Web of Frost

by Lindsay Smith

  The submersible’s hull split open like overripe fruit. An air bubble surrounded the space where the metal had been moments before, then collapsed in on itself, then swelled again, oscillating, shockwaves pelting the Firebird’s hull as the air sought its desperate escape. And on the air bubble’s tail, Katza heard the Hessarians’ screams. Felt the crush of water and air, alternating, pummeling their bodies.

  This was vengeance—for the Hessarians who would not take her father’s warning to heart. For the foolish peasants who did not think she had the courage to rule, to serve. For Patriarch Anton chiding her to cast her blessings aside and obey his restrictions.

  For Boj . . . or whatever saint or fate or otherworldly power had warned Katza that she could only harm Russalka: she would prove them wrong.

  She would stop the invasion and save her people.

  The air bubble breached the surface and shot water and metal and bodies and unspent mortars heavenward.

  Once more Katza and Ravin were tossed back onto the bridge, hands tearing apart. Cheers filled the air on the Firebird’s bow. Katza tried to stand, but she was stunned, she was drained—she was so heavy. She padded, futile, against the metal floor beneath her as if searching for something whose purpose she couldn’t recall.

  “My tsarika?” Nadika was standing over her, one gloved hand extended as she braced herself on the railing with the other. “My tsarika, are you all right?”

  Katza clutched her hand. “Yes—I’m sorry—I’ve just never—”

  “Explosion on the Lebedok!” shouted one of the lookouts. “They’ve been hit!”

  “There are more of them.” Katza swallowed. In her mind, she still felt the water rippling, tugging back and forth with the pull of currents, and she could sense the dark objects lurking within its depths. “I can feel them in the water.”

  Ravin smiled darkly. He looked, Katza thought, invigorated—as though he were enjoying this.

  No. As if he lived for this.

  Ravin reached once more for Katza’s hand. “Then we must kill them all.”

  Katza was trembling. The power was escaping her, leaving her cold and clammy and spent. How many men had they killed aboard the first submersible? A dozen? But they were Hessarians, she told herself—they deserved to die. It had been Boj’s will.

  No. It had been her will—like Ravin taught her. That power belonged to her now. It had been there, hers for the taking, all along. To do what had to be done.

  She linked her fingers in Ravin’s. “We can’t stop until they’re dead.”

  He laughed, throaty and dark with shadows.

  Katza reached out with the currents to tangle her ocean fingers around the submersibles once more. Power flooded her, searing her fingertips and nostrils like a pungent spice, raising the hairs on her arms and curling her toes deep in her boots. Unstoppable—she felt it again. She was without limits, and no saint or Boj or patriarch or navy could contain her.

  The next submersible popped open with a groan of metal. Katza gasped as it sprayed air high above the water’s surface; she felt its impact deep within her, rumbling through her and Ravin both. Then Ravin squeezed the next, strangling the metal as though it were made of paper.

  But even as they crushed the last of the submersibles, the dark shapes of the Hessarian cruisers’ prows steamed toward them. They were now in firing range, and none of the Russalkan fleet would be safe.

  “We have to take out their gunners,” Ravin shouted. A mortar burst overhead, narrowly missing the rapidly-tilting Firebird’s bridge.

  Smoke coiled around them as they scrambled to stay aright on the bridge. Sailors ran past them in all directions, looking to seal off bulkheads or try to quench fires. “We need to evacuate,” Nadika cried. “She’s going to capsize any moment.”

  To their right, a mortar struck the hull of the Russalkan Borodin cruiser and a pillar of black, oily smoke rose from its side. Katza choked back a cry. How many of her sailors had been caught up in the blast?

  “This way.” Admiral Akuliy barked orders to his captain, then scrambled up the tilted bridge. “We must get to the lifeboats.”

  Katza couldn’t let any more of her sailors perish in such an awful death. “Give me a moment!” she cried. “I can stop the gunners!”

  A steel beam groaned and swung past the bridge, narrowly avoiding them. The Firebird was collapsing all around them. “We don’t have a moment!” Nadika called.

  Ravin pressed his lips together. “I’ll carry you to the lifeboat. You stop the gunners.”

  Katza was too tired—all could manage was a nod, and a quick prayer to any saint who was listening that she might find strength to carry on.

  Ravin bent down, slid an arm behind Katza’s knees, and hoisted her into the air. She looped her arm around his shoulders, distracted by his nearness, by the dark lock of hair that fell across his brow. If they survived, she would kiss him—again and again. She wouldn’t care who saw.

  But they had to survive, first.

  With Saint Orlov’s sight, she soared back toward the lead Hessarian cruiser. In the frontmost gun, a soldier adjusted the muzzle’s angle while his fellows loaded another mortar into the giant tube. Saint Marya, grant me your vengeance. Katza reached out as if with a fist and clamped her fingers around the gunner’s throat. As she had with the crowd outside her father’s chamber, she felt his consciousness flash before her, but this time, she would snuff it out for good. She smothered that spark, watched it flash and flare—

  Until the gunner, throat crushed, lay dead on the cruiser’s deck.

  The sailor who’d been arming the gun began to scream, but Marya’s Vengeance knew no bounds. Katza seized him and incinerated him. A flash of white and then he was nothing but a blackened char, disintegrating atop his fellow sailor. She blazed down the ship’s decks, a righteous streak of flame, swirling and swirling until she was a vortex of fire, reaching up to the heavens.

  She couldn’t understand the Hessarian shouts surrounding her, but it was much too late for them. The fire burned straight to the ship’s boilers. It paused for one moment, a held breath, and then exhaled in a mighty rush of red.

  “Boj in heaven,” someone—Admiral Akuliy?—said.

  Katza jolted into herself with another pang of exhaustion. Her vision was swimming now, and black spots called to her, begged her to sleep.

  “Almost safe,” Ravin whispered. His hand, clamped around her back and arm, traced a soft line against her shoulder. “You are working miracles, blessed sun.”

  Katza’s eyelids fluttered shut. “I am so tired . . .”

  “And your work is almost done.” He smiled. “But there are still Hessarians alive. And as long as they are alive, they will fight.”

  Katza drew a shaky breath as he lowered them into the lifeboat beside Nadika. Admiral Akuliy set the gears free on the lowering mechanism—the last to leave the Firebird alive—and then leapt in with them.

  Katza raised her head from Ravin’s chest to scan the wreckage surrounding them. The Firebird was nearly on its side now, and from the gaping holes revealed along its hull, she had no doubt as to why. Torn bits of metal and wood floated in the water alongside them, as well as men—dead and alive. “Please!” one sailor cried, flagging their lifeboat down. “Please, let us aboard!”

  “We’ll drown!” another called. “Or freeze!”

  “I—I could save them,” Katza murmured. She tried to raise her arm, but it fell back down, impossibly heavy. “Grant them warmth and breath to make it to the harbor.”

  Ravin shook his head. “No. My blessed sun—you must stop the remaining Hess.”

  Katza choked back a sob. “I don’t have the strength to do both.”

  And in the weary lines around his face, she could see that he didn’t have any strength left for either. “Your Highness. The Hessarians cannot go unpunished.” A weary shado
w passed over his face.

  Katza closed her eyes. There was only one choice for her.

  Saint Lechka. She trembled as she thought it; darkness reached for her with too-inviting arms. Spare these sailors. These valiant men who fought for Russalka, who’d gladly give their lives. Spare them so they might fight another day.

  Katza shuddered. For I fear there are many such days ahead.

  Golden light trickled from their lifeboat and wove its way across the water. Brushing against each sailor in turn, the strands of gold tangled around the sailors’ limbs; suffused them with warmth, mended their minor wounds. Katza closed her eyes, unable to watch any longer as exhaustion claimed her. But Saint Lechka had answered her—and her alone.

  And she’d defied her prophet’s word.

  Thank you, Katza whispered into the dark. Thank you, Lechka.

  The last image Katza saw before she faded was a white wolf spread in the snow, and her hands stained with blood.

  Katza awoke on the docks, surrounded by palace guards and a contingent of the royal army. Her lungs burned with salt and exhaustion and her head felt stuffed with wool. Snow was falling all around her, smattering her cheeks as she blinked away her weariness. She sat up, joints throbbing, from the wooden boards where she’d been sprawled and glanced at the dozens of faces crowded around her.

  Nadika and Ravin stood directly in front of her, smiling down as if she’d parted the seas.

  “You did it, Your Highness.” Nadika motioned to the harbor behind them. “The Hessarian fleet is in retreat.”

  Ravin helped her to her feet, his dark eyes glittering. Snowflakes danced around them as Katza’s body brushed against his. “You were resplendent. The very embodiment of power.”

  “All right, clear the way, clear the way, give the tsarika some room!” Nadika shouted to the soldiers crowded on the docks.

  But Katza barely noticed them. All she saw was her prophet dressed in black, his sharp gaze softened, too, with weariness. He’d drawn from the same power source as she, and together, they’d worked miracles. Even without Silov blood, he’d been able to access Boj’s will directly and shape it as his own. The power was theirs to command and shape as they pleased.

  If there truly were no limits placed on them—if the patriarch was wrong—then they really were unstoppable.

  Katza looked at him a moment longer, yearning to kiss him as she had in the side chapel. His hands tracing the curve of her waist, his fiery mouth drawing her in . . . He’d taste of glory, she, thought—of possibility. And Katza tasted that possibility, too. She was the tsarika; she was as powerful as Boj in heaven. She’d defied the Hessarians and saved Russalka.

  But she could not do it yet. Not before her advisers and soldiers. There were other matters to attend to first.

  Such as her vision. Despite all she’d done, it had returned. Katza shuddered and pulled back.

  “Katza.” Ravin’s eyebrows twisted with concern. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. It’s just—” She hesitated. “I’m exhausted, that’s all.”

  She’d tell him about it; she swore to herself she would. But now was not the time. Now, she needed a hot bath and a long sleep. She needed this fuzziness within her to subside. She couldn’t think straight with Ravin around, and the scooped-out ache of exhaustion wasn’t helping matters. Tomorrow, there would be time.

  For tonight, at least, they were safe from the Hessarians. Tonight, she deserved to rest.

  She stumbled back toward the palace, flanked on both sides by cheering sailors, soldiers, and guards. Nadika and Ravin stayed at her back to help her keep upright. Snow fell soft as fleece on the cobblestones, backlit by the gas lamps that lined the palace yards. Russalka was safe for now. She’d staved her vision’s warning off for one more day.

  The Golden Court greeted Tsarika Katarzyna I with a thundering round of applause when she arrived for the next day’s proceedings. Even Fahed, Stolichkov, and the dour-faced secretary of Patriarch Anton stood, clapping in rhythm with the courtiers and ministers and guard captains as Katza strode down the aisle in an uncorseted gown of warm velvet and took her seat at the court’s head. She smiled, beatific, and allowed herself to savor their applause for a few moments. For now, let them love her. She was sure they’d find reasons to despise her again soon enough.

  Katza raised one hand, and the applause tapered off. “Please. Be seated.” Her smile dimmed. “We have much to discuss.”

  Several ministers cleared their throats, each eager to give their reports, but Katza turned first to the Minister of War. “Minister Shigulin. We know the group we fought was not the whole of the fleet launched from Hessaria ten days past.”

  “No, Your Highness. Another battle group of at least the same size as the one you encountered still waits at the mouth of the Pechalnoe Bay.”

  “What are they waiting for?” Katza asked. “Might they have more submersibles that our scouts cannot spot?”

  Minister Shigulin pursed his lips. “There are a number of possibilities, I fear. They might have been using the first battle group as a trial for the submersibles, to see how their surprise tactics would perform. They might have sent the first battle group in to soften our defenses for a larger impending attack. Or it all might have been a feint to distract us from a possible strike elsewhere.”

  Katza’s head spun. “Elsewhere? What do you mean?”

  “Well . . . the Hessarians have a formidable navy, it’s true, but their army is no trifle, either.”

  Fahed rose from his seat at Katza’s side. Her teeth clicked together; she’d managed to trick herself into forgetting he was there. “I received word from the emirate yesterday, Your Highness. We have seen increased movement along our shared border with Hessaria. If you wish it, then perhaps I could persuade the emir to mobilize the Bintari army to block the pass. I believe Bintar is well-equipped to resist any Hessarian army invasion.”

  “The Hessarians would be mad to launch a ground invasion now, at winter’s onset,” Minister Shigulin said, “but given their recent antics we must consider the possibility.”

  Katza rubbed at her temples as Fahed returned to his seat. “So Bintar will help us repel a possible Hessarian invasion?”

  Fahed studied her carefully, his lips in a twisted moue. “If I can demonstrate to the emir that it is worthwhile, then I think he can be persuaded.”

  A chill ran through Katza. She didn’t like the implication—that they would have to give something to Bintar in return. Her marriage to Fahed was the most obvious choice, of course, but there were plenty other things they could demand. None of which Russalka could currently afford.

  “We can discuss that later, then,” Katza said. “Beloved.”

  Fahed smiled bitterly and returned to his seat.

  When he didn’t press the matter, Katza calmed her breath and turned back to the court. “How did our spies know nothing of these submersibles the Hessarians created?”

  Stolichkov stood, pale-faced. “I manage your correspondence with our foreign spies, Your Highness. They have faced a great number of trials infiltrating the Hessarian empire of late. The Hessarians have grown very clever at rooting them out, and have devised a number of tactics to catch our agents. It’s a difficult climate. Hessaria even has dedicated an entire ministry to conducting their espionage and secret police work.”

  “Have they now?” Katza asked. “Meanwhile, we have a handful of informants abroad and a fledging contingent of secret agents amongst our citizenry.”

  The chief of police bobbed his head. “That’s about the sum of it.”

  “Why?” Katza asked. “Why, when our greatest adversary has dedicated an entire ministry to the task? I want a ministry, too. I want an entire secret police force listening to the agitators. I want a squadron of spies covering Hessaria, Abingdon, and Texeira like a bloody fisherman’s net.” Katza’s blood
heated, Marya’s fire building in her chest. “I’m tired of Russalka being behind! I’m tired of being last to know. Last to know is how a bomb detonates in my father’s path. It’s how a pack of submersibles nearly sinks our entire navy!”

  Stolichkov picked up his pen with a trembling hand. He was sallow-faced, Katza noticed, as if their victory had done nothing to help him sleep the previous night. “I’m not certain we have the funds, Your Highness—”

  “I will worry about that later.”

  Stolichkov nodded and began writing notes. “Then it shall be done.”

  “And these submersibles—I want them for our navy, too. Imagine, we could use them to lurk in the Narrows, or even off the coast of Hessaria—an early means of warning us of Hessarian approach.”

  “They would be quite the boon, Your Highness,” Minister Shigulin said.

  “It’s no wonder no one wishes to buy Russalkan goods any longer. The Hess are the masters of engineering and design, now. We need to improve our work to keep up.” She pointed toward the Minister of Labor. “Make it so, Lavrova.”

  Minister Lavrova winced, baring her teeth. “Your Highness, I fear we can’t absorb such an expense. And even if we could, our laborers and scientists are woefully underskilled.”

  “And why is that?” Katza asked. “Find a way to train them. Isn’t that what our universities are for, or do they excel at nothing except giving safe harbor to the agitators?”

  Minister Lavrova shook her head. “It is not so easy as all that to instill a new educational program. And our workers face many dangers—”

  Marya’s fire was alive in Katza. She wanted to reach out and shake her ministers—shake her whole populace. Why were they such fools? They were oxen yoked together, yet they insisted on pulling in every possible direction, trying to rip the cart of Russalka apart. She needed some way to make them obey. To force them to feel the urgency she felt—the great need she had for Russalka to succeed.

  “Why?” Katza asked. “Why are we so shattered? Why does it feel like Russalka is beyond repair?”