Katza wasn’t sure which task frightened her more.
Nadika hovered close at Katza’s side as they strode down the first floor’s corridor. When they’d nearly reached the top of the staircase that led down to the grand foyer, though, Nadika tapped Katza’s arm and drew her aside. “Is anything the matter?” Nadika asked. “All day you’ve looked . . . haunted.”
She was asking as a friend, Katza realized, and not as her guard. But that made it easier for Katza to give voice to the yearning she felt, the need to break free.
“It’s—it’s nothing. My vision still troubles me, that’s all.”
Nadika hmmed between pressed lips. “Understandable, my tsarechka. Please let me know if there’s anything you require.”
Katza hunched her shoulders, shame washing over her. She should have been honest with Nadika. The woman was her only true friend. Even then, Katza wondered if their friendship was only because she was paid to be at Katza’s side day and night. She had no real friends at court. There were a handful of girls who’d been her playmates growing up, but their parents only sent them to court to curry the tsar’s favor, then recalled them like ransomed hostages once their purpose was served. Aleksei had been her truest friend. But she’d lost him slowly, like the verses of a song playing out: first to his duty to their father, then to his wife, and now, at last, to Boj. Who was left for Katza to trust?
“Actually . . .” Katza took a deep breath. “I suppose I am curious . . . what you think of the prince.”
Her pulse hammered as she waited for Nadika’s response. Had she misjudged their relationship? Nadika blinked a few times, mouth working without sound, but slowly she smiled wanly.
“He’s very charming. And bold.” Did Nadika look more relaxed now, speaking to her as a friend? Or was that, too, just a show for Katza’s benefit? “I hope his boldness will draw you out of your shell as well. It could be all too easy to stay comfortably in his shadow.”
“I’ll do what I can.” Katza looked down at her hands. Boldness—the courage to do what needed to be done. Fahed showed it. The young prophet did, too. But more than just show it, he teased it out of Katza, in a way she suspected Fahed never would.
Katza could not fully explain the force that pulled her toward the young prophet—and found she didn’t wish to, not yet. She wanted to keep him to herself a while longer. All she knew, for now, was that he offered something she’d never believed was hers to possess. Until she could grasp it, really and truly master her gifts, then perhaps she was better off keeping it to herself.
The trumpeters heralded Katza’s arrival in the grand foyer. The stiff tulle hem of her skirts crunched against the marble steps as she made her way down. She found Fahed waiting for her, wearing an elegant chainwork piece of jewelry over his tunic. His face sparkled with crushed minerals that had been brushed across his skin. He held an arm toward her, and she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow.
“You grow more and more resplendent each time I see you,” he murmured as they strode toward the banquet hall.
“As do you, my love.” The words came easier this time. Somehow, their ease only made Katza feel worse.
They reached the hall, and a dark panic unfolded in Katza’s chest. The prophet was here. He was here, seated beside Duchess Andreeva, only a few seats down from where Katza and Fahed would sit. She stumbled on the edge of a rug, and Fahed tugged her back to standing, brow wrinkled with concern.
“Apologies,” Katza whispered. “My gown is making me dizzy.”
Fahed chuckled to himself. “You as well as me.”
Katza didn’t know how to respond to that, so she left it well alone.
The prophet’s dark gaze slid toward Katza as Fahed held out her chair and she sank into her seat. She cut her eyes toward him, and acknowledged him with a faint tilt of her chin. Inside, her heart was hammering, but she managed to rein in her expression—she didn’t dare let her desperation for answers show. He had found her once more. She could get the answers she sought soon enough.
“You know,” Fahed said softly, after they’d finished their first course, “you could have spoken your mind more plainly today. If you’d wished it.”
Katza looked toward the prophet before answering, but his head was lowered, as if in prayer. “I said what I wished to say.”
His eyes glittered with candlelight. “You needn’t fear your father or the other courtiers. You’ll be their queen one day, after all. They should become accustomed to heeding your words.”
But it wasn’t only the courtiers Katza feared. “Patriarch Anton warns of the dangers of countering Boj’s will. It led the old tsars to ruin.”
“With their blessings?” Fahed asked. He tilted his head to one side, considering her. “There’s more than one way a kingdom can crumble. Inaction can be just as deadly.”
Katza’s stomach churned. She knew his words were true—ignoring the protesters had not helped anything. But she was not Aleksei.
Maybe, though, with proper grasp of her blessings, she could be.
The banquet’s conversation went, as it often did, toward all the safest subjects: the new danse sacre at the Velikov Theatre, or the newest resort along the coast of Bintar. Aleksei’s death and her hasty betrothal hung over the table like a fog, but no one dared acknowledge them. By the third course, a creamy beet and cabbage soup, Duchess Andreeva could resist the urge to brag about her new pet no more, and finally introduced the boy at her side.
“He is my personal prophet. Is he not so charming?” The duchess flicked a stray lock of hair back from his temple, and the prophet flinched. “He is phenomenally skilled at pulling the saints’ threads. Ah—within the appropriate bounds, of course,” she added, with a quick look at Prophet Mikhail, seated by himself.
“Of course,” the tsar said. He kept his gaze fixed on his soup.
“Ravin, he’s called,” the duchess continued. “Isn’t that a lovely name? Like a little pet sparrow.”
Katza glanced at the prophet—at Ravin. His mouth was pursed, and his lean arms were taut, coiled. She knew what it was like to be spoken of as if she were not there; to be complimented in a way that took more from her than it gave. It was that sentiment that perched on the edge of Ravin’s face, barely controlled, liable to fly off at any moment. Katza felt it, too.
But Ravin smoothed his features and touched two fingers lightly to the duchess’s arm. He had not eaten his soup, Katza noted, and his goblet of wine was still full.
“Lara,” he said softly—the duchess’s familiar name. Katza had forgotten how smooth his voice sounded, as if she could spread it over black bread. “You need not bore His Highness over me. I am not worth remarking on. It is the Silov family who truly serves Boj’s will.”
But Duchess Andreevna’s eyes lit up at his words. “Would you listen to that!” She wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Such refinement, such holy speech. And from a poor peasant boy, no less. Would that all the peasants aspire to be like him!”
Katza’s mother, Sabine, twitched her nose like a horse pestered by flies.
“All peasants could do to become as learned as you, Prophet Ravin.” The tsar leaned back in his chair, a goblet held loosely in one hand. “Sadly, it is the rare person indeed who can commune with the saints. Certainly for those who carry no Silov blood. Tell me, young prophet, which saint has blessed you?”
Katza leaned forward. Most prophets were blessed with an affinity for a single saint, though very rarely, they might be able to commune with two or even three. A well-blessed prophet was often a candidate for sainthood themselves, if they were able to work miracles to accomplish some great feat—with the permission of the church, of course. In theory, only the ruling Silov family’s prayers could reach the ears of every one of Boj’s saints. Yet in practice, even this was no guarantee.
Ravin raised one hand as if to decline an o
ffering. “I do not wish to boast or be prideful, Your Highness. It is a sin in the eyes of Boj.” His mouth twisted. “I simply work what blessings I must to serve Boj well.”
The duchess shook her head. “Modesty, too, should be a sin. He has an affinity for Saint Lechka, that much I’m sure of, the way he eases my gout pains. I was able to walk the whole length of Nikonovskiy Prospect this morning without complaint.”
“Didn’t complain when they bent you over the altar,” Katza’s mother muttered. “All the filthy widowers—”
“Mother!” Katza hissed.
Tsar-consort Sabine glowered at her in return and flicked her tongue out like a viper. Fahed, at Katza’s side, stared at his empty goblet with grievous intent. Again Katza felt the hot flare of embarrassment. Fahed, Ravin—what must they think of all these things Katza had accepted as normal for so long?
The tsar laughed, too loud, to break the tension at their end of the banquet table. “I am glad for that, Duchess, but I must caution you against putting too much weight on the saints’ blessings. They can become their own sort of crutch. As Father Anton teaches, it’s best to follow the visions and let Boj’s will unfold as Boj intends.”
“Now, Nikilov, just because you’ve gotten burned by the saints before—”
“Burned to cinders, cinders take you all.” Sabine was shouting now. “More shit than a stable pouring from your mouths!”
Once more, Sabine’s attendants rushed forward to brace her as she tried to squirm out of her seat. She seemed set on crawling onto the banquet table, fork and knife clenched in her fists.
“Mother,” Katza pleaded. “Recall our last day at Zolotov. How much you enjoyed seeing the boats race. What were the ships’ names?” It was a gamble, and Katza knew it, but sometimes if she could draw her mother’s attention to something else, her fury would sort itself out. Far safer than calling on Saint Lechka, in any case.
“Doesn’t matter. They’re all dead. Salka grabbed them, pulled them under. Oh, the blood you’ll spill between them!”
“Now, Mother, you know that’s not true.” Frustration rose inside Katza like a tide. “You—you liked the double-masted flute, and after the races, they let us walk along its deck—”
It was no use. Sabine’s arms flew wildly about as her ladies tried to pry the utensils from her hands. They dragged her back from the table, chair knocking to the ground.
Fahed cleared his throat. “Here’s an idea.” He turned to Ravin. “Maybe your prophet can use his blessings to soothe the tsar’s consort.”
Ravin met Fahed’s gaze head-on, so sharply Katza imagined sparks spitting where they crossed. Fahed must have noticed her paying too much attention to the young prophet. She didn’t dare think he’d called on Ravin for her benefit. Was he jealous? Eager to embarrass him in front of the court? For a long second, neither moved, but Fahed cracked first, his smile faltering. Finally, Ravin relinquished his stare and turned toward Katza.
His expression was soft, but she felt the firmness in his stare, like cold iron. Katza straightened, unable to take her eyes from his. She mapped the soft lines of his mouth and the harsh angle of his nose. Recalled the echo of the voice from her vision, urging her to command the saints. It had been his voice—that brown-butter timbre, searing her thoughts. She’d found him, as the vision commanded her, and was afraid to look away lest he vanish once more.
“Tsarechka Katarzyna.” Her name flowed like a cool stream from his mouth. “Is it your wish that I calm the lady consort’s nerves?”
Katza’s whole will felt lodged in her throat, but she managed a faint nod.
“Then I will.” He stood up, swift, and moved around the table. Katza’s mother was still wrestling with her attendants, ranting, but Ravin waited patiently for her to pause for breath. His head tipped to one side, sending a dark lock of hair across his brow.
“Might I touch you?” he asked Sabine.
Sabine sneered at him, but then her face slackened, and finally she bobbed her head.
Ravin threaded his fingers through her brown curls, shaken loose from their styling. Sabine was half Hessarian; her mother was a minor princess from the Golden Court who’d been sent to Hessaria to wed one of their nobles as part of a failed peace treaty. Katarzyna had heard the whispers that her rotten Hessarian blood was to blame for her temperament, and after the Five Days’ War many of her attendants and physickers had quit in protest. To Ravin, though, it appeared to matter not. He touched her tenderly, his face a placid mask, and as his lips moved, her trembling ceased. All the tension and bile in her seemed to drain away. She looked invigorated, some pink brought back to her cheeks, and flushed as if awakening from a refreshing sleep.
Tsar Nikilov’s eyebrows rose. “Well. That is an impressive blessing.”
Duchess Andreeva clapped, practically bouncing in her chair. “I told you! He is miraculous—as if conjured up in a vision.”
“The Fates have woven great things for you, young prophet.” Even Fahed sounded impressed.
Ravin bowed, stiff and incomplete, as the others heaped praise upon him. “I wish our prophets in the Golden Fleet were half as strong as he,” Tsar Nikilov said to Admiral Akuliy on his left.
“We employ a prophet of Lechka to calm the sailors’ nerves, and a prophet of Orlov to aid the watch,” Admiral Akuliy replied. “But they aren’t nearly so skilled.”
But Katza marked the way Ravin’s face changed the moment he turned away from his admirers. A curl to his lip—something feral and barely restrained. He closed his eyes for a moment; then, the strangeness gone, turned back to the banquet table.
“Forgive me. I must go now, and pray to Boj. Give thanks for the blessings bestowed upon me tonight.”
“Yes, of course. The guards can direct you to one of our chapels,” Tsar Nikilov said.
Ravin bowed once more, fists tight at his sides, and left the hall.
“I still say blessings are best used sparingly,” the tsar said, as soon as Ravin was out of earshot. “Especially for those lacking Silov blood.”
“Aye, the patriarch warns us the dangers of hubris. We mustn’t get ahead of Boj and the saints’ will.”
“Well, there are always dangers . . .” Duchess Andreeva said. “But perhaps he could train the other prophets to use their gifts more judiciously.”
The debate raged around Katza, but she was burning up inside. Fahed was right—she was so tired of holding her tongue. The priest from the Order of the Mouth of Boj—Ravin’s old order—had said the saints’ blessings were no use if the patriarch limited them so, or forbade them outright. Especially now, in a time of such unrest. If not now, then when?
But then—the vision of the clearing in the snow, and the slain wolf, and her bloodied hands.
Katza stood up so quickly it dizzied her. Fahed looked up at her, eyebrows furrowed, though the others were still arguing about saints. “My love? Are you all right?”
“Apologies. I’m feeling—lightheaded.” She swayed for a moment before moving her chair out of her way. “I think I require some fresh air.”
“Shall I accompany you?” Fahed asked.
“No need. I just need to—to breathe.”
“Understood, my love.” He seized her hand and kissed it again. “Don’t be too long.”
Katza managed a quick smile and left the dining hall. Nadika stopped her at the inner garden doors, concern writ large on her face. “My tsarechka—”
“Please. I just wish a moment alone.” Katza slumped against the door with a sigh. “Can’t you wait for me here?”
Nadika cast a dubious look beyond the glass, toward the darkened garden path. “I’m not sure that’s wise . . .”
“I beg you. As a friend.” Katza turned the handle. “I won’t be long, I promise.”
Nadika sighed. “I’ll be right here.”
Katza let herself out and
strode onto the cobbled path. In spring and summer, the petals rained like jewels on her, but now only a few stubborn brown leaves clung to the trees as autumn surrendered to winter’s chill. The night was cool and very still; ice hung in the air, scraping like pins against Katza’s face as she moved.
A vision tremored on the edges of Katza’s sight, like something snapping into place. Yes, she was meant to come here. An unknown gravity was pulling her down the path, had been leading her here, and she had to understand why.
She found Ravin in a clearing, backlit by the moon. His long, spidery limbs were folded up around him on a low stone bench beneath one of the cherry trees Katza liked to read under in the spring. He had plucked a dead bud from the tree, and was whispering to it. Katza padded forward, curiosity propelling her, her slippers only a soft shush against the stones, until she reached the clearing’s edge to watch.
Ravin’s lips moved silently, issuing soft tufts of white into the cool air. The bud in his palm glowed, silver and bright, and then blossomed into a stunning, brilliant pink. It stretched and swelled until it was the largest cherry blossom Katza had ever seen. She sucked in her breath, stunned. But then the color started to drain from the bloom, and the petals shrank and curled in on themselves. The bud withered and turned to ash.
Katza steeled herself and stepped closer.
Ravin crushed the bud in his hand. A hiss of steam escaped from between his fingers, but when he pried them open again, there was nothing inside. “Tsarika,” he said, by way of greeting.
Katza lowered her head. “I don’t know why you insist on calling me that.” It felt reckless to speak to him this way, but something about him made her want to feel that knife’s edge. “I’m not the tsarika now, and hope to never be.”
“Katza is too familiar,” he said. “I have not earned such intimacy with you.”
The words ran like a finger down the back of her neck. “Katarzyna, then?” she asked.
“If you insist.” He stared at his hand, then slowly lowered it.
Web of Frost (Saints of Russalka Book 1) Page 6