Prisoner of Ice and Snow

by Ruth Lauren

  My hands fumble for the ladder propped against the side of the bakery—my route to the street. I don’t feel it. My chest is heaving. I stretch farther around the gutter, moving my hands fast over the whole area. In desperation, I lie full-length on my stomach, bitter cold seeping through into my body, and reach as far as I can. It’s gone. A panicked noise comes out of me before I can stop it.

  A member of the Guard shouts behind me. I push to my feet. Another guard appears behind the first, and then I see the line of them, all following, all armed with swords, crossbows, or ceremonial daggers that are more than just decorative. My whole body tenses as I scan around me—the advancing guards, the drop to the cold, hard ground behind me.

  I step forward and crouch into a full slide down the sloping roof of the bakery. It’s only as I pick up speed, careering toward the edge, that I think what a horribly bad idea this was. How did I ever think I could pull this off?

  A bolt flies past my neck, and as I fall off the edge of the building, a tiny section of my braid puffs into the air, each dark strand of hair falling around me as time slows down. The bolt falls with me, spinning end over end. A royal-issue bolt identical to the one now embedded in the ice of the fountain.

  My body hits the awning, knocking the breath out of me. I bounce, roll, land on the street, and run. Bolts follow me across the empty square, some clattering on the cobbles, some hitting the deserted market stalls ahead of me. I flinch away from the whistling sounds and run headlong into the marketplace, upending a cart of potatoes, disappearing into the narrow, twisting pathways between the clutter of carts and stalls.

  My legs burn, but I am silent as the hunter I could have been, and the guardsmen are loud with their heavy swords and boots. As I tear past a fruit cart, my sash snags on a nail, ripping the material. I grab the cloth and yank it free.

  A hand shoots out from under the canvas draped around the cart and grabs my leg. I stifle a cry so it comes out as a rush of breath. “Under here,” hisses a voice, and the hand beckons. I shake my foot, but the fingers cling to my boot. “Get under here. You can’t outrun them.” A dirty face pokes out, peering up at me around the curve of the cart wheel. It’s a boy, dark-haired and pixie-faced. He’s got bronze skin like mine, but even darker eyes than me. “You’re going to lead them straight to me if you don’t get under here,” he says fiercely.

  I don’t know what else to do, so I fling the last remaining piece of my crossbow as far as I can, sending it soaring over the market. It must land on something soft—maybe the canvas cover of a stall—because it makes no sound. I duck under the draped material, and the boy yanks it back into place and puts a finger to his lips. He’s crouched on the cobbles, bundled up in layers of fur that have seen better days. Next to him is a bulging bag, the long strap still crossed over his body.

  Slowly, my heart stops pounding, and the boy brings his hand down, satisfied that we aren’t going to be skewered at any second. “You’re the one they’re after?” he breathes. The words make soft clouds in front of his face. I nod. It makes little difference if he knows.

  “What did you do?” He reaches for his bag and I shift back a little, but he puts out a hand and shakes his head. “It’s okay. I was just getting this.” He pulls out a packet of dates and slits it with a small knife I barely see before it’s gone again. He holds the box out to me.

  I don’t move, or answer his question. This isn’t part of the plan.

  “Take one,” he says. “You never know when you’ll get the chance again.”

  I hadn’t thought about it, but he’s right, and I am hungry and thirsty. Sasha and I both love dates.

  “Go on,” he whispers, extending the box even farther. “I’m no poisoner.”

  I rip off my mitten and shovel a sticky fruit into my mouth, licking my fingers. “No, I don’t suppose you are. Just a thief,” I say, eyeing the bag.

  “I prefer goods liberator, and you’re no saint yourself if you’re hiding here with me.”

  I have to smile, though it’s strange to be in close quarters with such a boy. I don’t think I’ve ever been face-to-face with a thief before; I’ve only heard about them.

  “Who are you?” he asks, eating one of the dates himself.

  I swallow.

  “Well?” he demands.

  I consider lying. “My name is … Valor,” I say in the end. There’s no point trying to protect my reputation or that of my family now. He’ll find out soon enough what I’ve done.

  The boy lets out a whisper-laugh. “Valor. After that, I should like to say that mine is Honesty,” he says, “but you can call me Feliks. And so, Valor, how do you propose we get out of here?” He holds still to listen. The Guard is searching the market and spreading out into the streets that surround it. They will rip apart the whole city if they have to.

  It’s then that I realize I should never have hidden under here. I have to run farther or it will seem as though we’re together. I work alone.

  “You should stay right here,” I say. Stay right here until I’ve led the Guard as far away as I can get them.

  “What about you?” He says it like he’s concerned, like we actually know each other and my fate matters to him. He’s no older than I am—probably younger. A lump rises in my throat. I swallow it away.

  “I have to go.” I don’t wait for him to answer. I whirl the canvas back, fling it into place behind me, and run, as far and as fast as I can, straight through the market. The streets are silent and deserted, everyone obeying the orders of the Guard. Everyone doing their part to help catch the would-be murderer of the beloved royal family.

  I run past empty shops and find myself heading for the docks, for the open air and the cold sea. And for a moment, running down the road, I feel like I could keep going, keep running, silent in my boots. All the way to a ship that would leave the realm, taking me to a new world. My legs fly, bringing me closer to the district of warehouses. It’s so quiet I can hear a dog bark miles away. I glance over my shoulder. Behind me, in the distance beyond the city, stretch the impossibly high walls of Tyur’ma. The prison fortress butts right up against the cliff face so the whole place seems hewn straight from the rock. Solid stone walls around the other three sides of the prison hide everything from sight. The only thing that could get over them is a bird. But I have seen birds shot out of the sky if they got too close.

  Someone slams into me, sending me flying to the ground. My neck jerks to one side and I cry out. A blur of black and gold moves in front of me, but I’m up, light on my feet, dancing away from the sword she’s drawn. Another guard appears behind me. He sheathes his sword and pulls his crossbow straight over his shoulder from his back. He aims right at my head as the first guard pushes forward, the tip of her sword at my heart.

  “You … you have to arrest me.” I can feel how thin the layer of skin and bone is between her blade and my beating heart. I never expected this. The queen can be a harsh judge, but she is fair; I thought she would want me alive.

  The guard stares at me, and in her eyes I see the surprise at how young I am turn to cold determination. She’s not going to arrest me—she’s going to kill me right here in the street. My blood will spread on the snow and my mother and father will never know why. I try to speak again, but all I can do is shake my head.

  Then she pulls a horn from her belt with her free hand, never taking her gaze off me, and blows a long note. I try not to flinch at the sound. I’m used to the hunting horn, but not when I am the prey. Guards start streaming in all around us. They converge in a group, and I’m surrounded. Right at that moment it starts snowing. Soft, fat flakes alight on the black ushanka the Guards wear.

  I raise my face to the slow fall and the white wintry sky.

  The guard with the sword starts speaking. “You are under arrest for the attempted murder of His Royal Highness Anatol of Demidova, crown prince of the Realm and brother of our future queen, Anastasia.”

  I almost sag to the ground with relief.

&
nbsp; Two of the Guard position themselves on either side of me, two move in front, and the swordswoman and the guard with the crossbow cover the rear. They march me through the streets to the palace, the sword resting between my shoulder blades and the tip of the crossbow bolt pressing against the back of my neck.

  As we approach the golden gates to the palace gardens, more of the Guard file from the palace itself. It makes me want to shout out that I’m not a killer, not dangerous, not what they think I am. But I can’t let myself do that.

  The golden gates open. I step into the royal gardens and take heart. I’m about to get exactly what I want.

  CHAPTER 3

  Snow begins to fall fast, sticking to my coat and to the frozen garden around us. Most of the Guard falls away, forming a line around the perimeter of the golden gates. I continue toward the palace steps with the six guards who surround me.

  We pass one of the sculptures, unveiled what seems like days ago now. It’s a huge replica of the kokoshnik that adorned Princess Anastasia’s head during the ceremony. My sister would have loved it; she loves all delicate, beautiful things. The doors to the palace begin to open. The golden runes that inlay the ancient wood gleam as they catch the light. Sasha and I dreamed of entering the palace through these doors when we were very little. And as we grew older and were occasionally invited into the palace—always through one of the back entrances—we spent the nights after the visits hidden under her bedcovers making up stories about how we would walk through them one day.

  None of the stories were quite like this, though.

  My guards take me into a great hall with a mosaic-tiled floor and massive marble pillars stretching up to a mezzanine above. There is still no one around but my captors and me; it’s as if the whole city has emptied. Our footsteps echo in the chamber. I swallow, already sweating in the warmth of the palace.

  I catch sight of tall glass doors to my left, an explosion of exotic plants showing through. Green leaves and fronds and huge ruffled flowers of hot pink and incredible sun-bright orange. So it’s true—the palace has a hothouse.

  Then I am whisked along a corridor past heavy blue velvet drapes, yards of material that cascade from the high windows to the polished floors. And everywhere, there is gold.

  Abruptly, the end of the corridor looms. One of the Guard pulls me to the right and down a spiral stone staircase. The temperature drops immediately as we descend into the earth under the palace.

  The stone walls seem to breathe out the cold, stale air of the dungeon. My heart bangs loudly against the fine hunting gear I’m suddenly very aware of. Three dark cells open off a narrow corridor. Four more of the guards point their crossbows at me as the swordswoman orders me to stop and place my hands on the wall. She searches me roughly. I think for a moment that she won’t find the section of crossbow shoved into my boot, but she does.

  I’m pushed into the middle cell. The iron door clangs behind me, the lock is turned, and the guards leave. I take in a shuddery breath and look at my cell. The back wall is solid stone, and the other three are iron bars. One torch burns in a sconce affixed to the wall of the corridor; it gives off only the dimmest light.

  Something drips onto the floor behind me. I wrap my arms around myself.

  “I’d move away from that side if I were you.”

  I spin to my right. A boy with a filthy face and an ushanka several sizes too large for his head nears the bars. He’s thin but almost as tall as me, and his eyes are bright. It’s the thief from the marketplace. Feliks.

  “You got caught,” I say, unaccountably disappointed. “What happened?” A weight hits the bars behind me, and something brushes one of my braids. I yelp, jumping forward.

  Feliks shrugs. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  On the other side of the cell, a huge hand grasps the air where I was just standing. It’s attached to a thick arm that has been pushed through the bars by its owner, whose face is in shadow like the rest of him.

  The arm pulls back and disappears into the darkness. “He hasn’t said one word yet,” says Feliks.

  “What does he want?” I ask in a whisper, sounding nowhere near as brave as I should.

  Feliks lowers his voice conspiratorially. “I think he’s hungry.”

  “What?”

  “I’m joking. Probably. I’ve only been here for two minutes. They pulled me straight out from under that cart almost the second after you ran from it. How should I know what anyone else here wants?” He holds up his hands and smiles. One of his front teeth is smaller than the other, or maybe it’s broken.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I won’t be here long.”

  Feliks frowns. “How do you know that?”

  “Just … a feeling I have.” I move into the corner closest to his side of the cell and sit on the floor, stretching out my legs. This is the dirtiest place I’ve ever seen, but every muscle in my body is tired.

  “If it’s okay with you, I won’t put much store in that,” he says. “Never trust a criminal.” He sits down a little way from me, but his dirty furs brush mine as he does it. My arm stiffens, and he moves away again. Good. I’m not here to make friends. I can’t have any distractions.

  The torch outside the cell is burning low when Feliks stirs me out of my thoughts, nudging me in the ribs. “Someone’s coming.” He scoots away into the shadows at the back of his cell. It’s the Guard. Just two of them this time. They unlock my cell and cuff my hands together. “Good luck,” I hear a grim voice say as I’m marched up the stone steps and back into the palace.

  I’m taken to the throne room. I recognize it from my father’s descriptions. A few weeks ago he might have been present at the queen’s side for an occasion such as this. The doors, white with polished gold lacework panels, swing open to admit me. At the end of a long room hung ceiling to floor with bright tapestries is a raised dais with four levels. The queen sits highest on a silver throne inset with pearls and backed by a huge fan of hundreds of peacock tail feathers. She wears her official robes of justice, deep blue with gold brocade on the cuffs and collar. Her eyes are still surrounded by the ceremonial black makeup, and she sits bolt upright, watching me as I walk down the length of the room. The closer I move, the louder my heartbeat gets.

  On one side of the queen sits the king in his blue-and-gold tunic, and on the other, Princess Anastasia. Her throne is just a little lower than her father’s, but in two months it will be raised above his to show that she has reached her thirteenth year. She has a blue-black kitten on her lap, and I fix my eyes on it as I’m brought before the royal family.

  Prince Anatol is next to Anastasia, lower on his throne, and wearing the same blue and gold as his father. His hair is raven black, darker than that of the rest of his family. We’ve never been close—not like my sister and the princess—but still, I can’t look at him either.

  The queen raises and lowers her scepter, and I can’t help but stare at the apple-size diamond at the head of it, topped by the royal emblem of a golden fist. “Just a girl,” she says. “You may step back.” It’s clear she means the Guard, though she doesn’t look at them.

  And so I’m left standing there, alone, my hands cuffed in front of me, under the gaze of the queen of Demidova. I straighten and plant my feet shoulder width apart. She doesn’t even seem to recognize me. Her own first huntswoman’s daughter, her own political adviser’s eldest child—and she has no more idea of who I am than if I were a common thief in her dungeon.

  “You are accused of attempting to murder His Royal Highness Prince Anatol. My son.” Her voice snaps on the last two words.

  I keep myself up straight. I can’t afford to crumple now. I have to say what any reasonable person in my situation would say. “It wasn’t me.”

  The queen raises an eyebrow. I can feel Prince Anatol’s eyes on me. Sasha told me that when he’s not riding, he’s reading—often the same books my sister takes from the Great Library. Sometimes she would complain about how long he kept them in hi
s chambers where she couldn’t get them. He likes to work things out, to understand. And I don’t want him to work out anything about why I’m doing this.

  Queen Ana nods at someone behind me, and a guard carries forward a pile of items and lays it at her feet. There are the parts of my crossbow, my skirts, the pouch of tools I used to pick the lock of the ballet school, and the bolt pulled from the ice of the fountain. On top of these things, he lays a torn scrap of material.

  “What is that?” asks Princess Anastasia.

  The queen doesn’t answer; she just regards my sash until her daughter follows her gaze to the tear in it.

  “Do you still deny it was you?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “Who are you working for?”

  “I work for no one.” It’s the first bit of truth from my mouth, and somehow, Prince Anatol can tell. His head tilts when I say it.

  “And yet the weapon you used, part of which was found on your person, is of royal issue. Do you care to explain that, Valor Raisayevna?”

  So she does know who I am. Knows, and doesn’t care.

  “Is this retribution?”

  “Your Highness?”

  The queen’s jaw tenses. “Is this your idea of paying us back for the disgrace and banishment of your parents? It is your sister you have to thank for that, Valor, not me.”

  My heart squeezes, but I say nothing.

  It’s then that a voice sounds outside the throne room. Even muffled by the distance and the thick walls I recognize it. My mother. I can’t make out the words, only the tone. Beseeching. Desperate. I almost cry her name, almost run to her.

  There’s a single bang at the door. My pulse races, my body leaning almost against my will toward my mother. I want that door to open. I long for it to. But it doesn’t.

  The queen’s gaze had snapped up at the sound, but now it falls back to me. “Or perhaps your family intended to further disrupt the peace treaty that I have worked years for.” Her tone is cold, furious. “Do you know how close we are to war? Did your parents plan this? Did your mother give you that weapon?”