Web of Frost Page 2

  “You have the power to stop this,” the young prophet said.

  Katza’s gaze snapped back to him. The faintest of smiles touched his lips as he studied her, softening his features. It felt like a dare.

  But Katza shook her head, honey-colored curls swaying. “No. Only my father can call off the guards.”

  “Not with decrees, tsarika.” He made the symbol of the Saints’ Wheel, fluid and graceful as a sonata. “With your gifts.”

  Katza’s face flushed. She couldn’t. Her father had used his gifts, once, to try to quell a riot at the granary. But it had been a disaster. He’d pushed too hard, and stitched the blessings together all wrong. So many hungry peasants trampled. So many soldiers filled with resentment when they saw how little their tsar thought of their skills.

  “For Russalka,” the prophet said. “For the earth, the sea, and the blood they spilled between them.”

  Katza’s mouth opened as she stared at him. She’d heard that phrase before—read it in a book of fairytales before Prophet Mikhail found it in her parlor and took it away. A story from the Russalka that once was, long before the saints lived and sacrificed themselves and died. A Russalka tamed only by iron and salt.

  “What do you know,” Katza asked, “about the earth and the sea?”

  The protesters roared again before he could answer. Somewhere in the palace, far too close to the ballroom for comfort, a window shattered.

  “Tsar Nikilov,” one of the guards called. Soldiers rushed toward her father where he spoke with friends at the end of the banquet table. “I’m afraid the evening must conclude.”

  “You are not your father.” The prophet called Katza’s attention back, laying each word before her like a prayer bead. “You are compassionate, like your brother was. Restrained, like the great tsarikas of old. The ones governed by earth and sea and blood.”

  Questions trembled in Katza—about the old stories, about what this boy saw. But as she tried to grasp them, they scattered from her like dandelion seeds caught in the wind.

  “Moreover, though, you trust in the saints. You believe in their blessings more honestly than your father ever will, because you know what it is to feel unloved and uncertain, as so many of the saints were.” He smirked. “Both a boon and a curse.”

  Katarzyna’s lip curled back. “How dare you.”

  The boy’s smile grew: a fire stoked.

  “You have no right to speak to me in this fashion.” But Katza’s voice betrayed her, turning watery. She was dying to know what he knew, to see what he saw.

  “Use your gifts,” he replied. “Use them for the good of Russalka.”

  “I can’t,” Katza said.

  He glanced up at her, hesitant. “I can show you how.”

  Katza drew a deep breath. She should scream, or call for the guards—have this fiend removed from the ball.

  “If you’d rather continue running from your visions, though, be my guest.” His tone was frayed, urgent. “Go on, tsarechka. Sit idly by while you are married off. Never claim the power that is your birthright, while the people of Russalka suffer more and more . . .”

  His words burned, but he spoke true. She couldn’t erase the image in her mind of the soldier with the bayonet, or the peasants with their protruding ribs while the palace serving trays overflowed. Aleksei would never have stood for it. He’d have done everything in his power to persuade their father to act. And if that failed, he would have used his gifts.

  But Katza had feared them so long, she didn’t even know which gift to use.

  “Tsarechek Aleksei is dead!” a protester cried outside, words ringing through the ballroom. “Who will speak for us now?”

  The protesters had breached the gates, and were in the gardens just beyond the ballroom. Another musket shot rang out, followed by a weighty thump. Then—another torrent of shouts, and the sharp sound of stones striking the glass behind Katza.

  “My dearest esteemed guests.” Tsar Nikilov stood and addressed the room once more. “I must advise we move the celebrations into the inner rooms of the palace . . .”

  The prophet held out his hand to her. “Please,” he whispered. “You can do this. I know you are strong enough. And I can guide you.”

  Katarzyna stared at his hand as the shouts of the protesters grew. Something electric coursed through her. A blessing, or a curse—perhaps they were one and the same.

  She let out her breath and laid her hand in his.

  His fingers curled around hers. “Saint Tikhona believed in calm, and pulling the venom from even the most tortured soul,” he said. “A little calm might be a good place to start, yes?”

  Saint Tikhona, Saint Tikhona. Katza racked her brain to summon the correct sign, then traced it in her mind. Tikhona, grant us peace. Almost instantly, Tikhona’s blessing unfolded within her like a warm blanket in her hands. She imagined tucking its corners down around the front gardens of the palace with a soft and muting drift like snow. Slowly, the thrum of the protesters subsided, dampened.

  “Good.” He spoke so low it was scarcely more than a whisper. “Now, perhaps Saint Millionov, who felt the joys and pains of everyone he met. Empathy. Understanding. For the protesters and soldiers both.”

  Katza pictured Saint Millionov’s sign in her head—open arms, receiving. She imagined the soldiers reaching forward, aiding the fallen peasants. Guiding them gently back toward the gates. Understanding their hunger, their pain, their fear of betrayal now that Aleksei was gone. She imagined each person as a lantern, and turned the ferocity down on each one until they felt peaceful and calm—dull flames instead of roaring fires.

  “Incredible. You have such strength, my tsarika. Why would you hide your gifts for so long?” His touch ebbed away the frost in her heart as his fingers sank into hers. “And now—Saint Lechka, to heal their wounds.”

  Katza started to pull her hand away. “No.”

  “My tsarika, if you heal them—”

  Katza closed her eyes, staving off a rush of emotion that threatened to spill into tears. “Saint Lechka has no ears for me.”

  How many nights had she spent, begging and pleading with Lechka to cure her brother’s illness? Lechka may have kept the soldiers safe and healthy on many a battlefield, but she couldn’t stop the Russalkan heir from succumbing to frostlung. Not even a trickle of golden warmth from Lechka, not even one night when Aleksei did not cough and wheeze as his lungs hardened like ice. Katza had failed.

  The boy’s expression was solemn; those soft lips of his twisted now with sorrow. “I am sorry, my tsarika, for your loss. But the saints cannot always intervene. It is not always in their power to save. Nor is it always their will.”

  She shook her head. He was wrong. If anyone had deserved Saint Lechka’s blessing, it was Aleksei.

  The prophet glanced up at her through thick black lashes. “What if I called on Lechka for you?”

  Katza went very still.

  “If we heal them, those still living, then they will know it was no coincidence, what happened tonight.” The boy kept his palm open, waiting for her hand’s return. “They will know that one of the palace’s residents believes in them. Wishes them well. And that belief will be the first seed in a new garden for Russalka.”

  His words stung unexpectedly. Aleksei had always spoken of tending Russalka like a garden—pulling out the weeds, but nurturing the plants. Freeing it of rocks and anything else that might threaten the garden’s growth.

  Our duty is not to sit back and admire our garden in bloom, he’d said once, while arguing with their father. We must tend to it, lovingly and fully, and bestow it with our gifts.

  This boy couldn’t possibly know that. Yet he spoke true. It’s what Aleksei would have done. What, even now, Katza believed he would wish for her to do.

  For Aleksei, then, she could be strong.

  She grasped his
hand once more. “Make the sign of Saint Lechka,” he said softly. “I’ll handle the rest.”

  Katza closed her eyes and made the sign of Saint Lechka in her mind. The saint who’d ignored her desperate cries in the depths of Aleksei’s sickness. As a Silov, Katza was supposed to have every saint’s ear. But she’d always wondered, the few times she’d dabbled in their blessings, if that held true for her. And then she all but stopped calling on them completely. Anything to keep her vision from coming true.

  Saint Lechka. Grant your healing powers to those who are frightened and afraid. Mend the wounds brought on by our soldiers and our gates. Even if my father doesn’t understand . . . I must win back the people’s trust.

  Katza could see and hear nothing changing, which came as no surprise. The guards were ushering the revelers out of the hall; Katza glimpsed Nadika heading her way, her sturdy form tense. She dropped the prophet’s hand and drew back as she blushed, embarrassed.

  A slow smile spread over the boy’s lips. “Do you feel it?”

  Her skin tingled where they’d touched. “Feel what?”

  “Our healing. It’s working.”

  She turned her head toward the glass. The shouting had stopped. No more soldiers screaming, firing. Something else was transpiring in the cold of the night—something Katza didn’t understand. A gasp here and there; a relieved shout.

  “Saint Orlov,” the boy said. “Use his gift to see for yourself.”

  Katza closed her eyes again. Sure enough, the peasants were standing up, rubbing at their wounds as a thin thread of gold stitched them closed. They hugged one another, tearful; their earlier ire had been drained away by the blessings of Tikhona and Millionov.

  But not all of them rose. Some lay still on the cobbles of the inner gates, just piles of tattered fabric. Some were beyond Lechka’s repair.

  “Tsarechka. We must go to safety. The courtyard has been breached.” Nadika seized Katza by the arm, then glanced at the prophet boy with a sneer. “And just who are you?”

  Katza opened her mouth to explain—she knew Nadika, of all people, would understand—but realized she didn’t even know his name.

  “I speak for the saints,” the boy said, with a tilt of his head. “Please, forgive me. I do not mean to interrupt.”

  “We have our court prophet.” Nadika’s voice was cold as glass.

  “It’s all right. He helped me. We stopped the protesters,” Katza said.

  Nadika frowned. “What are you talking about, tsarechka?” Then she shook her head, dark wisps shaking free of her prophet—”

  Katza turned toward the boy, but he had vanished into the crowd.

  Her throat closed up. But he’d helped her. He’d shown her how to safely use her gifts. She’d never had the courage to call on the blessings like Aleksei did, or her father, but something about him—his certainty, his belief in her—had made it feel so effortless.

  With his aid, even Saint Lechka had answered their call.

  “There you are.” Tsar Nikilov wrapped Katza in a tight embrace once Nadika escorted her into the palace’s inner rooms. “My sweet tsarechka. Why didn’t you come with us?”

  Katza sank into her father’s chest. “It’s safe now. I quelled the protesters. Like Aleksei would have wanted.”

  His arms fell away from her. “What? But you’re not as strong as he—” He stopped himself. “You never call upon the saints.”

  “Our people were hurting.” She tried to sound strong. “I had to help them.”

  “The people are always hurting.” The tsar lowered his voice. “Don’t ever do that without my permission again. Mine or the priests’. You could have killed someone.”

  Anger flared in Katza like a spark. “People did die. And it was only going to get worse. Something had to be done.”

  “We have the guards for that.” He clenched her shoulders; his cold eyes bored down on her. “Katza, you must not use your blessings without my permission ever again. It’s not safe.” He glanced nervously to his right, where Prophet Mikhail stood, eyes wrenched shut, fingers sketching the Saints’ Wheel, lips moving in prayer. “Not even for us.”

  But Katza knew what she’d accomplished—it burned in her like fresh kindling. Possibility. Potential. A feeling she’d long thought dead.

  She could aid Russalka. For the earth, the sea, and the blood they spilled between them. And if the prophet was right, then there was far more she could do, too.

  She could ensure Aleksei’s work lived on. And she could make herself worthy to bear the title of tsarika one day.

  Aleksei’s body lay encased in a golden coffin at the front of the chapel; lilies wreathed the altar. Katarzyna knelt beside her father, hands clasped before her, as Father Anton, the Patriarch of Russalka, sang Aleksei’s final rites. Annika, his widow, sobbed only once, Katza noted. She was all wrung out. Her strength only made Katza feel weaker for her continued tears.

  “As Boj in heaven implores us, as demonstrated by all of Boj’s saints, we must surrender to their will and vision for Russalka, so that she might march strong against her foes . . .”

  Around verse eighteen, Katza’s mother fell into one of her episodes, shouting and cursing Boj in heaven. Her attendants removed her with barely a blink from the gathered members of the Golden Court, yet Katza shared her frustration. Aleksei’s absence ached and ached in her like a wound that wouldn’t close. She blinked and saw only Aleksei, ashen-faced, lips gray and desperate for air.

  Katza glanced up at the chapel walls, lined with icons depicting the saints. They were resplendent with gold and rare vermilion paints and precious gems, in contrast to the plain linen and wool clothing the courtiers were required to wear at church. Katza scrubbed the bitter salt from her cheeks as her gaze fell upon Saint Pechalnya, whose tears once flooded the bay beside the capital city of Petrovsk. How Katza felt that sorrow deeply, flooding all the spaces in her heart where her brother should be. How Katza wished she knew how to fill them. Wished she knew what he would tell her to do next.

  She knew what Patriarch Anton thought she should do next, of course—which was nothing at all. She’d endured his slit-eyed lecture that morning when he’d learned how Katza had stopped the protesters. Unbecoming of a future tsarika, he’d called it. Prodigiously wasteful and shamefully self-indulgent. And as if that wasn’t cruel enough, he called on the memory of Aleksei: what would her brother have thought? Never mind that Aleksei, at least, would have been proud of her.

  Anton threatened that Boj would punish such excess—he always threatened such punishments. Katza had heard it whispered amongst the priests, though never put to full voice, that perhaps Aleksei’s ailment had been one such punishment from Boj. Sooner or later, Anton told Katza, Boj’s will tangled them and bound them, and the more they tried to resist it, the tighter those knots would pull.

  Katza had said nothing to the patriarch but her apologies and the standard contrite prayer. She said nothing to implicate the prophet who’d helped her. If Boj truly wished to scold him, Boj would find a way well enough without her help.

  But if Boj did not disagree with Katza—if the saints themselves did not scorn her for what she’d done—then perhaps they might show her a better path.

  Pechalnya, Katza prayed now, bear my sorrows. Show me the way out of this dark forest. I want to honor my brother and serve our country well in his stead. What would he have me do?

  The patriarch droned on.

  Then a vision struck her—a waver and warping of light, as though a doorway had opened in the air in front of Katza’s pew. Images spilled from the doorway, surrounding her like curls of censer smoke. Katza sucked in her breath as they twisted around her. Whenever visions came over her, all she could do was surrender to them until she was consumed.

  She found herself standing on a path—at the mouth of an alley, perhaps. Some cold, shadowed corner of a brighter world.
The brackish smell of Petrovsk’s many canals tickled her nose. Before her, at the alley’s end, a darkened doorway beckoned. She stepped forward and reached for its handle. The moment she grasped it, warmth flooded through her, lapping the bite of frost from her skin.

  Tsarika, a voice whispered from within. Tsarika, the saints are yours to command. Russalka is yours to save.

  As she pulled the door open, she saw the sigil carved into its wood. The same sigil of whatever order the young prophet she’d met had served.

  Listen to Russalka. Its saints, its earth and sea, its people, its blood. Russalka is yours to save.

  She jolted forward as the vision dissolved. Was this Pechalnya’s answer? The way to resolve her grief? It seemed so contrary to the visions that had dogged her all her life. Her stomach twisted as she looked at Aleksei’s coffin. The priests had forbidden him to use his gifts except when there seemed no other choice. To flaunt the saints’ gifts, the patriarch said, was to challenge Boj’s will.

  But the vision had come from Boj, too, speaking through the saints. Urging her to seek out the young prophet, and listen to her people’s voices. To master the power in her blood. To tame her nation. If it was Boj’s will, then how could she decline?

  The saints are yours to command, the vision echoed.

  Just as the prophet had told her.

  “I want to go out in the city,” Katza announced. It was partly a distraction from their checkmates game, but mainly the truth.

  Nadika didn’t take the bait. She studied the game board before her and slid a white boyar, one of the merchant lords of old, forward to capture one of Katza’s blue krest’yans. “I’m not so sure that’s wise.”

  They sat in her private parlor of molded plaster walls and a gilded, vaulted ceiling, Katza still wearing her simple chapel clothes. They’d carried Aleksei’s body to the cold house for storage until spring, when the ground would be soft enough to bury him. Now her father and all the courtiers were drinking and feasting again, and would do so well into the evening, chasing Aleksei’s memories away with wine, no doubt. But when Katza looked at the silken gown her servants had laid out for her, revulsion filled her. She’d have her fill of banquets when her betrothed arrived from Bintar. For this moment, she was free.