Web of Frost (Saints of Russalka Book 1)

by Lindsay Smith

  Ulmarova offered a brief nod. “I am.”

  “Then let’s draw it up and sign it. We have other matters to attend to now.”

  The courtiers grumbled amongst themselves, but the court scribe appeared and began her work in silence. Katza sank into a seat, a chill creeping over her bared flesh. Before, her fury had warmed her, but she was drained now, with nothing left.

  Pressed into this room, Katza was starting to see the gaps in the crowd—the faces she’d taken for granted before. Duchess Andreeva, the secretary from the Office of the Patriarch, Prince Martinov . . .

  She tapped Minister Lavrova’s arm. “Where did the Duchess Andreeva go? And—and all the other courtiers, besides?”

  Minister Lavrova’s gaze flicked toward Ulmarova, who sat with arms crossed and boots propped on the war table, before returning to Katza. “My dear. You do not know?”

  A tendril of fear caressed Katza’s spine.

  “Looters attacked many of the courtiers’ homes along the canals. We’re not sure which reports are correct, but . . . it appears there were many casualties. The riots swept through all the restaurants and theatres. You may have retaken the palace, but Petrovsk is still very much a city under siege.”

  And with the Hessarians preparing for a flank. She needed soldiers to liberate the homes, to spread the word to the protesters that they could relent, that their concerns were heard. She could send a herald through the streets to announce the proclamation, as her father had done for major laws in the past. But would that be enough to set their fears aside? To convince them to lay down their arms?

  “The treaty is ready, Your Highness.” The scribe looked nervously from Katza to Ulmarova. “Erm . . . and Prime Minister.”

  “Then witness it, all members of the court, the saints, and Boj in heaven.” Katza signed, though it curdled her stomach.

  “For the people to witness, and bear witness every day.” Ulmarova smiled at Katza, and signed as well. Then, with a tip of her head, the wall of Pustyna’s power evaporated. The wellspring of power rushed into Katza once more.

  She could crush Ulmarova right now. Set the document alight. Rampage through the city—her city—and reclaim every last inch for the crown. Ravin would beg her to, if he were here.

  But he was not, and all she felt was relief. She need not be a slave to this hungering power, to his words that infested and possessed her, calling out for vengeance and control. She needed to be free of him. She couldn’t succumb to the well.

  Russalka needed her. But more than that, Russalka needed freedom, with or without Katza’s command. She wondered if Ravin could be made to grasp that—or if the well had entranced him too much, and he had no reason left.

  A pregnant silence pressed in on the court. Katza rubbed her hands together, searching for the words she needed. “Thank you for your understanding. This is the right course for Russalka, even if it is a difficult one.” She studied the map before her; the tiny models of ships scattered across Pechalnoe Bay. “Before we get down to the details of this new government, however, we have two pressing matters to address.”

  Katza plucked up one of the pieces that signified a squadron of city guard. “These guards are still in the garrison, yes?”

  The guard captain nodded. “We’ve had some—ah, some defections—but the bulk of that squadron is intact. We were holding them in reserve for your return.”

  “And the rest of the guards?”

  “Scattered throughout the city. Some are battling looters even as we speak, while others have defected, or not reported back . . .” He tugged at his collar. “It’s been a long few days, Your Highness, and there is much uncertainty. But I fear we aren’t in any shape to mount a decent defense against the protesters in our current state.”

  “No—we don’t want to fight them. We need to recall the guards. We’ll need the guards to bring order back to the streets.” Katza grimaced. “How can we do that if half of them are causing the chaos to begin with?”

  Ulmarova arched an eyebrow. She looked very pleased with herself, but then again, Katza was beginning to suspect that was just her face.

  “Yes, Elena?” Katza asked.

  “I propose we ride out into the city. You and I, together. We can spread the word of the new government and I can quell the people’s rage.”

  The Katza who’d danced on Ravin’s leash would have snapped and frothed at that. She’d harnessed herself to it willingly, to his dark urges, to her own rage, because it felt so right to have control—it felt like the only way. But there had to be a better path. She could no longer try to do it all herself—grasp control of her subjects and tug and manipulate their will, as she had so many countless times now, believing herself in the right.

  “Very well. Let us take with us a contingent of the city guard and of your footsoldiers, Elena, to prove we mean no harm.”

  “I’ll make it so,” Ulmarova said.

  She looked oddly at ease taking orders from Katza. Perhaps they could find more common ground than Katza had first feared. As long as she kept the people happy, and helped her put Russalka back on track, this might not end so badly.

  Katza wondered, though, how many fallen rulers’ ends had begun just like that.

  “Will you grant amnesty to all the rioters, looters, revolutionaries?” Ulmarova asked. There was no challenge in her tone, but Katza suspected the wrong answer would surely set her off.

  “We shall grant it to those who lay down their arms willingly.” Katza tried her best to look decisive. “To those who have caused no serious harm. But I’m sure there are some among your followers who are merely opportunists, long hungering for the taste of blood. Those, I won’t tolerate.”

  “Reasonable enough,” Ulmarova said. “We shall give all a chance to comply, then. I think you’ll find they’ll be happy to do so. They’ve had their fun.”

  Katza shuddered. She and Ulmarova had very different definitions of fun.

  “I want to hold the elections within three days’ time,” Ulmarova continued. “Order should be fully restored by then. The people will need to see you’re committed to your word.”

  A rustle ran through the court. “Three days? By then the Hessarians will be in the bay, breathing down our necks. And they’ll be at the southern gates in five!”

  Ulmarova tilted her head. “Very well. In two days’ time.”

  Katza exchanged a look with Minister Lavrova. “Perhaps we can host some of the polls in the factories?”

  “It should be easy enough to implement.”

  “Excellent. Then let’s have it done.” She turned to Ulmarova. “Any other demands? Or can we bring the city to order now and continue with our plans?”

  Ulmarova clicked her tongue against her teeth. “No. I’m satisfied, for now.”

  Katza turned to Admiral Akuliy. “What is the latest word on the Hessarian fleet’s advance?”

  “Nothing new to report. We can begin drafting a defensive strategy while you and Ulmarova dispatch the guards, if you so wish.”

  “Thank you. I do wish it.” Then she turned to Ulmarova. “Do you concur?”

  “We’ll see what strategy they devise.” Ulmarova’s blessing flickered; Katza sensed it in a dimming of the pool that was always present at the back of her mind. “Then we can decide together.”

  They set out surrounded by guards and revolutionaries. Ulmarova wore a broom skirt and peasant’s top with a flat-topped, short-brimmed cap, while Katza selected a red dress over a cream-colored blouse, embroidered in the swirled floral style common to the countryside. She felt like a pretender, trying to dress as though she were one with the common people. Dawn had finished its slow crawl across the sky, and the sun flickered dimly behind a dense cloud of gray. They would only have a few hours of daylight as winter took hold. By evening, Ravin would expect Katza at the cathedral. Katza clenched the reins of h
er horse with a rising sense of fear.

  She’d put off making the choice, earlier. But Ravin believed she still wanted to claim the well’s power for herself. Would he understand why she couldn’t, now? Would he accept that it meant Russalka’s death?

  Tears welled in her eyes—the sting of the cold wind, she told herself. Had he ever truly loved her? If he did, was there any chance he could accept that there had to be another way?

  She watched the golden domes of Saint Kirill’s in the distance as they began their processional toward the factory district and the southern gates. She still had time to sort out what she would say to him. Surely she could make him understand, especially once he saw that her way was working better, assuaging her people’s fears and bringing them back under her reign.

  “Guards!” Ulmarova shouted, as they approached a factory that produced the steam-fed train engines. “Gather round. I bring great tidings to the people of Russalka!”

  The guards standing out front shifted their rucksacks, their rifles, their hats to peer toward Ulmarova and Katza. “This factory belongs to the people,” one shouted back. “We want a share of the profits! We want our voices heard!”

  “And you shall have it. I am Elena Ulmarova. And I give you my word, as the tsarika gave hers, that the people will share in Russalka’s fortunes and steer us to victory.”

  A few of the guards clapped, but one, a young girl with red braids jutting from her hat, sneered. “Is that the tsarika right there? Pretty thing, ain’t she? So fancy on her horse. How much is her word really worth?”

  “I wish to serve all of Russalka, not just the interests of the court.” Katza spoke as clearly as she could, but her words sounded fuzzy, like an uncertain child. “I’ve appointed Ulmarova to serve as my prime minister, to oversee a body of elected representatives who will advise me.”

  The girl sniffed. “Well. If Ulmarova’s in charge . . .”

  “I will speak for the people, while the tsarika speaks for herself.” Ulmarova smiled thinly. “One has more money, but we’ll see who has the louder voice.”

  Katza wrinkled her nose. Under her breath, she uttered, “There’s no need for that.” “Fine.” The girl turned to the other guards. “We’ll stand down. If you say so, Ulmarova.”

  “I do.” Ulmarova smiled. “Now, go, tell your workers.”

  The girl saluted, and scurried off to spread Ulmarova’s word.

  Katza glanced behind her, to the distant golden domes of Saint Kirill’s. The sun was at its zenith, now, and soon her time would come. Dread sat in her stomach like a weight. She wasn’t yet ready to face Ravin, but time was running short.

  They spread their message at the southern gates, at the scenery workshop in the theatre district, at the student union in the university. Time and again, Katza saw the way the workers lit up at Ulmarova’s approach. Just the mere hint of hope she offered was enough to persuade them.

  Lights were coming on around the city as they rode through the streets and called off the revolutionaries. Not long until she’d have to answer Ravin and decide what to do about the well—and about him. She could simply not go to the cathedral, but he was sure to come for her. Better to confront him while she was prepared.

  If she could ever be prepared.

  They rode along the canals behind Nikonovskiy Prospect, where many of the courtiers kept their city homes. Thick black smoke poured from a rowhouse up ahead; shouts and screams filled the street. A band of drunken revelers staggered from one door to the next, swigging iceberry wine and singing bawdy songs.

  “Looters,” Ulmarova said. “I’m afraid some have chosen to take advantage of the situation to drive your courtiers out of their homes.”

  Katza looked from one set of broken windows to the next. “Speaking against the crown is one thing. But if they’ve harmed anyone—”

  “Perhaps it is a matter we can settle with the newly elected body.” Ulmarova’s tone turned sickly sweet.

  Katza nodded dimly. The Duchess Andreeva’s home was in tatters—furniture piled on the street, curtains ripped from the windows, and thick black stains curling toward the heavens where a fire had raged and was then put out. She had two young grandsons who lived with her, Katza recalled. Twin boys in fragile health. Had they been inside when the protesters set fire to the house? Were they trapped inside still?

  Ulmarova stopped her horse alongside the railing to the canal and cupped both hands around her mouth. “Revolutionaries! Agitators, defenders of the people!” she shouted. “We have won a great victory today. Come forth and hear it!”

  Slowly, people started to trickle from the townhomes, eyes tight as they regarded the squadron with contempt. Ulmarova waited patiently, but Katza shrank back in her saddle, not wanting to be recognized.

  “The tsarika has granted us representation. I will be your prime minister now. You can direct the course of Russalka with my aid.”

  “I’d say we’re pretty happy with this direction, eh?” One of the men hoisted his bottle, and his friends cheered. He drank, then turned his flinty gaze on Katza.

  The power crackled inside her, hungry to burn away her fear.

  “Is that the bloody tsarika herself?” another man shouted. “Why don’t we show her the way the common people celebrate?”

  “C’mon, tsarika, there’s room for you at Temenok.”

  “Kill the tsarika!” another voice shouted. “Kill her! Ulmarova, have you become a pawn? We seek the royals’ death!”

  “Slaughter them all!”

  A rock whizzed over Katza’s shoulder and struck the chest of a guard behind her. He shouted and dropped to one knee, gasping for air.

  “Look, how weak they are. Now is the time!”

  Katza gripped the current of power. The looters’ golden flickers of life dancing on her eyelids, twisting, jagged, cruel sparks all too eager to catch. They were opportunists, undeserving of her clemency . . .

  But the raw power was too great. If she filtered it, though, she could keep control. That’s what she’d been missing—the restraint Ravin so detested.

  “I’m going to pray to Saint Millionov,” Katza said, low enough only Ulmarova could hear. As if she were asking permission. Ulmarova raised one eyebrow, but nodded, agreeing.

  Saint Millionov. Katza felt silly, but she had to limit herself. Lest she become a tyrant, an all-powerful monster. You pacified the masses and soothed away their rage with your empathy. Grant me the smallest fraction of that gift.

  Calm settled over the snowy street, fresh and pure, and the anger sapped from the crowd. They lowered their weapons and bottles; the shouting ceased. Ulmarova sat up straighter in her saddle. “Well done,” she said under her breath. “As long as that’s all you do.”

  Katza raised her head. “If you leave these homes now, leave behind the belongings you’ve seized, release your hostages, then you may still earn a place in Ulmarova’s elected court.” Katza stared at each looter in turn. “If you have done serious harm, however, you will be reckoned with. We need people who will fight for the good of Russalka. There is no room for greed.”

  Slowly, they filed off, will temporarily sapped. It was no perfect solution, but it had to be better than what she would have wrought if she’d given in to the temptation and forced them all to bow to her whim.

  She turned to the guards. “This is our last stop. Commanders, send three quarters of your men to oversee their departure. You have my full authority to arrest any looters who have caused serious harm.” Then she looked to Ulmarova. “Do you agree?”

  Ulmarova nodded once, curt.

  “Then we are finished here.”

  Only a small circle of guards remained to escort Katza and Ulmarova back to the garrison. “I must admit,” Ulmarova said, “I’m impressed by your restraint.”

  “You would stop me if I did not show restraint.”

  “P
erhaps I would.” She shrugged. “Perhaps not. Saint Pustyna is fickle that way.”

  If she only knew. They turned down the canal’s spoke that fed into the wide square before Saint Kirill’s cathedral. Darkness veined the heavy clouds overhead. Daylight was nearly gone, and the Hessarians pressed in. There was still so much to be done.

  But for Katza, her next battle was before her.

  “Go back to the garrison.” She slowed her steed to a halt just before the bridge, now mostly repaired. “Review the battle plans. Do you understand something of military strategy?”

  “I studied it at university. Spent some time working in a munitions factory, as well.” Ulmarova tilted her head, curious. “Will you not be joining me?”

  “I’m afraid there’s one more part of Petrovsk I must contend with. But I can only do it by myself.” Snow floated down around her as she slid out of the saddle and settled onto the cobbles, her legs rubbery from riding. “For Russalka.”

  Ulmarova eyed her for a moment. “For the Russalkan people,” she said.

  Katza handed reins of her horse to Ulmarova and turned toward the cathedral steps. Darkness crackled in Katza’s thoughts as she climbed toward those red marble columns beneath the golden domes. She held the power to save Russalka, and to destroy it.

  She could delay her choice no more.

  Katza found the doors to Saint Kirill’s Cathedral already ajar. The massive bronze bas relief of the Saints’ Wheel was split down its middle, inviting her into the darkened sanctuary. She slipped inside, acutely aware of how very small she was in this vast place, and steeled herself with a silent prayer.

  What I do, I do for Russalka. For the good of all Russalkans, and nothing more. If there was a Boj in heaven, if there were saints on their wheel of fates spun, then she hoped they heard her. If that power resided exclusively in a well of power, then she prayed it stayed sealed away, for her to draw on only when she absolutely must.

  Her riding boots rang heavy on the marble as she strode up the dimly lit aisle. Her red skirts twisted and swirled around her, cutting through a thick blanket of stale incense and dust. Something ferrous lingered in the air, sharp against her nostrils, as she scanned the darkened pews. The candelabras that usually lined the sanctuary had long since guttered out, wax fountaining out of them.