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  Why, though, did appearing strong make her feel weaker than ever before?

  Katza lifted her head from the carriage cushions. Her skull felt heavy as a horse. Nadika turned toward her from the other side of the bench and smiled, though it looked strained. Katza groaned—a sharp intake, pained.

  “Nadika. What have I done?”

  Nadika’s smile faded and she looked back toward the curtained windows. “What you must.”

  It did not feel that way. Katza moistened her lips, tongue worrying against her teeth. “Bid the driver stop at the palace chapel. I wish to pray.”

  “Of course, my tsarechka.” Nadika thumped on the roof of the carriage and relayed the message.

  Katza stumbled into the palace’s chapel when they arrived, limbs leaden and spent. She was still dressed in a fine velvet walking dress and a heavy cloak, but she found a simple scarf in her cloak’s pockets and used it to cover her hair. Boj would have to forgive her other fineries. Boj had far worse to forgive her for, after all.

  She sank to her knees on the prayer cushion. Scanning the rows of icons, her gaze slid past Saint Marya and her bloody crown, and she searched, trying to settle on which saint to beseech. But none seemed to embody the nameless feeling inside her. Regret, but then again not. Hatred, maybe, of the world that had made such acts necessary. Of the agitators who threatened order, growing lies from seeds of truth.

  Perhaps, as Ravin and his old order said, it was best sometimes to commune with Boj directly.

  Is this the way to make Russalka safe, o Boj? Katza’s lips moved in time with her prayer. These shows of might. The fear that settles like frost on the streets. Is this what you want from me?

  Dark whispers spun around Katza like smoke. She shivered, expecting a vision to wash over her. The hairs raised on the back of her neck and arms. But no proper vision coalesced. All she felt was a faint fluttering, like the visions were too afraid to approach her.

  It felt like a warning. Like she was only just keeping her vision of bloodied hands at bay.

  And then she saw the figure. Solid black, drinking up the light in the sanctuary doorway. The altar candles guttered, and briefly their light flickered over him, illuminating that elegant nose, sharp cheekbones, plush youthful lips.

  Ravin.

  Katza trembled, feeling tears threaten the corners of her eyes. His jaw tightened, as if he was nervous too, and he stepped toward her.

  “You are afraid,” he said.

  Katza swallowed. “I’m not certain what it is I feel.”

  His tilted his head to one side.

  Katza sank back onto her heels and tucked her hands into her lap. “I thought the blessings would help us spread order through the city, but instead it only seems to have brought fear. And then—then I believed I was showing strength, but perhaps it was merely cruelty.”

  “Your father’s agents are rooting out the agitators,” Ravin said.

  “I thought they were. But it sounds as if they’re only sweeping up children. Misguided commonfolk, desperate for change. This fear they feel—it isn’t any way to bring them around.”

  “They chose to follow the agitators,” Ravin said. “And some of the agitators, too, have been stopped.”

  Katza supposed that was true. But it did not forgive what she had done.

  “You love your people,” Ravin said gently. “It’s why you strive to be more for them. Why you beseech the saints, though the priests would try to stop you. You know the blessings can be used for good.”

  “But also for ill,” Katza said. “I didn’t mean to cause any harm.”

  “And now you have learned. Haven’t you?” he asked.

  Katza studied him for a moment, but her eyes were still adjusting to the dark. “I suppose so.”

  “You must stay on course, tsarika.” Katza craned her neck up to look at him as he approached. “There is always a pain that comes with great change. It will chafe at you like uncut stone if you let it, but the pain will guide you onward. It will see you through the storm. And you will be all the better for it.”

  Ravin paused before her. He wore simple black peasant’s boots and loose black trousers to match; his tunic was rough wool of dark gray, as was the sash at his waist. His hands clasped before him like crows at rest, ready to flutter away if startled. And that face, those dark eyes that pulled her into his void and refused to release her—

  Katza swallowed and forced herself to look away.

  “What are you?” she whispered. For he was no prophet—his order had cast him out. Temnost. The word lodged stubbornly in her throat. If he was forsaken, then surely she, in her desperation, was too.

  Ravin let one of his hands hover over her shoulder—a question. Katza nodded and his palm pressed down. With a gasp, her heavy heart lifted. She felt cleansed. His touch was as cool as the clear mountain spring behind their summer palace in Zolotov.

  “Change is painful but inevitable,” Ravin said. “Once you harness the saints’ blessings, truly master them, then you can return order to Russalka. You must endure this temporary discomfort, tsarika, for the good of your people.”

  “Temporary,” Katza repeated.

  He turned his palm upward and slid his hand beneath her chin. Her lips parted. The coolness of his touch soothed her, calmed her. “Yes. Temporary.”

  Katza sank into his touch, relieved. He was right. She’d done no lasting harm. And if the protesters learned to respect the Silovs—if they learned to respect her—and she in turn learned the proper boundaries for her gifts—

  He smiled at her. “Once you’ve realized your power,” Ravin said, “your work can truly begin.”

  Winter fell on Petrovsk all at once. Katza woke to find great flakes of white marring her view of the palace square, and a chill nipping at her toes and fingers even beneath her heavy blankets. She rang for her maids to turn up the gas so she wouldn’t freeze to death while she bathed and dressed.

  “A bad omen, this early a snow,” Sveta said, as she toweled the water from Katza’s hair. “My folks in Piripitok haven’t even finished the harvest yet. They might lose some crops to this cold.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Katza said. “Maybe we can send some spare grain to Piripitok.”

  Sveta stifled a laugh. “Send it to the farming villages? Dear tsarechka, where do you think the grain comes from?”

  Katza winced, embarrassed. Of course. She knew how the system worked, just like she knew Abingdon lay to the west of Hessaria—she’d learned it all from charts and maps. But they all jumbled up in her head.

  Sveta finished braiding her hair and helped her into her riding clothes: knit trousers, high boots, a woolen jacket, a fur-lined hat, and a long fur-trimmed military coat. Today she was going to inspect the troops at her father’s side, and though she had no rank, she wanted to look the part. She needed to look serious for the troops, but also for her father. For she had something big to ask of him.

  “How do I look?” Katza asked Nadika, as they headed for the stables. They walked northeast along the curve of the bay toward the garrison, connected to the palace grounds with heavy fencing.

  “Like a queen,” Nadika said. Katza grimaced. From the flatness that had been in Nadika’s tone ever since the dress shop, she couldn’t be sure if that was good or bad.

  Then they reached the garrison gates, and Katza’s mouth dropped.

  Tens of thousands of soldiers—there must have been that many or more, all crammed on the garrison’s yards. Mozgai cavalry, infantry, cannoneers and sappers and rifle brigades, and a dozen other forms of troops for which Katza didn’t even know the name. She ran her gloved hand over her horse Boyar’s neck and marveled at the sight.

  Tsar Nikilov trotted up to her on a silky-maned white steed dressed in its military winter coat. “Impressive, is it not?” he asked. “I’ve recalled the major divisions
from their eastern outposts. We have to be prepared for whatever the damned Hess are up to.”

  Katza fiddled with Boyar’s reins. She was used to her mare, Katyusha, who was more apt to graze on the nearest bush than stand at attention like Boyar did. “I didn’t know you were recalling them to Petrovsk.”

  “I’ve tried to do it quietly. Hessaria likes to mistake defense for aggression. If Hessarian spies saw our troops gathering, then they might think we mean to invade them, not that we meant to protect ourselves from a possible invasion.”

  Katza shuddered at the thought that Hessarian spies could be watching them even now.

  “We’ll walk through a few squadrons. It’s mostly for show,” the tsar confessed. “Give each commanding officer a few seconds to brag about his forces’ discipline, their prowess. Then we’ll go and consult with the superior officers after lunch.”

  “I appreciate you making the effort to teach me, Father.” Katza took a deep breath, trying to summon her courage. “There are some other matters I would like to better educate myself on, as well . . .”

  “Yes, of course.” But her father was already distracted: the first colonel—Katza thought he was a colonel, if she was counting the stripes on his lapel correctly—had approached them. She bit down on what she’d been about to ask and braced herself for a long and tiring day.

  The Mozgai paraded their horses around in a few maneuvers, to applause from the tsar. The marksmen’s unit demonstrated their targeting acumen. Finally, after the third regiment performed a series of formations, Katza spied an opening. She pulled her steed alongside the tsar’s and sat picket-straight in the saddle.

  “Father . . . as you know, I am not as well-versed in several important matters of state as I ought to be.”

  “Yes, yes, but that’s why we’re here.” He pulled his horse’s reins in and patted Katza’s thigh. “You’re a quick learner. I’ve always admired that in you.”

  Katza smiled weakly. “Your coaching on all things military has been invaluable this morning. But I wondered if I might ask . . . If we might hire someone to assist me with spiritual matters, too.”

  He lifted a brow, but said nothing more.

  “Duchess Andreeva’s prophet seems very gifted, very straightforward. And yet she said herself he had worked miracles so completely for her that she no longer required his services. Maybe we could bring him into our service at the palace instead, and he could tutor me—”

  “Tutor you?” The tsar frowned. “You aren’t a child anymore.”

  “No, but I wasn’t raised like Aleksei was.” Like a ruler, Katza thought bitterly. “I have some catching up to do. And if we’re to continue to use our blessings somewhat more liberally, in these extraordinary times—with the agitators in their cellars and the Hessarians at our borders—”

  “Yes. You’re right.” The tsar set his mouth in a line. “You ought to at least master some of the basic blessings, regardless of what the patriarch claims.”

  Katza wondered just what the patriarch did claim about her.

  Her father brought his steed to a halt. “I suppose I was rather impressed with how the duchess’s boy handled your mother.”

  Katza winced. That wasn’t quite what she meant. But if it would convince her father . . . “So you agree?”

  “Lieutenant!” Her father hailed a Mozgai cavalryman. “Your troops are part of the Petrovsk detachment, are they not?”

  “Yes, Your Highness. We protect the city gates and the harbors, and can patrol the narrow streets as required, also.”

  Katza chewed on the inside of her cheek, impatient for her father to finish up. She needed an answer from him. She needed Ravin to guide her. He seemed to be the only one who understood her complicated relationship with the saints and their blessings—her hopes as well as her fears.

  “Have your soldiers been trained in controlling rioters?” he asked.

  The lieutenant hesitated. “There is no official protocol for it, Your Highness.”

  “But your men did put down the rebellion at the grain silos last winter, did they not?”

  The lieutenant puffed up his chest. “Oh, yes! We were able to adapt some of our detainment methods from the Bastalep mutiny to work with civilian attackers.”

  “Excellent. I want you to develop the protocol for riot control, then. In conjunction with your soldiers. We’ll begin a new training regimen—once it’s set, we can bring in squadrons from the rural districts to train too.”

  “Yes, sir.” The lieutenant snapped into a salute.

  “I fear another bad winter may be upon us,” the tsar explained. “We can’t let the villages run rampant as they have in the past.”

  Katza thought of Sveta’s concerns over grain shortages. Now she saw the strange double-sided nature of her father’s political work; it felt like looking through what she thought was a mirror to instead find it a window. The people feared him, but so too did he fear his people.

  “I am honored, Your Highness. I will carry out your will.” The lieutenant saluted again, then went to speak with his junior officers.

  Katza leaned forward, eager to catch her father’s attention again, but he spoke first. “I am very hesitant to grant you this.”

  Katza’s shoulders slumped.

  “But you are right. I must do whatever I can to ensure you are fit to lead, or at very least, to advise me, as your brother did.”

  Her throat bobbed with sorrow, but she knew she must be strong. For Aleksei, if no one else. “Yes, Father. I wish only to honor Aleksei’s memory and legacy—”

  He waved her words away with a white-gloved hand. “I know you will. You are a fine daughter, Katza, and with enough training, you might yet help me as he did. I’ll catch fire from Patriarch Anton, but even he must defer to the tsar sometimes.” His mustache twitched with a faint smile.

  “Thank you,” Katza whispered.

  He motioned to Nadika, and she approached on her own steed. “Naturally, I have concerns leaving my soon to be married daughter with such an attractive young man . . .”

  Katza cried out, humiliated. “Father, please—”

  The tsar laughed. “I’m only teasing you. He is a man of Boj, yes, I know.” He looked at Nadika. “All the same. We must be vigilant of threats—from any possible source.”

  Nadika saluted. “You have my honor, Your Highness. I won’t let any harm come to the tsarechka.”

  Katza smiled. Let him tease. She felt lighter than she’d felt ever since Aleksei had fallen ill. Perhaps even before. Ravin was the key to serving Russalka and Boj, and keeping her ominous vision at bay. It could be no coincidence she hadn’t experienced it ever since he’d come into her life. She had to do everything she could to prevent it from coming to pass.

  “Go, rest. I’ll handle the business of hiring the prophet.” Her father waved her off again. “And don’t forget the Golden Court meeting this afternoon. I’m afraid we have more urgent matters to discuss.”

  Katarzyna took lunch in her private parlor, too bound with nerves to face Fahed in the dining hall. He was always off attending theatre or enjoying the gymnasium when he wasn’t at the Golden Court meetings, anyway, and Katza was content to leave him to it. She hoped he’d be as accommodating when she was studying with Ravin.

  Well, it wasn’t for him to decide. Katza smiled to herself. She was the tsarechka, and he her consort. It felt so strange to find herself in this position of power after believing for so long that she’d be the one sent off to a foreigner’s court. Boj’s will took strange forms indeed.

  Nadika paced the parlor, boots clicking against the parqueted floors, her shoulders screwed up toward her ears. Katza took a sip of tea and regarded her with a smile. “You are on edge, dear friend.”

  Nadika twisted her mouth into a frown. “Your father’s war preparations unsettle me. I’ll admit, it has been some time since
I saw battle. Guarding you was meant to be my respite.”

  Katza looked at the Order of the Tsar’s Cross medal affixed to Nadika’s chest. At age fifteen, the youngest member of her cavalry unit, Nadika had stood guard on a small encampment and ended up defending it against a band of fifteen looters by herself. She’d been granted a swift transfer to the Palace Guard service as reward, and from there had been appointed into the tsarechka’s personal guard. “You don’t miss the cavalry?”

  Nadika shook her head. “I saw enough bloodshed for a lifetime. But—I worry, tsarechka. Are you truly sure relying on the saints is the best course for you?”

  She was speaking of what had transpired at the dressmaker’s shop. Katza’s smile dimmed, and she busied herself fussing with the silverware on her tray. “I wish to regain some control in my life. I don’t wish to be a piece in anyone’s game of checkmates any longer. We can’t seem to stop the agitators, we can’t halt the Hessarians and their hunger for our lands, I can’t even choose whom I marry.” Her voice trembled. She closed her eyes for a moment, recalling the way it felt when Ravin had helped her use her blessings for good. She was still capable of it, she was certain. “But if I can wield the blessings well, then I can truly serve Russalka.”

  “There is a Mozgai story.” Nadika glanced toward the ground. “An old one, from long before Russalka was united. A horseman wished to breed the strongest, fastest horses in all the land—but he feared his neighbor had better stock, better skill. So he watched his neighbor constantly, monitored his herd, spied on his training . . . He worried so much over how his neighbor was doing that he did not see the strengths within his own herd.”

  Katza shook her head. “But I’m not . . . I don’t already have any gifts.”

  “You are already strong in so many ways of your own, tsarechka. Even if you do not see them. Don’t neglect the gifts you already possess. Aleksei saw them clearly in you; surely you can find them, as well.”