The Winter of the Witch

by Katherine Arden

  Again, they measured each other.

  “I agree,” said Dmitrii. “If Father Sergei does. A strong country cannot afford to have its strength divided. Even if its powers are not all of men.”

  Sergei raised his head. “I will agree also,” he said. “The ways of God are strange.”

  “Heard and witnessed,” Vasya said, and then she opened her hand. There was a thin line of blood on the meat of her thumb, black in the dim moonlight. She let her blood fall to the earth and two figures appeared. One was a man with one eye. The other was a woman with night-colored skin.

  Dmitrii jerked backward; Sasha, who had seen them all along, stood still. Sergei’s eyes narrowed, and he muttered another prayer. “We have all witnessed your promise,” said Vasya. “And we will hold you to your word.”

  * * *

  DMITRII AND SERGEI, looking shaken, took their leave and rode back to their beds in Kolomna. Polunochnitsa said, “I have witnessed these men’s promises. Must I linger? I am not Medved; I do not love, endlessly, the strange doings of men.”

  “No,” said Vasya. “Go if you wish. But if I call again, will you come?”

  “I will come,” said Midnight. “If only to see the end. For you might have their promise, but you must keep your own now, and fight.”

  She bowed and vanished into the night.

  Sasha lingered with his sister. “Where are you going?”

  She didn’t look up; she was throwing wet leaves over the fire. It went out with a hiss, plunging the clearing into gray starlight. “I am going to go find Oleg and take him back to his men,” said Vasya, straightening up. “See that word doesn’t get out that he was here; I am sure there are at least a few spies in Dmitrii’s camp. Although—” She smiled suddenly. “Who would believe it? He was with Mamai today and will be with him tomorrow.” She went to the golden mare.

  Patiently, Sasha followed and said, “After that—then what do you mean to do?”

  She had a hand on the mare’s neck. Looking over her shoulder, she countered with another question. “Where does Dmitrii mean to engage the Tatars?”

  “They are bringing up their forces at a place called Snipes’ Field,” said Sasha. “Kulikovo. A few days’ march; Dmitrii must engage them before they finish gathering up their reinforcements. Three days, he says.”

  “If you stay with the army,” Vasya said, “I will have no trouble finding it. I’ll come back to you in three days.”

  “But where are you going?” her brother asked again.

  “To harry the enemy.” She wasn’t looking at him when she said it. She was staring beyond him already, frowning into the dark. Pozhar, ears going back and forth, did not for once try to bite her.

  Sasha caught her arm and spun her around. The mare shied irritably, blowing. His sister was scraped hollow with weariness, a fey glow in her expression. “Vasya.” He made his tone cold, an antidote to the reckless laughter lurking in her eyes. “What do you think will become of you, living in darkness with devils, and doing black magic?”

  “I?” she shot back. “I am becoming myself, brother. I am a witch, and I am going to save us. Didn’t you hear Dmitrii?”

  Sasha shot a glance beyond the golden mare, to where the one-eyed man watched, only faintly visible in the starlight and midnight darkness. His grip tightened on her arm. “You are my sister,” said Sasha. “You are Marya’s aunt. Your father was Pyotr Vladimirovich, of Lesnaya Zemlya. If you spend too long alone in the dark, you will forget that you are more than the witch of the wood, you will forget to come back into the light. Vasya, you are more than this night-creature, this—”

  “This what, brother?”

  “This thing,” Sasha went on ruthlessly, with a jerk of his chin toward the watching devil. “He wants you to forget yourself. He would be glad if you went mad, went wild, were lost forever in dark woods, like our great-grandmother. Do you know the risk you are running, traveling alone with that creature?”

  “She doesn’t,” put in the Bear, listening.

  Vasya ignored him. “I am learning,” she said. “But even if I were not—is there a choice?”

  “Yes,” Sasha said. “Come back to Kolomna with me and I will look after you.”

  “Brother, I can’t; did you not hear my promise to Dmitrii?”

  “Damn Dmitrii; he thinks only of his crown.”

  “Sasha, do not be afraid for me.”

  “I am though,” he said. “For your life and for your soul.”

  “They are both in my keeping, and not yours,” she said gently. But a little of the wildness had gone from her expression. She took a deep breath. “I will not forget what you said. I am your sister, and I love you. Even wandering in darkness.”

  “Vasya,” he said, his voice heavy with reluctance. “Better even the winter-king than that beast.”

  “You both have an exaggerated idea of my brother’s good qualities,” said the Bear, just as Vasya snapped, “The winter-king is not here!” In a calmer voice, she went on, “For it is not winter. I must use the tools I have.”

  The mare shook her mane and stamped, obviously eager to be gone.

  “We are going,” said Vasya to her, as though the mare had actually spoken. Her voice was a little ragged. She pulled away. “Farewell, Sasha.” She swung to the mare’s back and looked down at her brother’s troubled face. “I won’t forget what you told me.”

  Sasha merely nodded.

  “In three days,” said Vasya.

  Then the mare bounded forward, bucking, and his sister was at once lost in the night. The devil looked back, winked at Sasha, and followed.

  * * *

  VASYA LEFT OLEG WHERE she’d met him, at the edge of the scrubby steppe where his men were encamped, a day’s march from Kulikovo. Pozhar cow-kicked the Grand Prince of Ryazan as he slid down her golden flank and said very definitely, That is the last time I carry one of his kind ever again. He is heavy.

  Oleg said, at the same moment, “I will leave riding the horses of legend to you, witch-girl. It is like trying to ride a thunderstorm.”

  Vasya could only laugh. She said, “If I were you, I’d delay your march to join Mamai. They are going to have a bad few days. I will see you at the battle.”

  “God willing,” said Oleg Ivanovich, and bowed.

  Vasya inclined her head, turned Pozhar, and then they were back on the Midnight-road.

  * * *

  MOTHER OF GOD, I am tired of darkness, Vasya thought. Pozhar’s sure feet made nothing of the night, the changing landscape, but there was no comfort in the surge of the mare’s running, her jutting withers and swift strides. Vasya rubbed her face, and tried to focus her mind. Her brother’s warning had shaken her. He was right. All the anchor-stones of her life had gone: home and family and sometimes it seemed her very self, lost in the fire. Even Morozko had gone, not to return until the snow fell. Now her companion in the darkness was a creature whose nature was madness given flesh. But sometimes he sounded ordinary, even sensible, and every time that happened she had to remind herself to keep up her defenses.

  Now the Bear was pacing the golden mare, beast-shaped. “Men will not keep their word,” he said.

  “I do not recall asking for your opinion,” she snapped.

  “Better for chyerti to fight them, before they destroy us,” the Bear went on. She could hear the echo of men screaming in his low voice. “Or better yet, let the Russians and the Tatars destroy each other.”

  “Dmitrii and Sergei will keep their word,” she said.

  “Have you ever thought what meddling in their war will cost you?” he said. “What price Dmitrii’s promise and his admiration? I saw the look in your eyes when Dmitrii called you princess.”

  “Is the prize not worth the risk?”

  “That depends,” said the Bear, as they ran through Midnight. “I am not sure you k
now what you’re risking.”

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t trust his seeming-sense any more than she trusted his wickedness.

  * * *

  THE LAKE WAS DARK in the moonlight, rippling black, white dazzles on the crests of the waves. No long, terrifying journey on foot for her this time; Vasya found the lake swiftly, as though her blood remembered it.

  She and Pozhar and the Bear burst out of the trees and found themselves beside the great stretch of moonlit water. Vasya’s breath caught in her throat and she slid down the mare’s shoulder.

  The horses were grazing where she’d last seen them, near the shore. This time they didn’t run from her but stood, ghostly in the cold mist of early autumn night, raised their flawless heads and looked. Pozhar pricked her ears and called softly to her kin.

  The witch’s empty house stood black and still on its tall posts, on the other side of the field. Still a grim ruin, the domovaya asleep once more, perhaps, waiting in her oven. Vasya let herself briefly imagine the house warm with firelight, with laughter, her family close, the horses—a great herd—grazing in the starlight outside.

  One day.

  But that night, she was there neither for the house, nor for the horses.

  “Ded Grib!” she called.

  The little chyert, glowing green in the dark, was waiting for her in the shadow of the great oak. He gave a small cry, ran toward her, then halted halfway. Either he was trying to look dignified, or the Bear made him nervous, Vasya could not tell.

  “Thank you, my friend,” Vasya said to him, and bowed. “For asking Pozhar to come to me. You both saved my life.”

  Ded Grib looked proud. “I think she likes me,” he confided. “That is why she went. She likes me because we both glow at night.”

  Pozhar snorted and shook her mane. Ded Grib added, “Why did you come back? Are you going to stay now? Why is the Eater with you?” The mushroom-spirit looked suddenly fierce. “He is not to kick over any of my mushrooms.”

  “That depends,” said the Bear pointedly. “If my brave mistress does not give me something better to do than run to and fro in the dark, I will happily kick over all your mushrooms.”

  Ded Grib bristled. “He is not going to touch anything of yours,” said Vasya to Ded Grib, glaring at the Bear. “He is traveling with me now. We came back for you because I need your help.”

  “I knew you couldn’t do without me!” cried Ded Grib, triumphantly. “Even if now you have allies that are bigger.” He gave the Bear a very hard look.

  “This is going to be a terrible war,” the Bear interjected. “What damage do you expect to do with a mushroom?”

  “You’ll see,” said Vasya, and offered her hand to the little mushroom-spirit.

  * * *

  MAMAI’S ARMY WAS STRUNG out along the Don. The vanguard was already settled at Kulikovo, the reserves encamped in stages for a great distance to the south, ready to march up at first light. Moving softly through Midnight, Vasya and the mare and the two chyerti capped a small rise, and peered through the trees at the host below.

  Ded Grib’s eyes grew huge, seeing the scale of the sleeping enemy. His green-glowing limbs quivered. There were fires along the bank as far as the eye could see. “There are so many,” he whispered.

  Vasya, surveying the immense stretch of men and horses, said, “We’d best get to work then. But first—”

  Pozhar would not take saddle or saddlebag; Vasya had to carry a pouch slung around her instead, annoying when riding fast. From it she withdrew bread and strips of hard smoked meat: Dmitrii’s parting gift. She gnawed a bit herself, and without thinking, tossed some to her two allies.

  Utter silence; she looked up to find Ded Grib holding his bit of bread, looking pleased. But the Bear was staring at her, holding the meat in his hand, not eating.

  “An offering?” he said, almost growling. “You have my service; do you want still more of me?”

  “Not at present,” said Vasya coldly. “It’s just food.” She gave him a scowl and resumed chewing.

  “Why?” he asked.

  She had no answer. She hated his wantonness, his cruelty, his laughter, and hated it even more because something of her own nature called out in answer. Perhaps that was why. She could not hate him, for to do so would be to risk hating herself. “You have not betrayed me yet,” said Vasya at last.

  “As you say,” said the Bear. But he still sounded puzzled. Holding her gaze, he ate. Then he shook himself and smiled down chillingly at the sleeping encampment, licking his fingers. Vasya, reluctantly, rose and went to join him. “I don’t know about mold, little mushroom,” said the Bear to Ded Grib. “But fear leaps between men like sickness. Their numbers won’t help with that. Come, let us begin.”

  Ded Grib gave the Bear a frightened look. He had put his bread away; now he said tremulously to Vasya, “What do you want me to do?”

  She brushed the crumbs from her shirt. A little food had restored her, but now a fearful night’s work loomed.

  “If you can—blight their bread,” said Vasya, and turned away from the Bear’s grin. “I want them hungry.”

  Down they went into the sleeping encampment, foot by foot. Vasya had wrapped rags around the faint shimmer of gold on her arms. Her knife or the Bear’s claws tore the boxes and bags of the army’s food, and where Ded Grib plunged his hands, the flour and meat began to soften and stink.

  When Ded Grib seemed to have the idea, she left him and the Bear to creep unseen among the tents of Mamai, spreading terror and rot in their wake. For her part, she slipped down to the river to call the vodianoy of the Don.

  “The chyerti have made an alliance with the Grand Prince of Moscow,” she told him, low. When she had related all her tale, she then persuaded him to raise the river so that the Tatars would not sleep dry.

  * * *

  THREE NIGHTS LATER THE TATAR army was in disarray along its length, and Vasya hated herself anyway.

  “You can’t kill any of them asleep,” she told the Bear, when he sniffed, grinning, at a man who thrashed in the grip of a nightmare. “Even if they can’t see us, it’s not…” She trailed off, with no words for her revulsion. Medved surprised her by shrugging and stepping back.

  “Of course not,” he said. “That is not the way. An assassin in the dark can be fought, can be found, and killed. Fear is more potent still, and people fear what they can’t see, and don’t understand. I will show you.”

  God help her, he had. Like some foul apprenticeship, she walked with the Bear through the Tatar camp and together they spread terror in their wake. She set fires in wagons and tents, made men scream at half-glimpsed shadows. She terrified their horses, though it hurt her to see them wild-eyed and running.

  The girl and the two chyerti traveled from one end of the spread-out force to the other. They gave Mamai and his army no rest. Horses broke their pickets and fled. When the Tatars lit fires, the flames flared up without warning, and sent sparks into unsuspecting faces. The soldiers whispered that they were haunted by a beast, by monsters that glowed, by a ghost-girl with eyes too large in the sharp planes of her face.

  “Men make themselves afraid,” the Bear told her, smiling. “Imagining is worse than anything they actually see. All it takes is whispers in the dark. Come with me now, Vasilisa Petrovna.”

  By the third night he was swollen with pleasure like a tick. Vasya was worn to a thread, sick for the dawn. “Enough,” she told them both, after yet another stretch roaming the camp, every sense on alert, half-frightened, half-sharing the Bear’s mad glee at the mischief.

  “Enough. I am going to find a place to sleep, and then we’ll go back to my brother in the light.” She could bear no more darkness.

  Ded Grib looked relieved; the Bear, merely satiated.

  The air was chilly and blank with cold mist. She found a sheltered hollow in the thickest p
art of the wood, well away from the main body of troops. Even wrapped in her cloak, on a bed of pine-boughs, she shivered. She dared not light a fire.

  The Bear was untroubled by the weather. As a beast, he’d terrorized the Tatar camp, but now, at rest, he looked like a man. He lay contentedly in the bracken, looking up into the night with his arms behind his head.

  Ded Grib was hiding under a rock, his green glow faint. Spoiling the Tatars’ food had wearied and discouraged him. “They drink the milk of their horses,” he’d said. “I can’t spoil that. They won’t be too hungry.”

  Vasya had no answer for Ded Grib; she was feeling sick herself. The panic of men and beasts seemed to echo in her bones, but still she didn’t know if all their efforts would be enough to turn the tide of the coming battle. “You are quite disgusting,” she told the Bear, seeing the flash of his teeth when he smiled.

  He didn’t even lift his head. “Why? Because I’ve been enjoying myself?”

  The glimmering gold on Vasya’s wrists reminded her, uneasily, of the covenant between them. She didn’t speak.

  He rolled onto his elbow to look at her, a smile playing about his twisted mouth. “Or because you have?”

  Deny it? Why? It would only give him power. “Yes,” she said. “I liked frightening them. They invaded my country, and Chelubey tortured my brother. But I am sick at myself too, and ashamed, and very tired.”

  The Bear looked faintly disappointed. “You ought to flog yourself a bit more over it,” he said, and rolled onto his back once more.

  That way lay madness: hiding from the worst parts of her own nature until, out of sight, they became monstrous growths to devour the rest of her. She knew that, and the Bear knew it too. “That was what Father Konstantin did. Look where it got him,” she said.

  The Bear said nothing.