“Dmitrii Ivanovich, we must get into the palace,” said Vasya. “Now.”
“A witch indeed,” said Dmitrii coldly to Vasya. “Back to the fire you will go, I will stake my reign on it. We do not suffer witches to live. Holy Father,” he said to Konstantin. “Please. Both these women will face the harshest justice. But it must be justice before all the people, not in the mud of the dooryard.”
Konstantin hesitated.
The Bear snarled suddenly. “Lies; he is lying. He knows. The monk told him.”
The gate shook. Screams sounded from the city. Thunder flashed in the streaming heavens. “Back!” snapped Morozko suddenly. This time the men heard him. Heads turned uneasily, wondering who had spoken. There was horror in his face. “Back now behind walls or you’ll all be dead by moonrise.”
There was a smell riding the wind that lifted every hair on her body. More screams came from the city. In a flash of lightning, the dvorovoi could be seen now with both hands against the shaking gate. “Batyushka, I beg you,” she said to Konstantin, and threw herself in supplication in the mud at his feet.
The priest’s eyes followed her down, just for a moment, but it was enough. Dmitrii leaped for Olga, dragged her away from the priest just as the gate flew open. Konstantin’s knife caught in Olga’s veil, tore it away from her chin on one side, but Olga was unwounded, and Vasya was on her feet once more and scrambling back.
The dead came into the dooryard of the Grand Prince of Moscow.
* * *
THE PLAGUE HAD NOT been as bad as it could have been, that summer. Not as bad as ten years before; it only sputtered among the poor of Moscow like tinder that refused to catch completely.
But the dead had died in fear and those were the ones the Bear could use. Now the result of the summer’s work came through the gate. Some wore their grave-clothes, some were naked, their bodies marked with the blackened swellings that had killed them. Worst of all, in their eyes was still that fear. They were still afraid, seeking in the darkness for anything familiar.
One of Dmitrii’s guards cried out, staring, “Holy Father, save us!”
Konstantin made not a sound; he was standing frozen, the knife still in his hand. Vasya wanted to kill him, as she’d never wanted to kill anyone in her life. She wanted to bury that knife in his heart.
But there was no time. Her family meant more than her own sorrow.
Faced with Konstantin’s silence, the guards were backing up, their nerve wavering. Dmitrii was still supporting Olga; unexpectedly he spoke to Vasya, his voice clear and calm. “Can those things be slain like men, Vasya?”
Vasya spoke Morozko’s answer, as he said it into her ear. “No. Fire will slow them, and injury, but that is all.”
Dmitrii shot the sky an irritated glance. It was still pouring rain. “Not fire. Injury then,” he said and raised his voice to call concise orders.
Dmitrii had not Konstantin’s control, the liquid beauty of tone, but his voice was loud and brisk, even cheerful, encouraging his men. Suddenly they were no longer a knot of frightened men, backing away from something horrible. Suddenly they were warriors, massed to face a foe.
Just in time. Their blades steadied just as the dead things ran for them, openmouthed. More and more dead things were coming through the gate. A dozen—more.
“Morozko!” Vasya snapped. “Can you—?”
“I can put them down if I touch them,” he said. “But I cannot command them all.”
“We have to get into the palace,” Vasya said. She was supporting Olga now; her sister, used to the smooth floors of her own terem, was clumsy in the sloppy dooryard. Dmitrii had gone forward with his men and Olga’s; they had formed a hollow square, bristling with weapons, about the women, all of them backing up together toward the door of the palace.
Konstantin stood still in the rain, as though frozen. The Bear stood beside him, eyes alight, shouting his army on, joyful.
The first upyry collided with Dmitrii’s guards. A man screamed. Konstantin flinched. Little more than a boy, the man was already on the ground, his throat torn away.
Morozko’s touch was gentle, but his face was savage as he sent that upyr back down into death, whipped round to do the same to two others.
Vasya knew that she and Olga weren’t going to reach the door. More and more upyry were flowing into the lightning-lit dooryard. The guards’ hollow square was surrounded, and only their frail bodies stood between Olga and…
They had to bind the Bear. They had to.
Vasya squeezed her sister’s hand. “I have to help them, Olya,” she said.
“I’ll be all right,” said Olga firmly. “God go with you.” Her hands clasped in prayer.
Vasya let go her sister’s hand and came up beside Dmitrii Ivanovich, in line with his men.
The men were holding the dead things off with spears, looks of sick terror on their faces, but Dmitrii had to step forward to behead one, and another ran up, taking advantage of the break in the line.
Vasya shut her fists and forgot that the dead thing was not burning.
The creature caught like a torch, then another, a third. They didn’t burn long; the rain put out the fire and the dead things were still coming, blackened and moaning.
But Dmitrii saw. As the nearest dead thing caught fire, his sword sheared through water and flame, glittering, and cut off the thing’s head.
He shot Vasya a grin of unfeigned delight. There was blood on his cheek. “I knew you had unclean powers,” he said.
“Be grateful, cousin,” Vasya retorted.
“Oh, I am,” said the Grand Prince of Moscow, and his smile put heart in her, despite the drenching rain, the dooryard packed with nightmarish things. He surveyed the dooryard. “But I hope you have better than little fires—cousin.”
She found herself smiling at the acknowledged kinship, even as Dmitrii buried his sword in another upyr, leaping back to the protection of his men’s spears at the last moment. She set three more alight, horribly, only for the rain to douse them again. The dead things were wary now of the men’s blades, and deathly afraid of Morozko’s hands. But the death-god was only a wraith in the rain, a black shape remote and terrible, and already six living men were down, not moving.
The Bear had grown gigantic, fatted with summer’s heat, with sickness and suffering, and to Vasya his voice seemed louder than the thunder, urging his army on. Medved did not look like a man anymore; he wore the shape of a bear, shoulders broad enough to blot out the stars.
Dmitrii put his sword through another one, but it stuck. He refused to relinquish it, and Vasya dragged him back to the safety of the square of guards just in time. The square had shrunk.
“You are both bleeding,” said Olga, only a slight tremor in her voice, and Vasya, glancing down, saw that she was; her arm was grazed, and Dmitrii’s cheek.
“Never fear, Olga Vladimirova,” said Dmitrii to her. He was smiling still, bright and calm, and Vasya understood anew why her brother gave this man such loyalty.
From the ring of guards, a man screamed, and Morozko leaped, too late to save him. The Bear laughed even as Morozko flung the dead thing down. Still more were coming into the dooryard.
“Where is Sasha now?” Vasya demanded of Dmitrii.
“Gone to the monastery for Sergei, of course,” said the Grand Prince. “I sent him as soon as the priest went mad. A good thing too. Yon’s the work of holy men, not warriors; we’re going to die if we don’t get help.” He said this quite matter-of-factly: a general weighing his force’s chances. But then his narrow-eyed gaze found Konstantin, who was standing motionless beside the Bear’s hulking shadow. There was death in it. The dead took no notice of the priest.
“I knew the priest was up to something, the way he harped on my cousin’s wickedness,” said Dmitrii. He took off another dead thing’s head, speaking in grunts. �
��I had Sasha thrown in prison just to draw Konstantin out. When I went down to see him, Sasha told me everything. In the nick of time too. I thought the priest a bit of a charlatan. But I never would have thought—”
To Dmitrii, it looked as though Konstantin were doing it all himself, controlling the dead. He couldn’t see the Bear. Vasya knew better. She could see Konstantin’s face tormented in the flashes of lightning; she could see the Bear’s too, ferocious, joyful, indomitable.
Vasya said, “I must get to Konstantin. He is standing beside the devil that is causing all this. But I cannot cross the dooryard alive.”
Dmitrii pursed his lips. But he did not speak. After a brief pause, he nodded once, turned and began giving his men crisp orders.
* * *
“YOU HAVE NO POWER over the dead,” whispered the voice of the dvorovoi in Konstantin’s ear. Konstantin barely flinched at the sound, so lost was he in horror. “But you have power over him.”
Slowly, Konstantin turned. “Do I?”
“Your blood,” said the dvorovoi, “will bind the devil. You are not powerless.”
* * *
VASYA’S NOSE WAS FULL of the smell of earth and rot and dried blood. The air was full of hissing rain and shuffling footsteps. The whole scene was illuminated luridly by a flash of lightning. She could hear Olga, still protected by the ring of men, praying softly and continuously.
There was a terrible blaze of blue-white light in Morozko’s face, his hair plastered to his skull with the rain; he did not look human. She could see the stars of the forest beyond life reflected in his eyes. She seized his arm, as he passed near the ring of men. He rounded on her. For a moment, the full weight of his strange power, his endless years, looked out at her from his gaze. Then a little humanity bled back into his face.
“We have to get to the Bear,” said Vasya.
He nodded; she wasn’t sure he could speak.
Dmitrii was still giving orders. To Vasya he said, “I am splitting the men in two. Half will stay with the princess. The other half will form a wedge, and cut across the dooryard. Do what you can to help us.”
Dmitrii finished giving orders, and the men immediately split. Olga was surrounded by a shrunken ring, pushing back toward the door of the palace.
The rest made a wedge and drove forward, shouting, toward the Bear and Konstantin, through the packed mass of dead.
Vasya ran with them, and a dozen upyry bloomed into flame on either side. Morozko’s swift hand caught the dead by wrist and throat, banishing them.
There were so many. Their progress slowed, but still they came nearer the Bear. Nearer. Now the men were faltering. In their faces was sick fright. Even Dmitrii looked suddenly afraid.
The Bear was doing it; he grinned. As the men wavered, the upyry drove forward with renewed strength. One of Dmitrii’s men fell, his throat torn away, and then another. A third shrieked with horror as sharp teeth sank into his wrist.
Vasya set her jaw. The fear buffeted her, too, but it wasn’t real. She knew that. It was the Bear’s trick. She loosed the fire from her soul again, and this time it flared from the Bear’s streaming coat.
Medved turned his head, snapping, and the fire instantly died. But she had used his moment of inattention. While Morozko kept the dead things off her, she threw herself across the last few steps, unwound the golden rope from her wrist and flung it over his head.
The Bear dodged, somehow. He dodged the links as they flew. Laughing, he lunged, jaws open, to snatch at Morozko. Though the frost-demon ducked, Vasya didn’t have time for another try, for the movement had pulled Morozko from the side and the dead things had closed round her. “Vasya!” Morozko shouted. A slimy hand caught at her hair; she didn’t bother to look before she set the creature afire. It fell back, howling. But there were so many. Dmitrii’s wedge had splintered; men were fighting individual battles all over the dooryard. The Bear was keeping Morozko from her, and the dead were closing in once more…
A new voice sounded from the direction of the gate. Not a chyert or a dead thing.
It was her brother standing there, sword in hand. Beside him stood his master, Sergei Radonezhsky. They both looked disheveled, as though they’d had a hard ride through dangerous streets. The rain ran down Sasha’s drawn sword.
Sergei lifted his hand and made the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father,” he said.
Astonishingly, the dead things froze. Even the Bear stilled at the sound of that voice. Somewhere in the dark, a bell began to ring.
A touch of fear showed even in the winter-king’s eyes.
The lightning flashed again, illuminating Konstantin’s face, which had gone slack with horrified wonder. Vasya thought, He believed there was nothing more in this world than devils and his own will.
Sergei’s praying was quiet, measured. But his voice cut through the hammering rain, and every word echoed clearly around the dooryard.
The dead still didn’t move.
“Be at peace,” finished Sergei. “Do not trouble the living world again.”
And, impossibly, all the dead crumpled to earth.
Morozko breathed out a single, shattered breath.
Vasya saw the Bear’s face contorted with rage. He had underestimated men’s faith, and just like that, his army was gone. But Medved himself was still unbound, still free. Now he would flee, into the night, into the storm.
“Morozko,” she said. “Quickly—”
But the lightning flashed again, showed them Konstantin, his golden hair rain-dark, standing before the hulking shadow of the Bear. A gust brought the priest’s carrying voice clearly to her ears. “You lied about that too, then,” said Konstantin, his voice small but clear. “You said there was no God. But the holy father prayed and—”
“There isn’t a God,” Vasya heard the Bear say. “There is only faith.”
“What is the difference?”
“I don’t know. Come, we must go.”
“Devil, you lied. You lied again.” A break in that flawless voice, a croak like an old man coughing. “God was there—there all the time.”
“Perhaps,” said the Bear. “And perhaps not. The truth is that no one knows, man or devil. Come with me now. They will kill you if you stay.”
Konstantin’s eyes were steady on the Bear’s. “No,” he said. “They won’t.” He raised a blade. “Go back to wherever you crept from,” he said. “I have one power. The devils told me this too, and once I was also a man of God.”
The Bear’s clawed hand shot out. But the priest was faster. Konstantin drew the knife swiftly across his own throat.
The Bear caught the knife, wrenched it away. Too late. Neither one made a sound. The lightning flashed again. Vasya saw the Bear’s face, saw him catch Konstantin as he fell, put hands—human hands now—to the blood pouring through the split skin of the priest’s throat.
Vasya stepped forward and whipped the rope round the Bear’s neck, drew it tight.
He didn’t dodge this time. He couldn’t, caught already by the priest’s sacrifice. Instead he just shuddered, head bowed beneath the rope’s power.
Vasya wrapped the other golden thing about his wrists. He didn’t move.
She should have felt triumph then.
It was over, and they had won.
But when the Bear lifted his eyes to hers, there was no longer any rage in his face. Instead his eyes looked beyond her, found his twin. “Please,” he said.
Please? Please have mercy? Set me free once more? Somehow, Vasya didn’t think so. She didn’t understand.
The Bear’s eyes went again to the priest dying in the mud; he barely seemed to notice the golden rope.
Triumph in Morozko’s voice, and a strange note, like unwilling understanding. “You know I won’t.”
The Bear’s mouth twisted. It wasn’t a smile. “I kno
w you won’t,” he said. “I had to try.”
The gold and blue head was dark with rain, pale with death. Konstantin’s hand rose, streaming blood in the darkness. The Bear said, “Let me touch him, damn you,” to Vasya, and she stepped back bewildered, allowing the Bear to kneel and catch the priest’s wavering hand. He closed his own thick fingers tight around it, ignoring the bound wrists. “You are a fool, man of God,” he said. “You never understood.”
Konstantin said, in a blood-filled whisper, “I never understood what?”
“That I do keep faith, in my own fashion,” said the Bear. A twist of his lips. “I did love your hands.”
The artist’s hand, with its expressive fingers and cruel, tapering nails, was limp as a dead bird in the chyert’s grip. In Konstantin’s eyes, already milky, fixed on the Bear, was an expression of puzzlement. “You are a devil,” he said again, gasping for air as the blood left his body. “I don’t—aren’t you vanquished?”
“I am vanquished, man of God.”
Konstantin stared, but Vasya could not tell what he was looking at. Perhaps he was seeing the face above him: a creature he loved and reviled as he loved and reviled himself.
Perhaps he was only seeing a starlit wood, and a road that had no turning.
Perhaps there was peace for him, there at the end.
Perhaps there was only silence.
The Bear lowered Konstantin’s head to the mud, the hair golden no more, but dark with blood and water. Vasya realized she had her hand pressed to her mouth. The wicked were not supposed to mourn, or to regret, or to have seen their silent God at last, in the steadfastness of another’s faith.
Slowly, the Bear unclenched his hand from the priest’s, slowly he stood. The golden rope seemed to weigh him down, shining its sickly gleam. Still wrapped in golden cord, the Bear’s hands closed tightly about the winter-king’s. “Brother, lead the priest gently,” he said. “He is yours now, and not mine.” His eyes went back to the crumpled form in the mud.
“Neither of ours, in the end,” said Morozko. Vasya found her hands moving to cross herself, almost without being aware of it.
The Winter of the Witch Page 24
