The Girl in the Tower

by Katherine Arden

  Vasya hurled herself forward and rolled. She came up holding the knife. Armed now, at least, and on her feet, but it hurt to breathe, and Kasyan was between her and Marya.

  Kasyan drew his sword and bared his teeth. “I am going to kill you.”

  Vasya had no hope; a half-trained girl against an armed man. Kasyan’s blade came slicing down and Vasya just managed to turn it with her dagger. Masha sat swaying like a sleepwalker. “Masha!” Vasya shouted frantically. “Get up! Get to the door! Go, child!” She kicked a table at Kasyan and backed up, sobbing for breath.

  Kasyan cut sideways and Vasya ducked. Now it seemed that a black-cloaked figure waited in the corner. For me, she thought. He is here for me, for the last time. The sword came whistling across to cut her in two. She jumped back, barely.

  For an instant, Vasya’s gaze flew again to the ghost. Tamara, behind Kasyan, had put a hand to her own throat, at the place where once a talisman had hung around Vasya’s neck. A talisman that bound her…Then Tamara’s frantic eyes shot to the child, and Vasya understood.

  She dodged Kasyan’s sword, dodged again. Every strike fell closer; Vasya could barely draw breath. There was Marya, sitting stiff. In the instant before the sword fell a final time, Vasya reached for Marya and found a red-gold thing, heavy and cold beneath the child’s blouse. Vasya broke it off with a wrench—so that the metal cut into her palm and bloodied the child’s throat—and in the same motion, she whirled and flung it at the sorcerer’s face. It struck him with a splatter of gold and red light, and then fell, broken, to the floor.

  Kasyan stared from it to Vasya, shock in his eyes.

  Then he staggered back. His face began to change. Years seemed to rush in, as though a dam had broken. Suddenly he was transformed into an old man, skeletal, red-eyed. They stood in a room that was no magic sorcerer’s lair, but only the empty tower workroom of the Grand Princess of Moscow, dusty and smelling of wet wool and women, its inner door barred.

  “Bitch!” Kasyan roared. “Bitch! You dare?” He advanced again, but now he was stumbling. His guard dropped, and Vasya had not forgotten her days under the tree with Morozko. She dodged his wavering arm, came up inside his guard, and drove the knife between his ribs.

  Kasyan grunted. It was the ghost who screamed. The sorcerer bled not at all, but Tamara’s side was bleeding in the place where Vasya had stabbed Kasyan.

  The ghost doubled over and crumpled to the floor.

  Kasyan straightened, unwounded, and advanced again, teeth bared, ancient, unkillable. Vasya had dragged Marya bodily upright and now she backed toward the door. Marya went with her, trembling, life in her steps once more, though she uttered no sound, her eyes the eyes of a girl in a nightmare. Vasya’s ribs felt as though they would pierce through her skin with each step. Kasyan still had his sword…

  “There is nowhere to go,” Kasyan whispered. “You cannot kill me. Besides, the city is on fire, you murderess. You will stay here in the tower, while your family burns.”

  He saw her face and burst out laughing. The empty pit of his mouth gaped wide. “You didn’t know! Fool, not to know what happens when you release a firebird.”

  Then Vasya heard the vast low roar outside, a sound like the end of the world. She thought of the flight of a firebird, unleashed on a wooden city at night.

  I must kill him, she thought, if it is the last thing I do. Kasyan advanced once more, sword high. Vasya hurled Marya away from her and dodged the sweeping blade.

  The words of Dunya’s fairy tale ran ridiculously through her mind: Kaschei the Deathless keeps his life inside a needle, inside an egg, inside a duck, inside a hare—

  But that was only a story. There was no needle here, no egg…

  Vasya’s thoughts seemed to swerve to a halt. There was only herself. And her niece. And her grandmother.

  Witches, Vasya thought. We can see things that others cannot, and make faded things real.

  Then Vasya understood.

  She did not give herself pause to think. She hurled herself at the ghost. One hand reached out and plucked the thing she knew must be there, hanging from the gray creature’s throat. It was a jewel—or had been—it felt in her hand a little like Marya’s necklace, but fragile as an eggshell, as though years and grief had eaten it away from within.

  The ghost whimpered, as though caught between agony and relief.

  Then Vasya came up kneeling, holding the necklace in her hand, facing the sorcerer. Her ribs—nothing had ever hurt so much. She fought down the pain.

  “Let that go,” said Kasyan. His voice had changed: gone flat and thin. He had his sword to Marya’s throat, his hand fisted in her hair. “Put it down, girl. Or the child dies.”

  But behind her the ghost sighed, just the tiniest bit. “Poor immortal,” said Morozko’s voice, softer and colder and fainter than she’d ever heard it.

  Vasya let out a breath of rage and relief. She had not seen him come, but now he stood, little more than a thickening of shadow, beside the ghost. He did not look at her.

  “Did you think I was ever far from you?” the death-god murmured to Kasyan. “I was always a breath away: a heartbeat.”

  The sorcerer tightened his grip on the sword, on Marya’s hair. He was looking at Morozko with terror and a thread of agonized longing. “What care I for you, old nightmare?” he spat. “Kill me, and the child dies first.”

  “Why not go with him?” Vasya asked Kasyan softly, not taking her eyes from the blade of his sword. The tarnished necklace was warm in her hand, beating like a tiny heart. So fragile. “You put your life in Tamara. So neither of you could properly die. You could only rot. But that is finished. Better to go now, and find peace.”

  “Never!” snapped Kasyan. His sword-hand was trembling. “Tamara,” he said, feverishly. “Tamara—”

  A red light was trickling in from the window now, brighter and brighter. Not daylight.

  Tamara stepped toward him. “Kasyan,” she said. “I loved you once. Come with me now, and be at peace.”

  Staring at her like a man drowning, Kasyan didn’t seem to notice when the sword loosened in his grip. Just a little…

  Vasya, with her last strength, lunged forward, seized the blade, and put her whole weight on it. He fell back, and Vasya seized Marya, pulled the child back and held her, ignoring the pain in her ribs and hands. She had cut her palms on his sword; she felt the blood begin to drip.

  The sorcerer seemed to recall himself; he bared his teeth, face full of rage—

  “Don’t watch,” Vasya whispered to Marya.

  And she crushed the stone to fragments in her bloody fist.

  Kasyan screamed. Agony in his face—and relief. “Go in peace,” Vasya told him. “God be with you.”

  Then Kaschei the Deathless crumpled dead to the floor.

  THE GHOST LINGERED, though her outline wavered like a flame in a strong wind. A black shadow waited beside her.

  “I am sorry I screamed when I saw you,” Marya whispered unexpectedly to the ghost, her first words since being brought to the tower. “I did not mean it.”

  “Your daughter had five children—Grandmother,” said Vasya. “The children also have children. We will not forget you. You saved our lives. We love you. Be at peace.”

  Tamara’s lips twisted: a horrible rictus, but Vasya saw the smile in it.

  Then the death-god put out a hand. The ghost, trembling, took it.

  She and the death-god disappeared. But before they vanished, Vasya thought she saw a beautiful girl, with black hair and green eyes, clasped and glowing in Morozko’s arms.

  26.

  Fire

  Vasya stumbled down the stairs, bleeding, dragging the child, who ran in her wake, speechless again and tearless.

  The stairway was full of choking smoke. Marya began to cough. There were people on the stairs now: servants. The phantoms were gone. Vasya heard the shrieks of women up above, as though Kasyan had never been there: a young sorcerer with flame in his fist, or an old man, screa
ming.

  They emerged into the dooryard. The gates were smashed; the yard full of people. Some lay unmoving in the bloodied and trampled snow. A few gasped, whimpered, called out. No more arrows flew. Chelubey was nowhere in sight. Dmitrii was calling orders, his face a mask of bloody soot. Most of the horses had been haltered and were being led hastily out through the gate—away from the fire. How near was it? What house had finally succumbed to the falling sparks? The barn-fire in the dooryard was dying down; Dmitrii’s army of servants must have been able to contain it. But Vasya could hear the whispering roar of a greater fire, and she knew they were not safe yet. The wind must be behind the flames, for her to taste the smoke. It was coming. It was coming, and it was her fault.

  Sasha was still riding Solovey, she saw with relief. Her brother was speaking to a man on the ground.

  Marya gave a cry of fear. Vasya turned her head.

  The demon of midnight: moon-haired, star-eyed, night-skinned, had appeared on the stairs, as though born of the space between flames. No horse; just herself. The red light shone purple on the chyert’s cheek. Something like sorrow put out the starlight in her gaze. “Are they dead?” she asked.

  Vasya was still stunned from the fight in the tower. “Who?”

  “Tamara,” hissed the chyert impatiently. “Tamara and Kasyan. Are they dead?”

  Vasya gathered her wits. “I—yes. Yes. How—?”

  But Midnight only said wearily, over the roar, almost to herself, “Her mother will be glad.”

  Vasya, much later, would wish she had grasped the significance of this. But at the moment she did not. She was bruised, shocked, and exhausted; Moscow was burning down around them and it was her fault. “They are dead,” she said. “But now the city is on fire. How can Moscow be saved?”

  “I am witness to all the world’s midnights,” returned Midnight wearily. “I do not interfere.”

  Vasya seized Midnight’s arm. “Interfere.”

  The midnight-demon looked taken aback; she pulled, but Vasya hung on grimly, smearing the creature with her blood. She was strong with mortality—and something more. Midnight could not break her grip. “My blood can make your kind strong,” said Vasya coldly. “Perhaps, if I will it, my blood can also make you weak. Shall I try it?”

  “There is no way,” breathed Midnight, looking a little uneasy now. “None.”

  Vasya shook the chyert so her teeth rattled. “There must be a way!” she cried.

  “That is”—Midnight gasped—“long ago, the winter-king might have quieted the flames. He is master of wind and snow.” The glossy eyelids veiled the shining eyes, and her glance turned malicious. “But you were a brave girl and drove Morozko off, broke his power in your hands.”

  Vasya’s grip loosened. “Broke—?”

  Polunochnitsa half-smiled, teeth gleaming red in the firelight. “Broke,” she said. “As you said, wise girl, your power works two ways.”

  Vasya was silent. Midnight bent forward and whispered, “Shall I tell you a secret? With that sapphire, he bound your strength to him—but the magic did what he did not intend; it made him strong but it also pulled him closer and closer to mortality, so that he was hungry for life, more than a man and less than a demon.” Polunochnitsa paused, watching Vasya, and murmured, cruelly, “So that he loved you, and did not know what to do.”

  “He is the winter-king; he cannot love.”

  “Certainly not, now,” said Polunochnitsa. “For his power broke in your hands, as I said, and by your words, you banished him. Now he will only be seen in Moscow by the dying. So get out of the city, Vasilisa Petrovna; leave it to its fate. You can do nothing more.”

  Midnight gave one final, furious wrench and tore herself from Vasya’s grip. In an instant, she was lost to sight in the pall of smoke that veiled the city.

  NEXT MOMENT, VASYA HEARD Solovey’s ringing neigh, and then Sasha came splashing off the horse’s back into the half-melted snow. Her brother pulled both her and Marya into a tight embrace and Solovey snuffled gladly over all of them. Sasha smelled of blood and soot. Vasya hugged her brother, stroked Solovey’s nose, and then drew away, swaying on her feet. If she allowed herself weakness now, she knew she would never gather her strength again in time, and she was thinking furiously…

  Sasha picked up Marya, set her on Solovey’s back, and turned back to Vasya.

  “Little sister,” said Sasha. “We must go. Moscow is burning.”

  Dmitrii came galloping up. He looked down at Vasya an instant, her long plait, her bruised face. Something chilled and darkened in his face. But all he said was, “Get them out, Sasha. There is no time.”

  Vasya made no move to get onto Solovey’s back. “Olya?” she asked her brother.

  “I will go find her,” said Sasha. “You must get on Solovey. Ride out of the city with Marya. There is no time. The fire is coming.”

  Over the bustle in the Grand Prince’s dooryard, beyond his walls, Vasya heard the thick cries of people in the city as they gathered what they could and fled.

  “Get her up,” said Dmitrii. “Get them out.” He rode off, calling more orders.

  Into the shadows, Vasya whispered, “Can you hear me, Morozko?”

  Silence.

  Outside Dmitrii’s walls, the wind wrapped like a river around the city, whipping the flames higher. She remembered Morozko’s voice. Only if you are dying, he had said. Nothing could keep me from you then. I am Death, and I come to all when they die.

  Before Vasya could think twice; before she could talk herself out of it, she pulled off her own cloak, reached up, and cast it around Marya’s drooping shoulders.

  “Vasya,” said her brother. “Vasya, what are you—?”

  She didn’t hear the rest. “Solovey,” she said to the horse. “Keep them safe.”

  The horse bowed his great head. Let me go with you, Vasya, he said, but she only laid a cheek against his nose.

  Then she was running out the ruined gate, and toward the burning.

  THE STREETS WERE CHOKED with people, most of them going the opposite way. But Vasya was light in the snow, unencumbered with a cloak, and running downhill. She moved quickly.

  Twice someone tried to tell her she was going in the wrong direction, and once a man seized her by the arm and tried to shout sense into her ear.

  She wrenched herself loose and ran on.

  The smoke thickened. The people in the streets grew more panicked. The fire loomed over them; it seemed to fill the world.

  Vasya began to cough. Her head swam, her throat swelled. Her mouth was dust-dry. There, finally, was Olga’s palace, above her in the red darkness. Fire raged—one street beyond? Two? She couldn’t tell. Olga’s gates were open, and someone was shouting orders within. A stream of people poured out. Had her sister been carried away already? She breathed a prayer for Olga, then ran on past the palace, into the inferno.

  Smoke. She breathed it in. It was her whole world. The streets were empty now. The heat was unbearable. She tried to run on, but found she had fallen to her knees, coughing. She couldn’t get enough air. Get up. She staggered on. Her face was blistering. What was she doing? Her ribs hurt.

  Then she couldn’t run anymore. She fell into the slush. Blackness gathered before her eyes…

  Moscow disappeared. She was in a nighttime forest: stars and trees, grayness and bitter dark.

  Death stood before her.

  “I found you,” she said, forcing the words past lips gone numb. She was kneeling there in the snow, in the forest beyond life, and found that she could not rise.

  His mouth twisted. “You are dying.” His step did not mark the snow; the light, cold wind did not stir his hair. “You are a fool, Vasilisa Petrovna,” he added.

  “Moscow is burning,” she whispered. Her lips and tongue would barely obey her. “It was my fault. I freed the firebird. But Midnight—Midnight said you could put the fire out.”

  “Not any longer. I put too much of myself in the jewel, and that is destroyed.” He
said this in a voice without feeling. But he drew her standing, roughly. Somewhere around her she sensed the fire; knew her skin was blistering, that she was nearly smothered from the smoke.

  “Vasya,” he said. Was that despair in his voice? “This is foolish. I can do nothing. You must go back. You cannot be here. Go back. Run. Live.”

  She could barely hear him. “Not alone,” she managed. “If I go back, you are coming with me. You are going to put the fire out.”

  “Impossible,” she thought he said.

  She wasn’t listening. Her strength was nearly gone. The heat, the burning city, were nearly gone. She was, she realized, about to die.

  How had she dragged Olga back from this place? Love, rage, determination.

  She wound both her bloody, weakening hands in his robe, breathing the smell of cold water and pine. Of freedom in the trackless moonlight. She thought of her father, whom she had not saved. She thought of others, whom she still could. “Midnight—” she began. She had to gasp between words. “Midnight said you loved me.”

  “Love?” he retorted. “How? I am a demon and a nightmare; I die every spring, and I will live forever.”

  She waited.

  “But yes,” he said wearily. “As I could, I loved you. Now will you go? Live.”

  “I, too,” she said. “In a childish way, as girls love heroes that come in the night, I loved you. So come back with me now, and end this.” She seized his hands and pulled with her last remaining strength—with all the passion and anger and love she had—and dragged them both back into the inferno that was Moscow.

  They lay tangled on the ground in slush growing hot, and the fire was almost upon them. He blinked in the red light, perfectly still. In his face was pure shock.

  “Call the snow,” Vasya shouted into his ear, over the roar. “You are here. Moscow is burning. Call the snow.”