A new crowd of watchers had begun to gather at the paddock-fence: the grooms of Olga’s household. Vasya vaulted to Solovey’s back. The wise ones got themselves out of the way. The fools stood gaping, and Vasya set Solovey at the fence. He cleared it, and was obliged as well to leap several heads, when their owners did not move. Sasha swung into Tuman’s saddle. Brother and sister trotted together through the gate.
Vasya looked back, just as she passed through, and she thought she saw a queenly figure, watching from a tower-window while a smaller one clung to her skirts and yearned toward the light. Then she and her brother were out in the street.
Crowds came thronging behind them. Vasya thrilled to the people’s cheers; she lifted a hand to the crowd, and the people roared in answer. Peresvet! she heard, and Vasilii the Brave!
From the direction of his palace, the Grand Prince of Moscow appeared, trailing boyars and attendants, preceded by the roars of the crowd. “Are you ready, Vasya?” demanded Dmitrii, falling in beside them. His train fell back, making room. All the great lords of Moscow jostled for position behind. “I have a great wager riding on you.”
“I am ready,” Vasya returned. “Or Solovey is, at least, and I will cling to his neck and try not to disgrace him.”
Indeed, Solovey was glorious on the bright morning, with his coat like a dark mirror, his fall of mane, his unbridled head. The prince looked the horse over and laughed. “Mad boy,” he said with affection.
The boyars behind looked jealously at the clever-handed siblings that had Dmitrii’s favor.
“If you win,” Dmitrii told Vasya, “I will fill your purse with gold and we will find you a pretty wife to bear your children.”
Vasya gulped and nodded.
THE NOISE DROPPED. VASYA looked back up the snowy street, to where Kasyan came riding, down from the top of the hill, alone.
Dmitrii, Vasya, Sasha, and all the boyars went very still.
Vasya had seen Solovey in his glory, running over the snow, and she had watched Morozko’s white mare rearing in the dawn light. But she had never seen a horse to equal the golden creature Kasyan was riding.
The mare’s coat was a true, brilliant fire-color, dappled on the flank. Her mane poured over her neck and shoulder, only a shade or two lighter. She was long-limbed and tautly muscled, taller even than Solovey.
On the mare’s head was fastened a golden bridle, golden-bitted, attached to golden reins. With these Kasyan held her, nose bowed nearly to her breast. The mare looked as though she would take flight were it not for her rider’s grip. Her every movement was perfection, every turn of her head and toss of her silver-gold mane.
The bit had jagged points that thrust from her mouth. Vasya hated the bridle on sight.
The mare balked at the crowd, and her rider kicked her forward. She went, reluctantly, her tail lashing as she came. She tried to rear, but Kasyan brought her down and sent her bounding ahead with a spur to the flank.
The crowd did not cheer at their approach, but stayed motionless, entranced by the light and lovely footfalls.
Solovey’s ears tilted forward. That one will be fast, he said, and pawed the ground.
Vasya straightened on Solovey’s back. Her face stilled and set. This mare was no more an ordinary horse than Solovey. Where had Kasyan gotten her?
Well, she thought, it will be a race after all.
The golden mare halted. Her rider bowed, smiling. “God be with you, Dmitrii Ivanovich—Brother Aleksandr—Vasilii Petrovich.” In Kasyan’s face was joyful mischief. “Here is my lady. Zolotaya, I call her. It suits her, does it not?”
“It does,” said Vasya. “Why have I never seen her before?”
Kasyan’s smile did not waver, but something darkened in his eyes. “She is—precious to me, and I do not ride her often. But I thought it would be worth it to race her against your Solovey.”
Vasya bowed distractedly and did not reply. She had a glimpse of another domovoi, sitting wispily on a house roof; overhead she seemed to feel the rush of wings, and saw the bird-woman gazing at her from a perch atop a tower. A strange feeling began to creep down her spine.
Beside her, Dmitrii said, after a moment’s speechlessness: “Well.” He clapped Vasya on the back. “We will have a race, by God.”
Vasya nodded, the princes grinned and laughed. Just like that, the tension was broken. It was a blazing winter day, the last day of festival, with all Moscow turned out to cheer them. They clattered toward the kremlin-gate, and Kasyan fell in beside her. The crowd roared, crying encouragement to the horses bright and dark.
Down they went, through the kremlin-gate and out into the posad.
The whole city thronged the wall-top, the riverbank, the glittering fields. Daring boys choked the trees on the far side of the river and sent snow like water down onto the watchers below. “The boy!” Vasya heard. “The boy! He’s a feather, nothing at all—that big bay brute will carry him through.”
“Nay!” cried an answering voice. “Nay! Look at that mare, just look at her!”
The mare shook her head and jogged in place. Foam spattered her lips, and her every movement broke Vasya’s heart.
The procession of riders crossed the empty market-square and came down to the river. “Godspeed, Vasya,” said Dmitrii. “Ride fast, cousin.”
So saying, the prince spurred his horse away to a place by the finish. Sasha, with a lingering glance at Vasya, followed.
Solovey and the golden mare went on more sedately toward the start, their riders knee to knee, their horses nearly of a height. The bay stallion slanted an ear and blew peaceably at the golden mare, but she only pinned her ears and tried to snap, fighting the golden bridle.
The wide stretch of frozen river dazzled in the sun. On the far side, at the start and end of the race, the lords and bishops were gathered, furred and velveted, set like jewels in the river-road’s white, watching the two racers approach.
“Would you like to wager, Vasya?” asked Kasyan suddenly. The eagerness in his face echoed the eagerness in hers.
“A wager?” Vasya asked in surprise. She nudged Solovey out of the golden mare’s range. Up close, the fight in the other horse was palpable, like heat-shimmer.
Kasyan was grinning. In his eyes was a clear and unguarded triumph. “A wager,” he said. “I have already seen your gambler’s soul.”
“If I win,” she said impulsively, “give me your horse.”
Both Solovey’s ears slanted in her direction, and the golden mare’s ear twitched.
Kasyan’s lips thinned, but still there was that laughter in his eyes. “A great prize,” he said. “A great prize indeed. You are in the horse-collecting business now, I see, Vasya.” He put a soft intimacy into her name that brought her up short. “Very well,” he continued. “I will wager my horse against your hand in marriage.”
Her shocked gaze flew to his face.
And found him bending over the mare’s neck, snorting with laughter. “Do you think we are all as blind as the Grand Prince?”
She thought, No. Then—Admit it, deny it, has he known all the time? But before she could speak at all, he had urged the mare toward the starting line, his laughter still floating back, diamond-hard, over the still morning air.
The horses thudded down onto the ice, toward the gleaming ranks of people. The course had been marked out, twice around the city and back along the river, to where the Grand Prince waited.
Vasya’s breath steamed out between her lips. He knows. What does he want?
Solovey had gone stiff beneath her, his head up, his back rigid. A wild impulse surged through her: to run away and hide, where evil could never find her. No, she thought. No, better to face him. If he means wickedness, I will do no good by running. But to Solovey, she murmured grimly, “We will win. Whatever happens, we must win. If we win, he will never tell my secret. For he is a man, and he will never admit that a girl beat him.”
The horse’s ears eased back in answer.
As the horses
went further out onto that great stretch of river-ice, the shouting, the wagering slowly went silent. In the stillness, the only movement was of smoke, spiraling against the pure sky.
No more time for talk. The start had been scratched in the pebbled snow, and a blue-lipped bishop, cap and cross black against the innocent sky, waited to bless the racers.
The blessing said, Kasyan bared his teeth at Vasya and spun his mare away. Vasya nudged Solovey, who turned in the opposite direction. The two horses made circles and came up walking side by side to the start. She could feel a ferocity gathering in the stallion beneath her, a hunger for speed, and she felt a loosening, an answering savagery in her own breast.
“Solovey,” she whispered, with love, and she knew the horse understood. She had a final impression of white sun and white snow and a sky the precise color of Morozko’s eyes. Then the two horses broke at the same instant. Any words Vasya might have said were whipped away and lost with the wind of their speed and the throat-shattering shriek of the crowd.
THE FIRST PART OF THE RACE took them straight down the river, where they would turn sharply to cut across the thick snow at the city’s foot. Solovey bounded along like a hare, and Vasya whooped as they raced for the first time past the crowd: a howl that defied them, defied her rival, defied the world.
The people’s answering cries floated over the snow and then it was as though the two horses were alone, running along the flat stride for stride.
The mare ran like a star falling, and Vasya realized, with disbelief, that on the open ground, she was faster than Solovey. The mare pulled ahead by a stride, and then another. The foam flew from her lips as her rider lashed her with the heavy rein. Could she keep it up, twice around the city? Vasya sat quiet and forward on Solovey’s back and the horse ran fast but easily. They were coming to the turn; Vasya could see the ice blue and slick. She sat up. Solovey gathered himself and turned up the bank without skidding.
The golden mare was going so fast that she nearly missed it; Kasyan hauled her around and she stumbled, but recovered, long ears flat to her head, while her rider shouted her on. Vasya whispered to Solovey and he took a short stride, gathered his quarters beneath him, and sprang smoothly to the right, gaining ground. His head hung level with the mare’s hip. The mare was half-frantic and floundering with her rider’s steady whipping. Solovey ran in great leaps, and soon they were drawing ahead; now Kasyan’s stirrup was level with Solovey’s heel.
Kasyan whooped and saluted her, teeth bared, when they passed him, and Vasya, despite her fear, felt answering laughter rise in her own throat. Fear and thought were all gone; there was only the speed, the wind and cold, the perfect heave and surge of her horse beneath her. She leaned forward, whispering encouragement to Solovey. The horse’s ears tilted toward her, and then he found a speed greater still. They were nearly a horse-length in front, and Vasya had frozen tears running down her face. The wind dried her lips and cracked them. Her teeth ached with cold. To the right again, and then they were in the thick snow, running beneath the kremlin-wall. Shouts rained on them from the wall-top. Down and down, faster and faster, and with her legs and her weight and her soft voice, Vasya bade the horse keep his feet under himself, his head forward and driving. Go, she told him. Go!
They hit the ice again with the speed of a storm, ahead of their rivals, and now there was the sound of the boyars cheering. They had made the first circle.
Some of the younger men were galloping their horses along the ice, racing the speeding Solovey, but even their fresh horses could not keep up and they fell back and away. Vasya shouted laughing abuse at them, and they answered in kind; then she risked a look behind.
The golden mare had opened up when she came back onto the river, running over the ice faster than Vasya had ever seen a horse run, chased by the howls of the watchers. She was gaining on Solovey again, foam speckling her breast. Vasya leaned forward and whispered to her horse. The stallion found something in him: a breath, a swifter stride still, and when the mare caught him, he matched her. This time they hit the turn side by side, and Kasyan had learned his lesson; he checked the mare a stride before, so that she would not slide on the ice.
No possibility of speech, of thought. Like horses yoked to a wagon, the mare and the stallion circled the city side by side, galloping at full stretch but neither one gaining, until they were racing again down the twisting road of the posad, down again toward the riverbank and the end of the race.
But—there—a sledge—a heedless sledge halted too soon, fouling their path. People all around it, shouting, heaving. The riders had circled the city faster than these fools had thought possible, and so the way was blocked.
Kasyan glanced at her with joyful invitation, and Vasya couldn’t help it, she grinned back at him. Down they tore to the sledge heaped high, and Vasya was counting Solovey’s strides now, a hand on his neck. Three, two, and there was not room for another. The horse heaved himself up and over, tucking his hooves. He came down lightly on the slick snow and launched himself down the final stretch of river, toward the end of the race.
The mare leaped the sledge a stride behind; she hit the ice like a bird, then they were racing along the flat with all Moscow screaming. For the first time, Vasya cried aloud to Solovey: shouted, and she felt him answer, but the mare equaled him, tearing along, wild-eyed, and the two horses ran down the ice together, their riders’ knees jostling.
Vasya did not see the hand until it was too late.
One minute Kasyan was riding, fingers urgent on the reins. The next he had reached over and seized the ties that bound her hood, seized them and wrenched them apart, so that the sheepskin cap tumbled away. Her hair tumbled out, her plait raveled, and then the black banner of her hair was flying loose for all to see.
Solovey could not have stopped even if he had wished to. He drove on heedless of everything. Vasya, her battle-madness gone cold and dead, could only cling to him, panting.
The stallion thrust his head in front, then his shoulder, and then they stormed past the finish to a stunned silence. Vasya knew that, win or lose the race, Kasyan had beaten her at a game she had not known she was playing.
SHE SAT UP. SOLOVEY SLOWED. The stallion was heaving for breath, spent. Even if she had wanted to escape, the horse could not manage it now.
Vasya dropped to the ground, getting her weight off him, and turned back to face the crowd of boyars, of bishops, and the Grand Prince himself, who stood looking at her in horrified silence.
Her hair wrapped her body, snagged on the fur of her cloak. Kasyan had already slid off his golden mare. The horse stood still, her head low, blood and foam dripping from the tender corners of her mouth, where the bit had cut deep.
Vasya, in the midst of horror, knew a sudden fury at that golden bridle. Jerkily, she set a hand on the headstall, meaning to rip it off.
But Kasyan’s gloved hand shot out, knocked her fingers away, and hauled her back.
Solovey squealed and reared, striking out, but men with ropes—Kasyan’s men—beat the exhausted horse away. Vasya was thrust onto her knees in the snow in front of the Grand Prince, her hair hanging all about her face and all Moscow watching.
Dmitrii was salt-white above his pale beard. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What is this?” All about him his boyars were staring.
“Please,” said Vasya, yanking at the hand that held her. “Let me go to Solovey.” Behind her, the horse squealed again. Men were shouting. She twisted around to look. They had flung ropes over his neck, but the stallion was fighting them.
Kasyan solved the problem. He hauled Vasya to her feet, put a knife to her throat, and said very softly, “I’ll kill her.” He spoke so low that none heard except for the girl and the keen-eared stallion.
Solovey went deathly still.
He knew everything, Vasya thought. That she was a girl, that Solovey understood men’s speech. His hand around her arm was going to leave fingermarks.
Kasyan addressed Solovey, softly. “Let
them lead you to the Grand Prince’s stable,” he said. “Go quiet, and she will live and be returned to you. You have my word.”
Solovey shrilled defiance. He kicked out and a man fell gasping into the snow. Vasya. She read the word in the stallion’s wild eye. Vasya.
Kasyan’s hand tightened on her arm until she gasped and the knife beneath her jaw dug in until she felt the skin just split…
“Run!” Vasya cried to the horse desperately. “Do not be a prisoner!”
But the horse had already dropped his head in defeat. Vasya felt Kasyan let out a satisfied breath.
“Take him,” he said.
Vasya cried out in wordless protest, but now grooms were running up to put a bridle with a twisted chain on Solovey’s head. She tasted tears of rage. The stallion let himself be led away, head low, still exhausted. Kasyan’s knife disappeared, but he did not release her arm. He spun her around to face the Grand Prince, the crowd of boyars. “You should have listened this morning,” he murmured into her ear.
Sasha was still mounted; Tuman had bulled her way onto the ice, and her brother had a sword in his hand, his hood cast back from his pale face. His eyes were on the trickle of blood running down the side of her throat.
“Let her go,” Sasha said.
Dmitrii’s guards had drawn their swords; Kasyan’s men circled her brother on their fine horses. Blades dazzled in the indifferent sun.
“I’m all right, Sasha,” Vasya called to her brother. “Don’t—”
Kasyan cut her off. “I suspected,” he said in an even voice, directing his words to the Grand Prince. The half-formed brawl on the ice paused. “I only knew for sure today, Dmitrii Ivanovich.” Kasyan’s expression was grave, except for the glint in his eyes. “There is a great lie and a gross immodesty here, if not worse.” He turned to Vasya, even touched her cheek with a burning finger. “But surely it is the fault of her lying brother, who wished to dupe a prince,” he added. “I would not blame the girl, so young is she, and perhaps half-mad.”
Vasya said nothing; she was looking for a way out. Solovey gone, her brother surrounded by armed men…If any of the chyerti were there, she couldn’t see them.
The Girl in the Tower Page 24