met, and she felt something pull tight within her, an embroidery needle securing the first stitch. Temnost or not, she could trust him. More than she could trust any of the other priests who wanted to dictate her gifts, it seemed. For he trusted her, too.

  His lips curved into a smile, and it warmed her like the sun.

  Nothing was decided for certain in the Golden Court’s session, though Katza paid it hardly any mind. She was too lost in thoughts of the mysterious prophet at the duchess’s side. His long fingers that graced the duchess’s shoulder as he leaned forward and whispered. His dark eyes that drank Katza in, as if he were pulling secrets from her head. She felt naked before him: that all her fears and wishes were exposed, and he was assessing her, weighing her worth. She should have felt ashamed by it. But it was the first time she’d felt truly seen.

  Prince Fahed and Tsar Nikilov argued on nearly every item on the court’s agenda: military conscription, fair wage rulings in the factories, whether to allow Aleksei’s widow Annika to return home to Hessaria, and even the significance of the rumor that the Hessarians were looking to challenge Russalka once more. To Fahed, the arguments seemed more of a sport than any serious conflict, but the tsar’s face grew redder by the hour, and his exasperated sighs more pronounced.

  Well, let her betrothed contend with her father’s temper. Katza wished no part of it.

  “My dearest love.” Fahed turned to her the moment the court was adjourned.

  Katza tilted her head toward him, but her gaze kept seeking the young prophet in the chamber’s shadowed depths. Was he departing with the duchess? Would Katza have a chance to speak with him before they left?

  Fahed cleared his throat. Finally, unable to find the prophet in the shadows, Katza looked toward him, and marked the impatient arch of his brow. “I wonder if perhaps you might grant me a tour of the Golden Palace. It is so much more vast than I am used to, after all.” He smirked. “I fear I might get lost.”

  Another jab at their Russalkan extravagance, then. Katza suppressed a sigh and stood. “Yes, of course, my—my love.” She swallowed away the bitter taste of the words. “It will have to be brief, however. We’re hosting a dinner in your honor after the last light’s chime.”

  “Fates unraveled, a feast? We just had chai and zaski for our afternoon refresher.” Fahed rubbed his flat stomach. “I hope the tour includes a gymnasium.”

  “It will be the dead of winter soon.” Katza grinned. “You’ll be grateful then for the added layers.”

  She escorted him through the remaining halls of the ground floor—the library and archives, the royal gallery, the music conservatory, the small theatre where young Katza had delighted at so many kukulikov and danse sacre performances, and even the men’s parlor, where her father smoked cigars of rolled bacc and drank liquors from nations that Russalka was not supposed to like. On the first floor, Katza motioned to the ladies’ sitting room, the men’s sitting room, the royal wing, and Katza’s own suites, though she did not permit him inside. Aleksei’s suites had been closed off for the mourning period, and Katza was grateful when Fahed did not press her for details about the black netting hanging over the door. But he offered her no condolences either, which itched at her.

  Throughout the tour, Katza’s head swiveled at every sound of voices and footsteps around a staircase or another hall. Often the visiting court members would take rooms on the palace’s first and second floors when the Golden Court was in session, but if Duchess Andreeva was occupying one, Katza saw no sign of it.

  “And in the basements, just past the servants’ quarters, you’ll find the gymnasium.” Katza made herself smile, but all she felt was a dull panic: a desperation to find the prophet. “My father enjoys swinging the iron bells, so you’ll be in good company. The wine cellars and much more are down there, as well.”

  “Well, I do stand corrected, my love. Just walking the palace is nearly exercise enough.” Fahed lingered before the doorway to his appointed suites and reached for Katza’s hands. “I suppose I shall allow you to prepare for my feast, then. May your fate unfold smoothly until then.”

  Katza studied him, trying to read his expression beyond his carefree façade. Was he as unwitting a checkmates piece as she was in their nations’ maneuvering? He seemed to care a great deal about Russalka, or at least its people, when he argued for them. Maybe he hoped she’d be like Aleksei, eager for progress and reform. His face betrayed nothing, however. If she disappointed him, at least he didn’t let it show.

  “Saints bless your journey,” Katza answered. He kissed her hand, then she turned from him, so he would not mark the tremor in her smile.

  Nadika emerged, as if from one of the thickly embroidered curtains that lined the palace halls, to fall into step behind Katza and escort her back to her rooms. She had shed her dress uniform for her simpler guard’s clothes, which granted her better movement, and traded her ceremonial saber for her sidearm.

  Once inside her rooms, though, there was no protecting Katza from Sveta’s endless barrage. “The Bintari prince looks very handsome,” Sveta cooed, as she took a b
rush to Katza’s ermine cloak. “And clever, besides. Did you see how he smiles and laughs? He has a good disposition. You could stand to smile more yourself.”

  Katza propped her elbows on the vanity’s counter and rested her chin in her hands as Sveta fussed with her golden curls. “He enjoys being right. You should have seen the way he took my father to task in the Golden Court.”

  “Arguing with the tsar?” Sveta laughed. “Well, he is a brave one indeed! It bodes well for his, ah, his marital prowess, though. Say your prayers to Saint Agniesz and you’ll be filling the palace with little dark-headed princelings!”

  Katza’s cheeks burned. She could not even fathom bearing heirs, not yet. But it was perhaps the safest way to avoid bringing her vision to pass. If she bore a child well before her father’s dotage, then the title of tsar could pass straight to her heir. No more taunting visions. No more slain white wolves, their offal melting into the snow . . .

  Sveta finished her duties and stood Katza up to admire herself in the mirror. Katza gasped—or tried to. Sveta had cinched her corset closed to within an inch of Katza’s soul, and her breasts threatened to pop free at any moment and smack her underneath her chin. The rosy stain on Katza’s lips stood out like a wound. Even the rectangular diamond and sapphire rays of her kokoshnik looked garish, nestled in the thick curls Sveta had set into Katza’s hair.

  “Saints curse me. I look like a painted doll!” Katza cried. The agitators’ words haunted her, too—the wasteful extravagance of the Silovs. Even Fahed, himself a prince, had been surprised.

  “No.” Sveta adjusted the drape of the ermine cloak. “You look like a lady. You are not a child anymore. You are a tsarika in waiting. And soon, too, a wife. So go forth. Entrance your husband. And your people.”