Web of Frost (Saints of Russalka Book 1)

by Lindsay Smith

  She allowed herself a few precious moments wrapped in his embrace. Questions would come later. Doubt would find its way back in like a stubborn infection. But for now, her prophet was alive, and he was hers, and she was his.

  —No, she couldn’t be drawn back into his charms. She must stay on guard—

  He stroked her arms, then slowly, painfully, released her. His face, always gaunt, was pulled tight against his skull, and dark crescents lurked beneath his eyes. Katza touched her fingertips to a bruise that grazed his mouth, then withdrew her hand. “What’s happened to you?”

  “I’m afraid I bring dire news to you. A conspiracy I uncovered too late.” He shoved himself off of the pillar with a groan. “Members of your court are working with the revolutionaries to overthrow you. They led you from the palace. They have led you to ruin.”

  Katza wrapped her arms tight around herself. It had to be another lie—another subterfuge of his. But someone had to have helped the protesters stage their revolt. Katza held her breath. Nadika and all the others had gathered in the foyer now, all of them watching Ravin carefully.

  “Prince Fahed and Secretary Stolichkov.” Ravin pointed to the men. “Why do you wish to see Russalka burn?”

  Liar!” Stolichkov cried. “He lies, the temnost lies! I have only ever wanted what’s best for Russalka—”

  “Prophet,” Nadika said carefully, “where is your proof?”

  Fahed looked between the guards and Katza, mouth flapping like a fish. “Your most graceful and equanimous highness, I assure you, this is just a terrible mistake . . .”

  “No, Nadika is right,” Katza said. “Surely you have proof of this.”

  “Who had access to Ulmarova’s cell?” Ravin asked. “Your guard, Nadika, who never left your side. And your trusted secretary, Stolichkov.” Ravin looked between Stolichkov and Fahed. “And you know they’ve both been thick as thieves.”

  A vein throbbed at Stolichkov’s temple; his lips moved, but no sounds came out. “Ts—tsarika—”

  Katza turned toward him. “Do you have something to say?”

  Fahed stepped forward. “I think what the secretary means to say is that—”

  “You wouldn’t listen to reason,” Stolichkov said, nearly hissing the words. “Something had to be done. You were even worse than your father—at least I could placate him with some carefully selected praise. But your hunger knows no bounds or good sense! If you would have only listened, believed us that the agitators needed to be appeased, we could have avoided all this—”

  Fahed cringed and took a step back, but the guards pulled tight to pin him and Stolichkov in.

  “Traitor.” Nadika seized Stolichkov’s arm. “You swore to protect the crown.”

  “How dare you?” Marya’s power crackled within Katza, hungering for blood. She could almost taste it, searing like unfiltered vodok. “You spit on my hospitality. Take advantage of me at my weakest.”

  The air warped around them. She could crush them if she so desired. Tear the iron from their blood or the teeth from their jaws. They would deserve it.

  “They plotted with Ulmarova,” Ravin said, his voice thrumming like a pulse. “Said you would lead Russalka to ruin. Why do you think they pushed you so hard to compromise? They want to see Russalka divided. Weak. To turn it over to these undeserving agitators. Because they are cowards. Because they think the slow, agonizing death of a sick nation is preferable to a quick flash and then—rebirth.”

  Katza shook with a sudden tremor. No. She couldn’t give in. She couldn’t be the demon that her people believed her to be, that Aleksei accused her of being in her vision. She would try to understand why.

  And then she could make them pay.

  “Imprison them,” Katza said to the guards. “We’ll take them with us to the garrison, and then transport them to Temenok Prison. I’ll deal with them later. Once I have my palace back.”

  Fahed’s lip curled back. “You’re making a grave mistake, tsarika. We were only trying to help you. The royalty is doomed—you know it, we all know it. A broken system.”

  Katza narrowed her eyes at him. “It is not beyond repair.”

  “No? The emirate thinks so. They sent me to reason with you. To try to coax you onto a more hospitable path. We don’t need our big neighbor to the north collapsing into lawlessness and chaos, especially with the Hessarians threatening us both. We thought if we could convince you to work with Ulmarova—but when you refused—”

  “Nonsense. You just wanted to install a government more pliable to Bintar’s demands.” Katza turned from him. “You wanted no compromise—no seat on the court. You wanted to see me deposed.”

  “If you would have just worked with the protesters—”

  “I compromise with no one.” Katza was radiant. “I am the tsarika.”

  Fahed, Katza realized, was not the only one who looked afraid. Stolichkov, oddly silent, was cowering, trying to scramble away from her as Nadika held him in place. But even Nadika’s stern countenance wavered; the generals and admiral had taken several steps back.

  Only Ravin watched her, admiring, a smile unfurling with pride.

  Instead, it made her blood run cold.

  Katza turned to her commanders to address them, a tremor running down her back. “Prepare your soldiers. We leave Zolotov at sunset to take the capital back.”

  General Kamenev opened his mouth to protest, but then seemed to think better of it. He and the other men dropped into deep bows. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

  As they rushed off to fulfill her orders, a fresh chill washed over her. She had no more adviser. No more aid from Bintar. She wrapped her arms around herself, Marya’s power leaving her, only a clammy fear and exhaustion remaining. She was exposed—now more than ever before.

  All she had left was Boj’s power—and the prophet she feared meant to take it from her.

  Katza moved toward the library again, Ravin following behind. She should send him away, she knew, but she was too afraid. Her heart still ached at the thought of losing him. She still wanted to love him, believe in him . . . But she couldn’t let him know about her doubts. And with no one else to aid her as she fended off Hessaria or the agitators—

  Perhaps even the saint of lies could serve some use yet.

  As soon as she’d latched the doors closed behind them, he stepped forward and slid his hands around her waist. Heat blossomed wherever he touched, but quickly turned cold with the memory of her vision.

  “I should have stayed with you.” He spoke into the hollow of her neck where it met her shoulder. “Together, we could have stopped the whole rebellion then and there.”

  “No. You were right to track this knowledge down. Now I am far better prepared.”

  He kissed her shoulder. Nipped at her bared skin, gooseflesh rising. Katza shivered at the graze of his teeth, her whole body shifting, attuning to his. It was like her vision, her skin impossibly warm, scorching, power pulsing between them, twining into a subtle tug of war—

  She went stiff. All she could think of was her vision, and the way he’d tried to drain her power away. That same sensation of him pulling, pulling from her until there was nothing left. Maybe she’d been the one to strike the bargain, but he was the true wolf, ready to seize the power she’d gathered up for him. He said he’d be content to follow her, once. And yet he was the one holding the leash, every step of the way.

  Ravin’s lips slid to her ear. “They have prophets. Powerful weapons. Retaking the palace will be a . . . trial.”

  Katza squared her jaw. “I will face it.”

  “I know you will. You will conquer it. You can conquer anything, my love.”

  My love. Her resolve wavered. “And what will you do?”

  His hands traced lower down her stomach. Was she his love? Or was she his key, unlocking every door? His touch stoked a fire so sharp,
so white inside her, her head spun. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Wouldn’t matter, for just one moment—

  “We must tear away the seal,” Ravin said. “I will make the preparations while you retake the palace.”

  Katza clenched her hands on top of his. Stopping him.

  “The Saints’ Wheel on the floor of Saint Kirill’s Cathedral. It’s how the church is holding the power back.”

  Her vision’s warning rang like a klaxon in her skull.

  “When the well is opened, you can absorb it all for yourself. That is the advantage your Silov blood grants you.” His nose grazed the edge of her ear. “You can deny it from their prophets,” his voice thrummed. “From anyone you don’t wish to have it. And then—we can crush them all.”

  Katza’s skin tingled at the thought. Power, racing through her, an unstoppable flood, an unyielding force that no Bintar, no Hessarian, no revolutionary could halt. All of it hers, to share as she wished, to control and deny—

  But she remembered the wolf’s bargain. The predator’s cunning game. The same one Ravin was surely playing now. Even if she had the raw power within her was she any match for his strength, his craftiness?

  She remembered Russalka’s blood coating her arms and spilling across the pure, white snow. It was no longer even a vision, only a scrim that descended like a piece of theatre scenery whenever she blinked. A constant threat overhanging everything she did.

  This was how she fulfilled its warning. By tearing open the well. By daring to believe she could control it all.

  “Join me,” Ravin whispered. The words stitched into her bones as his mouth slid along her cheek. “We can be one. Unstoppable.” His lips were right next to hers; his breath sparked embers against her. “For a new, limitless Russalka.”

  Katza did not answer. She turned her head, wordless, and met his lips with hers.

  Not a promise, she told herself. Not a promise.

  She’d free her mother first, and then decide.

  They left as the sun melted into the western distance, into the dark walls of Petrovsk. A thick crust of ice had formed over this narrow tributary of the Zima, enough for them to travel safely by troika. Katza rode wedged into a sleigh with Admiral Akuliy and Ravin while the generals took another, and Nadika and the other guards took two more with their prisoners.

  As they rode down the darkening path, Katza’s pulse pounded in her ears, in time with the horses’ hooves. A low buzzing like electricity surrounded her. She had no idea what awaited her inside the palace; she had to be prepared for anything. For a whole host of prophets who’d sided with Ulmarova, or heavy artillery fire, or more. Had they really taken her mother ransom, or had they killed her, deeming her not worth their time? What about Katza’s servants, the maids and butlers and attendants she knew and loved? Some of them might have turned from the royalty and agreed to join the revolutionaries to save their hides. Katza’s stomach churned. Some of them might have secretly sympathized with the agitators all along. Could Sveta have been among them? Or was she trapped, terrified?

  Katza almost didn’t realize they’d reached the mouth of the Pechalnoe Bay. Around the harbor’s curve, the city of Petrovsk was eerily quiet and dark, as if everyone had simply left, or wanted others to believe they had. Were the protesters looting and raiding homes, or had they truly focused their efforts on the palace alone? Katza scanned the dark, hulking buildings of stone that lined the harbor as their sleighs headed north for the garrison.

  At the garrison, attendants took their horses and left Katza standing at the gateway, staring at the palace to the south.

  “Please, tsarika.” General Kamenev stood behind her. “If you are going to insist on storming the palace, at least let me send my soldiers in first. We can try to clear a path for you.”

  “No. I don’t want your men and women getting hurt.” She turned toward the assembled officers. “Prepare yourselves for the Hessarians—they’ll be here soon enough.” And we won’t have Bintar’s aid, she reminded herself bitterly. “I can handle the palace myself.”

  Ravin trailed his fingers down her bare arm. “I can still go with you, my blessed sun. Together, not a single protester will be left standing.”

  But that’s what Katza was afraid of. He wielded the power with far more thirst for blood, and she’d shed blood enough. For him, for his hunger for power, for her own misguided vision of Russalka.

  “It’s more important for you to make the preparations to unseal the well.” Her mouth tasted ashy with the lie. Not a lie, she told herself—a deferment. “As soon as my mother’s secure, I’ll join you.”

  Her heart fluttered in her throat. Liberating the entire palace without causing serious harm to her people—she wasn’t at all sure it could be done. But if Ravin went with her, she feared she’d lose all her control. She’d burn and burn, and care nothing for the consequences.

  She’d be exactly the monster they painted her as. A despot unfit for the throne.

  Ravin released her hand and bowed. “Then I will make it so.”

  “Your Highness, I’m begging you.” Admiral Akuliy reached for her arm. “I cannot allow you to put yourself in harm’s way like this, not without even a hint of what awaits you—”

  Katza pulled her arm away. “It’s my family they believe betrayed them. Only I can set it right.”

  She strode onto the cobblestone quay and headed for the side gates of the palace, her fragile sundress billowing around her in the frosty night.

  The palace looked dark, beaten down. Makeshift fortifications ringed the entrances: broken bits of furniture, wooden pallets, carts, metal bars, and more. As she approached the servants’ entrance near the stables, Katza recognized the white and gold curved leg of her vanity jutting from the heap.

  An gas sconce fizzled and cracked in the guard’s gate, and amber light washed over Katza. “Halt! Who goes there?”

  Katza stood very still, but inside, she was radiant with Boj’s light.

  “This palace and this city belong to the people,” one of the guards said. He stepped into the light, rifle leveled at Katza. Boj in heaven, he was young. Through his threadbare collared shirt and trousers, Katza could see the knobs of his elbows and knees, and the gawky jut of his throat’s apple, trembling as he stared her down. He wore a helmet surely looted from the guardhouse; its brim nearly covered his eyes.

  “This palace belongs to me,” Katza said. “And you will let me through.”

  He tightened his grip, the whites of his eyes glinting. “Back! Stand back! Yuri, get over here!”

  Katza thrust her palm out and with a surge of wind, he slammed against the guardhouse wall.

  “What the devil—” Yuri rounded the corner and immediately dropped his gun. “Don’t hurt me! Please don’t hurt us!”

  Katza closed her eyes and reached out for their flickering souls. There was the first boy’s heart, throbbing frantically; and there was Yuri’s, on the rise. And more, edging their way around the palace—any moment they could turn the corner and see her. She caressed those golden flames, the two boys before her and the ones around the corner, slowing them, easing them down. It would be so easy to squeeze them and silence them for good.

  It was what Ravin would tell her to do.

  She calmed the flickering and slowed them. Lulled them into a peaceful slumber. The boys sank to the ground, clutching their rifles like children clutching dolls. Katza stepped over them with a displeased twist on her lips. But it had been the right thing to do.

  So she had to persuade herself. So she needed to believe.

  Katza propped her hand against the doorframe that led into the back kitchens and storage area. A sole gas-fed sconce crackled in the corridor. In its weak glow, she saw the bodies strewn across the floor. Bile singed the back of her throat. Serving girls, dark brown staining their aprons as they curled into balls, holding their wounds. A stablehand
still clung to his pitchfork in death. A torn scrap of fabric stuck to one of the tines. He’d tried to defend himself. Perhaps he’d tried to save them all. Katza’s lips moved in an appeal to Saint Mortei to commend them into peaceful death, then she crouched and closed their eyes one at a time.

  For the earth and the sea, and the blood they spilled between them. Your service to Russalka will not be in vain.

  Katza moved silently down the narrow corridor and listened for any sounds ahead of her. Dim voices came from the direction of the great banquet hall. Her lip curled back. The agitators were feasting on her stores.

  Again she reached her mind out to sense the palace’s inhabitants. The tight cluster of revelers in the banquet hall, and then more ransacking the library and study, probably stealing all her father’s correspondence and records. She searched upstairs, toward the private wings of the palace, toward the guest room where her mother usually holed up—

  And struck a solid sheet of ice.

  Boj in heaven. A prophet’s work. Katza steeled herself and hurried for the servants’ stairs.

  “Hey. Hey, you.” Someone was following her into the unlit stairwell. “Stop right there. You aren’t with the revolutionary guard!”

  Power crackled in Katza’s arms, swelling, until sparks danced across her hands. She stepped slowly back down the stairs toward the base. Arcs of lightning illuminated her accuser’s face—a young woman, painfully thin.

  “Wait—Wait, please don’t hurt me—”

  “Irina?” a voice called over the woman’s shoulder. “What is it?”

  Irina’s wide-eyed expression turned into a sinister grin. “Nothing that you can’t handle, Zhanna.”

  Zhanna appeared behind Irina in the stairwell’s entrance, a dark-haired girl wreathed in frost.

  A prophet.

  Katza lashed out first, raw power whirling around her, knocking both of the girls over. As they shouted and toppled, she surged for the stairs and scrambled up them, tripping over the hem of her gown as she went. But the stairs were becoming slick and slippery with ice. Shards of frost coated the wooden railing as crystal tendrils crept along the walls.