“They do, but we’ve always known it isn’t powerful enough to be help against the earth elementals.” His hand tightened into a fist as he glanced down at it. “But now things are more desperate.”
My gaze jumped to his, and I belatedly noticed his jaw was tight, his face shadowed by a light dusting of stubble that seemed to indicate he hadn’t slept well. “Because of the nearby attacks?”
“Someone must have filled you in.”
I nodded. “Last night. At dinner.”
“The boyars had too much faith in their druzhina. They had cavalry and armor and weapons, but it wasn’t enough. We didn’t get word of the impending attack until it was nearly upon them, and I cannot risk sending the city militia to fight . . . not now. It would leave the city too vulnerable to attack.”
He looked so tormented, so distraught, that I unthinkingly said, “I wish I could help you.”
“Do you?” he asked with a wry twist to his lips. “Has Kharankhui convinced you so quickly, then?”
I thought again of the bannik’s words, and of the nature of fire and ice. “I meant help you with your power. There has never been a fire hot enough to burn me.”
His eyebrows rose, as though he was taken aback, but then he grew contemplative.
“Ivan told me that he saw your eagle land upon your arm, with nothing to protect your skin from her talons.”
“It’s part of my ability. There is ice that coats my skin, hardening it and protecting it against such things.”
He looked impressed. “A useful skill.”
“I didn’t always think so,” I said, staring at the blanket of snow coating everything in the garden as the memories of the village children’s cruelty flashed through my mind. “But it has been useful with Elation.”
“Do you control when the ice spreads?” he asked without a hint of disgust, only curiosity.
“Yes—well, now I can. When I was a child, I had no control over it, but now, I am able to at least dismiss it—much like certain people can train themselves not to react in frightening situations.”
“That must have been a difficult thing to bear when you were only a child.”
I could feel that pull toward him beginning again, to open up and tell him things and trust. But then I remembered that the prince wanted me as a weapon and nothing more. The cold snuck back into my heart.
“It was a long time ago,” I said, like the memories didn’t still bring me pain as sharp as barbs.
He looked at me like he could see through to how I really felt but decided not to push. “I ask you these things because I’d like to be able to do the same.”
He held up his hand, palm toward me, and nodded at my own hand. I raised it, until it was hovering just an inch away from his. My eyes widened. “It’s hot. Normally I can’t even detect another person’s body heat because my own skin is so cold.”
“But not hot enough to burn, correct?”
“You can’t hurt me with it,” I reassured him.
“Will you show me how you coat your skin with ice?” he asked.
I nodded, allowing the cold to spread and spread. He watched almost without blinking, and then a moment later, the heat of his hand increased, until soon there was a flame surrounding it. The flames flickered and glowed, but his skin remained untouched beneath the blaze.
My gaze jumped to his, eyes wide. “Did I teach you that?”
He grinned. “I’m a quick study.”
We continued like that, using our powers to coat our hands with flames and ice, until the prince suddenly said, “Attack me.”
I glanced around, sure Grigory would somehow sense the prince’s intentions and attempt to choke the life out of me again. “I won’t use the cold fire.”
He shrugged. “Then try to freeze me.”
“You’re sure?”
“You won’t hurt me,” he said, one eyebrow arched as he echoed my earlier words.
I could feel the waterfall of power flowing within me, unchecked and wild, eager to be put to use. When I froze buckets of water in the summer, I needed a small fraction of that power. I reasoned this was no different. Still, I hesitated. What if I called forth more than he could handle? What if it was cold fire that leaped from my hands?
“I trust you,” he said. “You need to trust yourself.”
I searched his face and saw that he meant what he said. Palms toward him, I released a stream of cold air—the same I would have used to freeze water. Instantly, twin flames burned forth from his own hands. For one beautiful moment, the ice and the fire met in the air, a brilliant burst of crimson and azure, until they dissipated in a burst of steam.
With a relieved smile, I looked up at him, and his silvery gaze captured mine. There was a moment where we said nothing, only looked at each other, and the cold tingled over me in answer to the heat rolling off him. And then I remembered he was the prince, and he wanted me to be his weapon—that at this very moment, he was using me—and I took a step back.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked, concern furrowing his brows.
“No,” I said.
“Shall we try again?” he asked.
After a moment, I nodded.
We went back and forth like that many times, the flame and ice meeting to form puffs of steam, but no matter how hard the prince tried, his flames never grew larger. At one point, the cold air I sent his way was too strong and nearly overtook his fire. But he never became frustrated or angry, only resolute.
When sweat dotted his brow, and fatigue threatened to settle in my bones again like it had after the cold fire, the prince raised his hand. “I’ve tired you. Forgive me.”
I shook my head. “I wanted to learn control, and this has helped me.”
The prince glanced down at his hands. “I can control my fire, but it never gets any stronger than those small flames. They would only be useful for short-range battles. I was hoping it would respond to your own power, and in a way, it did.”
“I’m only sorry it didn’t incite yours into a blazing inferno,” I said with a smile.
He laughed. “It was enough just to be able to practice with you,” he said, his gaze holding mine until my heart beat a little faster. “Will you come with me back to the palace? There is something I want to show you.”
Unable to think of an excuse, and admittedly curious, I agreed. He led me back to the palace, past the kitchen and down the main corridor before turning off on a smaller hallway I’d never been down. His stride was purposeful, and I had to hurry to keep up.
Before long, we arrived at a small wooden door. He held it open for me, and I walked through after only a moment’s hesitation. Inside, the first thing I saw was an enormous icon corner. There were several icons on display, but the most prominent one was of the Virgin holding the Christ child, her eyes gazing down lovingly at him as his gaze pierced the viewer’s.
Prince Alexander crossed himself before the icon, and I did the same, both of us taking a moment to pray, though I was sure we prayed for very different things. I opened my eyes again, and as I did, I caught sight of a beautiful gilded vase. Adorned with red and yellow jewels, it was also intricately enameled; at the center was a firebird of every color of the sunset. The vase was lovely itself, but rising from within it was a feather of such splendid beauty that I couldn’t look away. It was gold as no creature on earth is gold, but also the deep crimson of fire, and a bright vermilion. Large as a peacock feather, it shimmered even in the dim light of the candles.
“It was my mother’s,” he said, when he caught me looking.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, leaning toward it without even meaning to. “I’ve never seen a feather like that. This is what you wanted to show me?”
He nodded. “She always told me it was from a firebird.”
I thought of what I knew of the firebird legend; that it was a creature who came out only at night; that it was often sought but rarely found; that if a feather was removed, it still glowed like the bird itself.
I could see the last was true. I’d thought the feather was illuminated by the nearby candle, but now I saw that the feather itself was emitting a soft glow.
I raised my hand to touch the feather but stopped myself. “Do you think there is truly such a creature?”
“My mother said that they had a different legend in Constantinople, where she was born. She said the firebird was an elemental creature that could summon fire as you do ice.”
I gave him a sharp look. “So you believe there’s a connection between the firebird and your ability?”
“My mother always said it was our family’s legacy, but she wouldn’t reveal the truths of it all until I took the throne.”
“Did she have power like yours?”
He shook his head. “No, but she said my fire ability came from her lineage. It didn’t manifest until I was fifteen, and as you can see, it’s never advanced to more than a very entertaining magic trick.”
I thought of how they said Grigory’s power was weak compared to the other earth elementals, but that was because he was from a diluted line. Surely the prince’s lineage was stronger. “Did your mother say anything about that—about the strength of your power?”
He looked up from studying the glowing feather. “She always said my power was one fit for a grand prince and was tied to the throne, but when I was suddenly forced to take the position, the power didn’t grow with it.”
I turned his words over slowly in my mind. “Then she probably had plans to tell you how to increase the strength of the power, too, when you took the throne.”
That same shadow of grief I’d glimpsed earlier appeared across his face. “I think so, but then, she hadn’t known she’d be murdered in her sleep.”
My own pain throbbed in response to his. Did the others consider Dedushka to have been murdered? Did Babushka? “And you believe the Drevlians and Novgorodians are responsible?”
“I know they were,” he said. “The Varangian assassin was traced back to them. I would have been killed, too, were it not for Grigory.”
I started. “What do you mean?”
“He came to me two days before their murders and asked if I would accompany him to visit one of the nearby boyars. I was eager to go with him because this particular nobleman bred horses.” He shook his head in disgust. “I was busy bartering for horseflesh the day my parents were killed.”
I started to reach out to him but stopped myself at the last moment. “You couldn’t have known. And if you’d been here, you might not have been able to save them.”
“I owe my life to Grigory, it’s true, but that doesn’t mean guilt at being alive doesn’t torture me.” He looked down at his hands, letting a small flame flicker across them. “And while I mourned, the Drevlian and Novgorodian princes have used these two years since my father’s death to slowly take over Kievan Rus’. Any boyar who did not join their side found his land razed and his people taken. They thought I would be too weak to stand against them, and maybe I am”—he looked up at me—“but together . . . together I think we are strong.”
This was not my war—had never been my war—but now I was starting to understand the consequences should I do nothing. If the Drevlians and Novgorodians came for us all, enslaved the people of Kievan Rus’, and I only stood aside, too afraid to lend my power, how would I feel then? I took a step toward him, until the heat from his body surrounded us both. “I’m still not convinced that I can be of much help, but I will give it to you nonetheless.”
He held out his hand to me, and the heat from his body blazed still hotter, until I felt it melt some of the cold inside me. “Katya, you don’t know how relieved—”
“Gosudar!” a voice called, and the note of anxiety thrumming through it made us both startle.
Grigory hurried into the room, and for a moment, he only glared at me, as though annoyed to find me there alone with the prince.
“What is it?” Prince Alexander demanded, his body going taut as a bow.
Again, Grigory glanced at me. “I must speak with you privately, Gosudar.”
The prince looked like he would refuse, but I didn’t want to cause any strife—not when there was clearly something wrong.
“I’ll be in my room,” I said before the prince could ask me to leave.
To his credit, the prince hesitated before answering me. “I’ll come seek you out when I can. I’d like to continue our discussion.”
I nodded before giving an awkward little curtsy and leaving. But once outside the room, I wasn’t very far down the hall before I overheard Grigory’s first words:
“There’s been another attack.”
Cold pierced my heart. Where?
I couldn’t bear to stop listening.
“So soon?” the prince asked, a mixture of anxiety and fury in his voice. “The last report was that the armies were still much farther to the north.”
“They must have traveled through the night. We didn’t expect them to come so close to Kiev yet. But now they draw closer still, which means more villages are exposed to the threat.”
“Which villages stand in their way?” the prince asked.
I pressed closer to the wall, my heart beating wildly in my chest.
“All the villages to the northwest of Kiev are at risk.”
Northwest. My village was northwest of Kiev. Tears pricked my eyes, and I shook my head. I didn’t cry for the villagers—not after what they had done to me—but Babushka . . . I had to see for myself. I should have gone to her—I shouldn’t have let the prince and the others make me think my place was here with them. If I had gone back to Babushka and begged her forgiveness for Dedushka, then perhaps I could have done something when they came. Ice rippled over my skin now, and I could feel the great waterfall of power within me crashing down, over and over. Power enough to destroy a village. Power enough to defeat an army.
“Then I will send the militia,” the prince said.
“You cannot send them away from the city now; you will need all your resources should they attack Kiev. Your priority must always be the city.”
White-hot anger shot through me at Grigory’s advice to the prince.
“The villagers are my people, too,” the prince said. “I won’t abandon them to their fate. You will take a contingent of men to the villages to lend them aid.”
“Gosudar, I don’t think—” Grigory started.
“That is my command,” the prince said, cutting him off.
“It will take me some time to ready the men,” he said.
“Do it, then,” the prince said. “As fast as you can.”
I pushed away from the wall before they could leave the room and find me listening. As I hurried to my room, thoughts crowded my mind. I hadn’t been at the palace long, but I knew Grigory: he was loyal to the prince. He wouldn’t leave him willingly, and I was sure he’d make every appearance of obeying the prince’s command while still taking too long. More time than my village—than Babushka—had.
Grigory and the soldiers might not arrive in the village soon enough to save it, but perhaps I could.
I owed it to Babushka to try, even if all that was left of her was ash. For once my power would be put to the right purpose—saving the one person I loved in this world.
Chapter Ten
I RACED UP TO MY ROOM, praying I wouldn’t encounter anyone on my way. Every flicker of shadow made me twitch for fear Kharan would appear before me. I wasn’t sure that she would try to stop me once she knew the reasons behind my flight from the palace, but neither did I want to put her to the test. My plan was a simple one: after gathering the things I might need, I would seek out the tunnel I’d noticed before on our ride. I only prayed no one would question where I was going.
In my room, I grabbed my coat, and as luck would have it, there was already a table set up with food on a piece of linen—just cheese and a small loaf of bread. Vera must have kindly thought to leave me something to eat in case I hadn’t had the sense to seek out something to break
my fast earlier. Taking hold of the linen underneath, I fashioned a rough sack that could hold it all. The kvas I quickly drank—I would need my strength—and then added the earthenware mug to my sack. There was a knife for slicing the bread, and I took that, too.
Lastly, I went to the fireplace and took the tinderbox. It would save me much time and energy later when I needed to make a cooking fire.
Back in the hallway again, I hurried as fast as I dared to the stairway that would lead me down to the kitchen. The tunnel I’d seen was at the rear of the palace, facing the frozen river. From my wanderings in the palace, I knew the door must be somewhere near the kitchen.
Heat blasted from the ovens as I passed by, and I thought of the prince. What would he think when he realized I had gone? But I pushed such concerns aside. Worrying would only slow me down.
But no matter where I searched near the kitchen, there wasn’t a single door that led to a tunnel. With growing frustration gnawing at my insides, I stalked back and forth from one end of the hallway to the other, willing a door to appear.
On one wall, there was a tapestry with a golden key on a crimson background, simplistic in design, and yet, something about it caught my attention. As I watched, it fluttered, ever so gently, as though moving in a breeze. I glanced around, but there were no open windows.
The tapestry fluttered again as I watched; it hung from nearly the ceiling all the way to the floor. I took a few steps toward the tapestry and pulled it aside. I half-expected there to be just more of the wall, but a wooden door stood behind it. There were cracks in the doorframe where a cold breeze escaped, just enough to move the tapestry.
For a moment, all I could do was stare in disbelief at the door. But then I reached for the iron handle and wrenched it. A cold wind rushed in, billowing out the tapestry and bringing with it the scent of fresh air.
With a cry of relief, I plunged into the passageway, my footsteps echoing as I hurried as fast as I dared over the slick stones. The ceiling was barely higher than my head and dripped cold water onto my neck as I passed, making me shudder. The way was lit by torchlight, which meant someone came down here to light the torches. A flicker of unease raced through me. What would I say if someone challenged me? If they asked why I was here?
Through the White Wood Page 11
