“You came into the city like a bird in a cage of reeds, battering yourself against the bars and breaking them—do you wonder that it ended as it did?”
“Where should I have gone?” she snapped. “Home, to be burned as a witch? Should I have heeded you, worn your charm, married, had children, and sat sometimes by the window, fondly remembering my days with the winter-king? Should I have let—”
“You should think before you do things.” He bit off the words, as though her last question had stung.
“This from the frost-demon who set this whole realm at hazard to save my life?”
He said nothing. She swallowed more hot words. She did not understand what lay between them. She was neither wise nor beautiful. None of the tales spoke of both wanting and resentment, of grand gestures and terrible mistakes.
“The chyerti would be worshipped,” said Vasya, moderating her tone. “If the Bear had his way.”
“He would be worshipped if he had his way,” said Morozko. “I do not think he cares what happens to chyerti, so long as they serve his ends.” He paused. “Or what happens to men and women themselves, dead in his scheming.”
“If I wished to throw my lot in with the Bear, I would not have come to find you in the first place,” Vasya said. “But yes, sometimes I think it is a bitter thing, to go back and try to save that city.”
“If you spend all your days bearing the burden of unforgotten wrongs you will only wound yourself.”
She glared at him, and he looked back, narrow-eyed. Why was he angry? Why was she? Vasya knew about marriages, carefully arranged; she knew about swains courting yellow-haired peasant girls in the midsummer twilight. She had listened to fairy tales since before she could speak. None of those prepared her for this. She had to clench her hands into fists to keep from touching him.
He drew away, jerkily, just as she took a deep, shaken breath and turned her gaze again to the water. “I am going to go to sleep in the sunshine,” she said. “Until Father Sergei is ready to go on. Will you disappear if I do?”
“No,” he said, and he sounded as if he resented it. But she was hot and sleepy and could not bring herself to care. She curled up in the grass near him. The last thing she felt was his light, cold fingers in her hair, like an apology, as she fell suddenly and completely asleep.
* * *
SASHA FOUND THEM A little while later. The frost-demon sat upright, watchful. The slanting summer light seemed to shine through him. He raised his head as Sasha approached, and Sasha was startled at the look on his face at that moment, unguarded, there and gone. Vasya stirred.
“Let her sleep, winter-king,” said Sasha.
Morozko said nothing, but one hand moved to smooth Vasya’s tousled black hair.
Watching them, Sasha said, “Why did you save Father Sergei’s life?”
Morozko said, “I am not noble, if that is what you are thinking. The Bear must be bound anew, and we cannot do it alone.”
Sasha was silent, turning that over. Then he said abruptly, “You are not a creature of God.”
“I am not.” His free hand, lying loose, had an unnatural stillness.
“Yet you saved my sister’s life. Why?”
The devil’s gaze was direct. “First for my own scheming. But later because I could not stand to see her slain.”
“Why do you ride with her now? It cannot be easy, a frost-demon at high summer.”
“She asked it of me. Why all these questions, Aleksandr Peresvet?”
The epithet was given half in earnest, half in mockery. Sasha had to swallow a surge of rage. “Because after Moscow,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, “she went to a—dark country. I was told I could not follow her there.”
“You could not.”
“And you could?”
“Yes.”
Sasha took this in. “If she goes into the darkness again—will you swear not to abandon her?”
If the demon was surprised, he gave no sign. His face remote, he said, “I will not abandon her. But one day she will go where even I cannot follow. I am immortal.”
“Then—if she asks—if there is a man who can warm her, and pray for her, and give her children—then let her go. Do not keep her in the dark.”
“You ought to make up your mind,” said Morozko. “Swear not to abandon her or give her up to a living man? Which shall it be?”
His tone was cutting. Sasha’s hand strayed to his sword. But he did not grasp it. “I don’t know,” he said. “I never protected her before; I do not know why I should be able to now.”
The demon said nothing.
Sasha said, “A convent would have broken her.” Reluctantly he added, “Even a marriage, no matter how kindly the man, how fair the house.”
Still Morozko did not speak.
“But I am afraid for her soul,” said Sasha, voice rising despite himself. “I am afraid for her alone in dark places, and I am afraid for her with you at her side. It is sin. And you are a fairy tale, a nightmare; you have no soul at all.”
“Perhaps not,” agreed the winter-king, but still the slender fingers tangled with Vasya’s hair.
Sasha ground his teeth. He wanted to demand promises, pledges, confessions, if only to delay the realization that there were some things he couldn’t change. But he bit back the words. He knew they wouldn’t do any good. She had survived the frost and the flame, had found a harbor, however brief. Perhaps that was all anyone could ask, in the world’s savage turning.
He stepped back. “I will pray for you both,” he said, voice clipped. “We are going soon.”
21.
Enemy at the Gate
IT WAS EARLY EVENING, BRIGHT and still, the gray shadows long and softening to violet, by the time they made their way down the parched bank of the Moskva and found a ferry to take them across.
The ferryman only had eyes for the monks. Vasya kept her head down. With her cropped hair, her rough clothes, her gawkiness, she passed for a horse-boy. At first it was easy to forget where she was, as she busied herself getting the horses to stand quiet in the rocking boat. But she found her heart beating faster and faster and faster as they approached the far side of the river.
In her mind’s eye, the Moskva was sheeted with ice, red with firelight. Men and women seethed around a hastily built pyre. Perhaps even now they were floating over the very spot where the last ashes of her would have sunk into the indifferent water.
She barely made it to the side of the boat, and then she was heaving into the river. The ferryman laughed. “Poor country boy, never been on a boat before?” Father Sergei, with kindly hands, held her head as she retched. “Look at the shore,” he said, “see how still it is? Here is some clean water, drink. That’s better.”
It was the icy touch on the back of her neck, cold, invisible fingers, that drew her back to herself. You are not alone, he said, in a voice no one but she could hear. Remember.
She sat up, grim-faced, and wiped her mouth. “I’m all right, Father,” she said to Sergei.
The boat ground against a dock. Vasya took hold of the pack-horse’s halter, led him ashore. The rope slid against her sweating hands. People were pushing to get into the city before the gates were shut for the night. It was not difficult to fall a little behind the three monks. Morozko’s cold presence paced invisibly beside her. Waiting.
Would anyone recognize her—the witch they thought they’d burned? There were people in front and behind; people all around. She was afraid. The air smelled of dust and rotten fish, and sickness. Sweat trickled between her breasts.
She kept her head down, trying to look insignificant, trying to control her racing heart. The stink of the city was calling up memories faster than she could push them back: of fire, of terror, of hands tearing at her clothes. She prayed no one would wonder why she wore a thick shirt and jacket in the heat.
She had never in her life felt so hideously vulnerable.
The three monks were stopped at the gate. The gate-guards held sachets of dried herbs to mouth and nose as they prodded carts and asked questions of travelers. The river darted points of light into their eyes.
“Say your name and your business, strangers,” said the captain of the guard.
“I am no stranger. I am Brother Aleksandr,” said Sasha. “I have returned to Dmitrii Ivanovich, accompanying the holy father Sergei Radonezhsky.”
The captain scowled. “The Grand Prince ordered you brought to him when you arrived.”
Vasya bit her lip. Smoothly, Sasha said, “I will go to the Grand Prince, in due course. But the holy father must go first to the monastery, to rest and say prayers of thanks for his safe arrival.” Vasya’s hands were slippery on the lead-rope of the horse.
“The holy father may go where he chooses,” said the captain flatly. “But to the Grand Prince you will go, according to orders. I will have men escort you. The Grand Prince has taken advice, and he does not trust you.”
“Who has advised him?” Sasha demanded.
“The wonder-worker,” said the gate-guard, and a little emotion entered his flat voice. “Father Konstantin Nikonovich.”
The Bear knows we are coming now, Morozko had said to Sergei and Sasha, as they made their way along the Moskva toward the city in the sweltering afternoon. It is possible you will be delayed at the gate. If so—
Vasya could scarcely breathe around the panic in her throat. But she managed to mutter to the pack-horse at her side: “Rear!”
The creature broke into a frenzy of heavy-limbed bucking. Next moment, Sasha’s battle-trained Tuman reared up as well, lashing out with her fore-hooves. Rodion’s horse too began capering heavily, right at the gate, and then Sergei raised his voice, rich and full despite his age, to say, “Come, Brother, let us all pray—” just as Tuman kicked one of the guards. When the confusion was at its height, Vasya slipped through the gate, Morozko in her wake.
Forget. Just like that other night on this same river. Forget that they could see her. Of course, the guards might not have seen her even without magic, so effectively had the three monks drawn all eyes.
She waited in the shadow of the gate. Waited for Sasha to come through with Sergei, so that she could follow them, invisibly, to the Grand Prince’s palace, be let in with them, unseen, then go and steal the bridle.
“Am I an utter fool, brother?” asked a familiar voice. Somewhere in its light tones was the clashing of armies, the screaming of men. The Bear stood in the shadow of the gate and seemed to have grown since the last time she saw him, as though nourished by the miasma of fear and sickness swirling about Moscow. “The city is mine,” he said. “What do you expect to do, coming here like a ghost in the company of a pack of monks? Betray me to the new religion? See me exorcised? No, I am stronger. You won’t have a pleasant prison of forgetfulness this time; it will be chains and long darkness. After I kill her and make her my servant in front of you.”
Morozko didn’t speak. He had a knife of ice, though the blade dripped water when it moved. His eyes met hers once, wordless.
She ran.
“Witch!” shouted the Bear, in the voice that men could hear. “Witch, there is a witch there!” Heads began to turn; then his voice was cut off abruptly. Morozko had flung his knife at his brother’s throat; the Bear had slammed it aside and then the two were grappling like wolves, invisible in the dust.
Vasya fled, heart hammering in her throat, effacing herself in the shadow of buildings.
* * *
SHE TRIED NOT TO THINK of what was happening behind her; Sasha and Sergei set to distract Dmitrii, Morozko holding off the Bear.
The rest was up to her.
If it comes to it, I cannot keep him distracted forever, Morozko had said. Until sunset, not longer. And by sunset it won’t matter. He will have the dead, he will have the power of men’s fears, that rise in the dark. He must be bound by sunset, Vasya.
So she ran now, the sweat smarting in her eyes. The gazes of chyerti fell on her like a hail of stones, but she did not turn to see. People went heavily about their business, gasping and sweat-soaked, holding sachets of dried flowers to ward off sickness, paying little heed to a single gawky boy. A dead man lay huddled in a corner between two buildings, flies in his open eyes. Vasya swallowed nausea and ran on. With every step she had to fight down panic at being in Moscow again, and alone. Every sound, every smell, every turn of the streets brought back paralyzing memories; she felt like a girl in a nightmare, trying to run through clinging mud.
The gates of the palace of Serpukhov had been reinforced and reinforced again; spikes of wood lined the top, and there were guards on the gate. She paused, still fighting that stomach-clenching dread, wondering how she was going to—
A voice spoke from the wall-top. She had to look three times before she saw the speaker. It was Olga’s dvorovoi. He reached his two hands down to her. “Come,” he whispered. “Hurry, hurry.”
When she caught the outstretched hands of the dvorovoi, she found them strangely solid. Olga’s house-spirits had been little more than mist, before. But now the chyert’s hands pulled strongly. Vasya scrabbled for purchase, got a hand up to the top of the wall and pulled herself over.
She dropped to the ground on the other side and found a brassy, silent dooryard, with only a few servants moving slowly. She breathed, groped for the forgetfulness that kept them from seeing her. She could barely manage it. Just there, Solovey had…
“I must speak to Varvara,” Vasya said to the dvorovoi, between clenched teeth.
But the dvorovoi had her by the hand, and was hustling her in the direction of the bathhouse. “You must see our lady,” he said.
* * *
SHE WAS LYING CURLED like a puppy in the bathhouse. It was not too hot inside. The bannik must be doing what he could for her, Vasya thought. All the house chyerti must be doing what they could for her. Because she…
Marya sat up and Vasya was shocked when she saw the child’s face; her eyes set about with rings like bruising.
“Aunt!” Marya cried. “Aunt Vasya!” And she hurled herself sobbing into Vasya’s arms.
Vasya caught the child and held her. “Masha, love, tell me what has happened.”
Muffled explanations sounded from somewhere around Vasya’s breastbone. “You were gone. And Solovey was gone and the man in the oven said the Eater would send dead people into our houses if he could. So I talked to the chyerti and I gave them bread and I cut my hand and gave them blood like you said, and Mother kept us all home from church—”
“Yes,” Vasya said with pride, cutting into the flow of words. “You did so well, my brave girl.”
Marya straightened abruptly. “I am going to get Mother and Varvara.”
“That is a good idea,” said Vasya, mindful of the waning day. She didn’t like the idea of skulking in the bathhouse while Marya played messenger. But she dared not allow the servants to see her, and she was not enough in control of herself to rely on half-understood magic. Terror was still waiting to snatch her by the throat.
“The chyerti said you’d come back,” Marya said happily. “They said you’d come and we’d go to a place by the lake where it’s not hot and there are horses.”
“I hope so,” said Vasya fervently. “Now hurry, Masha.”
Marya ran off. When she had gone, Vasya took a few deep breaths, fighting to compose herself. She turned her head to the bannik. “I have wept for a nightingale,” she said. “But Marya—”
“Is your heir and your mirror,” returned the bannik. “She will have a horse and they will love each other as the left hand loves the right. She will ride far and fast when she is grown.” He paused. “If you and she survive.”
“It is a good future,” said Vasya, and then bit her lip, rem
embering.
“The Bear scorns the house-chyerti, as tools of men,” said the bannik. “We will help you as we can. His votary is afraid of us.”
“His votary?”
“The priest with golden hair,” said the bannik. “The Bear took the priest as his own, and gave him the second sight that frightens him so, now. They are bound together.”
“Oh,” said Vasya. Much was suddenly obvious to her. “I am going to kill that priest.” It wasn’t even a vow. It was a statement of fact. “Will it weaken the Bear?”
“Yes,” said the bannik. “But it might not be so easy. The Bear will protect him.”
Just then, Marya came running back into the dim bathhouse. “They’re coming,” she said, and frowned. “I think they will be glad to see you.”
Olga and Varvara appeared in her wake. Olga looked not so much glad as shaken. “It seems you are destined to astonish me with sudden meetings, Vasya,” she said. Her voice was crisp, but she took Vasya’s hands and held them tightly.
“Sasha said you knew I survived.”
“Marya knew,” said Olga. “And Varvara. They told us. I had doubts but—” She broke off, searching her sister’s face. “How did you escape?”
“It doesn’t matter,” broke in Varvara. “You put us all in danger once, girl. Now you are doing it again. Did anyone see you?”
“No,” said Vasya. “They didn’t see me jumping off my own pyre either, and they will not see me now.”
Olga paled. “Vasya,” she began, “I am sorry—”
“It doesn’t matter. The Bear means to dethrone Dmitrii Ivanovich,” said Vasya. “To send this whole land into chaos. We must stop him.” She swallowed hard, but managed to say steadily, “I must get into Dmitrii Ivanovich’s palace.”
22.
The Princess and the Warrior
SASHA’S DIVERSION WORKED BETTER THAN he could have hoped. Tuman, riled by the shouting and trained for war, reared, lashed out, reared again. More guards came, and more, until the three monks were at the center of a noisy throng.
The Winter of the Witch Page 21
