Web of Frost (Saints of Russalka Book 1) Read online

  She would bring the rest of Russalka to bear when they were ready. And they surely would be ready soon.

  When they reached the palace, Fahed was waiting for them, arms crossed tightly around his chest despite his coat to ward off the early winter chill. His face morphed as soon as Katza came into view, however; Katza marked how quickly he donned a smile as if it had been there all along.

  “My beloved,” Fahed said, rushing forward to take her hands. “I am so glad to see you in as well of spirits as can be expected right now.”

  Katza allowed him to grip her hands, though her jaw tightened as he did so. “Thank you, my prince.”

  Fahed released her and fell into step with their entourage. His mouth worked as he watched her from the side. “I was wondering if you might spare me a moment to discuss wedding preparations,” he said at last.

  Katza stifled a groan. She’d done her best to forget about the impending ceremony. So much had changed since that cold night on the eve of Aleksei’s funeral. She was barely the same girl at all.

  “I’m afraid I’m not willing to move forward on anything until after my father’s funeral and my coronation.” It was the safest reply she could muster.

  Fahed laughed nervously. “But my darling, the date is drawing very near—”

  “Surely you understand that current events may force us to postpone.”

  Fahed grasped her arm and whirled her to face him. “Force us?” His face went very tense. “Don’t you realize that—” He took a deep breath, eyes lidding, and let it out through his nose. “Well. Perhaps it’s best if we discuss this in private.”

  Katza glanced toward Stolichkov, who all too eagerly bowed and backed away. He always had been a coward, worried more about flattering her father than telling him the truth. Next she turned toward Nadika and the other guards. Nadika’s puckered mouth made her look far less thrilled about the prospect of leaving Katza alone with Fahed, but she nodded and beckoned to the nearest private study off the hallway they were walking. She took up post at the door with the other guards while Fahed, momentarily appeased, led Katza into the study.

  Once more, Fahed took Katza’s hands in his own. His eyes sparkled as he stared back at her, threading guilt through her. She’d been needlessly harsh, and he was not a bad man, after all. Patriarch Anton’s cruelness earlier served as a reminder of how closely she ought to value her few allies.

  “Forgive me, Your Highness. I was never close with my own father, and I forget that in Russalka, things . . .” Fahed shook his head. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is, I’m deeply sorry.”

  Katza nodded, softening. She had no real reason to dislike Fahed, she supposed; it wasn’t his fault that she had been destined from birth to be married off and used to forge alliances. She would not have chosen him for herself. But he was kind enough, and he did seem to care for Russalka, even if that meant arguing with her.

  “I’m sorry too,” she said, squeezing his hands. “I fear I have judged you unfairly, my prince. There has just . . . been a great deal that has happened surrounding your arrival.”

  “I understand. With the threat of Hessaria, and the unrest in your own people, on top of family deaths . . . You are under a great deal of strain. Taking the crown is no easy thing, I am sure, and you must be overwhelmed with confusion and grief . . .”

  But Katza did not think her grief had overwhelmed her. She felt buoyed by it. Like it was a tide that had carried her to a new, higher level of understanding. She could show weakness no longer—Russalka must be brought to order.

  “I suppose what I’m trying to say is . . . you shouldn’t feel pressured to rush into matters of statecraft. You needn’t suddenly transform into a perfect tsarika for your people. You are permitted to take time for yourself. For your betrothed.”

  Katza released his hands. This wasn’t at all the turn she had expected this conversation to take. “I beg your pardon?”

  Fahed shifted his weight. A trickle of sweat gleamed at his temple. He was nervous, Katza realized, laughter bubbling up in her. He was afraid.

  And then she saw it. Without her father, this marriage was no longer necessary. He’d fought to solidify Russalka’s alliance with Bintar, but Katza need not follow his plans. Fahed was afraid because he feared Katza would call it all off.

  She was no longer the footsoldier in a game of checkmates. She moved the pieces. She seized the crown.

  Fahed wiped the sweat from his brow. “I only thought that—given your relative lack of training in matters of state—maybe you would wish to turn over the fine details of running Russalka to your advisors. Just—just for the time being,” he added quickly, words tumbling over themselves. “While you adjust to these changes . . . While we begin our marriage properly.”

  A smile curved Katza’s lips, sharp and cruel. “And why do you think I might wish that?”

  “For your own peace of mind. You don’t wish to overexert yourself, my beloved, and instead you could, well, ease into the throne.”

  Katza laughed. It sounded mad even to her ears, but a little touch of madness was good. It kept his fear alive. “I must know what is happening in my own country. I can’t afford ignorance any longer.”

  And she must be strong. Stronger than this cunning Bintari prince, stronger than the agitators and the Hessarian navy. She’d been weak for far too long. She could not bear it for another day.

  Fahed scrubbed a hand through his dark hair. “Well, it was only a thought—”

  Katza silenced him with a glower. “I think I’ve heard quite enough of your ideas.”

  “Oh?” Fahed’s charm was all gone, and the anger she’d only glimpsed at before simmered in his expression. But she no longer feared it. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You’d rather listen to all that poison your prophet boy has been pouring into your ears.”

  Katza went deathly still. “He is not your concern.” She gripped her skirts. “And neither, prince, am I.”

  Fahed reached for her arm. “Katarzyna. I know you think you’ve learned much, but if you insist on being blind to the real power-hungry fools in front of you . . .”

  Katza took a step back. “No. No, I think I see them quite clearly.”

  “What—” Fahed stammered. “Katza, no. Please—If the Hessarians are coming, then you need—”

  But she was already moving past him for the door.

  “Your Highness?” Nadika asked, as Katza burst from the study. “Is everything all right?”

  Katza bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from spilling all her frustrations. She just needed to be away from Fahed. From Stolichkov. From everyone except for her dearest friend. And her prophet, if he was anywhere to be found. She forced her head high and headed for her rooms. Nadika flagged down a servant, whispered something to them, and followed, the rest of the tsarika’s guards in tow.

  “I’m so sorry, Your Highness,” Nadika said, once they were safe in Katza’s rooms. “I can keep him from seeing you in private, if you like. But he is your betrothed, and—”

  “Says who?” Katza cried. She sank onto the bench of her vanity and began ripping pins from her hair. “I never asked to be wed to a stranger. He’s handsome, he’s charming, but—but that isn’t enough.” She blinked back tears. “Is that enough?”

  Nadika reached forward to help Katza with her hairpins. “You know perfectly well that isn’t what marriage is about for someone like you.”

  Katza said nothing, for she knew it was true.

  “Bintar is still our closest ally, but even that is a tenuous arrangement. If Hessaria attempts to come from the south, as we fear they might . . .”

  Katza pricked herself with a pin and snarled with frustration. “I don’t care! I can’t, Nadika. I can’t bear it anymore. I’m in charge now.”

  “And everything you do is for the good of Russalka. I know this, my tsarik
a. I see it for myself, all day long. But trust me when I say that Bintar’s aid is all that stands between us and the Hessarians, along the southwestern edges. Especially with all our Mozgai troops recalled here, to Petrovsk . . .”

  Katza stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair was wild, choking her face like a thicket of vines. Her cheeks flushed bright red, and at first, she scarcely recognized the embers of hatred burning in her eyes. Tonight she was supposed to dine with a carefully selected group of Russalkan nobility, at Stolichkov’s insistence, to assuage their fear about her right to rule. But right now, she was more likely to frighten them off like some vengeful apparition.

  Nadika was right. Fahed was ambitious, yes, but she could say the same for any one of her courtiers. If she were honest with herself, she could say the same for Ravin. There was nothing inherently wrong with ambition. It came from a drive to do better, to be more. Only recently had she awakened that drive in herself.

  No falsehoods, then. She would be honest with Fahed—as honest as she dared—and expect the same from him. Maybe there were other ways to placate him beyond a marriage union. A title, or a permanent seat in the Golden Court, perhaps. But even if he insisted they be wed, perhaps an understanding could be struck . . .

  Nadika helped Katza pull the curls back from her face and gave her a motherly pat on the shoulder. “I’m afraid we must head down to your dinner party soon.”

  Katza sighed and reached for the horsehair brush. A knock sounded at the door—Sveta, she supposed, come to make her look presentable.

  “But first, I’ve sent for someone who might raise your spirits.” Nadika’s reflection in the mirror smiled sadly. “I’ll give you two a moment alone.”

  Katza whirled toward the door, heart soaring, as Ravin slipped inside her parlor.

  “Prophet.” Katza rushed toward him. All the frustration and doubt she’d wrestled with rose in her chest, but at the sight of his dark gaze and careful smile, she felt it lift away. “Boj’s mercy be upon you.”

  “Blessed one.” He was reaching to grasp her hands, but she was suddenly overcome. She flung her arms around him, his long, slender form, and pressed her cheek to his chest. He returned the embrace, running one hand along her shaking spine, and let Katza cling to him. “I was told you have need of me,” he murmured, nestling his nose in her loose curls.

  Katza always had need of him. Without his calming presence, she felt lost these days, drifting between a place of anger and a place of weariness and shame. But she wisely stuffed those words back down her throat before they could escape.

  “Something is troubling you.”

  Katza lifted her head from where she’d nestled against his chest. She’d never seen his mouth from so close, though she’d studied it more than she cared to admit—those delicate lines, and that faint touch of pink on his pale skin as if applied by a ceramicist’s brush. Reluctantly, she stepped back from his embrace, but felt a chill grip her as she did so. She wanted to cling to him. Wanted him to anchor her. He always knew just what she needed to hear and just how to push her to better herself.

  “I am trying my best to do Boj’s will,” Katza said. A small guilt rippled through her, as if she were a child. “But I have misgivings.”

  Ravin’s eyebrows drew down, giving him a guarded look.

  “I see my people suffering as they try to bring about change. I cannot give them what they want—they want to cast aside the royalty and shower themselves in riches—but I cannot let them suffer, either.”

  Ravin tucked a lock of Katza’s hair behind her ear. His touch against her earlobe sent a new shiver down her spine, this one far more welcome. Something tightened low in Katza’s belly at the sensation.

  “Do not fret over what Boj wishes for you. For Boj’s power is your own.” He closed his eyes for a moment, saintly and peaceful. “Boj’s will is your own. Boj’s power is nothing but a wellspring of raw power that belongs to you.” His tone darkened, crackling. “You command this world. You decide.”

  Was it true, what he said of Boj? Katza felt Boj’s power churning through her again, aligning, pulling her further along her path of yearning. Yes, she felt it now. She was in control, and with Ravin at her side, she was unstoppable.

  “There will be some pains to endure as Russalka adjusts,” Ravin conceded. “These small minds cannot conform to your vision for Russalka all at once. But they will fall in line soon enough.”

  Ravin’s fingers ran down her neck, tracing a filigree line. Katza bit her lower lip to stifle a gasp. She was overcome with the electricity in her veins, the longing that itched beneath her skin. Whispers danced through her mind: words of strength and force.

  “And what of Hessaria?” Katza asked. Her voice sounded heavy to her, thick with want. But she needed to focus. She needed Ravin’s counsel to ease her mind, even if all she could think of now was Ravin’s long fingers as they pressed a gentle chord against her shoulder . . . “I—I know nothing of waging war.”

  “Yes.” He glanced down. “There are grave dangers on the horizon. I’ve had visions.”

  Katza swallowed. She’d been relieved not to be revisited by her old recurring vision. But she’d not had new ones, either.

  “In them, I see ships, but also hooves, clamoring across the cobbles. Men spilling over the hills.” He met her gaze. “You must defend your land.”

  Katza nodded. Her body felt so full, so taut with power and want.

  “Your land,” Ravin whispered, his fingers pressing into her shoulder. “Your people. Do not forget that, blessed one—this is all yours. The power is yours.”

  Katza’s mouth parted. She drank in the sight of Ravin, wound like a screw, his eyes intense and his touch a cleansing fire. She wanted more. She wanted him, she wanted every part of him, and this intoxicating way he had of steering her true, of setting her soul aflame.

  “Who are you?” Katza whispered. How did he seem to roar with so much power? “What are you?”

  Ravin’s smile gleamed like jagged glass. “I am someone who has seen through to the truth of this world.” His fingers stretched upward, splaying across her chin, her lips. Katza shuddered as he dragged one fingertip across her mouth. “And soon, you shall see it, too. Together, we can forge Russalka into the mightiest weapon the world has ever seen.”

  A weapon. A scythe, to strike down Hessaria and all the rest. A scalpel to cut away the tumor of the agitators. Yes. This was what Katza needed to become. She tasted the salt of Ravin’s skin on her lips, smelled his smoky incense. Together.

  Nadika knocked on the parlor door.

  Katza’s shoulders slumped, and Ravin took a careful step back from her. “I must head to dinner,” she said.

  Ravin peered at her through dark lashes. “I understand, tsarika.” He pressed his lips together and glanced away shyly. “Perhaps I could . . . accompany you?”

  Relief washed over Katza. “I’d be honored.”

  Katza settled her hand into the crook of his arm and followed him into the hall. Nadika startled at first from the sight of them, but she and the other guards quickly fell into step. Already the strains of the string quartet were filling the palace, resonant and vibrating as they painted a luscious landscape of music around them. Katza’s whole body shivered in tune with Russalka and her prophet once more.

  “My blessed sun,” Ravin said. “Your dawn has only just begun.”

  Ravin proved quite the star attraction at dinner, commanding everyone’s attention more than even the latest danse sacre principal. While Katza calmly answered questions regarding the impending coronation with one- or two-word replies, the nobles grew more and more curious about the holy man in their midst. Ravin tried to demur, but Count Grillov begged him to work a small miracle, and then everyone started clamoring for him to tell their fortunes.

  Prophet Mikhail tried to intercede, cautioning against flaunting Boj’s gifts, but wit
hout Patriarch Anton to support him, his protests were quickly drowned out by the nobles. Ravin led everyone to a marble and gold sitting room and held court with a patient look on his face, calmly addressing each noble’s request for visions in turn. Katza watched with a strange twist to her lips. She knew he hated using his blessings for frivolities. She herself had little patience for all this show. But if Ravin saw value in keeping them happy, giving them what they asked for, then maybe she could learn to as well.

  Ravin promised Princess Badunova that her beauty would never age and fade, and foretold that Duke Dizhevskoy would soon embark on a new business venture. They crowed and clapped and cooed over the star prophet, and Katza was all too happy to sit back and let him soak up their attention in her stead.

  Only once or twice did she mark the dark expressions lodged on Fahed’s and Stolichkov’s faces, the meaning for which she did not yet grasp.

  It wasn’t until the next day’s Golden Court session that she understood.

  “We’ve received word of another fire at a textile factory in the Pskov District,” the Minister of Commerce announced. “I’m afraid almost a month’s worth of textiles bound for Abingdon and Texeira were lost.”

  Katza’s heart sank. “What about the factory workers? Did they make it out of the factory safely?”

  The minister frowned down at his report. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, I’m afraid I don’t have that information.”

  “You don’t know?” Katza repeated, incredulous. “The loss of our citizens’ lives is more important than the textiles lost.”

  “Well, they were only factory workers, and . . .” He tapered off as Katza stared him down, outrage whetting her gaze. The minister cleared his throat and jotted a hasty note to himself. “I’ll see what I can do to find out.”

  The city guard captain stood up. “Minister? Is there any reason to believe the fire was a deliberate act?”