Web of Frost (Saints of Russalka Book 1)

by Lindsay Smith

  Ravin continued his slow circle around her. His hands were clasped behind his back, ungloved. Something in his pace reminded her of a wolf stalking its prey. “And then what happens?”

  Katza’s jaw twitched. “Sometimes, nothing.”

  “But other times . . .”

  “Other times . . . it is incredible. Their answer comes all at once, filling me up.” Katza smiled, recalling that golden sensation. “A glorious light, glowing inside of me. It’s almost as if I cease to be myself and l embody the blessing instead.”

  “You relinquish control.”

  He was not asking. And in his tone, Katza sensed he was disappointed. She bowed her head, shame fraying the edges of her calm. Again she remembered the helplessness she’d felt when Saint Marya’s righteousness overtook her, when it set her blood boiling and her temper on fire—

  “Yes.” In a tiny voice, she added, “But I don’t want to.”

  “You must keep control of the power. You are not Boj’s servant.” His tone was frayed, and unraveling by the word. “Boj is your servant. That power Boj grants—it belongs to you.”

  Katza felt short of breath. “No—no, that can’t be right. Father Anton says that we are Boj’s servants and are only granted a glimpse of power so that we might carry out Boj’s will.”

  Ravin stopped abruptly. He stood before Katza, a slash of black fabric against the soft threads of sunlight and glittering snow and gilded icons. All softness in his expression was gone, and the planes of his face were honed, sharp and deadly, as his eyes gleamed like volcanic glass.

  “Boj is not a person, a consciousness, a will. Boj is a well, a deep well of power. All the saints do is allow you to filter that power. Dilute it into a singular focus.”

  Katza’s head shook back and forth, mechanical. “No. That’s not—”

  “Not what they tell you?” Ravin asked. “What is it Patriarch Anton and all the others say? That the Silovs are special because of all the blessings you can draw from? No. You are only as special as the church permits you to be.”

  Katza worked her tongue against her teeth. “I don’t understand.”

  “They tell you this for your protection. They claim that most of the prophets can only be blessed by one or two saints. Really, it’s because most minds are too feeble to grasp so much power at once. But you . . .”

  He drew toward her, stepping into a shaft of light. In an instant he’d softened again. Perhaps it had only been a trick of the shadows that made him look so frightening.

  “You can endure that power. Once you master each of the saints, then you can reach past them. Seize Boj’s power for your own. Tame it. Control it.”

  “Control Russalka,” Katza whispered.

  He smiled like she had given him a gift. “Yes. Control Russalka.”

  She nodded as the golden light flickered through her again. Calling to her, filling her. Russalka needed to be controlled. It needed to be saved.

  Ravin reached for her and lifted a curl from her face. “You are willing to make the difficult choices Russalka needs to save her from herself. You are unafraid of your power. Unafraid to do what is necessary.”

  Katza knew that for a lie, but she wanted to make it true.

  “I know it is difficult for you right now, but that will not always be the case. You must undo the lies in your mind that the church has told you and find what power—what real power—you can hold.”

  A shiver ran through Katza at his words.

  “And you, I believe, will be even more capable than they fear.” Ravin’s finger twisted in her curl.

  Katza squared her shoulders. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake her uncertainty. “Why are you helping me? What do you care whether I wield Boj’s power well or not?”

  He tilted his head to one side, assessing her. “Because Russalka needs order restored,” he said, softer now. “You are Silov. The power is right there, within your reach. You can use it. You can do what’s necessary to keep your empire safe.” He lowered his gaze. “I’ll never be as strong as you’re capable of becoming. But I will help you. Because I know you will do what must be done.”

  What must be done. Rooting out the agitators. Stopping Hessaria. Keeping Russalka safe. Tending the garden, like Aleksei would have done. And seizing the power that she was owed. Untethered by Patriarch Anton and his priests.

  Katarzyna released the breath that had been burning inside her lungs. She was ready. She was beyond ready to finally be in control. “I will.”

  “I know. I’ve seen it.” Ravin smiled.

  Katza blushed with a secret thrill—she wondered what else he’d seen of her in his visions.

  “Saint Morozov,” Ravin said, turning away from her. “Are you familiar with his story?”

  “He was a noble, generous soul in old Russalka.” Katarzyna traced his symbol in her mind. “Long before the tsars, long before the Mozgai joined with us, Russalka was a dark and untamed land, and each village had to fend for itself. One winter, a blizzard ravaged Morozov’s village for days on end, and his people were snowbound and sure to freeze to death. Morozov, always so full of warmth and love, went to the village’s center and stood out in the snow. He gave and gave his warmth and let it suffuse the village, instead drawing the cold into his bones and flesh, away from the people he loved and wanted to protect. He turned to ice himself to save his village.”

  “And through Saint Morozov, you can harness ice, as well,” Ravin said.

  Katza nodded. “Like my father did—to freeze the Hessarian ships in the bay.”

  “An incredible show of power,” Ravin said. “But you are capable of even more.” He paused, and turned his head, almost peering back at her over his shoulder. Again her gaze was drawn to the sharp line of his forehead, his nose beneath a dark sheaf of his hair where it had fallen across his brow. “Show me.”

  Katza rolled her shoulders back. She had never before prayed to Saint Morozov; she’d never had reason to. She scanned the icons in the sanctuary, looking for his face—the blue eyes piercing with ice, the gray pallor of his skin as flecks of frost wreathed him. But all the colors were washed out on the ancient icons—he was hard to find. Saint Morozov. Her lips worked as she sought him out. Saint Morozov. Grant me the chill in your bones . . .

  “No, no.” Ravin stalked toward her, shoulders bristling with cold fury. “You don’t need to focus on his icon. You must be able to draw the power anywhere. Anytime. Morozov is only a filter for turning the raw power into ice. You must reach past him.” He trembled with intensity. “Seize the power for yourself. It’s already there, just waiting for you to grasp it.”

  “I—I’m sorry.” Katza bit her lower lip and looked down. Morozov. Let your cold envelop me . . .

  And then she felt it, crawling inside her skin—the faintest threads of ice. If the saints were filters for Boj’s raw power, then Katza imagined herself reaching through that filter to grasp it at the source. Her breath crystallized before her as she exhaled, then twinkled like glass as it fell to the floor. Frost coated her hands, her face, and yet the cold was soothing, hardening around her like a shelter . . .

  No. Like a tomb.

  Katza thrashed, panicking as her skin became solid, stiff with cold. “O, Boj,” she cried. “I can’t—”

  “You have to release it,” Ravin shouted. “Don’t keep it trapped inside you!”

  Katza’s throat was closing up, turning into a block of ice. She tried to scream. Tried to move her arms—she had to force the cold away from her—

  She flung her arms out wide.

  Frost shot out from all around her, spinning fine as a spider’s web. It spread up the chapel walls, crunching and cracking as it went, riming the icons and choking the candles Ravin had lit. Katza’s breathing eased and she felt a tide surging through her. She was one with the ice, letting it into her as she spun it from her, a
perfect symbiosis.

  Katza’s chest rose and fell as she admired the ice thickening into columns and pillars and intricate lacework all around them. With a command, she could pull it all away. But she wouldn’t. She had made this, and she was in control, and everything was beautiful.

  A voice inside her sighed happily and whispered in her ear, Yes.

  “Incredible.” Ravin was breathing heavily too as he approached her once more, stepping around a pillar of ice. His dark eyes danced, reflecting the sunlight-kissed frost. “You are truly in control of it.”

  Katza tested, fingers twitching; a column of ice thinned, melting, then thickened again at her command. “I am. I can feel that power you were talking about, that well. It’s just below the surface. But it’s rolling through me, a give and take . . .”

  “Yes. You are in control of your power. But I, too, am blessed by Saint Morozov.” He drew closer and raised his palm. Ice sheathed his fingers, glinting with the menace of steel. “Can you stop it when someone else is using that blessing? Can you melt it all away?”

  Katza staggered back from him, but backed into one of the columns of ice. She tried to melt it, but it was one he’d created—she had no power over it. Frost fringed onto her clothing, her hair, her neck, as if the column were consuming her, swallowing her up. Again she felt that burn in her chest, crystals sprouting and slicing her up, but it wasn’t in her control. She couldn’t push it away.

  “Careful, tsarechka.” Ravin laughed behind pressed lips. “Or I’ll make a martyr of you.”

  Panic spiked through her, a shard of ice in the warmth of the saints’ gifts. “Please, stop!”

  His face loomed before hers. Gray washed over his features; his lips were deathly blue. “You must stop me.”

  Katza swallowed. She couldn’t. She would never be strong enough—but she had to. It was what Russalka needed.

  It was what she’d been craving, all along.

  Saint Morozov. Please, grant me strength!

  Katza started with the ice she could control—ebbing it away. But Ravin’s was out of control, growing around her like weeds. Her feet were frozen solid to the floor. Saint Morozov couldn’t help her now. Ravin’s laughter echoed around her, its edges honed with cold. Terror pricked her skin, yet the rush of exhilaration—of challenge—quickly overcame it.

  Saint Tikhona—could she silence him? Saint Millionov, to pacify? No. She needed something stronger.

  Then her gaze caught on a starburst of gold on the walls, faded though it was. Saint Ichischa, whose cleansing fire burned the false prophets away as she stepped into the golden heat of heaven and scoured away all sin. But then, Ravin was no false prophet.

  That much, Katza was learning, was frightfully clear.

  A hot white glow built within Katza, as if gold was pumping through her heart. Slowly, the ice thawed from her fingertips, and she wrenched her arms free. The light emanated from within her, a warm porch light glowing, beckoning from beyond the thickest snow. She swept her hands before her like she was scrubbing a canvas clean.

  “More,” Ravin said, his voice heavy with exertion. Ice continued to sprout around him. He was too fast. So Katza would have to be faster.

  The white heat of her power seared her vision. All the world was swallowed up in her glow. She felt her way, her power burning, burning all other power down around her. And it felt like the first kiss of dawn on her face: warm, cleansing, alive.

  Slowly, when Katza felt there was nothing more to cleanse, she shrank back into herself, but her skin was suddenly too tight.

  Her eyes fluttered open. Her vision was still washed out, but slowly, a dark form coalesced before her. Sinuous and smoky. His mouth was agape, and he stared at her in wonderment.

  Katza felt her knees buckling beneath her. She’d drawn on the power, but it was exhausting; she felt like she’d run a verost in the snow. Ravin rushed to catch her as she teetered forward.

  “Katza. Katza, are you all right?” He helped her back to her feet, but still clasped her cheek. His hand was cool against her skin; she felt feverish, on the cusp of illness. But his touch brought her back into herself.

  “Yes, I’m sorry, I just . . .” She smiled wearily. “I think I pushed myself, is all. But it was—it was incredible.” Katza’s throat was parched. As she spoke, her lips, dry and cracked, stuck together.

  “You’ll learn how to draw more power, and for longer periods, in time. You just must accustom yourself to it.”

  She rubbed at her temples, an ache building in them. “You don’t seem to feel any ill effects from it.”

  Ravin nodded. “I can reach past the saints to harness that power but for a little time. But if I had your aid . . . I could do it for far longer. You could be unstoppable, tsarechka. And I . . . I would be your servant.”

  “Is that what you wish?” Katza asked. “To serve?” She blinked, vision starting to clear. “I have never known any man to be content with serving.”

  “I would, for one as powerful as you.”

  Katza’s breath hitched. His touch was growing colder, robbing the warmth from her flushed skin. He trailed his finger down the side of her face and curled his hand beneath her jaw. She blinked as he tipped her chin up, bringing her gaze toward his. Those dark eyes of Ravin’s seemed to draw more heat from her, and yet she didn’t want to stop. She wanted to share her warmth—

  “You have the power,” Ravin whispered. His breath slid over her face like a blessing. “Will you have the will to seize it? Will you do what must be done?”

  Katza nodded numbly, though he clenched her jaw. She would do anything for Russalka. Anything to keep the visions at bay. And she would do anything to keep him looking at her that way—like something great and terrible to behold.

  “I can show you the way,” he said. “And together, no one—not the Hessarians, not the rioters, not Boj in heaven—can stop us.”

  A fist rapped sharply at the chapel door. Nadika. Katza sprung back from Ravin. Guilt flushed her cold skin with heat once more as she looked toward her guard. Ravin turned more calmly, though he, too, looked drained of color.

  “Tsarechka.” Nadika approached them both, her sight flicking from Katza to Ravin and back. Katza was sure to get a lecture from her tonight, even though it was nothing like what Nadika thought.

  Katza regretted that it was nothing like Nadika thought.

  “The sun will set soon and we must return to Petrovsk. It isn’t safe for you to be away from the palace after dark.”

  Katza slid her hands into her pockets and tugged on her gloves. She was grateful for the chance to rest on the long troika ride—her head throbbed from exertion, and her limbs felt limp and numb. Ravin followed her to the sleigh, a silent shadow at her back. Once they climbed into the troika, he tucked himself into the sleigh’s far corner and closed his eyes. He must have been feeling similarly drained.

  Yet the closer they drew to the capital, as the sun skimmed the western horizon, Katza could not shake the dark dread building in her gut. Visions whispered at the corners of her mind, but would not emerge—only taunt her with a flicker of darkness or a brief flash of fear. What were the saints trying to tell her?

  Saint Glazunov, Katza whispered, to encourage a vision if it was waiting for her—but none came. Saint Orlov. But none were answering her. She couldn’t name the fear that churned within her in time with the horses’ hooves as they drove through the snow.

  It was not until they reached the palace gates that she learned why.

  The palace square teemed and roiled with people, tumultuous as the bay during the heaviest floods of spring. There were thousands and thousands of them, voices shouting, screaming, fists banging against metal barrels, the wooden shafts of factory implements clanging against the cobblestones. Nadika and the other guards pulled tight around the troika to form a barrier between them and the mob, but hands
darted through them. One grabbed a fistful of Katza’s hair, and she screamed.

  “Back! Stay back!” Nadika pulled out her sidearm, just before another hand could snatch it.

  “Death to the tsar!” the rioters screamed. “Burn the palace to the ground!”

  “Stand back!” Nadika steered her horse along a tight path back and forth, trying to block the protesters. But they kept surging forward, reaching for Katza.

  Katza turned toward Ravin; even his face betrayed a flicker of fear. “What do we do?” she whispered. Should she ask the saints to help her push the protesters back? They were still not quite at the side gates that led to the stables. Behind the iron bars of the gates, the stablehands exchanged nervous looks as protesters reached through the bars, trying to grasp at them. She was tired, so tired—but there had to be something more she could do.

  “You know what must be done.” He held his hand out to her. “I’ll aid you.”

  Katza ignored the guilt and fear that rose in her and threaded her fingers through his. For Russalka’s good.

  Saint Millionov, Katza prayed. Mollify those protesters along our path to grant us safe passageway.

  A breeze stirred around Katza, and the pounding in her head intensified. Suddenly, a few of the protesters that hounded the sleigh drooped forward; their eyes turned gray and dull. They shuffled back in sudden torpor, blocking other protesters from pressing nearer. Nadika swore under her breath before nudging them away.

  Gradually they were able to part the tide and ease the sleigh toward the gates. Guards poured out of the stables as the gates swung open to envelop their troika, but there was no need. In this tiny bubble of the square, at least, they’d found a brief peace.

  Until the other protesters noticed.

  “She’s enchanted them!” someone cried. “The tsarechka will call the saints down to punish us, too!”

  “Burn the saints! Pull Boj from the heavens! We deserve to be free!”

  Katza looked at Ravin, wide-eyed. It wasn’t like the dress shop—she had every good reason to mollify them this way. Didn’t she? To keep them from doing something worse. If only she could make them understand.