Shocked silent, Sasha said nothing. He’d recognized the other man. “Come on,” added the Tatar in his own tongue. He heaved Vasya over his shoulder. “Tie the monk’s hands, and follow me. The general will want to know of this.”
* * *
SOMEONE WAS CARRYING HER. Every footfall jarred her head. She vomited. Pain like shards of ice shot through her skull. The man carrying her exclaimed in disgust. “Do that again,” said a half-familiar voice, “and I’ll beat you myself, when the general’s done.”
She tried to look about her, seeking for the Midnight-road. But she couldn’t see it. She must have lost it when she fell unconscious. Now the night was drawing on and she and Sasha were trapped until the next day’s midnight.
Her senses swam. She couldn’t make herself and her brother disappear under the eyes of the entire camp. Maybe she could—but even as she tried to plan, her thoughts fractured.
Something loomed before her, dimly seen, just as she drifted back to awareness. It was a round building, made of felt. A flap was thrust aside and she was borne through the gap. Terror locked her throat and stomach. Where was her brother?
Men inside—she couldn’t tell how many. Two stood in the center, finely dressed, illuminated by a small stove and a hanging lamp. The person carrying her let her fall. Floundering, she managed to drag herself to her knees. She had an impression of wealth: the lamp was of worked silver; there was a smell of fat meat and carpet under her knees. All around was the disorienting buzz of a tongue she didn’t understand. Sasha was thrown down beside her.
One of the finely dressed men was a Tatar. The other was a Russian; it was he who spoke first. “What is this?” he asked.
“This—” echoed that almost-familiar voice from behind her. Vasya tried to twist around and had to freeze, gasping, at the pain in her head. But then the man stepped forward, and she could see his face. She knew him. He had nearly killed her once, in a forest outside Moscow. With the help of a wicked sorcerer, he had nearly deposed Dmitrii Ivanovich.
“It seems,” said Chelubey in Russian, smiling at her, “that Dmitrii Ivanovich has devised a novel means to rid himself of his cousins.”
* * *
THE TALL ONE, the one they were calling temnik—general—had to be Mamai, though Sasha knew him by reputation only. He didn’t recognize the Russian.
“Cousins?” asked the temnik, in his own tongue. Mamai was a man in his middle years, weary, dignified, gray. He’d been loyal to Berdi Beg, one of the innumerable khans, but Berdi held the throne for only two years. Mamai had been plotting to regain his lost position ever since, hampered by the fact that he himself was not descended from the Great Khan. Sasha knew—probably the Tatar’s whole army knew—that Mamai had to defeat Dmitrii decisively, or a rival faction in the warring Horde would rise up and make an end of him.
Men with everything at stake were dangerous.
“This man is the holy Aleksandr Peresvet—surely you have heard of him,” said Chelubey, but his eyes were on Vasya. “And this other one—when I first met him in Moscow, they told me he was highborn: Aleksandr Peresvet’s brother. That was a lie.” Softly, Chelubey continued, “This is not a boy at all but a girl—a little witch-girl. Disguised as a boy, she deceived all Moscow. I wonder very much why Dmitrii has sent them here—a witch and a monk. Spies? Will you tell me, devushka?” The last question was put to Vasya, almost gently. But Sasha heard the menace behind it.
His sister met Chelubey’s eyes, wordless. Her eyes were wide and terrified; her face bloody. “You hurt me,” she whispered, in a trembling, abject tone Sasha had never heard from her in his life.
“I’ll hurt you worse,” said Chelubey placidly. It wasn’t a threat so much as a statement of fact. “Why are you here?”
“We were set upon,” she whispered, voice still quivering. “Our men were killed. We came toward the fire for help.” Her eyes were vast and dark, confused and terrified, her cheek crusted with blood. She bowed her head, and then looked up at Chelubey again. This time two tears cut tracks in the blood on her face.
Sasha thought she was overdoing it, playing the helpless girl, but then she saw Chelubey’s face slide from wariness to contempt. In his mind, he breathed a prayer of gratitude. Drawing Chelubey’s attention back to himself, he said, “Don’t frighten her. We came upon you by accident. We are not spies.”
“Indeed,” said Chelubey silkily, turning. “And is your sister also traveling with you, alone, dressed so immodestly, by accident?”
“I was taking her to a convent,” lied Sasha. “The Grand Prince desired it of me. Our train was set upon by robbers; we were left alone, without succor. They tore her dress; they left us with nothing, save what you see. We wandered hungry for some days, saw your fires and came. We thought to receive help, not indignities.”
“It puzzles me, though,” said Chelubey with acid irony. “Why is the nearest adviser of the Grand Prince of Moscow taking his sister to a house of religion at such a time?”
“I advised Dmitrii Ivanovich against going to war,” said Sasha. “In anger, he ordered me from his side.”
“Well,” broke in Mamai briskly, “if that is so, then you will have no difficulty informing us of your cousin’s intentions and dispositions, so you can get back to praying.”
“I know nothing of Dmitrii’s dispositions,” said Sasha. “I told you—”
Chelubey backhanded him across the face, hard enough to send him to the floor. Vasya cried out and threw herself at Chelubey’s feet, getting in his way before he could kick Sasha in the stomach. “Please,” she cried. “Please, don’t hurt him.”
Chelubey shook her off, but stared frowning down as she knelt before him, hands clasped. Vasya would never be taken for a beautiful woman, but her bold bones and vast eyes caught the gaze somehow, and held it. Sasha, his lips bleeding, was disturbed to see the men’s attention once more on her, in a way it hadn’t been before. And she was encouraging them, damn her, to keep them from him.
“Forgive me,” said Chelubey calmly, “if I don’t believe your brother.”
“He has only spoken the truth,” she whispered, her voice small.
Mamai turned abruptly to the Russian. “What say you, Oleg Ivanovich? Are they lying?”
The Russian’s bearded face was quite inscrutable, but Sasha recognized the name. The Grand Prince of Ryazan, who had sided with the Tatar.
Oleg pressed his lips together. “I cannot say if they’re lying. But the monk’s tale seems more likely than not. Why would Dmitrii Ivanovich send two of his own cousins to spy, and one a girl dressed as a man?” His glance at Vasya was wholly disapproving.
“She is a witch; she has strange powers,” insisted Chelubey. “She made our campfire burn unnaturally; she bewitched my horse in Moscow.”
All eyes went to Vasya. Her gaze was unfocused; her lips trembled. Blood still welled from the cut in her head, and a lump was forming. She was crying softly.
“Indeed,” said Oleg after a telling silence. “She is a fearful sight. What is the girl’s name?” The last was in Russian.
Vasya looked blank and didn’t answer. Chelubey raised his hand once more, but Oleg’s voice caught him before the blow fell. “Do you strike bound girls now?”
“I told you,” said Chelubey, angry. “She is a witch!”
“I see no evidence of it,” said Oleg. “I will add that it is late, and perhaps we can determine their fate in the morning.”
“I will occupy myself with them,” said Chelubey. In his eyes was an eager light, the memory of Moscow’s humiliations fresh. Perhaps he was curious about the green-eyed girl who dressed as a boy. Perhaps he’d even been there, on the river that day, when Kasyan exposed her secret before all Moscow, in the cruelest way possible. “Dmitrii Ivanovich will ransom her,” said Sasha. “If she is unharmed.”
They ignored him.
“Very well,” said Mamai. “Occupy yourself with them and tell me what you learn. Oleg Ivanovich—”
“The Metropolitan will have something to say if he dies under torture,” said Oleg. Sasha took a steadying breath.
“See that he lives,” Mamai added to Chelubey.
“General,” Oleg said to Mamai, his eyes on Vasya once more, “I will keep the girl with me this night. Perhaps, separated from her brother, alone and afraid, she will say more to me.”
Chelubey looked put out. He had his mouth open to speak, but Mamai forestalled him, looking amused. “As you like. Skinny though, isn’t she?”
Oleg bowed and hauled Vasya to her feet. Vasya hadn’t understood most of the conversation as it had been largely in Tatar. Her eyes locked on Sasha. “Don’t be afraid,” he said.
Cold comfort. She wasn’t afraid for herself; she was afraid for him.
27.
Oleg of Ryazan
OUTSIDE MAMAI’S TENT, OLEG HISSED between his teeth. Two armed men appeared and followed them. They looked Vasya over curiously, before schooling their faces to blankness. She was terrified for her brother. It had all happened too fast. Midnight might mock and threaten, but Vasya had never dreamed that her great-grandmother’s servant would betray her to the Tatars. Why, in God’s name?
You failed, Midnight had said.
Oleg pulled her onward. She tried to think. If she could get herself away, could she come back for her brother at the next day’s midnight? In this great camp, face sticky with blood, magic seemed as distant as the uncaring stars.
Another round tent, smaller than Mamai’s, loomed out of the dark. Oleg thrust her through the flap, followed her in, dismissed his dubious-looking attendants.
No stove this time, and only a single clay lamp. She had a brief impression of an austere space, a neat heap of furs, and then Oleg spoke. “Traveling to a convent, are you? Dressed so? Set upon by bandits? Then you and your brother were foolish enough to stumble on Chelubey’s fire? Am I a fool? Tell me the truth, girl.”
She tried to collect her wits. “My brother told you the truth,” she said.
“You’re no coward, I’ll give you that.” His voice quieted. “Devushka, I can help you. But I must have the truth.”
Vasya let her eyes fill. It wasn’t difficult. Her head ached abominably. “We told you,” she whispered again.
“Fine,” said Oleg. “Just as you like. I will give you back to Chelubey tomorrow and he will get the truth out of you.” He sat down to take off his boots.
Vasya watched him a moment. “You are a man of Rus’, fighting on the enemy’s side,” she said. “Do you expect me to trust you?”
Oleg looked up. “I am fighting beside the Horde,” he said very precisely, laying a boot aside. “Because I am not eager, as Dmitrii Ivanovich seems to be, to have my city razed, my people carried off as slaves. That doesn’t mean I cannot help you. Nor does it mean that I won’t see you suffer greatly if you cross me.”
The second boot joined the first, and then he pulled his cap off, tossed it on the heap of furs. He looked her over, his glance appraising. Forget, she thought. Forget he can see you— But she couldn’t focus her mind; there was a white-hot bar of pain in her head. His feet bare, Oleg stalked over to her. Wordless, he took her bound wrists in one hand and felt her over for other weapons with the other. She was unarmed. Someone had taken her knife, after she was struck down beside Chelubey’s fire. “Well,” he said, as he ran his hands down her body, “I suppose you are a girl after all.”
She stamped on his foot. He struck her across the face.
When she came to, she found herself sprawled on the ground. He’d cut her bonds. She raised her head. He was sitting on his heap of furs, running a whetstone over the unsheathed sword across his knees.
“Awake?” he said. “Let’s start again. Tell me the truth, devushka.”
She hauled herself laboriously to her feet. “Or what? Are you going to torture me?”
A flicker of distaste crossed his face. “It might not occur to you, determined as you are to suffer nobly, but you are better off with me than with Chelubey. He was shamed in Moscow; the whole army knows the tale. He will torture you. And if he is feeling inspired, perhaps he will force you in front of your brother, to pass along a little share of the humiliation.”
“Is that my choice then? Be raped publicly there or privately here?”
He snorted. “Fortunately for you, I prefer women who look and behave like women. Tell me what I want to know, and I will protect you from Chelubey.”
Their eyes locked. Vasya took a deep breath, and gambled. “I have a message from the Grand Prince of Moscow.”
His features sharpened. “Do you? Strange choice of messenger.”
She shrugged. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Oleg laid sword and whetstone aside. “That is true. But perhaps you are lying. Have you a token? If so, did you eat it? I’ll swear it’s not on you now.”
She didn’t know if she could do it. But she made her voice steady when she said, “I have a sign.”
“Very well. Show me.”
“I will,” she said. “If you tell me why Chelubey said that Dmitrii Ivanovich had devised a novel way to get rid of his cousins.”
Oleg shrugged. “The Prince of Serpukhov is a prisoner here as well. Wasn’t Dmitrii wondering where he had got to?” Oleg paused. “Ah. Messenger, are you? Or a rescue party? Either way it seems unlikely.”
Vasya didn’t reply.
“In any case it was bad planning on Dmitrii’s part,” finished Oleg. “Now Mamai has three of his first cousins.” He crossed his arms. “Now. What is this sign of yours?”
Ignoring her splitting headache, Vasya cupped her hands and filled them with the memory of fire.
Swearing, Oleg scrambled up and back from the fire in her fingers.
She was still kneeling on the floor; she looked up at him through the flames. “Oleg Ivanovich, Mamai is going to lose this war.”
“A ragtag army of Rus’ is going to lose to the Golden Horde?” But Oleg’s voice was thin and breathless; his eyes were on the flames. He reached out to touch, then jerked back at the heat. The fire didn’t hurt her, though she could see the hairs on her arms crisping. “A fine trick,” he said. “Has Dmitrii made alliance with devils? It won’t defeat an army. Do you know how many horses Mamai has? How many arrows, how many men? If every man in Rus’ fought on Dmitrii’s side, he’d still be outnumbered two to one.”
But Oleg did not take his eyes off Vasya’s hands.
Vasya was straining every nerve, through pain, through headache, to keep her face unruffled, to keep steady the memory of fire. Oleg had sided with the enemy to protect his people. A practical man. One she could perhaps reason with. “Tricks with fire?” she said. “Is that what you think? No. Fire and water and darkness all together; the old powers of this land are going to battle alongside the new.” She hoped it was true. “Your general is going to lose. I am the sign of it, and the proof.”
“That Dmitrii Ivanovich has sold his soul for black sorcery?” Oleg made the sign of the cross.
“Is it black sorcery to defend the soil that bore us?” She shut her hands abruptly, extinguishing the flames. “Why did you take me from Chelubey, Oleg Ivanovich?”
“Misplaced kindness,” said Oleg. “Also, I do not like Chelubey.” He reached out a flinching hand to touch her palms, which were quite cool.
“Dmitrii’s side has powers you cannot see,” she said. “We have powers you cannot see. Better to fight for your own, Oleg Ivanovich, than defend a conqueror. Will you help me?”
She could have sworn he hesitated. Then a bitter smile spread over his face. “You are very persuasive. Now I could almost believe that Dmitrii sent you. He is cleverer than I gave him credit for. But it has been a long time since I believed in fairy tale
s, devushka. I will do this much. I will tell Mamai that you are only a foolish convent-bound girl, that you should be given into my household instead of sold as a slave. You may do your fire-tricks for me, in Ryazan, after the war is over. Don’t let anyone see you doing them. The Tatars have a horror of witches.”
The agony in her head was rising again. Darkness came up at the edges of her vision. She caught his wrist. Tricks, gambles, deceptions deserted her. “Please,” she said.
Through the mists of gathering unconsciousness she heard his whispered reply. “I will make you this bargain: if you, alone, can find and save your brother and the Prince of Serpukhov—and do it in such a way as to make my men and my boyars question their allegiance—then perhaps that will be sign enough and I will heed you. Until then, I am for the Tatar.”
* * *
SHE WASN’T SURE IF she slept that night, or if the pain in her head had merely sent her back into unconsciousness. Her dreams were shot through with faces, all watching her, waiting. Morozko troubled, the Bear intent, Midnight angry. Her great-grandmother, the madwoman lost in Midnight. You passed three fires, but you did not understand the final riddle.
And then she dreamed of her brother, tortured, until Chelubey, laughing, killed him.
She came gasping awake, in the darkness before dawn, to find herself lying in warmth and softness. Someone had even wiped the crusted blood from her face. She lay still. Her headache had subsided to a dull murmur. She turned her head and saw Oleg, lying awake beside her, on his stomach, watching her. “How does one learn to cup fire in one’s hands?” he asked, as though continuing a conversation from the night before.
The pale light of early dawn was seeping in around them. They were sharing a pile of furs. She shot upright.
He failed to move. “Outraged virtue? After you appear in a Tatar camp at midnight dressed as a boy?”
The Winter of the Witch Page 27
