Web of Frost

by Lindsay Smith

  Katza sat up at that. “I beg your pardon—by mistakes, you mean injuries? To the workers.”

  “Yes, of course. Chemical burns, exhaustion, and crushed limbs are the most common, but fires and other such large-scale accidents occur, too. We account for around a ten percent injury rate in our annual tally of commercial activity for Russalka. The factory owners build it into their expenses for the year.”

  Katza sank into her chair, stunned and more than a little embarrassed. She hadn’t known any of this. In truth, she’d always thought of the factories as magical boxes, where raw goods went in and finished products came out, and then the crown took a percentage while the factory owners—members of nobility—kept the rest. She hadn’t given one bit of thought to the labor that went into making it appear so.

  “Let’s . . . let’s send some food to the workers harmed in the fire,” Katza said slowly. “But we would still be wise to inspect the incident. Ensure it wasn’t an agitator act of sabotage.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” The Minister of Commerce sat down and wrote more notes to himself.

  “And then,” Katza said, “I want to discuss these conditions further—”

  But the city guard captain stood again. “I’m afraid you needn’t look far to find more of the agitators’ cruel work, Your Highness. Countess Militsa’s home was ransacked and looted while she was away visiting her sister in Glinka. It appears her house guards may have been bribed or otherwise coerced into letting the monsters inside. Fortunately an attentive neighbor rose the alarm, and we were able to arrest a handful of the looters, but they aren’t giving up any information to our inquisitors so far.”

  “Not a word?” Katza asked. “Nothing about their motive, or who prompted them to act?”

  The guard captain shook his head. “All they’ll say is that this is only the beginning. That the, ah, ‘royal pigs’ will get what they deserve.”

  Katza propped her head on one fist with a sigh. “Ask them if they know anything about Ulmarov. He must be stopped.”

  “You think we don’t know to ask that? They won’t answer—”

  Katza glared at him, a sudden spark catching inside of her. “I will personally oversee the interrogations.”

  The guard captain shrank back.

  Saint Raskriy, help me to draw their venomous thoughts from their skulls. Katza smiled bitterly. “They will talk. I assure you.”

  Katza’s anger subsided, and a nervous chatter rippled through the chamber. Or maybe they’d been whispering all along. The guard captain and Stolichkov exchanged glances, and Stolichkov busied himself staring at his agenda.

  “Moving along . . .” Stolichkov cleared his throat. “I believe Prince Fahed wished to bring some new information to the court’s attention.”

  “So I do.”

  Fahed rose from the bench behind Katza and stalked past her to the center of the chamber. Katza watched him, irritation burning hot within her. She did see the wisdom in Nadika’s words—there was nothing to be gained by calling off their engagement just yet. He was a kind and clever man, and his ties to Bintar offered many opportunities for Russsalka. But if Katza could find a way to ensure Bintar’s cooperation in a potential war against the Hess without marrying Fahed, she’d gladly take it.

  Fahed scanned the assembled courtiers with a flinty gaze. “Katarzyna. Members of the Golden Court. Allow me to present the secret police’s files, from villages in Tikhonovskiy province in northeastern Russalka all the way to our own Petrovsk, concerning the temnost prophet known as Ravin.”

  Katza’s stomach lurched. Gasps rose all around her as Fahed produced a thick folder of papers. Her father’s agents had been monitoring Ravin’s activities? Under whose authority? And for how long? Her anger stoked anew. It was none of the court’s business what Ravin’s past was, even if Katza was dying to know herself. If he wished her to know, he’d tell her. Fahed had no right to parade it this way.

  “Our tale begins in a tiny unnamed village in Tikhonovskiy province.” Fahed flipped the file open and began to leaf through the first pages. “A young boy matching Ravin’s description claimed he received visions from all of the saints—a heretical claim in and of itself—and amassed quite the following among the village’s simple folk. He claimed that he could subsume Boj’s power into himself and become something of a god, and he would teach his followers to do the same. He and his followers threatened the local order, and the priest there had him branded a heretic and thrown out.”

  Katza shook her head. They’d misunderstood him—if it was indeed Ravin. He wasn’t trying to dethrone Boj, merely draw some of Boj’s power for himself. To carry out Boj’s will unimpeded, just as she was trying to do. Even if he had a different way of phrasing it, of interpreting Boj’s being, it all worked out the same in the end. Didn’t it? “I’m afraid your sources must be confused,” Katza said.

  “And I’m afraid this mad prophet has clouded your judgment, Your Highness.” Fahed flipped through the pages. “There are no other records in Tikhonovskiy province, but then they found a series of letters four years later written by the Order of the Mouth of Boj sect here in the capital concerning a boy calling himself Ravin. The head of that order was communicating with the Office of the Patriarch, asking for guidance about a boy who was trying to supplant Boj.”

  “How can we trust letters between the patriarch’s office and that order?” Katza asked. “Patriarch Anton has threatened to excommunicate their whole group because of how they regard the saints.”

  “Well, it would appear Ravin went too far even for their liking. Said he was claiming all sorts of heresies—that there was no Boj, there were no saints, there was only a raw, untapped pool of power, and that he alone had unlocked the secret of drawing from it. The letters are rather difficult for me to decipher, but the end result is clear: Ravin was branded temnost. A shadow. A heretic.”

  Katza said nothing. An ugly word, temnost. A simple word for something so vast.

  Yet she had seen that pool of power for herself. Felt its currents rush through her veins. What was Boj, if not that power, crackling and alive? Whether the church would admit it or not, how could she turn away when she needed its aid?

  Fahed cocked his head to one side. “But you already knew this much, didn’t you, tsarika? You’ve known all about Ravin’s plans.”

  “Watch your tongue, prince,” Nadika snapped.

  All eyes went to the tsarika’s guard. Nadika’s mouth hung open, as if she’d surprised herself. But Katza drew strength from her boldness. “My guard is right. It is no business of yours, Prince Fahed of the Bintari Emirate, what transpires in the Golden Court. You are here by my good graces.”

  Stolichkov leapt to his feet, a sheen of sweat on his ashen face. “Now, Your Highness, while it is a privilege granted to the prince that he joins our Golden Court, you cannot deny that he brings great value to our discussions.”

  “But he is wrong about the prophet.” Katza scanned the assembled courtiers. “Ravin has been branded temnost, it is true. But it is because the patriarch binds our hands when Boj wills us to use them.”

  A few members of court murmured assent, but Fahed narrowed his eyes.

  “He has given us courage to do what we could not do before. What my father feared to do, though Aleksei, Boj guide his soul into heaven, argued for it. He has given me the strength to use my blessings to the fullest to save us all.”

  The secretary of the Office of the Patriarch, a round-bellied man with perpetually moist lips, peered down his nose at Katza. “He seeks to become a god, Your Highness. Like the gods who guide the Hessarians, in flagrant violation of Boj’s will. There is nothing innocent in that. And it has corrupted you, too. You grow too bold—and the crown is not even yet on your head.”

  “He is mad with power,” Fahed said, “and he wants you as his servant, so he can use your Silov blood to fuel his magic.” />
  Katza shook her head. Every ounce of her knew it for a lie. She saw the way Ravin treated her—he looked upon her as if she were the goddess. Like she was the first day of spring, melting the hoarfrost away.

  He gave her power. He gave her the means to rule. Everyone else in the Golden Court—Fahed, Stolichkov, the patriarch, and all her advisors—only sought to hinder her. Whatever he’d done in the past—daring to use his blessings to their fullest, from the sound of it—it was worth far more than their chains.

  “What Ravin does is valuable. Not a trifle, like the rare times my father used his blessings. His teachings have already allowed me to do great works for Russalka. And they will grant us greater blessings still.”

  “Your father wasted his blessings, and he paid the price for it, time and again.” The patriarch’s secretary stood. “If you insist on pursing this path with your temnost prophet, you’ll pay for it, too.”

  “Do you mean to deny me the crown?” Katza asked.

  The secretary wavered. “That isn’t what—”

  “But it’s what your office is considering, isn’t it?” Katza stepped toward him. “Patriarch Anton said as much. That he could petition Boj to block me from the saints’ blessings. You’re waiting for me to make a mistake, like my father’s errors in the Bastalep riots. And then you will take my crown. My family’s birthright.”

  “We do not wish to take it,” the secretary stammered. “But if you keep following the teachings of this temnost prophet, you may leave us with no choice.”

  A heavy silence hung in the court, oily and sinister. Katza looked to the faces of Count Grillov and Princess Badunova, who just the night before had proven so delighted by Ravin’s gifts. They, too, regarded her with an unsettled quiet that scraped like burlap against Katza’s skin. Katza turned toward Nadika, but her friend was stoic as ever, mouth set firmly as a line of defense.

  “Give me the files,” Katza said to Fahed, holding out her hand.

  Fahed’s grip on them tightened. “They are the property of the secret police, and if you will not heed their warnings—”

  “The secret police are mine to command, as are all of you. I will review them for myself.”

  Fahed exchanged a look with Stolichkov, who nodded. Katza snatched the folder from him and sat back down.

  “The prophet Ravin is my concern alone.” She looked at the patriarch’s secretary. “He’s instructed me in the saints’ ways far more than your office ever did.”

  “My tsarika—”

  “You will advise your patriarch that I wish for his temnost status to be revoked. But whether you revoke it or not, he will remain here. In the Golden Court.” She gripped the folder tightly; the electricity of her anger was crackling through her once more. “Russalka faces a great many challenges, and I must be prepared. The prophet has given me the power to face the agitators, the Hessarians, and more. When the rest of you can do the same, then perhaps you can question him.”

  The secretary worked his jaw, but finally sank back into his seat. Fahed returned to his perch with a tightness to his face.

  “Very well. Next order of business . . .” Stolichkov said, with the anxious cadence of a man who couldn’t bear a void. “The continuing grain shortages, yes?”

  But Katza had the distinct sense that the attack on Ravin was not over. In fact, she feared it had just begun.

  Tsar Nikilov II’s funeral was as private as such an event could be: only Katarzyna and a select few courtiers attended, though plenty of protesters gathered at the palace gates. Katza’s mother refused to attend, which Stolichkov assured Katza was for the best. Too many subjects were worried about her Hessarian blood, and feared her for an infiltrator. But it pained Katza when she glanced up at the palace windows on her way to the chapel through a delicate snowfall, and saw her mother’s wan face at the window.

  Ravin, too, was absent from the service, though Katza didn’t think this was for Stolichkov’s meddling. He had prayed with Katza that morning and run her through a few quick blessings before vanishing into the city to carry out some errands. And so Katza was left alone with Patriarch Anton, the strangers of the court, and her father’s coffin. Not even a whisper of the saints’ visions stirred in the cold church.

  Her coronation ceremony the following day was another matter entirely.

  Katza woke to find the entire palace awash in lilies and roses, shipped in at Boj only knew what expense, and red, blue, and white velvet bunting wrapped around every column and balustrade. Banners of the white wolf hung from the grand foyer, and every last servant and chambermaid wore a wolf’s head brooch on their uniform. Nadika greeted Katza in her full cavalry regalia, a nod to her previous post, her medals buffed until they nearly blinded Katza with their gleam.

  “Sveta says she’ll have to finish your preparations at the cathedral,” Nadika informed her. “I can only imagine what sort of elaborate ensemble she’s dreamed up for you this time.”

  Katza wondered about the fate of her wedding dress, and whether it still languished in Pushnikov’s shop. She half-hoped Vika had burned it down.

  They reached the cathedral to find a heavy barricade erected around its entrance and two entire batallions of footsoldiers holding back the mob. Sveta whisked Katza into the side chapel to wrangle her into her coronation gown. The dress’s skirt was a white span of silk and tulle, calling back to the fairytale from before the saints: white for Rus, the wolven guardian of Russalka’s land. A blue velvet bodice clung tight to Katza’s torso and gathered around her thighs over the white skirt: blue for the siren Salka, who cast herself into the sea so she could guard the kingdom’s watery gates. Last, she donned a red velvet sash, signifying the blood spilled between earth and sea to keep Russalka safe. Patriarch Anton would never tell that version of Russalka’s founding, but Katza took comfort in wearing her history so boldly.

  Finally, Sveta laid a collar of diamonds, rubies, and sapphires around her throat. Its weight tugged down at Katza’s shoulders, pulling her off balance, but she forced her shoulders back and tried to look worthy of its burden.

  “They hardly need the guards, do they?” Katza asked, as Sveta took her curls out from their heated iron rollers. “I imagine this necklace doubles effectively as armor plating.”

  Sveta delved into her kit of cosmetics. “Sounds like they’re detaining far more people than they’re permitting inside. Still, the cathedral is packed. Standing room only. I dare say you’ll have a better turnout than Balancheev’s last danse sacre performance.”

  “They’re detaining courtiers?” Katza was baffled.

  “Oh, no, I only meant of the common folk trying to get in. Can’t let just anyone inside to see you crowned, after all. They might be harboring revolutionary tendencies, looking to agitate, disrupt the proceedings . . .”

  “Oh. Yes, of course.” Katza had forgotten that commoners had been permitted to attend the coronations of tsars past. It made a certain sense—it was they who the tsars were meant to serve over all else. But the thought did make her nervous. Someone could fit a crude explosive to one of the cathedral pillars, as they had on the bridge outside. It was safer this way.

  Sveta finished sweeping rouge onto Katza’s cheeks and added a touch of powdered gold against her eyelids, then stood back to admire her work. “You look divine, Your Highness. A resplendent tsarika.” Sveta smiled sadly. “Your father would be proud.”

  Katza stared at her reflection in the dressing mirror Sveta had brought. She scarcely recognized herself. She looked leaner, stronger than she had before, though she couldn’t say what had changed. Her blue eyes were darker than usual, and there was a firmness in her jaw where once it had been soft. Her mouth twisted downward. Confident. Sharp.

  Then she spotted a figure through the mirror, entering the chapel behind her, and all the softness and youth came rushing back to her features as her heart stuttered. Ravin.


  Sveta cleared her throat and bowed hastily, backing away. “I’ll give you a moment to collect yourself,” Sveta said. “This organ concerto still has at least three more movements before the processional begins, I think.”

  Katza smiled at Ravin through the mirror as Sveta slipped out. Suddenly they were alone in the chapel, candles guttering around them as the organ in the cathedral beyond drowned out all sound. The stillness between them felt thin as gold leaf. Katza yearned to breach it, to pull his warmth toward hers. With partly lidded eyes, Ravin reached for her hand, and Katza linked her fingers in his.

  But as she did so, Fahed’s words came rushing back to her. Temnost. The word lodged in her throat like a piece of gristle. Her smile faltered, and her hand fell from his.

  “What troubles you, my blessed sun?”

  Katza squeezed her eyes shut. She wasn’t sure she wished to tell him. But she should be able to speak honestly with him—if no one else, then with him, this man who set her heart cantering and filled her with a deep sense of yearning, of confidence.

  “They were telling stories about you at the Golden Court,” she said. “Of your past. Of how you came to be . . . temnost.”

  Ravin pressed his lips together and looked down. “Ah.”

  “I—I don’t know if it’s true,” she rushed to say. She needed him to look at her again, push away her doubts. “It’s just what they claimed. They don’t appreciate me consulting with you.”

  “What do you believe in your heart, my tsarika?” He moved to stand before her now, dark eyes piercing hers. There was darkness in his gaze, yes. Yet she saw something else now that she hadn’t before. A hunger. Was it the same hunger she felt? He was a survivor—that much was clear. But his path had been a far harder one than hers. She shouldn’t begrudge him for doing what he must to survive.