“I fear,” he added gravely, though there was a glint in his eye, “that you are gifted—or cursed—with what your folk might call the second sight. My house is a fir-grove, and this fir-grove is my house, and you see both at once.”
“And what do I do about that?” Vasya hissed between clenched teeth, quite unable to strive for politeness—in another moment she would be sick on the floor at his feet.
“Look at me,” he said. His voice compelled her; it seemed to echo in her skull. “Look only at me.” She raised her eyes to his. “You are in my house. Believe it is so.”
Hesitantly, Vasya repeated this to herself. The walls seemed to solidify as she looked. She was in a rough, roomy dwelling, with worn carvings on its crosstrees, and a ceiling the color of the noon sky. A large oven at one end of the room radiated heat. The walls were hung with woven pictures: wolves in the snow, a hibernating bear, a dark-haired warrior driving a sledge.
She tore her eyes away. “Why did you bring me here?”
“My horse insisted.”
“You mock me.”
“Do I? You had been wandering in the forest too long; your feet and hands are frozen. Perhaps you should be honored; I don’t often have guests.”
“I am honored, then,” said Vasya. She could not think of anything else to say.
He studied her a moment more. “Are you hungry?”
Vasya heard the hesitation in his voice. “Did your horse suggest that as well?” she asked, before she could stop herself.
The man laughed, and she thought he looked a little surprised. “Yes, of course. She has had any number of foals. I yield to her judgment.”
Suddenly he tilted his head. The blue eyes burned. “My servants will tend to you,” he added abruptly. “I must be gone awhile.” There was nothing human in his face, and for a moment, Vasya could not see the man at all, and instead saw only a wind lashing the limbs of ancient trees, howling in triumph as it rose. She blinked away the vision.
“Farewell,” said the frost-demon, and was gone.
Vasya, taken aback by his departure, glanced cautiously about. The tapestries drew her. Vividly alive, the wolves and man and horses looked ready to leap to the floor in a swirl of cold air. She walked the room, examining them as she went. Eventually she fetched up in front of the oven and stretched out her frozen fingers.
The scrape of a hoof sent her whirling round. The white mare came toward her, bare of any harness. Her long mane foamed like a spring cascade. She seemed to have emerged from a door in the opposite wall, but it was closed. Vasya stared. The mare tossed her head. Vasya remembered her manners and bowed. “I thank you, lady. You saved my life.”
The mare twitched an ear. It was little enough.
“Not to me,” said Vasya, with a hint of asperity.
I did not mean that, said the mare. I meant that you are a creature as we are, formed raw from the powers of the world. You would have saved yourself. You are not formed for convents, nor yet to live as the Bear’s creature.
“Would I have?” said Vasya, remembering the running, the terror, the footsteps in the dark. “I wasn’t doing too well at it. But what do you mean, the powers of the world? We were all made by God.”
I suppose this God taught you our speech?
“Of course not,” said Vasya. “That was the vazila. I made him offerings.”
The mare scraped a hoof against the floor. I remember more and see more than you, she said. And will for a considerable time. We do not speak to many, and the spirit of horses does not reveal himself to anyone. There is magic in your bones. You must reckon with it.
“Am I damned, then?” Vasya whispered, frightened.
I do not understand “damned.” You are. And because you are, you can walk where you will, into peace, oblivion, or pits of fire, but you will always choose.
There was a pause. Vasya’s face hurt, and her sight had begun to fracture. The snowy countryside tugged at the edges of her vision.
There is mead on the table, the mare said, seeing the girl’s drooping shoulders. You should drink, then rest again. There will be food when you awaken.
Vasya had not eaten since suppertime, before she’d ventured into the forest. Her stomach took a moment, forcefully, to remind her. A wooden table stood on the other side of the oven, dark with age, rich with carving. The silver flagon upon it was garlanded with silver flowers. The cup was of hammered silver studded with fire-red gems. For a moment the girl forgot her hunger. She lifted the cup and tilted it in the light. It was beautiful. She looked a question at the mare.
He likes objects, she said, though I do not understand why. And he is a great giver of gifts.
The flagon indeed contained mead: thin and strong and somehow piercing, like winter sunshine. Drinking it, Vasya felt suddenly sleepy. Heavy-eyed, it was all she could do to put down the silver cup. She bowed in silence to the white mare and stumbled back to the great bed.
ALL THAT DAY, a storm tore across the frozen lands of northern Rus’. The country folk ran inside and barred their doors. Even the oven-fires in Dmitrii’s wooden palace in Moscow danced and guttered. The old and the sick knew their time had come and slipped away on the crying wind. The living crossed themselves when they felt the shadow pass. But at nightfall the air quieted, and the sky filled with the promise of snow. Those who had resisted the summons smiled, for they knew that they would live.
A man with dark hair emerged from between two trees and raised his face to a cloud-torn sky. His eyes glowed an unearthly blue as he scanned the mounting shadows. His robe was of fur and midnight brocade, though he had come to the twilit borderlands where winter yielded to the promise of spring. The ground was thick with snowdrops.
A song pierced the newborn night, thin and soft and sweet. Even as he turned toward it, Morozko tasted the darker side of the magic he had set in motion, for the music reminded him of sorrow: of slow hours heavy with regret. This sorrow he had not felt—had not been able to feel—for a thousand years.
He walked on regardless, until he came to the tree where a nightingale sang in the dark.
“Little one, will you come back with me?” he said.
The tiny creature hopped to a lower branch and cocked its dull-brown head.
“To live, as your brothers and sisters have lived,” said Morozko. “I have a companion for you.”
The bird trilled, but softly.
“You will not come into your strength otherwise, and this one is generous and high-hearted. The old woman cannot gainsay it.”
The bird cheeped and raised its brown wings.
“Yes, there is death in it, but not before joy, or glory. Will you stay here instead, and sing away eternity?”
The bird hesitated, then leaped from its branch with a cry. Morozko watched it go. “Follow, then,” he said softly, as the wind rose again around him.
VASYA WAS STILL ASLEEP when the frost-demon returned. The mare was dozing near the oven.
“What think you?” he asked the horse, low-voiced.
The mare was about to reply, but a neigh and a clatter cut her off. A bay stallion with a star between his eyes burst into the room. He snorted and stamped, shaking snow off his black-dappled quarters.
The mare laid her ears back. I think, she said, that my son has come where he should not.
The stallion, though graceful as a stag, had yet a trace of long-legged colt about him. He eyed his mother warily. I heard there was a champion here, he said.
The mare switched her tail. Who told you that?
“I did,” said Morozko. “I brought him back with me.”
The mare stared at her rider with pricked ears and trembling nostrils. You brought him for her?
“I need that girl,” said Morozko, giving the mare a hard look. “As well you know. If she is foolish enough to roam the Bear’s forest at night, then she will need a companion.”
He might have said more, but he was interrupted by a clatter. Vasya had awakened and tumbled out of bed, unuse
d to bedding that was also a snowdrift.
The big horse, his dark bay coat glowing black in the firelight, minced over, ears pricked. Vasya, still only half-awake and rubbing a very sore shoulder, looked up to find herself nose to nose with a huge young stallion. She held still.
“Hello,” she said.
The horse was pleased.
Hello, he answered. You will ride me.
Vasya clambered to her feet, much less thickheaded than at her last waking. But her cheek throbbed, and she had to marshal her tired eyes in order to see only the stallion, not the shadows like feathers that fluttered around him. Once her vision settled, she eyed his back, two hands above her head, with some skepticism.
“I would be honored to ride you,” she answered politely, though Morozko heard the dry note in the girl’s voice and bit his lip. “But perhaps I may defer it a moment; I should like some more clothes.” She glanced around the room, but her cloak, boots, or mittens were nowhere to be seen. She wore nothing but her crumpled underdress, with Dunya’s pendant lying cold against her breastbone. Her braid had raveled while she slept, and the thick red-black curtain of her hair tumbled loose to her waist. She brushed it from her face and, with a touch of bravado, made her way to the fire.
The white mare stood beside the oven with the frost-demon at her head. Vasya was struck by the similarity in their expressions: the man’s eyes hooded and the mare’s ears pricked. The bay stallion huffed warm breath into her hair. He was following so close that his nose bumped her shoulder. Without thinking, Vasya laid a hand on his neck. The horse’s ears made a pleased little swivel, and she smiled.
There was plenty of space in front of the fire, despite the incongruous presence of two tall and well-built horses. Vasya frowned. The room had not seemed as large as that when she woke last.
The table was laid with two silver cups and a slender ewer. The scent of warm honey floated through the room. A loaf of black bread, smelling of rye and anise, lay beside a platter of fresh herbs. On one side stood a bowl of pears and on the other a bowl of apples. Beyond them all lay a basket of white flowers with modestly drooping heads. Podsnezhniki. Snowdrops.
Vasya stopped and stared.
“It is what you came for, is it not?” Morozko said.
“I didn’t think I’d actually find any!”
“You are fortunate, then, to have done so.”
Vasya looked at the flowers and said nothing.
“Come and eat,” Morozko said. “We will talk later.” Vasya opened her mouth to argue, but her empty stomach roared. She bit back curiosity and sat down. He sat on a stool across from her, leaning against the mare’s shoulder. She surveyed the food, and his lips twitched at her expression. “It’s not poison.”
“I suppose not,” said Vasya, dubious.
He twisted off a lump of bread and handed it to Solovey. The stallion seized it with enthusiasm. “Come,” said Morozko, “or your horse will eat it all.”
Cautiously, Vasya picked up an apple and bit down. Icy sweetness dazzled her tongue. She reached for the bread. Before she knew it, her bowl was empty, half the loaf was gone, and she sat replete, feeding bits of bread and fruit to the two horses. Morozko touched no food. After she had eaten, he poured the mead. Vasya drank from her silver-chased cup, savoring the taste of cold sunshine and winter flowers.
His cup was twin to hers, except that the stones along the rim were blue. Vasya did not speak while she drank. But at last she set her cup on the table and raised her eyes to his.
“What happens now?” she asked him.
“That depends on you, Vasilisa Petrovna.”
“I must go home,” she said. “My family is in danger.”
“You are wounded,” replied Morozko. “Worse than you know. You will stay until you are healed. Your family will be none the worse for it.” More gently, he added, “You will go home at dawn of the night you left. I can promise it.”
Vasya said nothing; it was a measure of her weariness that she did not argue. She looked again at the snowdrops. “Why did you bring me these?”
“Your choices were to bring your stepmother those flowers or to go to a convent.” Vasya nodded. “Well, then, there you have them. You may do as you will.”
Vasya reached out a hesitant forefinger to stroke one silky-damp petal. “Where did they come from?”
“The edge of my lands.”
“And where is that?”
“At the thaw.”
“But that is not a place.”
“Is it not? It is many things. Just as you and I are many things, and my house is many things, and even that horse with his nose in your lap is many things. Your flowers are here. Be content.”
The green eyes flared up to his again, mutinous instead of tentative. “I do not like half answers.”
“Stop asking half questions, then,” he said, and smiled with sudden charm. She flushed. The stallion thrust his great head closer. She winced when the horse lipped her injured fingers.
“Ah,” Morozko said. “I forgot. Does it hurt?”
“Only a little.” But she would not meet his eyes.
He made his way around the table and knelt so their faces were on a level. “May I?”
She swallowed. He took her chin in one hand and turned her face to the firelight. There were black marks on her cheek where he had touched her in the forest. The tips of her fingers and toes were white. He examined her hands, drew a fingertip along her frozen foot. “Don’t move,” he said.
“Why would—” But then he laid his palm flat against her jaw. His fingers were suddenly hot, impossibly hot, so that she expected to smell her own flesh scorching. She tried to pull away, but his other hand came up behind her head, digging into her hair, holding her. Her breath trembled and rasped in her throat. His hand slid down to her throat, and if anything the burning grew. She was too shocked to scream. Just when she thought she could not endure it another instant, he let go. She slumped against the bay stallion. The horse blew comfortingly into her hair.
“Forgive me,” Morozko said. The air around him was cold, despite the heat in his hands. Vasya realized she was shivering. She touched her damaged skin. It was smooth and warm, unmarked.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore.” She forced her voice to calm.
“No,” he said. “Some things I can heal. But I cannot heal gently.”
She looked down at her toes, at her ruined fingertips. “Better than being crippled.”
“As you say.”
But when he touched her feet, she could not keep the tears from her eyes.
“Will you give me your hands?” he said. She hesitated. Her fingertips were frostbitten, and one hand was crudely wrapped in a length of linen to shield the ragged hole in the palm from the night the upyr had come for Konstantin. The memory of pain thundered at her. He did not wait for her to speak. It took all her strength, but she swallowed back her cry while the flesh of her fingertips grew warm and pink.
Last, he took up her left hand and began to unwind the linen.
“It was you who hurt me,” said Vasya, trying to distract herself. “The night the upyr came.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“So that you would see me,” he said. “So that you would remember.”
“I had seen you before. I had not forgotten.”
His head was bent over his work. But she saw the curve of his mouth, wry and a little bitter. “But you doubted. You would not have believed your own senses after I had gone. I am little more than a shadow now, in the houses of men. Once I was a guest.”
“Who is the one-eyed man?”
“My brother,” he said shortly. “My enemy. But that is a long tale and not for tonight.” He laid the linen bandage aside. Vasya fought the urge to curl her hand into a fist. “This will be harder to heal than frostbite.”
“I kept reopening it,” Vasya said. “It seemed to help ward the house.”
“It would,” said Morozko. “There is virtue in you
r blood.” He touched the wounded place. Vasya flinched. “But only a little, for you are young. Vasya, I can heal this, but you will carry the mark.”
“Do it, then,” she said, failing to keep the tremor out of her voice.
“Very well.” He reached to the floor and scooped up a handful of snow. Vasya was for a moment disoriented; she saw the fir-grove, the snow on the ground, blue with dusk, red with firelight. But then the house re-formed around her and Morozko pressed the snow into the wound on her palm. Her whole body went rigid, and then the pain came, worse than before. She bit back a scream and managed to keep still. The pain rose past bearing, so that she sobbed once before she could stop herself.
Abruptly it died away. He let go her hand, and she almost fell off her stool. The bay stallion saved her; she fell against his warm bulk and caught herself by seizing his mane. The stallion put his head around to lip at her trembling hand.
Vasya pushed him aside and looked. The wound was gone. There was only a cold, pale mark, perfectly round, in the middle of her palm. When she turned it in the firelight, it seemed to catch the light, as though a sliver of ice was buried under the skin. No, she was imagining things.
“Thank you.” She pressed both hands into her lap to hide their trembling.
Morozko stood and drew away, looking down at her. “You’ll heal,” he said. “Rest. You are my guest. As for your questions—there will be answers. In time.”
Vasya nodded, staring still at her hand. When she looked up again, he had disappeared.
“Find her!” Konstantin snapped. “Bring her back!”
But the men would not go into the forest. They followed Vasya to the brink and balked, muttering of wolves and demons. Of the bitter cold.
“God will judge her now, Batyushka,” said Timofei’s father, and Oleg nodded in agreement. Konstantin hesitated, caught. The darkness beneath the trees seemed absolute.
“As you say, my children,” he said heavily. “God will judge her. God be with you.” He made the sign of the cross.
The men tramped away through the village muttering with their heads together. Konstantin went to his cold, bare cell. His dinner porridge lay heavy in his stomach. He lit a candle before the Mother of God, and a hundred shadows sprang furiously to life along the walls.
The Bear and the Nightingale Page 25