TANGLED, genya safin

chapter one.

Genya had done her best with the design, but there were limited resources underground. From a distance, above the platform, Alina's light was shimmering high, shimmering gold in the light, sending bright glimmers over the ecstatic faces of our followers far below.

I could have been up there with her, but I was still weak. Barely able to withstand my own, even after months, I still couldn't seem to summon up water, in the least, I'd made progress of it swishing in a bowl. If you could even call that progress.

The Apparat's voice boomed through the White Cathedral, and the crowd swayed, eyes closed, hands raised, a field of poppies, arms like pale stalks shaken by some wind I couldn't feel. I dreaded morning prayers, but according to the priest, these false displays were a necessity.

"It is a gift that two bring your people, Sankta Alina, Sankta Freya," he said. "It is hope."

Actually, it was an illusion, a pale suggestion of the water and light I'd once commanded. But nobody below knew that, nor should they need to.

The Apparat finished his sermon. Alina stepped down from the platform with a scowl, walking up to stand beside me.

I shivered again, the Apparat's hand went to my shoulder, a gentle gesture, but nothing to resolve my dismay. "Have a care, Freya Julikov. You are incautious of your safety."

"Thanks," I said numbly. I wanted to pull away from him, from the turned-soil incense stench he brought with him everywhere.

"You're still feeling poorly."

No shit.

"I'm fine." We both knew that was a lie. But I was stronger than when we'd arrived at the White Cathedral— my bones had mended, I'd managed to keep my meals down— but I was still frail, my body plagued by aches and constant fatigue.

"Perhaps a day of rest, then."

I gritted my teeth. Another day confined to my chamber. I swallowed my frustration and smiled weakly. I knew what he wanted to see.

"I'm so cold," I said. "Some time in the Kettle would do me good."

Strictly speaking, it was true. The kitchens were the one place in the White Cathedral where the damp could be held at bay. By this time, at least one of the breakfast fires would be lit. The big round cavern would be full of the smell of baking bread and the sweet porridge the cooks made from stores of dried peas and powdered milk provided by allies on the surface and stockpiled by the pilgrims.

I added another shiver for good measure, but the priest's only reply was a noncommittal "hmm."

Movement at the base of the cavern caught my attention: pilgrims, newly arrived. I couldn't help but look at them with a strategic eye. Some wore uniforms that marked them as First Army deserters. All were young and able-bodied.

"No veterans?" Alina beat me before I could ask. "No widows?"

"It's a hard journey underground," the Apparat replied. "Many are too old or weak to move. They prefer to stay in the comfort of their homes."

Unlikely. The pilgrims came on crutches and canes, no matter how old or sick. Even dying, they came to see the Saints in their last days. I cast a wary glance over my shoulder. I could just glimpse the Pries-guards, bearded and heavily armed, standing sentinel in the archway. They were monks, scholar priests like the Apparat, and below ground they were the only people allowed to carry weapons.