The second man stared, dumbfounded, even as another gout of water slapped him across the face. He stumbled backward, shrieking, and was driven from the bathhouse, flogged by an invisible hand wielding a birch stick.
Vasya dashed into the outer room. She flung on leggings, shirt, boots, and tunic and slung her cloak around her shoulders. The clothes clung to her sweating skin. The bannik waited in the doorway, silent still, but smiling now, viciously. The shouting outside had risen to a furious pitch. Vasya paused an instant and bowed low.
The creature bowed back.
Vasya ran outside. Solovey had broken out of the stable. Three men stood around him, not daring to come too near. “Get his rope!” cried a man from the arch of the gate. “Hold fast! The others are coming.”
A fourth man, who had clearly attempted to seize the rope dangling from Solovey’s neck, lay motionless on the ground with a great, seeping dent in his skull.
Solovey saw Vasya and hurled himself toward her. The men dodged, shouting, and in that moment, Vasya vaulted to the horse’s back.
Outside, more shouts rang out, the crunch of running feet. More men ran into the inn-yard, stringing their bows.
All this for her? “Mother of God—” Vasya whispered.
The wind rose to a howl, piercing her clothes, and the inn-yard plunged into shadow as clouds shut off the sun. “Go!” Vasya shouted at Solovey, just as the first of the men put an arrow to his bow.
“Halt,” he cried, “or die!”
But Solovey was already running. The arrow whistled past. Vasya clung to the horse. What, thought some dim, detached part of Vasya’s mind, did I do to merit this? The rest of her was wondering how it felt to die with a dozen arrows in her breast. Solovey had his head down now, hooves clawing at the snow. Two leaps covered the distance between her and the street. There were men there—so many men, some part of her mind thought—but Solovey took them by surprise, plowed through and past them.
The street lay in dusky twilight now. Snow fell in blinding flakes, masking them from view.
Silent and intent, Solovey ran—galloping, sliding, far too fast, across the snow of those wooden-boarded streets. Vasya felt him lurch and recover, and fought to keep her balance, blinded by the snow. Hoofbeats thudded behind them, mingled with muffled shouts, but those were already falling back. No horse could outrun Solovey.
A black shape leaped up before them: a vast, solid thing in a world of whirling white. “The gate!” came the faint cry. “Close the gate!” The dim shapes of guards, two on either side, were urging the massive thing closed. The gap was narrowing. But Solovey put on a burst of speed and dashed through. A wrench as Vasya’s leg scraped wood. Then they were free. A burst of shouting broke from the wall-top, and the twang and hiss of another arrow. She hunched nearer Solovey’s neck and did not look back. The snow was falling thicker than ever.
No more than a bowshot from the city, the wind abruptly died and the sky cleared. Looking back, Vasya saw that a snowstorm, purple as a bruise, lay over the town, shielding her escape. But for how long?
The bells were ringing below. Would they come after her? She thought of the drawn bow, the whine as the arrow slid past her ear. It seemed to her that they would. Her heart was racing still. “L-let’s go,” she said to Solovey. It was only when she tried to speak that she realized that she was shaking, that her teeth clacked together, that her skin was wet, that already she was growing very cold. She turned him toward the hollow tree where she had hidden his saddle and saddlebags. “We must get away from here.”
A violet evening sky hung glowing overhead. Vasya’s skin was still wet from the bathhouse, and her hair, hidden in her hood, was damp. But she weighed the dangers of fire against the dangers of flight and pushed the horse on. Somewhere in her brain was an arrow, narrowing to a point, and a man with composed, inhuman eyes, taking aim.
8.
Two Gifts
Solovey galloped the rest of the evening and into the night, long after any ordinary horse would have staggered to a halt. Vasya made no attempt to check him: fear was a steady drumbeat in her throat. The last of the violet faded from the sky, and then the only light came from the stars on pristine snow. Still the horse galloped, sure as a night-flying bird.
They only stopped when a cold wolf moon rose above the black treetops. Vasya was shivering so violently that she could barely hold herself in the saddle. Solovey stumbled to a halt, winded. Vasya slid from the horse’s back, unfastened the saddle, untied her cloak, and threw it over Solovey’s steaming flanks. The cold night air pierced her sheepskin coat and found the damp shirt beneath.
“Walk,” Vasya told the horse. “Don’t you dare stop. Don’t bite at the snow. Wait until I have warmed water.”
Solovey’s head hung down; she slapped his flank with a hand she could barely feel. “Walk, I said!” she snapped, fierce with her own fearful exhaustion.
With an effort, the horse jerked into the motion that would keep his muscles from knotting.
Vasya was shivering convulsively; her limbs would barely obey her. The moon had hovered a little, like a beggar at the door, but it was already setting. There was no sound but the creaking of trees in the frost. Her hands were stiff; she could not feel her fingertips. She gathered wood with gritted teeth and then pulled out her flints, fumbling. One strike, two, agony on her hands. She dropped one in the snow, and her hand would barely close when she tried to pick it up again.
The tinder flared and went out.
She had gnawed her lip bloody, but she couldn’t feel it. Tears had frozen on her face, but she couldn’t feel them either. Once more. Tap the flints. Wait. Blow, gently, on the flame through numb lips. This time the tinder caught and a little warmth drifted into the night.
Vasya almost sobbed with relief. She fed the fire carefully, adding sticks with near-useless hands. The fire steadied, strengthened. In a few moments she had a hot blaze and snow melting in a pot. She drank, and Solovey drank. The horse’s eyes brightened.
But though Vasya fed the fire, and dried her clothes as best she could; though she drank pot after pot of hot water, she could not really get warm. Sleep was a slow and fitful thing; her anxious ears turned every noise into the soft feet of pursuers. But she must have slept at last, for she awoke at daybreak, still cold. Solovey was standing stock-still above her, scenting the morning.
Horses, he said. Many horses, coming toward us, ridden by heavy men.
Vasya ached in all her joints. She coughed once, a tearing hack, and came painfully to her feet. A nasty sweat slimed her cold skin. “It cannot be them,” she said, trying for courage. “What—what possible reason—”
She trailed off. There were voices among the trees. Her fear was a wild thing’s fear when the dogs are running. She was already wearing every garment she possessed. In a moment, she had bundled the saddlebags onto Solovey’s back, and they were off again.
Another long day, another long ride. Vasya drank a little snowmelt as they went, and gnawed listlessly at half-frozen bread. But swallowing hurt, and her stomach was knotted with fear. Solovey drove himself even harder that day, if it were possible. Vasya rode in a daze. Snow—if only it would snow and cover their tracks.
They stopped at full dark. That night Vasya did not sleep, but crouched beside her tiny fire and shivered and shivered and could not stop. Her cough had settled into her lungs. In her head Morozko’s words fell like footsteps. Do you want to die in some forest hollow?
She would not prove him right. She would not. With that thought ringing in her head, she drifted at last into another uneasy sleep.
During the night, the clouds rolled in, and the longed-for snow fell at last, melting on her hot skin. She was safe. They could not track her now.
AT SUNRISE, VASYA AWOKE with a boiling fever.
Solovey nudged her, huffing. When she tried to rise and saddle him, the earth tilted beneath her. “I cannot,” she told the horse. Her head felt heavy, and she looked at her shaking hands as though
they belonged to someone else. “I cannot.”
Solovey nudged her hard in the chest, so that she staggered backward. With ears pinned, the horse said, You must move, Vasya. We cannot stay here.
Vasya stared, her brain thick and slow. In winter, stillness was death. She knew it. She knew it. Why couldn’t she care? She didn’t care. She wanted to lie down again and go to sleep. But she had been foolish enough already; she didn’t want to displease Solovey.
She could not manage the girth with her numb hands, but with an effort she heaved the saddlebags up over the horse’s withers. Slurring, she said, “I am going to walk. I’m too cold; I will—I will fall if I try to ride.”
The clouds rolled in that day, and the sky darkened. Vasya plodded on doggedly, more than half-dreaming. Once she thought she saw her stepmother, watching dead in the undergrowth, and fright jerked her back to herself. Another step. Another. Then her body grew strangely hot, so that she was tempted to take off her clothes, before she remembered that it would kill her.
She fancied that she could hear horses’ hooves, and the calling of men in the distance. Were they still following? She could hardly bring herself to care. Step. Another. Surely she could lie down…just for a moment…
Then she realized with terror that someone walked beside her. Next moment a familiar, cutting voice spoke in her ear. “Well, you lasted a fortnight longer than I thought you would. I congratulate you.”
She turned her head to meet eyes of palest winter-blue. Her head cleared a little, though her lips and tongue were numb. “You were right,” she said bitterly. “I am dying. Have you come for me?”
Morozko made a derisive noise and picked her up. His hands burned hot—not cold—even through her furs.
“No,” Vasya said, pushing. “No. Go away. I am not going to die.”
“Not for lack of trying,” he retorted, but she thought his face had lightened.
Vasya wanted to reply but couldn’t; the world was swooping around her. Pale sky overhead—no—green boughs. They had ducked into the shelter of a large spruce—much like the tree of her first night. The spruce’s feathered branches twined so close that only the faintest dusting of snow had crept down to tint the iron-hard earth.
Morozko put her down, leaning on the trunk, and set to making a fire. Vasya watched him with dazed eyes, still not cold.
He did not go about building a fire the usual way. Instead he went to one of the spruce’s greater limbs and laid a hand upon it. The branch cracked and fell away. He pulled the pieces apart with hard fingers until he had a bristling heap.
“You can’t light a fire under the trees,” said Vasya wisely, slurring her words around numb lips. “The snow above you will melt and put it out.”
He shot her a sardonic look, but said nothing.
She did not see what he did, whether it was with his hands or his eyes or none of these. But suddenly there was a fire where before there had not been, snapping and glimmering on the bare earth.
Vasya was vaguely disquieted, seeing the heat-shimmer rise. The warmth, she knew, would draw her from her cocoon of cold-induced indifference. Part of her wanted to stay where she was. Not fighting. Not caring. Not feeling the cold. A slow darkness gathered over her sight, and she thought she just might go to sleep…
But he stalked over to her, bent, and took her by the shoulders. His hands were gentler than his voice. “Vasya,” he said. “Look at me.”
She looked, but darkness was pulling her away.
His face hardened. “No,” he breathed into her ear. “Don’t you dare.”
“I thought I was supposed to travel alone,” she murmured. “I thought— Why are you here?”
He picked her up again; her head lolled against his arm. He did not reply but carried her nearer the fire. His own mare poked her head into the shelter beneath the spruce-boughs, with Solovey beside her, blowing anxiously. “Go away,” he told them.
He stripped off Vasya’s cloak and knelt with her beside the flames.
She licked cracked lips, tasting blood. “Am I going to die?”
“Do you think you are?” A cold hand at her neck; her breath whined in her throat, but he only lifted the silver chain and drew out the sapphire pendant.
“Of course not,” she replied with a flash of irritation. “I’m just so cold—”
“Very well, then you won’t,” he said, as though it was obvious, but again she thought that something lightened in his expression.
“How—” but then she swallowed and fell silent, for the sapphire had begun to glow. Blue light gleamed eerily over his face, and the light stirred fearful memory: the jewel burning cold while a laughing shadow crept nearer. Vasya shrank from him.
His arms tightened. “Gently, Vasya.”
His voice halted her. She had never heard that note in it before, of uncalculated tenderness.
“Gently,” he said again. “I will not hurt you.”
He said it like a promise. She looked up at him, wide-eyed, shivering, and then she forgot fear, for with the sapphire’s glow came warmth—agonizing warmth, living warmth—and in that moment she realized just how cold she had been. The stone burned hotter and hotter, until she bit her lips to keep from crying out. Then the breath rushed out of her, and a stinking sweat ran down her ribs. Her fever had broken.
Morozko laid the necklace down on her filthy shirt and settled with her onto the snow-tinted earth. The coolness of the winter night hung around his body, but his skin was warm. He wrapped them both in his blue cloak. Vasya sneezed when the fur tickled her nose.
Warmth poured from the necklace and began coiling through all her limbs. The sweat ran down her face. In silence, he took up her left hand and then her right, tracing the fingers one by one. Agony flared once more, up her arms this time, but it was a grateful agony, breaking through the numbness. Her hands prickled painfully back to life.
“Be still,” he said, catching both her hands in one of his. “Softly. Softly.” His other hand drew lines of fiery pain on her nose and ears and cheeks and lips. She shuddered but held still for it. He had healed the incipient frostbite.
At last Morozko’s hand stilled; he wrapped an arm around her waist. A cool wind came and eased the burning.
“Go to sleep, Vasya,” he murmured. “Go to sleep. Enough for one day.”
“There were men,” she said. “They wanted—”
“No one can find you here,” he returned. “Do you doubt me?”
She sighed. “No.” She was on the edge of sleep, warm and—safe. “Did you send the snowstorm?”
A ghost of a smile flitted across his face, though she did not see. “Perhaps. Go to sleep.”
Her eyelids fluttered shut, and she did not hear what he added, almost to himself. “And forget,” he murmured. “Forget. It is better so.”
VASYA AWOKE TO BRIGHT MORNING—the cold smell of fir, the hot smell of fire, and sun-dappled shadows beneath the spruce. She was wrapped in her cloak and in her bedroll. A well-tended blaze chattered and danced beside her. Vasya lay still for long moments, savoring an unaccustomed feeling of security. She was warm—for what seemed like the first time in weeks—and the pain had gone from her throat and joints.
Then she remembered the night before and sat up.
Morozko sat cross-legged on the other side of the fire. He held a knife and was carving a bird out of wood.
She sat up, stiffly, light and weak and empty. How long had she been asleep? The fire was good on her face. “Why carve things of wood,” she asked him, “if you can make marvelous things of ice with only your hands?”
He glanced up. “God be with you, Vasilisa Petrovna,” he said, with considerable irony. “Is that not what one says in the morning? I carve things of wood because things made by effort are more real than things made by wishing.”
She paused, considering this. “Did you save my life?” she asked at length. “Again?”
The most fleeting of pauses. “I did.” He did not look up from his whittli
ng.
“Why?”
He tilted the bird-carving this way and that. “Why not?”
Vasya had only a vague memory of gentleness, of light, of fire and of pain. Her eyes met his over the shimmer of the flame. “Did you know?” she demanded. “You knew. The snowstorm. That was certainly you. Did you know the whole time? That I was being hunted, that I was sick on the road, and you only came on the third day, when I could not even drag myself to my feet…”
He waited until she trailed off. “You wanted your freedom,” he replied, insufferably. “You wanted to see the world. Now you know what it is like. Now you know what it is like to be dying. You needed to know.”
She said nothing, resentfully.
“But,” he finished, “now you know, and you are not dead. Better you return to Lesnaya Zemlya. This road is no place for you.”
“No,” she said. “I am not going back.”
He laid wood and knife aside and stood, his glance suddenly brilliant with anger. “Do you think I want to spend my days keeping you from folly?”
“I didn’t ask for your help!”
“No,” he retorted. “You were too busy dying!”
The passive peace of her waking had quite gone. Vasya was sore in every limb and vividly alive. Morozko watched her with glowing eyes, angry and intent, and in that moment he seemed as alive as she.
Vasya clambered to her feet. “How was I supposed to know that those men would find me in that town? That they would hunt me? It wasn’t my fault. I am going on.” She crossed her arms.
Morozko’s hair was tousled, and soot and wood-dust stained his fingers. He looked exasperated. “Men are both vicious and unaccountable,” he said. “I have had cause to learn it, and now so have you. You have had your fun. And nearly gotten your death out of it. Go home, Vasya.”
Since they were both standing, she could see his face without the heat-shimmer between them. Again there was that subtle—difference—in his looks. He had changed, somehow, and she couldn’t…“You know,” she said, almost to herself, “you look nearly human when you are angry. I never noticed.”
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