The smell of infection was strong. The wound from the vine had festered—despite my efforts to clean it—and I saw that I was correct: the vine had been tainted. Like a poison, it had caused a terrible reaction within the prince’s body. He shook violently beneath his pile of blankets, though I knew without even touching him that his skin would burn to the touch. I wrenched all but the thinnest blanket off him. He tried to open his eyes, but they rolled back in his head.
Even where I stood beside him, heat poured off his body—like when he’d summoned the flames.
“He’s burning up,” Kharan said, her face awash with concern.
I thought of the prince’s smile and kind words, and my heart constricted. I knew what came next: convulsions, followed inevitably by death. He had almost reached the point where he was beyond the help of herbal remedies.
Comfrey, yarrow, and white willow, Babushka’s voice demanded in my head. They were the only things that could save him now.
I turned to Kharan. “Will you find Vera? Beg her to come with the herbs as fast she can.”
Kharan raced away, and I turned back to the prince. I placed my hand on his forehead, and instantly, steam began to rise from my hand.
The prince didn’t have time for me to apply herbs—he was minutes away from convulsing. I had to bring the fever down just enough to let herbs take over. There was something else that might help, if I dared. My power was cold enough to shatter people like glass, but if I only touched him for a second, it might cool his body and break the fever.
Or it might shock his system and kill him.
With a trembling hand, I touched his forehead again. It was so hot, especially compared to my frigid skin, that it was like touching a flame. Still, I kept the tips of my fingers there and took a breath. His shaking grew more violent, and I gritted my teeth, willing the convulsions not to start. I thought of all the times I’d touched water and turned it instantly to ice, but I had to temper such power, so I thought of the brisk cold of a river in spring.
Tendrils of steam continued to rise from where my skin touched his, and then it faded away.
The shaking stopped abruptly, and then the prince became so still that I jerked my hand away. Please let me not have killed him. I was so close to his face as I searched for any sign of improvement that I could see each individual black eyelash.
His breathing changed from shallow and pained to deep and relaxed, and I let out my own breath in relief. And then his piercing gray eyes met mine.
“Katya,” he murmured, “please don’t leave again.” And before I could even respond, his eyelids fell closed.
I searched his face, tension rippling over me. He was safe from immediate danger, but his wound had still not been treated properly. Without the herbs to treat him, the fever would return as surely as the sun rises.
At long last, Kharan and Vera had returned with what I needed. We were lucky the herbs we needed grew in the palace greenhouse. While they’d been gone, I’d consulted Babushka’s journal, but I found that my instincts for what herbs he’d need were correct. This gave me the confidence to continue to treat him. Perhaps I had learned more than I’d thought in all those years at her side.
Vera had turned as white as bone when she saw how ill the prince was. Kharan had been called away almost immediately by Ivan, who needed to discuss with her what they’d found during the battle, and how narrowly the prince had avoided yet another attack on a boyar.
But now, as I soaked a cloth in yarrow and white willow for his fever, I was at war with myself. I didn’t regret leaving the palace and going to Babushka, but Grigory’s insidious words were worming their way into my mind. Should I have told the prince I intended to go to my village? If I had, there was no guarantee he would have let me. I tried not to feel responsible for what had happened to him, but it gnawed at me and wouldn’t relent. I looked at him lying so still and almost lifeless on the bed, searched his face for any signs of waking, but there was nothing. He’d said my name before and asked me not to leave, but it was hard to say whether he truly recognized me, or would even remember seeing me in his delirium.
“You seem to know your craft far better than the healer the prince employs,” Vera said by my side, drawing me out of my thoughts. She carefully draped the herb-soaked cloth across the prince’s forehead. “I’ve told Gosudar many times that the healer does nothing but apply leeches. He’d have been better off sending for an herbalist in the village.”
“I don’t know nearly as much as my babushka,” I said, my breath hitching on her name. The pain pierced my chest, making it difficult to breathe. “I tried to absorb as much as I could when I helped her.”
“Well, you know enough to save Gosudar from a terrible fever. I knew he should have remained behind in the palace when they left to intercept the enemy,” she said, her expression turning dark with regret. “He grew tired of waiting for Grigory to ready the men. It was only when the prince threatened to go himself that Grigory finally finished his preparations.”
I glanced up at that. “Grigory told me that my village wasn’t a priority, that he meant to give aid to the boyars only.”
Vera smiled. “That might have been his plan, but it wasn’t the prince’s. As soon as he discovered that you’d left the palace—which, admittedly, took far too long—he wanted to go after you.”
“He wasn’t going after me to bring me back?”
She tilted her head, considering. “He wanted to be there to help you save your village, and he hoped to convince you to come back, but his primary goal was to protect his people . . . and you.”
I watched her for a moment to see if she was telling the truth before glancing back down at the prince. “Are you sure he wasn’t just afraid his favorite weapon would be killed?”
She looked at me sharply. “Devotchka, I have known the prince since he was just a baby. I think you have misread his intentions toward you.”
“Perhaps so.” I pulled back the blankets on his bed to expose the puncture wound just below his shoulder. “And do not praise me for saving him just yet,” I said with a grim nod toward the wound, which was bright red with infection. “If I can’t heal this wound, then the fever will return even worse than before.”
“I have faith in you,” Vera said with a definitive nod of her head.
I tried not to let her words affect me, but they warmed me much more than they should have. I didn’t think anyone had ever trusted me, much less said they had faith in my abilities. But even as I thought that, I remembered one person who had: the prince.
I focused on crushing the herbs for the poultice, wrinkling my nose at the scent of comfrey—it was nearly as bad as the smell of an active infection. The yarrow, with its spicy scent, at least masked some of the odor. But there was nothing that healed as quickly as comfrey. I crushed the leaves of both until the comfrey turned the mixture brown. It would stain everything it came in contact with—including the luxurious linens on the prince’s bed—but I was sure he wouldn’t mind if it saved him in the meantime.
“That smells like death,” Vera said, wrinkling her nose at the crushed herbs.
“Yes, but the wound should look noticeably better in the morning,” I said. He should be feeling better, too, hopefully enough that he wouldn’t have to remain bedridden.
“Will he need more of these poultices?” she asked, watching me as I worked.
I nodded. “He’ll need a fresh poultice of these herbs every day, maybe even twice a day if it isn’t so painful for him. Crushed garlic and honey will help his body fight off the infection, too.”
“I can get those from the kitchen for you. And the herb that smells so terrible—that one is called . . . ?”
“Comfrey,” I supplied. “And this one is yarrow.”
I slathered the pungent mixture of herbs onto clean linen and then brought it to the prince’s bedside. I gently pressed the herbs into his wound with the linen. “Could you bring me another strip of linen, please?”
Vera came with the linen, watching everything I did carefully.
After threading it underneath his arm—with Vera helping me lift him up just slightly—I tied a knot with the other piece of linen to secure the poultice.
“White willow bark will help with the pain, too, when he wakes,” I said. “It can be steeped to make a tea.”
“Should I go prepare that now? In case he awakes?”
“Yes,” I said, suddenly feeling exhausted now that the danger had passed.
“You should take yourself to the banya, and then rest, devotchka,” she said, her kind eyes softening as she reached out and touched my shoulder. “I will leave supper for you in your room.”
“Thank you, Vera,” I said with a relieved smile.
As soon as she left, I placed my hand on the prince’s forehead again. He was still very warm to the touch, but no longer burning, even to my cold skin. I looked down at him, and for a moment, I couldn’t move. Now that he wasn’t in danger of dying, all I could think of was how his face seemed sculptured from marble. His chest and arms, too, were more muscular than I’d thought. He looked strong and capable now that he wasn’t shaking and delirious from fever.
“I’m glad you didn’t die,” I whispered, and was surprised at how powerfully I meant it.
Chapter Fourteen
AFTER A QUICK VISIT TO THE banya—I would have stayed longer just to luxuriate in the hot steam, but I was too wary of encountering the bannik again—I retreated to my room, so tired I could barely lift one foot in front of the other.
So when a vine wrapped around my foot and dragged me into a darkened room, I could do no more than scream until I was silenced by leaves.
Grigory stood before me, his face contorted with rage.
The leaves still kept me from crying out, from demanding to know what I was doing here.
“When you left, I thought the Holy Saints had finally taken pity on me and brought my prayers before God. But then the prince said he couldn’t let you face the Drevlians and Novgorodians alone; I begged him not to go, and I prayed that they would kill you.” My eyes widened, and I struggled even harder against the vines, letting my skin grow colder and colder. I knew I’d be able to free myself, but I didn’t want to destroy the whole palace with my cold fire.
“Because of you,” Grigory said, his voice more like a growl, “the prince believes he has a chance against the earth elementals. I had advised him to surrender before all of Kiev is taken by force, and he was nearly convinced . . . until we heard tell of you.” This last word was spat in my face, and suddenly, Grigory’s animosity toward me from the very beginning made sense. He wanted the prince to surrender, but I had given the prince—given all the others—hope.
But it was why he’d want the prince to surrender that made the cold burn even brighter across my skin. “Why would you expect the prince to do such a thing? To give up his throne?”
“I believed the prince was powerful once—a force that could unite all of Kievan Rus’—but I now know I am mistaken. I kept him safe when they came for his parents, gambling on the fact that one day, his elemental fire ability would strengthen, but it never did. He isn’t strong enough to hold out against the Drevlian and Novgorodian princes and the earth elementals. The weak have no hope of ruling.”
“You’re on their side,” I said with a dawning horror.
He leaned closer to me. “I will always choose the winning side.” He took a step closer to me. “Prince Alexander wrongly believes you to be his savior, but even if you are powerful enough to defeat the earth elementals, the prince will never be able to rule this country. If I kill you, though,” he said, a mad glitter in his eyes, “then the prince will have no choice but to surrender.”
The vines began tightening around me, but I’d had enough. The cold inside built in power, until I could no longer hold back. It blasted free from my palms, icy cold air that streamed around him like a snake made from snow crystals. It was beautiful, pure white and shimmery, but deadly as fire. The force of its power blew him back, and he crashed to the floor.
This power wasn’t on the same level as the cold fire, though, and it took only a moment to realize why: I was exhausted. Panting with exertion from the battle, from the long journey home, from healing the prince. Still, I couldn’t let this pathetic creature attempt to intimidate me anymore.
The cold settled over me like a snowy mantle, and I stalked toward him where he lay stunned on the floor.
I grabbed a knife from his belt.
I held it to his throat. “Did you really think you could kill me?”
He held up both his hands in surrender, but I shook my head.
“You are a traitor to the prince, and once he knows of it, it is you who will surely be killed.” I didn’t know this for sure, could hardly think straight with my mind fuzzy from exhaustion, but still, the threat was taken seriously, for his eyes grew as wide as the moon. “Here is what you must do: leave. Leave this palace and the city, and only then can you be sure you will not be tried as the traitor you are.”
I pressed the tip of the blade against his throat to make sure he understood and tried to hide the fact that I was nearly swaying on my feet.
And then, from out in the hallway, Ivan called my name. I could have cried with relief. “In here,” I called back.
To his credit, and to Grigory’s detriment, when Ivan came in and took in the scene, he did not immediately pin me as the aggressor. “What has happened?” he asked instead, warily.
“Grigory wanted to kill me in the hopes that he could finally convince the prince to surrender to his enemies.”
Ivan’s gaze narrowed. “I thought you had given up that faulty line of thinking, Grigory.”
“I told him he could leave the palace and never return, and then perhaps he wouldn’t be tried and executed for treason.”
Ivan was silent for a moment. “The better course of action is to restrain him in the dungeon until the prince can be made aware of what has transpired.” His eyes narrowed. “Especially of his attack on you.”
“Then”—and finally I did sway on my feet—“then perhaps you could make sure he is taken to the dungeon?”
Ivan nodded once. “Yes, of course.”
He yanked Grigory to his feet.
I watched for a moment as he dragged him away, and I nearly collapsed with relief. Ivan would easily be able to restrain Grigory, for he could always negate his power should Grigory try to use it on him.
I didn’t even remember making my way to my room afterward, but I must have, for soon enough I was there. Too tired to eat the food that had been put out by Vera on a tray, I fell onto my bed, unable to even cover myself with the furs.
But as I succumbed to sleep, thoughts of what Grigory had said plagued me.
He had more than implied that he’d known there was going to be an attempt on the former prince’s and princess’s lives, but had chosen to save Prince Alexander. He’d only supported the prince because he believed him to be more powerful, and now I couldn’t help but wonder how deep his treachery went. How long had Grigory been allied with the enemy?
And worse still: Had he been the one to arrange the assassination of the prince’s parents?
The next day, I slept far later than I ever had, until it was well into the afternoon. I awoke slowly, the sleep not letting me go easily. A woman stood beside my bed, wearing a red-and-orange headscarf, and for a moment, I thought it was Babushka. But then I remembered.
“I’m sorry to wake you, Katya,” Vera said, “but the prince is asking for you.”
I sat up in a rush. “When did he wake?”
“Not long before you. Ivan has already been in to tell him of what happened last night. But he wishes to hear it from you, too.”
The memories of what had happened with Grigory slowly trickled into my mind. I could only hope he was locked away in the dungeon, unable to do any more damage to the prince.
I hurried out of bed, dressing in my own clothing, whi
ch was once again perfectly clean. “Thank you for cleaning this for me, Vera,” I said, and she smiled. “I should have been awake hours ago. The prince’s bandages will need to be changed.”
Vera put one hand on her hip. “What both of you needed was to sleep. There is no greater way to heal.”
I did feel stronger now that I’d had rest, but still, I could hear Babushka’s scolding in my mind: You overslept and neglected your patient.
“By all the saints!” Vera exclaimed, her gaze on the uneaten tray on the other side of my bed. “Have you not eaten?”
I shook my head. “I was more tired than hungry last night.”
“Eat now, then,” she said, handing me a hunk of bread with a determined look on her face. “The prince can wait another moment or two.”
I didn’t want to—I was too anxious to check on the prince’s wound—but then my stomach took control of my hand and made me reach for the bread before I could protest. Vera watched me until I ate every bite, and then she pushed a cup of water in my hand, too. When she was satisfied I’d at least broken my fast, she led me to the prince’s room.
I walked through, my heart in my throat. I’d been in his room before, of course, but it was different knowing he was awake and fully able to communicate. I tried to think of Babushka and how she would handle the situation; how she would bustle in and be completely focused on the prince’s healing.
But then, Babushka wouldn’t be in any way attracted to the prince.
The room smelled of the herbal poultice when I walked through the doorway, and I was both surprised and pleased to see the prince had recovered enough to be sitting in a high-backed wooden chair, the carved arms so smooth from age the wood shone in the light of the fire.
“Katya,” he said, coming to his feet when he saw me enter, and I hurried to his side.
“Don’t make any sudden movements or you could reinjure yourself,” I chastised. “I shouldn’t have left your bandages unchanged for this long. Forgive me, Gosudar.”
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