Vasya, feeling suddenly cold, asked, “What happens?”
“He might have chosen you, you know,” muttered the woman just as Yelena rose to her feet. She was pale, but composed.
A deadly hush fell.
The blood began to beat in Vasya’s ears. In the fairy tale, a father took his daughters into the forest and left them there, first one, then the other: brides of the king of winter. The winter-king sent one home with her dowry.
He killed the other.
Once they strangled maidens in the snow, Morozko had said. To court my blessing.
Once? Or now? Which midnight is this? Vasya had heard the fairy tale, but she had never imagined it: a woman separated from her people, the frost-demon vanished into the forest.
Vanished, but not alone.
Once he’d been nourished on sacrifices.
Morozko and Medved were alike once, she thought, her lips cold. In the winter-king’s face was a clear and unthinking joy, the hawk’s hunger when he tears the rabbit to pieces. He got to his feet, took the woman’s hand.
All around, a new tension began to build.
Into the silence came a single sound; the ringing chime of a drawn sword. Heads turned; it was the man with dark eyes, who had not been able to keep his hand from his sword-hilt. His face was naked with agony.
“No,” he said, “take another; you shall not have her.” Many hands tried to hold him back, but he broke their grip, hurled himself forward, and swung his sword at the winter-king in a single, blind stroke.
Morozko held no weapon. But it didn’t matter. With his bare hand, he caught the blade as it fell. A wrench and a twist and the sword clattered to the floor, sheathed with frost. The tawny woman cried out; the dark-eyed man blanched.
Morozko’s hand streamed water like blood, but only for a moment. Frost crept over the cut place and sealed it.
The winter-king said softly, “You dare.”
Yelena fell to her knees. “Please,” she begged. “Do not hurt him.”
“Do not take her,” pleaded the man, facing the winter-king with empty hands. “We need her. I need her.”
Deathly silence.
Morozko, a line between his brows, might have hesitated.
In that moment, Vasya strode out into the open space herself. Her kerchief had fallen from her hair. All heads swiveled toward her.
She said, “Let them go, winter-king.”
She was remembering Moscow, walking through the slush toward her own death. It was bitter memory that put the rage in her voice when she said, “Is this your power? Taking women from their fathers’ halls at Midwinter? Killing their lovers too, when they try to prevent you?”
Her voice rang through the hall. Cries of anger rose. But none dared break into the ritual space nearest the fire-pit.
Yelena’s hand crept out and took hold of the man’s. Their knuckles were bone-white. “My lord,” she breathed. “That is only a foolish girl, a mad girl, who came a beggar out of the snow on Midwinter night. Never mind her; I am the sacrifice for my people.” But she did not let go of the man’s hand.
Morozko was watching Vasya. “This girl doesn’t think so,” he said.
“No, I do not,” snapped Vasya. “Choose me. Then take your sacrifice, if you can.”
Everyone in the hall recoiled. But Morozko laughed; free and wild and so like the Bear that she flinched despite herself. In his eyes was a blaze of heedless joy. “Come here then,” he said.
She did not move.
His eyes locked on hers. “Do you mean to fight, little maiden?”
“Yes,” said Vasya. “If you want my blood, take it.”
“Why should I, when there is another, fairer than you, waiting for me?”
Vasya smiled. Something of his unthinking joy—in challenge, in battle—echoed in her soul. “What pleasure in that, winter-king?”
“Very well,” he said, drew a knife and lunged. When he moved, the knife caught the light with a wavering spark, as though the blade were made of ice.
Vasya backed up, her eyes on the weapon. Morozko had given Vasya her first knife and taught her how to use it. The way he moved was imprinted on her consciousness, but that patient teaching was a far cry from—
She seized a knife from the belt of one of the watchers. The man gaped at her, wordless. The knife was short-hafted: plain mortal iron against the winter-king’s shimmering ice.
Vasya ducked Morozko’s strike, and came up on the opposite side of the fire, cursing her rough shoes. She kicked them off, the floor icy on her feet.
The crowd fell silent, watching.
“Why come to me?” he asked her. “Are you so eager to die?”
“Judge for yourself,” Vasya whispered.
“No—” he said. “Then why?”
“Because I thought I knew you.”
His face hardened. He moved again, faster. She parried, but badly; his blade broke her guard and scoured her shoulder. Her sleeve tore, and blood ran down her arm. She could not match him. But she didn’t need to. She only needed to make him remember. Somehow.
All about her, the crowd stood silent, watching like the wolf-ring when the hart is brought to bay.
The hot smell of her blood drove home to Vasya that this playacting was real to them. It had felt like a fairy tale to her, a game in a far-off country. Perhaps he would never remember her. Perhaps he would kill her. Midnight had known this would happen. Well, Vasya thought grimly, I am the sacrifice after all.
Not yet. Fury filled her; she drove suddenly beneath his guard, and dragged her knife in turn across his ribs. Cold water poured from the wound; a sound of hushed wonder came from the crowd.
He fell back. “Who are you?”
“I am a witch,” said Vasya. Blood was running down her hand now, spoiling her grip. “I have plucked snowdrops at Midwinter, died at my own choosing, and wept for a nightingale. Now I am beyond prophecy.” She caught his knife on the crosspiece of hers, hilt to hilt. “I have crossed three times nine realms to find you, my lord. And I find you at play, forgetful.”
She felt him hesitate. Something deeper than memory ran through his eyes. It might have been fear.
“Remember me,” said Vasya. “Once you bid me remember you.”
“I am the winter-king,” he said, and savagely, “What need have I for a girl’s remembrance?” He moved again, not playing now. He forced her blade down, broke her guard; his knife cut through the tendons of her wrist. “I do not know you.” He was immovable as winter, long before the thaw. In his words, she heard the echo of her failure.
And yet, his eyes were on her face. The blood ran off her fingertips. She forgot that the fire was not blue, and in an instant, it burst into brilliant gold. All the people cried out.
“You could remember me,” she said. “If you tried.” She touched him with her bloody hand.
He hesitated. She could have sworn he hesitated. But that was all. Her hand fell away. The Bear had won.
Tendrils of black mist crept around the edges of her vision. Her wrist was cut deeply, her hand useless, blood sliding down to bless the boards of this house.
“I came to find you,” she said. “But if you do not remember me, then I have failed.” There was a roaring in her ears. “If you ever see your horse again, tell her what happened to me.” She swayed and fell, on the edge of consciousness.
He caught her before she fell. In his cold grip, she remembered a road from which there was no turning back, a road in a forest full of stars. She could have sworn he cursed, under his breath. Then she could feel his arm beneath her knees, beneath her shoulders, and he picked her up.
Carrying her, he strode out of the great feasting-hall.
17.
Memory
SHE WASN’T UNCONSCIOUS, EXACTLY, BUT the world had gone gray and still. She s
melled smoke-tinged night and pine. When she tipped her head back she saw stars—a whole world of stars—as though she flew between heaven and earth, like that wandering devil. The frost-demon’s feet did not groan in the snow, his breath made no plume in the cold night. She heard the creak of cold-stiffened hinges. New smells—fresh birch and fire and rot. She was deposited unceremoniously onto something hard, and hissed when the shock of it jarred both her bones and her bruises. She lifted her arm, and saw her hand sticky with blood, the wrist cut deep.
Then she remembered. “Midnight,” she gasped. “Is it still midnight?”
“It is still midnight.” Candles flared suddenly: waxen lumps in niches in the wall. Her gaze flew up and found the frost-demon watching her.
The air was hot and close. To her surprise, she saw they were in a bathhouse. She tried to sit up, but she was bleeding too fast; it was a struggle to stay conscious. Gritting her teeth, she reached to tear a strip of her skirt, found that she could not with one hand useless.
Raising her head, she snapped at him, “Did you bring me here to watch me bleed to death? You are going to be disappointed. I am getting used to spiting people by surviving.”
“I can imagine,” he returned mildly. He was standing over her. His gaze, sardonic, still curious, took in her damaged face, dropped to her bloody wrist. She was holding it in an iron grip, trying to halt the flow of blood. Her blood was on his cheek, on his robe, his white hands. He wore his power like another skin.
“Why a bathhouse?” she asked him, trying to control her breathing. “Only witches or wicked sorcerers go to a bathhouse at midnight.”
“Appropriate then,” he said, his voice dry. “And you are still not afraid? With your blood pouring out of you? Where have you come from, wanderer?”
“My secrets are my own,” said Vasya, between gritted teeth.
“Yet you asked me for my help.”
“I did,” she said. “And you cut my wrist open.”
“You knew that was going to happen the instant you challenged me.”
“Very well,” she said. “Wondering who I am? Then help me. Otherwise you will never know.”
He did not answer, and when he moved she did not hear him, only felt a breath of cold air, strange in the heat of the room. He knelt before her. Their eyes met. She saw a flicker of unease run through him, as though some crack—some small crack—had opened in the wall of ice in his mind. Without a word, he cupped his hand; water pooled in the palm. He let the water fall into the wound on her wrist.
Where the water touched her raw flesh, pain blazed up. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming. The pain died as fast as it had risen, leaving her shaken, a little sick. The cut on her wrist was gone, and only a line of white remained, catching the light, as though ice were embedded in the scar.
“You are healed,” he said. “Now tell me—” He fell silent. Vasya followed his gaze. There was another scar on her palm, where he had wounded her—and healed her—once before.
“I did not lie,” said Vasya. “You know me.”
He did not speak.
“You once tore my hand with yours,” she went on. “Smeared your fingers in my blood. Later, you healed the mark you’d made. Can’t you remember? Remember the dark, the dead thing, the night I went into the forest for snowdrops?”
He got to his feet. “Tell me who you are.”
Vasya forced herself to stand as well, though she was still light-headed. He took a step back. “I am called Vasilisa Petrovna. Do you believe now that I know you? I think you do. You are afraid.”
“Of a wounded maiden?” He was scornful.
Sweat rolled down the hollow of her spine. A fire in the inner room snapped fingers of flame, and even there in the outer room, it was hot. “If you do not mean to kill me,” said Vasya, “and you do not remember me, then why are we here? What can the lord of winter have to say to a servant-girl?”
“You are no more a servant-girl than I am.”
“At least I am not a prisoner in this village,” said Vasya. She was near enough to catch his gaze and hold it.
“I am a king,” he said. “They make a feast in my honor; they give me sacrifices.”
“Prisons are not always made of walls and chains. Do you mean to spend eternity feasting, lord?”
His expression was cold. “A single night only.”
“Eternity,” she said. “You have forgotten that too.”
“If I cannot remember, then it is not eternity to me.” He was getting angry. “What matter? They are my people. You are only a madwoman, come to plague good people on Midwinter night.”
“At least I wasn’t planning to kill any of them!”
He did not reply, but cold air rushed through the bathhouse, setting the candle-flames to swaying. There was little space in that outer room; they were almost shouting in each other’s faces. The crack in his defenses widened. She could not reason away whatever magic kept him forgetful. But emotion dragged his memory a little nearer the surface. So did her touch. So did her blood. The feeling between them was still there. He did not need to remember; he felt it, just as she did.
And he had brought her here. Despite all he’d said, he had brought her here.
Her skin felt thin, as though a breath would bruise it. Vasya had always been reckless in battle; that same recklessness had her in its grip now. Deeper than memory, she thought. Mother of God, forgive me.
She reached out. Her hand with its white scars paused a breath from his cheek; his hand shot up, his fingers closed on her wrist. For a second they stood motionless. Then his grip slackened, and she touched his face, the fine, ageless bones. He didn’t move.
Low, Vasya said, “If I may defer my death an hour, winter-king, I am going to bathe. Since you have brought me to a bathhouse.”
He did not react, but his stillness was answer enough.
* * *
THE INNER ROOM WAS utterly dark, save for the glow of the hot stones in its oven. Vasya left him standing behind her. She was shaken by her own temerity. In a life littered with questionable decisions, she wondered if she was doing the most foolish thing she’d ever done.
Determinedly, she stripped off her clothes, laid them in a corner. She ladled water on the rocks and sat, arms wrapped about her knees. But the blissful languor of the heat could not overtake her. She did not know if she was more afraid that he would go away or that he wouldn’t.
He slipped through the door. She could barely see him in the dark; only knew his presence by the shift of the steam as he moved through it.
She lifted her chin, to hide sudden fright, and said, “Won’t you melt?”
He looked affronted. But then, unexpectedly, he laughed. “I will try not.” He sank with undiminished grace onto the bench opposite her, leaned on his knees, his hands laced together. Her glance lingered on his long fingers.
His skin was paler than hers; he made nothing of nakedness. His stare was cool and frank. “You had a long road,” he said. She could not see his eyes in the shadows, but felt his gaze like a hand. Whatever he had not seen of her skin before, he was seeing it now.
“And it is not over,” she said. With unsteady fingers, she touched the scab on her cheek, raised her eyes to his, wondered if she was hideous, wondered if it mattered. Still he didn’t move. The faint light lit him in pieces: a shoulder, a hollow beneath the ribs. She realized that she was considering him, throat to feet, and that he was watching her do so. She blushed.
“Will you not tell me your secret?” he asked.
“What secret?” retorted Vasya, laboring to keep her voice steady. His hands were motionless, but his glance still traced the lines of her body. “I already told you. My people have need of you.”
He shook his head, raised his eyes to hers. “No, there is something more. Something there in your face every time you loo
k at me.”
As I could, I loved you.
“My secrets are mine, Gosudar,” said Vasya sharply. “We sacrifices may take things to the grave as well as anyone else.”
He lifted a brow. “I have never met a maiden who looked less like she meant to die.”
“I don’t,” said Vasya. Still short of breath, she added, “I did want a bath, though, and I am getting one; that is something.”
He laughed again, and their eyes caught.
Him too, Vasya thought. He is afraid too. For he knows no more than I where this will end.
Yet he brought me here, he stayed. He wounded me and healed me. He remembers, and he doesn’t.
Before she could lose her nerve, Vasya slipped off the bench and knelt between his knees. His skin had not warmed with the steam. Even in the smoke-smelling bathhouse, the scent of pine, of cold water hung about him. His face did not change, but his breathing quickened. Vasya realized she was trembling. Once again, she reached up, touched her palm to his face.
A second time, he caught her wrist. But this time, his mouth grazed the scar in the hollow of her hand.
They looked at each other.
Her stepmother had liked to frighten her and Irina with tales of wedding-night horrors; Dunya had assured her that it was not quite so.
It felt like the wildness would burn her up from the inside out.
He traced her lower lip with his thumb. She could not read his expression. “Please,” she said, or thought she said, just as he closed the distance between them and kissed her.
The fire was barely embers in the stove, but they didn’t need the light. His skin was cool under her hands; her sweat streaked them both. She was shivering all over; she didn’t know what to do with her hands. It was too much: skin and spirit, hunger and her desperate loneliness, and the rising tide of feeling between them.
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