Web of Frost

by Lindsay Smith

  Also by Lindsay Smith

  Title Page

  Credits

  PART I

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  PART II

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  PART III

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Pre-order Book 2

  Acknowledgments

  Sekret

  Skandal

  Dreamstrider

  A Darkly Beating Heart

  The Witch Who Came In From the Cold

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  Copyright © 2018 Lindsay Smith

  Published by Eventide Press

  lindsaysmith.net

  All rights reserved

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

  Names: Smith, Lindsay, 1984-, author.

  Title: Web of frost : a saints of Russalka novel / Lindsay Smith.

  Series: Saints of Russalka.

  Description: Washington, D.C.: Eventide Press, 2018.

  Identifiers: ISBN 978-0692057-46-9 (Hardcover) | 978-0692057-47-6 (pbk.) | 978-1370549-05-4 (ebook) | 978-1976853-17-3 (pbk.) | LCCN 2018900577

  Summary: Princess Katza of Russalka struggles with power, magic given to her by the Saints, and political and military forces, all while learning to be the ruler her kingdom needs.

  Subjects: LCSH Princesses--Fiction. | Queens--Fiction. | Magic--Fiction. | Fantasy fiction. | BISAC YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Fantasy / Epic

  Classification: LCC PZ7.S65435 We 2018 | [Fic]--dc23

  Cover illustration © 2018 Merilliza Chan

  Khokhloma pattern © antuanetto / 123RF Stock Photo

  Back cover frame © jakkapan / 123RF Stock Photo

  Cover and interior design by Lindsay Smith

  Kindle Edition 2018

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  The cheerful waltz turned harsh in Katarzyna’s ears; the feast tasted like ash in her mouth. Only the howling wind outside the palace windows matched her mood as the festivities raged around her. But that, too, carried with it the shouts of the riot swelling at the palace gates, the rioters her father, the tsar, was carefully ignoring. Acknowledging it meant acknowledging what a fraud this banquet was, but the royal family preferred to cover their pain with embroidered tablecloths. Try as she might, Katza couldn’t follow suit.

  “You look ill at ease, my tsarechka. You’ve scarcely touched your blin.”

  Katarzyna turned toward her friend and guardswoman, Nadika, who loomed behind her chair. “This is all wrong.” She gestured toward the ball around them: the marble columns veined with gold, the unseasonably fresh flowers, the courtiers dressed in miles of silk and furs. A servant popped the cork on a bottle of champagne, and she flinched. It sounded too much like cannon fire. “We should be focusing on Aleksei tonight. Not all this revelry.”

  “There will be time for that tomorrow,” Nadika said. “You should savor this night. It only comes once a lifetime.”

  But the grim press of Nadika’s lips said she shared Katza’s concern.

  Katza sank deeper into her chair. All her life she’d looked up to her older brother Aleksei. He taught her everything from how to navigate court politics to how not to embarrass herself in a game of checkmates. Not that she ever thought she’d need it. Aleksei would become tsar one day, and Katarzyna would be . . . a wife. She’d be sent across Russalka’s borders: a manacle to chain some poor nation to a treaty, as she chained herself to her new home.

  Saint Agniesz help her. As much as she’d feared that day, this new plan was so much worse. But Katarzyna had the saints’ blessings to honor, and Russalka to serve. Her fear and pain was secondary to her duties.

  A fresh cry rang outside beyond the ballroom, followed by a brutal thud. It sounded as if the protesters were trying to breach the gates. Some of the waltzers’ steps faltered, and the tsar’s expression pulled tighter—he’d heard it, too. Yet as quickly as he’d acknowledged it, he smoothed his face back into calm, and turned to chat with his cousin, Duchess Andreeva.

  Katza twisted the napkin in her lap and stared down at her plate. Were Aleksei here, he’d have spoken up by now—urged their father to address the protesters, made some sort of proclamation to calm their rage. Called off the guards before someone was harmed. Why wasn’t the tsar doing anything?

  Aleksei would tell her to confront their father and speak her mind. Not to be so meek. Katza opened her mouth, but no words came to her. It wasn’t her place to order around the tsar. But maybe if she could tell him something useful—prove that she could be just as clever a leader as Aleksei—

  Katza closed her eyes.

  Saint Orlov, she whispered, and fixed the sign of the saint in her mind. An eagle, wings spread as it glided over the forest, surveying the land below. Grant me your eagle’s vision so that I might see my people.

  Katza’s blood hummed, sluggish, hesitant to wake the royal gift she scarcely used. She’d had little use for it, and the few times she tried, the priests were quick to chide her for wastefulness. They’d likely chide her for this, too. But it’s what Aleksei would have done—what Katza must do, in his stead. Keep their father in check and Russalka at peace.

  To whatever extent she could.

  Slowly, Saint Orlov’s blessing shimmered over her, brushing her skin like a cool breeze. Her sight turned from the ballroom, soared out of the palace, and steered toward the broad half-moon square beyond the palace gates.

  First she saw nothing but the bitter falling snow whipping through the ink of night. But then she spied the lampposts that lined the square, and the curling filigree of the palace’s wrought iron fences—and the sharp golden points atop them. Protesters, dressed in tattered rags, were trying to climb the fences’ bars. The cold stung at their exposed skin, leaving it shiny and raw, but still they climbed, desperate to get onto the palace grounds.

  “Tsar Nikilov must let us eat!” one man cried. “We’ll starve without his aid!”

  The palace guards hunkered in formation behind the fence line. White ringed their eyes as they regarded the crowd—it must have been nearly a thousand strong. The captain reached for his rifle, and his soldiers followed his lead.

  “The tsar has no time for you, wretch.” The guard captain inched toward the gate, though Katza could nearly taste his fear.

  One protester, a disheveled woman, laughed wearily. “The tsar is nothing without us.”

  “Stand back! Come down from the fence! This is your final warning,” the captain bellowed.

  But the protesters continued climbing, clothes snagging and tearing on the spikes. The soldiers exchanged nervous glances until the captain raised his fist, signaling them to fight back. Arms trembling, they jabbed with their bayonets—

  “Katza.” Her father was shaking her. “Katza. It’s time.”

  Saint Orlov’s blessing of eagle’s vision faded, but the cruel jabs of the blades played over and over in Katarzyna’s mind. She should tell her father that the soldiers were only making matters worse. The peasants needed compassion, not more cruelty—
that’s what Aleksei would have counseled.

  But Katza lacked her brother’s courage to stand up to their father and steer his course. Always had, and always would. Perhaps that’s why the protesters swarmed the gates tonight: they knew their fiercest ally in the palace was now dead.

  Katza’s father reached for her hand. Her throat tightening, she lay her tiny gloved palm in his and rose from her seat at the royal table. The waltz concluded, and in a rush of satin and glitz, the revelers retook their seats.

  “Bravo!” Katza’s father shouted, and offered a regal nod to the court’s composer. “You honor Boj and Russalka with your joyous music.”

  And Aleksei, Katarzyna thought. But she couldn’t bear to correct her father out loud.

  “I am thankful for your presence on this dark winter’s night,” her father continued. “For I have something to announce.”

  The countesses and dukes and barons who comprised the Golden Court watched him, champagne flutes clenched in their gloved fists. The diplomats and generals and priests leaned forward with bated breath.

  The priests frightened Katza most of all. They interpreted the saints’ visions and counseled the royal family on use of their blessings. Scolded Katza when she overstepped her bounds in calling on the saints. Once, Father Anton had declared that Russalka would fall without Aleksei to lead it. They warned that Katza was too weakly blessed to ever be a proper leader.

  Now that Aleksei was gone, though, Katza had no choice. One day, she would have to take her father’s place.

  “Tomorrow we shall pay our proper farewells to Prince Aleksei, taken from us far too soon.” The tsar’s voice wavered, but he squeezed Katza’s hand and kept his stance firm. “Tonight, however, I wish to focus on happier news.”

  Now came the moment Katza had dreaded most. Tonight should have been a solemn affair. Tomorrow they’d surrender Aleksei’s soul to the charge of Saint Mortei, guardian of the dead. But tonight—

  Katarzyna tasted the duck confit and herbed cheese blin creeping back up her throat.

  Tsar Nikilov released her hand and ran one finger over his golden mustache. “My daughter, Tsarechka Katarzyna, is to be wed.”

  Katarzyna smiled into the blizzard of applause. The jewels adorning the court ladies’ hands glittered as they clapped, blinding her. But Katza barely heard them. Her pulse roared in her ears as she tried to steady herself. The protesters’ screams echoed in her mind. And in her soul, she felt the scrape of her brother’s final, tortured breaths.

  Russalka is on the brink, he’d told her. I fear Father hasn’t the will to save it. But perhaps, with your aid . . .

  Katza winced. He’d always placed far too much faith in her. The less Katza did, the better off they all were.

  “I have accepted the proposal of Prince Fahed of the Bintari Emirate, a trusted ally to Russalka and our partner in trade. The Bintari aided us when Hessaria threatened our borders, and the saints have blessed me with visions that bode well for this match. May Russalka’s glory thaw even the thickest frost!”

  The Golden Court cheered as Katza sank back into her chair. Nadika clapped a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but Katza jerked away. Nothing could soothe her right now. She glanced toward the seat assigned to Aleksei’s widow, Konta Annika of Hessaria. But she’d excused herself the moment Tsar Nikilov stood to make his proclamation. She’d borne no heirs. There was nothing left in Russalka for her now.

  The fate of the Silov lineage rested with Katza. Maybe she’d be lucky enough to bear an heir who could take the throne before she ever had to take it herself. It would be a kindness—to Russalka and herself.

  “You will make a fearsome tsarika one day,” Nadika said under her breath.

  Katza winced. Nadika meant the lie as a kindness, but it stung more than she knew.

  A line was forming in front of the royal family’s banquet table—courtiers and guests wanting to wish Katarzyna well and offer their condolences to the tsar on the loss of his son. Katza donned a dazzling smile to match her jeweled kokoshnik. Solitude was a luxury even a princess could not afford.

  “Your father is very wise,” Countess Barilova told Katza. “Arranging your marriage so soon after Aleksei’s death. Don’t want any doubts as to your family’s future, not with the agitators rumbling so.”

  Duke Frantsiskov smiled sweetly, baring bacc-stained teeth. “Perhaps your heirs will be more blessed by the saints than yourself.”

  “I’ve met Prince Fahed,” Lillia, one of the admirals’ daughters, confided. “Very handsome. Witty, too! You’re quite lucky, Katza.”

  Prophet Malikov paused before Katza and made the sign of the Saints’ Wheel. “Saints bless you and grant you their gifts to serve Russalka well.”

  I’m trying, Katza thought, tears threatening in the corners of her eyes. I want to use their blessings well.

  But all the priests and visions warn me I cannot.

  The same vision had plagued her since she was a little girl, barely able to read the gold-leaf scripture in the reliquary. Every time she knelt in the chapel, it played out the same. The incense would flood her nostrils, and she would pray to Saint Glazunov, and suddenly she was there: the snowy clearing in the woods. The world tinged blue with twilight as heavy snow stifled all sound. Dark pines, distant mountains. A peaceful sight. Except for the white wolf—the symbol of Russalka—and his belly sliced open, staining the snow with red.

  In the vision, Katza raised her hands to find them slick with blood.

  She must not be allowed to rule Russalka. The saints warned her with the visions, even as they bestowed her with their blessings, like they did all Silov heirs. When the priests permitted it, her father and brother had used their blessings to accomplish wonderful feats. Coaxing a bountiful harvest from stubborn earth; freezing the Petrovsk harbor to break the Hessarian blockade. Katza kept to minor blessings—tiny, harmless gifts from lesser saints. She dared not ask for anything stronger. She dared not bring her vision to life.

  “Are you cold, my tsarika?”

  Katarzyna looked up at her next guest, a young man around her age. He wore the simple black garb of the prophets, though she did not recognize the order’s sigil clasping his cloak at his throat. His expression was long, hollowed; his eyes were the kind of darkness that pulled the light to it and swallowed it whole. And yet there was softness in his face, in his delicate bone-colored skin and the flush to his fine lips. He looked—curious.

  His gaze made her curious in return.

  “I’m just a tsarechka,” she corrected him. “My father is the tsar.”

  “But someday, you will be tsarika,” he replied.

  He spoke evenly, with the steadiness of a prophet copying scripture by hand. Katarzyna tilted her head as if he were a particularly puzzling verse. Who was he, to speak so confidently of her future?

  He pressed his lips together. It reminded her of her tutor when she was being dense. “You are afraid,” he said. Then the corners of his mouth lifted. “Why does it scare you so?”

  Katza sputtered, feeling her temper rising like a tide. She drew herself up to full height and peered down at him through narrowed eyes. “I beg your pardon—”

  “You fear it—the warning you believe is from the saints. It lopes through your visions, starving.” He spoke with deathly calm.

  Katza shrank back. He couldn’t possibly know about her vision. She’d never once confessed it to the priests. Even if he was a prophet of Saint Glazunov, who granted visions, there was no way for him to know.

  “Why do you feed it?” he asked. “You know it feeds on your fear.”

  His gaze pierced her like a lance. She sank into her cushioned chair with the unsettling feeling he could see straight through her.

  He gripped the edge of the banquet table with long fingers and leaned forward. “You mustn’t feed it. It is a lie, told to you by men who’d claim yo
ur blessings for themselves.” Then, his expression softened. “You have nothing to fear.”

  Panic raked up Katza’s spine like icy nails. Who was this boy to speak to her so? And how could he know of the vision that plagued her? She’d never breathed it to a soul. Not even Aleksei, whom she trusted with her life. She hadn’t wanted him to see her for what she truly was. Yet this boy knew. She was a beast who could destroy Russalka, and everything her family had worked to build.

  “You are not a monster,” the boy said.

  The panic sank its claws deeper.

  “You are blessed.” His voice lilted, softening with warmth. “A blood member of the Silov family, blessed by every one of the anointed saints. The sooner you stop fearing your gifts, the sooner you can make them your servants.” He narrowed his gaze. “Not your tormentors.”

  “Forgive me, prophet.” Katza’s hands had tightened into fists. She forced them open and pressed her palms against the table. “I appreciate your concern. If it’s patronage you’re seeking, however, my family already has our court prophet, appointed to us by the Patriarch of All Saints.”

  Katarzyna gestured toward the far end of the banquet table, where Prophet Mikhail sat primly, hands folded before him, a special meal of shredded greens and weak tea untouched on the table. He said a blessing to fortify his meal, sending a flicker of light over its surface, then reached for his fork. Her brother’s widow, Annika, had returned and was trying to address the prophet, but judging by the growing distress on her face, he was probably telling her the same thing he’d told Katza, time and again. Let go and let the saints guide you.

  More powerlessness. More submission. And where had it gotten them? Aleksei was dead and only Katza remained to take the throne. Even the saints warned her through her vision that she was no choice at all.

  A rifle shot pierced the cold night, echoing against the palace walls. Some guests pretended not to hear, but most tossed fearful looks in the direction of the gates, beyond the frost-rimed windowpanes. Katza’s stomach tightened. She recalled the cruel jab of the soldiers’ bayonets, the protesters’ pleading cries—