Vasya made no answer; she only prayed she’d done the right thing. She tried to think what else she could do but couldn’t think of anything.
Pozhar was restive now, barely ridable. Tension lay thick in the air. Here was no concealing darkness; the mist was gone. There was nothing to hide the fact that a hundred thousand men were about to start killing each other. The battle would start soon. Where was Sasha?
The Bear appeared at her side and gave the field a look of joy. “Mud and screaming,” he said. “Chyerti and men fighting together. Oh, it will be glorious.”
“Do you know where my brother is?” said Vasya.
The Bear smiled wolfishly. “There,” he said, and pointed. “But you can’t go to him now.”
“Why not?”
“Because your brother is fighting that Tatar Chelubey in single combat. Didn’t you know?”
She whipped around, horrified. But it was too late, already too late; the armies were drawn up and now two figures appeared from each side, riding toward each other, on a gray horse and a chestnut.
“You knew and waited to tell me,” she said.
“I may serve you,” said the Bear. “I may even enjoy it. But I will never be trustworthy. Besides, rather than talk to me before, you spent the night arguing with my brother who, no matter how blue-eyed, cannot know the army like I do. Your loss.”
Pozhar threw her head up, sensing Vasya’s sudden urgency; she said, “I must go to him,” just as the Bear hurled himself snarling in her way.
“Are you a fool?” he demanded. “Do you think there is no man, out of all of them, with the wit to see you or that golden horse? Can you rely on it, when all eyes will be fixed on your brother? Can you be sure that no Tatar will raise no cry of treachery?” And seeing Vasya staring at him, stone-faced, frozen, he added, “The monk will not thank you. That Tatar tortured him; he is doing it for Dmitrii, for his country, for himself. It is his glory, not yours.”
She turned round, indecisive, agonized.
They were all drawn up, the armies of Rus’ and the armies of Mamai, and shivering in the dawn mist, their mail cold and heavy. Among them were the powers that no one could see. The vodianoy of the Don, waiting to drown the unwary. The leshy of the woods, concealing men in his branches. The grinning king of chaos. The lesser chyerti of wood and water.
And unseen, powerful, aloof, the king of winter. He was in the clouds in the north, the hard, chill wind, the occasional snowflake on her cheek. But he would not come down and stand among them. He would not fight Dmitrii’s war. She had seen the terrible knowledge in his eyes: My task is with the dead.
I could be far from here, Vasya thought, seeing her hands tremble. I could be far away, beside the lake, or at Lesnaya Zemlya, or in a clean forest with no name.
Instead I am here. Oh Sasha, Sasha, what have you done?
* * *
ALONE, BROTHER ALEKSANDR RODE onto the swampy field of Kulikovo, rode between the spears of Dmitrii’s vanguard and out into the open space between the two armies. There was no sound but Tuman’s soft snorting breath, and the suck of her hooves in the sodden earth.
A man on a tall red horse rode out to meet him. More than a hundred thousand men on that field, and still it was quiet enough for Sasha to hear the wind rising, sighing as though in sorrow, blowing down the last of the leaves.
“A fair morning,” said Chelubey, sitting easily on his stocky Tatar horse.
“I am going to kill you,” said Sasha.
“I think not,” said Chelubey. “In fact I am sure not. Poor holy man, with the scars on your back and your torn hand.”
“You cheapen this,” said Sasha.
Chelubey’s face was grim now. “What is this to you? A game? A spiritual quest? It is only men against men, and whichever side prevails, there will be women wailing and blood on the earth.”
Without another word, he wheeled his horse around and cantered a few paces away, turned and stood waiting.
Sasha did likewise. Still, all was silent. Strange, in all that gray morning, with men in the ten thousands waiting. Once more he thought he glimpsed a single horse glowing gold in the last of the mist, a slender rider on her back; at her side was a hulking black shadow. He breathed a silent prayer.
Then Sasha raised his spear and shouted, and at his back came a roar from sixty thousand throats. When had the Rus’ last come together? Not since the days of the grand princes of Kiev. But Dmitrii Ivanovich had drawn them together, there on the cold bank of the river Don.
Chelubey shouted in turn, his face bright with joy; the sound of all his people shouting at his back. Tuman stood steady beneath her rider, and at Sasha’s touch she shot forward. Chelubey kicked his powerful chestnut and then they were racing across the marshy ground, mud and water flying from beneath their horses’ hooves.
* * *
VASYA WATCHED THEM GALLOP, her heartbeat strangling-fast in her throat. Their horses threw great arcs of mud with each stride. Chelubey’s spear dipped at the last moment, to catch her brother in the breastbone. Sasha’s shield deflected the full force of the blow; his own spear rattled along the scale on Chelubey’s shoulder, and broke.
Vasya put a hand to her mouth. Sasha dropped his broken spear-haft and drew his sword just as Chelubey wheeled his chestnut, icy calm. The Tatar still had both his spear and his shield; he guided his mare with his knees. Sasha’s sword had less than half his reach.
A second pass. This time, at the last instant, Sasha touched Tuman’s side. The quick-footed mare feinted left, and Sasha’s sword came down on Chelubey’s spear-haft. Now they were both armed only with swords, and wheeling their horses once more.
Now it was close-work, striking, feinting, drawing back. Even from a distance, the ringing of their swords came clearly to her ears.
The Bear smiled with pure unfeigned joy, watching.
Chelubey’s chestnut mare was a little quicker than Tuman. Sasha was a little stronger than Chelubey. By now, both men had mud on their faces, dirt and blood on the necks of their horses, and they grunted each time their heavy swords struck.
Vasya’s heart was in her mouth, but she couldn’t help him. Nor would she. This was his moment; his teeth were bared, and in his face was glory. Her palms were bloodied with the impress of her nails.
Fine snow stung her face. Vasya could hear the voices of chyerti rising too, and also the voices of Russians, calling encouragement to her brother.
Sasha parried another thrust and scored a strike along Chelubey’s ribs, tearing away the chain mail. Chelubey blocked a second blow with his sword, and then the two men had their swords pressed hilt to hilt. Sasha did not falter; he heaved with all his strength and threw Chelubey out of the saddle.
The Bear roared when the Tatar fell, and all the men on both sides screamed out. Chelubey and Sasha were grappling in the dirt, swords gone, only their hands and fists now. Then Sasha’s hand, groping, found his dagger.
He buried it to the hilt in Chelubey’s throat.
All around the Russians shouted victory; all of Vasya’s chyerti cried out likewise. Sasha had won.
Vasya let out a shaken breath.
The Bear sighed, as though in the most profound satisfaction.
Sasha stood straight, his bloody sword in his hand. He kissed it and lifted it to heaven, saluting God and Dmitrii Ivanovich.
Vasya thought she heard a single voice, Dmitrii’s voice, calling to his men, “God is on our side! Victory is sure! Ride now! Ride!” And then the Russians were charging, all of them, massed, screaming the name of the Grand Prince of Moscow, and of Aleksandr Peresvet.
Sasha turned, straight-backed, as though to call to his horse and join the charge. But he didn’t call.
The Bear turned to look at Vasya, his eyes eager and intent. And then Vasya saw it, the great rent in Sasha’s leather armor, where a sword-thrust
had found its mark, unseen in the melee.
“No!”
Her brother turned his head as though he could hear her. Tuman had come back to him, and he put a hand to the pommel of her saddle, as though to vault to her back.
Instead he fell to his knees.
The Bear laughed. Vasya screamed. She did not know such a sound was in her. She leaned forward; Pozhar shot forward, raced across the open field toward Sasha, outstripping the converging armies. The Bear followed her; faintly she could hear the voices of the chyerti of Rus’, running with the Russians.
But Vasya had stopped thinking of victory. On either side the armies were rushing up, but in the middle of the field there was nothing but Tuman, wild with fright, and Chelubey dead, facedown in the mud and water. Vasya had no thought to spare for either, for her brother was still kneeling in the mud but shaking violently now, the blood spilling from his lips. He looked up. “Vasya,” he said.
“Shh,” she told him. “Don’t talk.”
“I am sorry. I meant to live. I did.”
Pozhar silently knelt in the mud for them. “You’re going to live anyway. Get on the horse,” Vasya said.
She had no notion of how it must have hurt him to obey her. The ground shook from the thunder of two armies. He could not sit upright, but slumped, deadweight.
“He is going to die,” said Medved at her side. “Better to take vengeance.”
Without a word, Vasya gashed her hand on her brother’s sword. Blood poured over her fingers. She smeared it across the Bear’s face, putting all she had of will in it.
“Take vengeance for me,” she said flatly.
The Bear shuddered with strength. His eye blazed up, brighter than Pozhar at midnight. Watching her, he snatched Sasha’s helm off the muddy ground and bit deep into his own hand. Blood poured down, clear as water but acrid with the smell of sulfur, pooling in the cupped bronze.
“I give you my power in exchange,” he said, and his glance was sly. “To make the dead rise.”
Then he was gone, disappearing into the fray, terror his weapon. Vasya, balancing the helmet, got up onto Pozhar behind her brother. The mare, ears pinned, stood up despite her double burden, mud on her legs and belly. Fast as a star she galloped away, while all around them the battle was joined.
35.
The Starlit Road
VASYA COULD FEEL EVERY STRIKE of Pozhar’s hooves, as though she were the one mortally wounded. The mare twisted and turned, avoiding armies and chyerti both; once she jumped clean over a dead horse. All the while, Vasya gripped her brother, gripped the helmet with its strange burden. And she prayed.
At last they broke clear of the battle, and left the omnipresent roar behind them, concealing themselves in the trees that lined the river. They found a space of quiet in a little copse. They were not terribly far from the battle; the roaring seemed to shred the earth and sky. Vasya thought she could hear the Bear laughing.
The copse was a little higher than the marsh; Vasya slid from Pozhar’s back just in time to catch her brother as he fell. He almost sent her sprawling into the water. It took all her strength to halt him, and lay him on the soft earth. His lips were blue, his hands cold.
She stared at the water in the helm. Make the dead alive. But he isn’t dead. Morozko—Morozko where are you?
Sasha’s eyes looked up, but they did not see her. Perhaps he saw a road beneath a starry sky: a road from which there is no turning back. “Vasya?” he asked. His voice was little more than a breath now.
She had nothing but her two hands: with her fur cloak she wiped the blood and earth from her brother’s face, held his head in her lap.
“I am here,” she said. Tears unbidden spilled from her eyes. “You have won. The army is sure of its victory.”
His eyes brightened. “I am glad,” he said. “I am—”
He turned his head a little; his stare became fixed. Vasya turned to follow his gaze, and there was the death-god, waiting. He was on foot; his horse a faint shape, pale as mist at his back. She looked at him long, and there were no words between them. Once she had begged, once she had railed at him, for coming to claim those she loved. Now she only looked, and saw her glance go through him like a sword.
“Could you have saved his life?” she whispered.
His answer was the merest shake of his head. But he came, still wordless, and knelt beside her. Frowning, he cupped his hands. Water, clear and clean, gathered in his palms, and he let it trickle out onto her brother’s face. Where the water touched, the cuts, bruises, the grime vanished, as though washed away. Vasya, not speaking either, helped him. They worked slowly and steadily. Vasya pulled aside the stained and broken armor, and Morozko let the water run. In the end, her brother’s face and torso were clean and unmarked; he looked asleep, peaceful, unwounded.
But he did not stir back to life.
She reached for the helmet.
Morozko’s troubled glance followed the movement. Hope was beating in her throat, a fragile, burning thing. “Can this bring him to life in truth?”
Morozko looked reluctant. “Yes,” he said.
Vasya lifted the helmet, tipped it toward her brother’s lips.
Morozko put out a hand to stay her. “Come with me first.”
She did not know what he meant. But when he offered her his hand, she took it; their fingers met, clasped, and she found herself in the place beyond life: the forest with its road, its net of stars.
Her brother was waiting for her there, upright, a little pale, starlight in his eyes. “Sasha,” she said.
“Little sister,” he said. “I didn’t say goodbye, did I?”
She ran forward and embraced him, but he felt icy cold, distant in her arms. Morozko watched them.
“Sasha,” Vasya said eagerly. “I have something that will bring you back. You can live on, come back to us, to Dmitrii.”
Sasha was looking out into the distance, down the star-strewn road as though with longing. Hastily, she said, “This,” holding out the dented helmet. “Drink it,” she said. “And you will live again.”
“But I am dead,” he said.
She shook her head. “You need not be.”
He was backing up. “I have seen the dead return. I will have no part in it.”
“No!” she said. “It is different this way—it is—it is like Ivan, in the fairy tale.”
But her brother was still shaking his head. “This is not a fairy tale, Vasya. I will not risk my immortal soul, returning to life when I have left it.”
She stared at him. His face was quiet, sad, immovable. “Sasha,” she whispered. “Sasha, please. You can live again. You can go back to Sergei, and Dmitrii and Olga. Please.”
“No,” he said. “I—I fought. I yielded my life and I was glad to give it. It is for others to make it matter. My death is Dmitrii’s now—and—and yours. Guard this land. Make it whole.”
She stared at him. She could not believe. Wild thoughts darted through her brain. Perhaps, in the living world, she could force the water between his lips. But then—but then…
It wasn’t her choice. She thought of Olga’s rage when Vasya had decided the same question for her. She remembered Morozko’s words: It is not your choice to make.
Trying to control her voice, she said, “Is this what you want?”
“It is,” said her brother.
“Then—then God be with you,” said Vasya, her voice breaking. “If—if you see Father and—and Mother—tell them I love them. That I have wandered far, but not forgotten. I—I will pray for you.”
“And I for you,” said her brother, and smiled suddenly. “I will see you again, little sister.”
She nodded but could not speak. She knew her face was crumbling. But she embraced her brother; she stepped back.
And then Morozko spoke softly, but his words wer
e not for her. “Come with me,” he said to Sasha. “Do not be afraid.”
36.
The Army of Three
SHE TUMBLED BACK TO HERSELF, bowed over her brother’s unmarked body, sobbing. She did not know how long she wept, while the battle raged nearby. It was a soft hoofbeat that drew her back, and a cold presence behind her.
She turned her head to see the winter-king. He slid from the back of his horse and looked at her.
She had no words for him. Gentle speech or a soft touch would have shattered her, but he offered neither. Vasya shut her brother’s eyes, whispered a prayer over his head. Then she got to her feet, soul full of restless violence. She could not bring her brother back. But the thing he had wanted—the thing he had worked for—that she could do.
“Only for the dead, Morozko?” she said. She reached out a hand, still smeared with her brother’s blood and her own, from where she’d cut it for the Bear.
He hesitated.
But in his face was an echoing savagery; he looked suddenly like he had on a Midwinter midnight: proud, young, dangerous. There were traces of Sasha’s blood on his hands too.
“And for the living, beloved,” he said, low. “They are my people too.”
He caught her bloody hand in his and all around the wind shrieked; the cry of the first snowstorm. Her soul was all restless fire, and when she looked up at Pozhar, the golden mare was drawn equally taut; she pawed the ground once. They mounted their horses together, and wheeled and galloped back to the battle, on the breast of a newborn storm.
Flames in her hands; in his grip was the power of bitterest winter.
A shout came from the field, as the Bear, laughing, caught sight of them.
“We must find Dmitrii,” called Vasya, shouting over the noise, as she sent Pozhar hurtling through a knot of Tatar warriors who were galloping down a group of Russian pikemen. The beasts scattered with sudden fright, spoiling their swearing riders’ aim.
The Winter of the Witch Page 35
