No. Her friend was mistaken. She had never been strong, and everyone in Petrovsk knew it. When she’d tried to feign it at the dress shop, she’d only made things worse. But there was Silov blood within her—that was the strength she meant to build. Ravin could show her how.
Nadika cleared her throat. “It’s time for the Golden Court meeting, if you’re finished with your lunch.”
Katza stood from behind the cart and straightened out her skirts. “Nadika?” she asked, glancing at her shyly. “Do you see me as a friend?”
Nadika’s face darkened, but she nodded. “I am not supposed to be your friend. But I trust you. I enjoy speaking to you, and value what you have to say.”
Katza smiled. “I value your thoughts, too. Thank you for your honesty.”
Nadika’s gaze drifted away, beyond the frosty window panes. “You deserve someone honest in your life.”
The words lodged in Katza’s mind. She wondered how much more dishonesty Nadika noticed than she did.
They twisted down the stairs toward the court’s chamber in companionable silence, but as they approached, Katza heard the sounds of the tsar in heated debate with Prince Fahed. Katza shot Nadika a nervous glance.
Nadika exhaled and reached for the door handle. “Best to get it over with.”
Katza slipped inside with a knot in her gut.
“—Your people are frightened. We hear it on the streets and in the theatres and cafés. I can’t even imagine how much worse it is in the factories and farms.”
“Those who abide by Russalka’s laws have nothing to fear,” the tsar said. He barely glanced Katza’s way as she slipped onto her bench.
“They don’t care about the law, or who’s breaking it. They are afraid for themselves, and how they might be harmed, whether they obey or not. And more than a few times, even the law-abiding subjects have been harmed.” Fahed pounded a flat fist against the railing. “To such frightened people, this Ulmarov must look very attractive indeed.”
The tsar looked toward the chief of his city guard. “Are our efforts working?” he asked. “In the end, that has to be my main concern.”
The city guard stroked his beard. “Well, the number of incidents of unlawful dissent have dropped sharply, Your Highness.”
“You see?” The tsar spread one arm beside him as if to gesture to a piece of art. A few of the court members applauded.
“—But we are still making arrests. A group of students this morning was preparing to distribute pamphlets on Kuznetsov Square when we stopped them. And we have imprisoned some of the noisier intellectuals who like to spread their lies outside the Perezavodskaya factories. Overall though, yes, things have been much quieter.”
Fahed made a disgruntled noise at Katza’s side. “So perhaps it’s only quieter where your men are listening, your highness.”
Katza winced. They’d set the prayers of Saint Raskriy on the city guard’s agents. But what if their acts had sparked dissent in new quarters? What if they’d sent the foul sentiment spiderwebbing across Petrovsk, like a crack in the ice? The possibility settled in her stomach like a rotten pit. Katza wondered if Saint Millionov might have words of guidance for her—some way to pacify their anger as well as reveal their plans.
The tsar shuffled his papers. “Now, then. On to the matter of our latest reports from Hessaria—”
But Katza didn’t hear him. A vision fell swiftly upon her, descending fast as a piece of scenery flying in at the theatre. She toppled backward onto the bench with a cry, but in an instant, the court chamber extinguished like a candle. Utter darkness swallowed her up.
She tasted cold, scraping against the back of the throat. Breathed in. Breathed out. Waited for the vision to take shape.
Katza stood in blackness, barefoot, wearing only a shift. Something lit the space immediately around her, though she couldn’t see its source. Her hair was loose and wild, tickling at her elbows as she turned, trying to find her way. Where was she? It was neither cold nor hot. The uncertainty turned her stomach, and she stumbled blindly forward.
Then she heard the crack—a sound like rifle shot.
No. It was duller. A cannon firing, maybe. It echoed in her mind long after it faded.
Katza turned, trying to find the source of the noise. The faintest hint of color was seeping into the world, a deep, dark blue like the ink of twilight in winter. She staggered forward, toward black pines that pierced the sky.
Oh, no. Katza covered her mouth with one hand. No. This couldn’t be the clearing. She couldn’t endure this vision again, not when she’d been so sure—
It was the same clearing as her constant vision. But it had changed. There was no wolf now, no blood painting the snow. She let out her breath. She’d changed it. O, Boj, she’d changed it. No more wolf heralding the death of Russalka. Tears crowded her eyesight as she was overwhelmed with relief. She must have done something to set Russalka on the right course. This was it—the reassurance she needed.
She took another step forward—then sagged with sudden weakness. The crack sounded again, bouncing off the pines. Katza tumbled to her knees. Clutched her stomach with both hands.
And then she saw it, on her hands, on the front of her nightgown—the blood.
It was no longer Russalka’s, but her own.
The physicker swiped a damp cloth over Katza’s forehead, but she shoved his arm away. “Please. I’m fine, I swear it. I just want to be left alone.”
“You suffered a fainting spell this afternoon.” The physicker dabbed her forehead once more. “I’m afraid we must be vigilant to ensure you haven’t fallen ill with frostlung.”
Katza drew in a deep breath, then let it out again. The only thing constricting her breathing was the bed sheets tucked deathly tight around her. “I am quite certain I have not.”
“Well, there are other . . . ailments . . . that plague your family, as well.”
They feared she was ill like her mother, then. “I’m perfectly all right. Please, let me stand.”
The physicker grimaced. “If my tsarechka insists . . .”
Katza tossed off her covers, though they did not move nearly as far as she expected. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and tried to shift her weight to her feet. Suddenly her head spun, and her thoughts bubbled as if her head was filled with champagne.
“Oh, dear.”
The physicker held out an arm to steady her as she sank back onto the mattress. “I’m very glad you are feeling better, but I would advise you rest. At least until the morning.”
Katza yanked the covers back up to her chin with a scowl.
“Besides,” the physicker said, “you have a guest.”
Katza whipped her head toward the entrance to her bedchamber. Ravin stood silent in the doorway, his clasped hands a speck of pale flesh against the black velvet of his coat and trousers. Her thoughts soared at the sight of him. She needed his counsel to make sense of her latest vision. She needed his guidance. She needed—him.
She tangled her fingers in the bedsheets and twisted them, uncomfortable with the sudden yearning that pricked at her skin.
“Prophet.” Katza’s voice cracked. She turned toward the physicker. “Please, allow us to speak privately.”
The physicker exchanged looks with Nadika, who hovered in the corner of the bedchamber. Nadika nodded, and the physicker gathered his bag and left.
Ravin moved inside, quiet as snow, and closed the door. Nadika posted herself in the doorway as he sat in the physicker’s chair at Katza’s side. Dark crescents lurked under his eyes, and his skin looked more pallid than usual. Katza felt a sudden urge to brush those crescents with her thumbs, as if they were smudges she could wipe away.
“Are you all right?” Ravin asked softly. “I’ve been worried for you. I prayed for you all evening.”
Embers flared on Katza’s cheeks as
she imagined him kneeling in the chapel . . . imagined her name on his lips. “I—I’m fine now. But I had a vision.” She pitched her voice low. “A new one. There was gunfire, or cannons perhaps, in the distance. And I was bleeding.” She gripped her stomach instinctively. “I think in the vision I’d been shot.”
Ravin pressed his palms together and tapped the tips of his fingers to his mouth. “It was similar to other visions of yours, was it not?”
Katza’s jaw clenched. For a moment, she was afraid to speak, so she nodded instead. She still wasn’t prepared to tell him about her recurring vision—the one she’d first feared this might be, too. He’d hinted before that he knew of it already, but how was that possible? Had the saints warned him as well? Better to keep it to herself until she could be sure.
“Yes. I sense this is a common theme for you.” He glanced down. “I believe that Boj is warning you—warning that great strife is coming to Russalka. That if you are not prepared to confront it, you will not survive.”
A horrifying possibility, to be sure. Yet it was better than the vision she’d been plagued with before. If she couldn’t find a way to stop the strife, though, would Russalka still perish? Whether it was at her hands or not, it had to be stopped.
“And if I am prepared?” Katza asked.
“Then it can be avoided.” The angles of his face softened by a fraction. Katza’s gaze traced the delicate swoop from his cheek toward his mouth and lips, the hollows beneath his cheekbones. “You have been chosen by Boj to do great things. Greater even than most Silovs are capable of.” He looked right at her, something gleaming in his eyes. Something like awe. “But your training has been stunted.”
Katza squeezed her eyes shut to guard against a rush of despair. “It’s my fault. My visions—I thought they were warning me not to step above my place.”
“You thought they warned you not to act?” he asked. “And yet they continued? Tsarechka . . . I think perhaps they were warning you of the cost of inaction.”
Katza choked back a sour laugh. When she opened her eyes again, Ravin was watching her, his face warm despite that leeching cold in his eyes. She wanted to believe him. Desperately. She couldn’t put into words, though, the vision’s warning—the certainty she’d felt of its message. That she was doomed to be Russalka’s death.
But maybe she was wrong. She yearned to be wrong. Maybe, with Ravin’s aid, she could avoid its grim outcome.
“You are unprepared now, but you will learn. With the right training, you can save Russalka.”
Her gaze drifted down his face and along the long, stern line of his arms. His hands, so like a sculptor’s, dexterous and slim. This close to him, she smelled incense on his clothes, spiced like cinnamon and cloves. She wanted to wrap herself in that scent. Throat tight, she reached out for his hand. At first he tensed, but then his shoulders softened, and a smile teased his mouth. Their fingers knitted together, and she let the weight of her hand sink into his.
“Get your rest,” he murmured. At his words, her eyelids began to sink. “Once you are well, we have a great deal of work—”
A knock at the bedchamber door jolted them both. Katza tore her hand from his and gripped the edge of her sheets. Nadika cracked the door to exchange a few words with the guest.
Ravin slumped forward, elbows propped on knees, and sighed. Katza felt that sigh deep in her chest—in the sudden cold on her hand.
“We have much to do,” Ravin said.
“I’ll be ready.”
Nadika let the visitor inside. Fahed. Katza sank deeper into her pillows.
“Beloved!” Fahed strode into the bedchamber as if it were his own, clutching a vase of false flowers constructed of brightly colored paper. The intricate folds of each petal had been expertly crafted, somehow just as elegant, in their own way, as actual blooms. “Forgive me that I could not find real flowers on such short notice in this cold.”
Ravin stood up. His sash swung against his thighs as he bowed his head to Fahed, though at his great height, he looked almost like a vulture glowering down at its carrion feast. “Saints bless your path.” Ravin made the sign of the Saints’ Wheel to Katza, and then turned toward the door.
Katza’s heart sank as she watched him vanish into the palace beyond. She slumped against her nest of pillows before facing Fahed. “Thank you for the lovely flowers.”
“How I wish that I could bring them to you under better auspices.” Fahed tugged at the embroidered hem of his tunic. “I am afraid we have received grave news from one of your father’s agents in Hessaria. The new fleet, the one his spies were monitoring, has departed from the shipyards.”
It was to be a northern invasion, then. “Bound for the Pechalnoe Bay?”
“We aren’t certain yet,” Fahed said, “but it seems likely. However, we have unconfirmed reports from Abingdon and Texeira that Hessaria hasn’t exactly been getting along well with its western allies, either. They could be setting course west and south, along Abingdon’s and Texeira’s coasts. Or they might be bound our way. Possibly even both, depending how aggressive Kairus Hess is feeling.”
The gunfire from Katza’s vision ricocheted inside her skull. Had a war with Hessaria been what this newest vision was warning? “How long?” she asked. “Until we know where they are bound?”
“A few days, at the least.” Fahed frowned. “Your father has scouts stationed at the lighthouses and monasteries along the Pechalnoe Narrows that leads into the bay. If the Hessarian navy is bound for Petrovsk, they’ll have to pass through the Narrows, and they can’t much disguise themselves there.”
Katza nodded. From the Narrows, it was another few days by ship to Petrovsk. Not much in the way of warning, but it was the best they could hope for. Praise to Boj that her father had already recalled a number of his troops to the city.
“I’ve written to Bintar to see if they’ve observed any further troop movement along our shared borders. If you and your father wish it, then I might be able to encourage the emir to block them at the southern pass.”
Might? Katza raised her eyebrows; she thought Bintar’s aid was a given. Was that not the whole purpose of marrying Fahed? Why was he even telling her of the approaching Hessarians, if he wasn’t committing to aid them?
Not that they didn’t have matters to attend to already within Petrovsk. “What about the agitators? Have there been any more demonstrations?”
“Arrests here and there, but no riots or protests. The city is much quieter.” Fahed looked beyond her; he looked almost disappointed. “Your people are afraid, my love. Terrified of their tsar, when they should love him. I fear your father is making a grave mistake.”
“What, in punishing them for illegal dissent?” Katza’s face went hot; embarrassment drained the conviction from her voice. “They’re breaking the law.”
“They are hurting already, and feel they have no other way to let your father know.”
He had to be mistaken. The true poor, those genuinely suffering, were few—and she’d already resolved to do whatever she could to aid them. These agitators weren’t truly in danger. They were just looking for a fight.
“The threat of war from an unprovoked aggressor, however . . . that is another matter. One I think we can use.”
Fahed arched one eyebrow as realization dawned on Katza. He wanted her on his side. “How do you mean?”
“It can unite an otherwise fractured populace. They see themselves as Russalka, and the tsar as their savior. Perhaps if he were to focus solely on protecting Russalka, then the people would unite behind him.”
“It’s possible,” Katza said, though the uncertainty weighed on her. Fahed was playing her like a token on his checkmates board. Even if he meant well by it, it made her queasy to be just another person’s tool.
Fahed reached for her hand, grasping sharply. “Please, Katza. Convince him to put his faith in his people a
nd focus on the real threat here.” His teeth flashed in the gaslight. “There’s no need for this brutality.”
She tried to pull her hand back. “And what would you want to happen to Russalka? Let the people put up those awful posters, encourage them to refuse to work? We need the factories running to supply the troops, after all—”
“There are better ways to win the people’s hearts.” Fahed released her hand and sat down beside her, in the chair where Ravin had sat. Katza curled away from it. “He won’t listen to me, but he will listen to you. Perhaps you could—beseech him not to pursue this course. Ask him to call off his agents, let the people rest. If the Hessarians come for us, after all, we need to be prepared.”
“You wish me to ask him to stop the agents.” Anger sat in Katza’s stomach like a cold lump, draining away the warmth around it. She felt nothing, only a chill emptiness. “And why would I do that?”
“Because he listens to your counsel. At least—” Fahed chuckled to himself. “As much as he listens to anyone in this accursed palace.”
Katza narrowed her eyes. “Indeed he does. For it was my counsel that put those agents in the streets to begin with.”
Fahed reared back as if slapped. The hollow feeling turned to ice in Katza’s veins, and she caught herself smiling. Was he shocked that his love, his betrothed could do something he found so repulsive? Good. Let him sit with that shock. Let him find a reason to fear her. A sensation like Marya’s vengeance prickled in her veins. She deserved to be in control.
“No. Why would you do such a thing?” His brow furrowed. “My darling, it isn’t like you. You should be a creature of kindness, nurturing your subjects like a mother to all Russalka.” He laughed, dry and bitter. “It’s not as if your mother shows them any warmth.”
“Why should she? Why should any of us? Just because I am a woman, I should be like a doormat, for them to wipe all their dirt and hate?” Katza sat up now, invigorated. “No. I did it because it was what was needed for the good of Russalka, to silence these agitators, inventing problems where none exist. I had a vision telling me this was the way.”
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