Web of Frost

by Lindsay Smith

  At last, the woman’s veneer of calm began to crack. “I will bargain with you. Perhaps we can help one another out.”

  “Why should I need your help?” Katza asked. Fahed’s words echoed in her head, but so too did her own fears. She was better off following the course she knew was right, and letting the people see for themselves that it was the best way.

  “If you will appoint me a seat on the court, then I can—I’ll give you names.”

  “You will give them to me regardless.” Katza stood. “I will see to that.”

  Ulmarova swallowed. “I can warn you of the more radical elements in the movement, ones even I cannot control. Ones gifted by the saints. Ones who—ones who conspired against your father. Please—your people need a voice, they need an outlet. This is slavery. This is not Boj’s will.”

  “Boj’s will does not matter in the Russalkan court,” Katza said. “Only mine.”

  “They listen to me, you know.” Ulmarova narrowed her eyes. “They will do as I tell them. If I tell them of a kind and generous tsarika who is willing to try a new approach, then they will be placated, at least for a time.”

  “You incited them to my father’s death. You have not even given me a chance to prove myself. How could I trust you?”

  “Because I understand you far better than your nervous secretary or Bintari prince or Mozgai guard or pet prophet ever will.” Ulmarova bared a nasty grin. “I know what you fear most.”

  Katza’s blood went cold.

  “Change comes whether we are ready for it or not,” Ulmarova said. “You can join with me and direct that change, or you can be swept up in its tide.”

  She couldn’t know of Katza’s vision. No—Ulmarova was guessing wildly, guessing that she feared what every ruler feared: not ruling well. Katza lifted her chin. “I am the tide. And you and everyone who follows you will be swept away.”

  She turned away from Ulmarova and met Nadika’s gaze. This was her duty to Russalka. And if she was to protect Russalka, she could not permit even one fox to have her ear, no matter how well they played at being a hen.

  “Take her to the cells. Do whatever you need to find out what she knows,” Katza said. “And if she won’t speak, then I will rip the truth from her myself.”

  Ravin escorted Katza back to her rooms, and in the corridor, he took her hand. “I have a thought,” he said, “though you may not like it.”

  Katza raised one eyebrow. “And why is that?”

  “Ulmarova mentioned other prophets who have joined her cause, yet the office of the patriarch has said nothing of the sort.” His expression darkened. “I may be able to use my contacts to root them out.”

  “You think they will trust you, as a temnost?”

  “If they are part of the orders that I suspect they are, that’s the least of their concern.” He pressed his lips into a thin line. “I’ll go now, before word can spread of Ulmarova’s arrest.”

  “But one of the victory celebrations is tonight—you deserve to be at my side for those. It was as much your victory as it was mine.”

  Ravin smiled sadly and ran his fingers down her cheek. “You saw for yourself how your court views me, my blessed sun. They fear what they do not understand, and in their fear, they find a monster.”

  Katza turned her head to the side, so her lips grazed his fingertips. She wanted to kiss him, but Nadika was just out of earshot, and Fahed was sure to return from court any moment. “I will see you tonight, when you return?” she whispered. “After . . . ?”

  “If it is not too late and we are not both exhausted.” Ravin’s fingers tensed. Was it from the same hunger she felt burning inside? Katza prayed that it was.

  Katza let out her breath. “I look forward to it, prophet.”

  His fingers trailed away. “As do I.”

  Katza turned from him with a pang in her heart. She didn’t want to have to leave him behind. She never wanted to be apart from him. The way he cleared her head, assuaged her fears and doubts . . . And then his touch, his piercing gaze. He stripped away her armor and made her believe she was powerful beneath it, not a frightened girl.

  Ulmarova thought she could be bargained with because she was a weak little girl. But Katza was so much more, now. She would never be pushed around again.

  Once Sveta had finished dressing her and styling her hair to sit on the dais for the parade, she summoned the Bintari prince to her rooms.

  “You look ravishing as ever, my beloved.” Fahed strutted around Katza’s parlor as if it were his own. He, too, was dressed in his finest—a fur-trimmed tunic of orange silk spangled with gold and sparkling gems, and straight-legged trousers to match. Rather than his usual slippers, though, he had relented to Russalka’s wintry grasp and donned leather boots.

  He looked . . . polished. As if he were putting himself on display.

  “What are you doing?” Katza asked.

  “I’m accompanying you to your victory celebrations, of course.” He smiled wryly. “I am to be your husband very soon, after all.”

  Katza stilled. She’d been mulling over what she wished to say, turning it over and over in her head like a piece of clay taking shape. But now her words had fled her. Saint Agniesz, forgive me. But it is better for Russalka this way.

  “Fahed . . . I have something I wish to say.”

  Fahed’s assured pacing ceased, and he went very still.

  “I know our families made this—arrangement for us, and I am grateful, but—but I am free to choose for myself now, and you said perhaps we could come to a different sort of agreement, and I—”

  Fahed’s laughter cut her off. It was a dark, vicious thing; taloned. “Ah, yes. I see what has happened.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You think this is about marriage; about sealing our alliance in blood.” Fahed swept his hand through the air. “No. It is about you showing respect to the Bintari Emirate. And ever since I came here, you have done everything but.”

  Katza’s nostrils flared as she bit back a sharp retort. “You chose to argue with my father at every court session.”

  “Because I’ve been trying to save you. Your whole nation, as it falters. Do you not see? Bintar wants a strong Russalka, too, so we can protect one another from the Hess. The emir thought marriage would seal that alliance, but he did not understand how little Russalka had to offer. All I want is to aid you in pushing Russalka in the direction that’s needed to save her.”

  “What do you know,” Katza said, “of Russalka’s needs?”

  “I know that whatever it is you do is failing. But if you would listen to me—”

  “All you have are your words. Your pretty words and your pretty clothing and your pretty tales of your enlightened life on the Jeweled Sea.” Katza squeezed the edge of her vanity. “You tried to convince me I was not fit to rule. You tried to discredit the only man who actually wants me to succeed, it seems. I think you wish less for an alliance, than to tame Russalka for yourself.”

  “Careful, tsarika. Those are dangerous words.” Fahed narrowed his eyes. “You still need Bintar’s protection if the Hessarians are coming from the south.”

  “I can hold them off.” She was glowing inside, an ember ready to catch flame. “Just as I did in the bay.”

  Fahed took a step back from her, eyes widened. “Tsarika—”

  Katza slowed her breathing. When had she raised her hands, let them crackle with Molniya’s lightning? What had she meant to do? Slowly, she let her temper subside. And as she did so, Fahed’s face hardened.

  “You’ve already seen how Russalka fared in the Five Days’ War. Do you really wish to find out if Russalka can survive without the protection of Bintar?”

  Katza felt herself unspooling, suddenly weary. No. She needed Bintar to hold off the Hessarians, or at least greatly deplete their forces if they intended to push on to
Russalka. Even she had limits. Slowly, Katza shook her head.

  “Then I will make you an agreement,” Fahed said. “Tonight—for these parades and celebrations—you are my betrothed still. We’ll attend the parades together, the danse sacre in your honor, the victory ball. All this prodigious waste of funds your doomed little nation cannot spare.” He grimaced. “Then tomorrow, if you still wish it, you can tell your people why they will no longer be granted protection by Bintar.”

  Katza winced. There had to be something else she could offer Bintar. Fahed wanted a part in ruling Russalka. If she gave him a title, a permanent seat in the court, maybe some factories and a tract of land . . .

  “You and your vulgar little prophet will be free to flaunt all modesty and common sense,” Fahed continued, his tone turned bitter. Katza’s face flushed at his words. “If after tonight you still wish me gone? Then you two can burn Russalka to the ground, for all I care. I won’t be around to stop you.”

  “So be it. I agree.” There had to be something else she could think of. At least he’d given her some time. He was right, she feared—she couldn’t afford to wait until the Hess were at the southern gates to find out if she was powerful enough to hold them back.

  Fahed offered her his arm. “Then let’s not keep our public waiting, tsarika.”

  First came the Mozgai cavalry, performing their maneuvers atop horses dressed in velvet and gold. The riders leapt and flipped and ran across the horses’ backs; their steeds wove in and out in patterned formations. As applause rang out across the palace square, Katza turned to Nadika. “Did you ever do anything such as that?”

  Nadika shook her head. “None of that helps in the heat of battle, Your Highness.”

  “Oh. I suppose it would not.”

  “But,” Nadika allowed, “anyone who can accomplish acrobatics like that is likely a talented fighter, too. And they have a close bond with their horse.”

  “I should like to see Mozgai one day,” Katza said. “I’ve heard the old capital is a very proud city, a splendor on the lake.”

  “It is not what it once was, Your Highness. But the Mozgai owe Russalka their lives.”

  Something in her expression, though, warned Katza she was none too keen to go back.

  Next in the parade were the Bintari tumblers, who drew enthusiastic cheers all around, but from none so fierce as Fahed. Katza smiled politely at him—they were quite skilled—but shame nestled heavy in her belly. She didn’t wish to find out if she could hold off Hessaria without Bintar’s aid.

  Her attention wandered as the parade dragged on, and her thoughts circled around Ulmarova and her failed attempt to force Katza’s hand. How could she have thought Katza would be so easily swayed? There had to be some subtler advantage she’d sought in coming forth to the tsarika, but Katza couldn’t find it. It itched at her. She couldn’t be so foolish as to think that there’d been nothing there.

  Somewhere around the Second Army’s rifle demonstration, a commotion arose from part of the crowd. Katza turned her gaze to spy a cluster of university students shouting and climbing over one another, something clutched in their grasp. City guards broke away from their line to move toward the commotion, but there were too many people to wade through. Katza rose to her feet. If it was an explosive, or some other sort of device—

  Raw power poured through Katza and she reached out. Grasped for the device. Ice to freeze it, like Morozov, but without needing to call to him. She was limitless, unfiltered. If she needed Morozov’s blessing, she would take it. Frost crackled and surrounded the thing the students clutched in stiffening hands. Fire, a ball of fire, beginning to spread—

  Katza froze it where it stood.

  “What is that—” Fahed started. Ripples and cries spread across the square, though the thundering artillery demonstration did its best to drown them out. The other courtiers on the dais close to them had turned toward her, eyes wide.

  “Wait.” Katza called on Orlov’s eagle’s sight to gain a better view. But as best as she could tell, there was no explosive device.

  All she saw was pure flame, encased in her ice, which was melting by the second.

  A rogue prophet had worked a blessing to use against her.

  “Get back! Get the people back!” She reached out and called on Ichischa’s power. To cleanse and purify—to erase another blessing wrought with the same power. Instinct was guiding her now; the power needed no taming. It knew what to do even better than she knew herself.

  A column of hot white light poured down onto the suspended explosion, and in a flash, the ice, the fire, the whole construction was gone.

  Katza’s heart skipped. Ulmarova hadn’t just been bluffing. The rogue prophets were real.

  Chaos erupted in the crowd, echoed sharply by the courtiers around Katza. “What was it?” “Is it a bomb?”

  Nadika reached for Katza’s arm. “My tsarika, let’s get you indoors—”

  “No.” Katza’s mouth was dry; she seemed to speak from outside of herself. “Please, silence, everyone. It’s over now.”

  The crowd roiled with unrest as the music played on, oblivious. Everyone on the dais seemed poised to bolt, but they watched Katza expectantly. Stolichkov’s eyes rolled like a spooked horse. There were only two ways, Katza thought, that this could go. She could flee, a coward, afraid of her own people even after the threat had been swiftly dispatched—

  Or she could cary on.

  “My tsarika.” Nadika stood at attention. “If this was an attempt on your life—”

  Katza shook her head and pressed a hand to her heaving ribs. No weakness. She could show no weakness. The explosion was contained; she had to carry on.

  “Find out if Ravin has returned from his outing,” she said instead. “I need to know what he’s learned.”

  Nadika nodded, reluctant, but turned to the nearest attendant. Fahed arched one eyebrow. “What exactly was that, Your Highness?” His tone was dipped in venom, but Katza cared not.

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle on my own.”

  That evening’s danse sacre was a newly redesigned production of Marya the Wrathful, mounted on the glittering stage of the Velikov Theatre. Dozens of courtiers and lesser nobles rushed forward to greet Katza and congratulate her on her astonishing victory in the bay. But it felt like the battle had been a lifetime ago. The world was shifting all around her, and she couldn’t find her way.

  Their fleet of guards ushered Katza and Fahed to the royal box, high above the common crowd. Just before the overture started, an attendant rushed up to Nadika; Nadika nodded and sent them away. Katza twisted in her seat, anxious for word of Ravin.

  “I’m afraid he still has not returned to the palace, Your Highness.”

  Katza squeezed a fist. Before Ulmarova mentioned it, she’d never even considered the possibility of prophets leaving the church and joining the agitators’ cause. And if they were able to be blessed by the saints, if they were able to act against Katza to carry out Boj’s will—

  No. It was too terrible to think. And Ravin had claimed it all a lie anyway—that there was no will but the prophet’s own. He had to be right. Katza had seen it for herself, defying all the teachings but harnessing the power nonetheless.

  If only that explained why her vision persisted.

  The first act began with a frantic clatter of bells and a waterfall of strings. Marya the Wrathful was a story from before the church had solidified its rule, before the Mozgai joined Russalka, when the tsars were very new and had to fight tooth and nail to hold onto their thrones. A far less civilized time, Katza thought, than her own, but in Marya’s struggles on the stage, she felt a sharp discomfort at how closely their stories ran.

  The danse sacre was performed to the sharp chords of the brass instruments and the brutal pounding of the dancers’ feet. Katza felt the violence like a blow to the gut. Marya twisted and turned fr
om her attackers in the court and suffered under their envy and lust. She was less a tsarika than a sacrifice.

  By the time the first act reached its climax, and Marya was beaten and left for dead, Katza had forgotten her earlier terror. Her heart ached with Marya’s, with every thrust of the scheming courtiers’ knives. How could Boj abandon Marya in her time of need? How could her people turn on her so? She was learned, ambitious, eager to lead Russalka out of the darkness of ignorance and into an enlightened age. But the courtiers detested change. People always detested change.

  Marya arose, battered but unbroken, and swore an oath of vengeance.

  As soon as the applause faded, Fahed turned to Katza and excused himself from the box. Stolichkov, seated behind Katza, tapped on her shoulder.

  “Do you wish to greet your public?” he asked. “A champagne toast on the galleria, perhaps?”

  Katza shook her head. Maybe it was the danse sacre, maybe the attempted attack on the parade—but she was feeling a little too vulnerable for that.

  Stolichkov excused himself then, too, and left to greet the courtiers in her place. Katza rubbed her hands together, too preoccupied with thoughts of how to placate Bintar and whether Ravin had succeeded in his search.

  Her mind turned back to something Ravin had said to her before the coronation—that when she was strong enough, they could work together to fully unseal the well of power. It sounded frightfully dangerous. But he knew plenty about the power that Katza didn’t. She hadn’t known the church had limited it, but it explained a great deal of their behavior now. Their wish to keep the tsars from working anything too strong.

  Fahed returned to his seat and managed a curt smile at Katza. “Are you enjoying the danse, Your Highness?”

  “It’s rather grim for a celebratory event, don’t you think?”