The Tatar army was out of sight, but still close enough to smell. Even bone-tired, irritable with damp, she was oppressed by the sheer weight of their numbers. She had promised Oleg magic, but she didn’t know if there was enough magic in the world to give Dmitrii his victory.
“Do you know what you are going to say to my brother, when the snow falls?” asked the Bear, still looking at the sky.
“What?” she said, jolted by the question.
“His power will be waxing now, as mine is waning. You can bind me with threats and promises, but soon”—the Bear sniffed the air—“very soon, you’re going to have to face the winter-king. Do you mean to threaten him?” The Bear smiled slowly. “I’d like to see you try. Oh, he will be so angry. I enjoy this world: the ugliness and the beauty, and meddling in the doings of men. Karachun does not.” The Bear winked at her. “For your sake he spent his strength, went into Moscow, fought me in summer, against his nature. But then you turned around and freed me. He will be very angry.”
“What I say to him is not your concern,” said Vasya coldly.
“It most certainly is,” said Medved. “But I can wait. I like surprises.”
She’d had no murmur of the winter-king since he left her in Moscow. Did Morozko know she’d set his brother free? Would he understand why? Did she? “I am going to sleep,” she said to the Bear. “You are not to betray me or draw attention to us or use someone else to draw attention to us, or awaken me, or touch me, or—”
The Bear laughed and lifted a hand. “Enough, girl, you’ve already exhausted my imagination. Go to sleep.”
She gave him one more narrow-eyed look, and then she turned over. The Bear reasonable, laughing, was much more dangerous than the beast in the clearing.
* * *
SHE WAS AWAKENED, a little before daybreak, by a scream. Heart hammering, she lurched to her feet. The Bear was peering through the trees, looking quite untroubled. “I was wondering when they were going to notice,” he said without looking round.
“Notice what?”
“That village there. I imagine most of the villagers took what they could and fled, with the army camped so close. But—someone didn’t. And your Tatars are tired of mare’s milk.”
Vasya, feeling sick, crossed to his vantage point.
It was only a tiny village, hidden in a fold of the land, sheltered by great trees. It probably would have gone unnoticed, had the Tatars not been roaming for food to fill their bellies. Even she hadn’t seen it.
She wondered if the Bear had.
But now it was afire in a dozen places.
Another scream, smaller and thinner now. “Pozhar,” said Vasya. The mare sidled up to her, huffing unhappily; for once she made no objection when Vasya vaulted to her back.
“Far be it from me,” said the Bear, “to curb your so-charming impulses, but I doubt very much you’ll like what you see.” He added, “And you could be killed.”
Vasya said, “If I can put folk to such risk, the least I can do is—”
“The Tatars put them at risk—”
But Vasya was already gone.
By the time she got to the tiny hamlet, the houses had burned almost to the ground. If there had been animals, there weren’t any now. Silence, emptiness. Unwilling hope rose in her. Perhaps all the villagers had run at the first sign of the Tatars; perhaps it was only a pig, dying, that had made a sound like a scream.
That was when she heard the small, choking moan, not quite a cry.
Pozhar’s ears swiveled; at the same time, Vasya saw a slender dark shape, huddled near a burning house.
Vasya slid down Pozhar’s shoulder, caught the woman and dragged her back from the flames. Her hand came away sticky with blood. The woman made a fainter sound of pain, but did not speak. The light of the burning houses illuminated her, pitilessly. She’d had her throat cut, but not well enough to kill her at once.
She’d also been pregnant. Laboring perhaps. That was why she’d not fled when her people did. If anyone had stayed with her, Vasya couldn’t see. There was only the woman, scrapes on her hands, where she had pushed off men, and blood—so much blood—on her skirts. Vasya laid a hand on her belly, but it didn’t stir, and there was a great, seeping wound there too…
The woman was gasping for air, her lips turning blue. Her dim eyes sought Vasya’s face. Vasya took her bloody hand in hers.
“My child?” the woman whispered.
“You’ll see her soon,” said Vasya, steadily.
“Where is she?” said the woman. “I can’t hear her cry. There were men—oh!” A choking gasp. “Did they hurt her?”
“No,” said Vasya. “She is safe, and you will see her. Come, we will pray to God.”
Otche Nash—the Lord’s Prayer was soft and familiar, comforting; the woman joined in as she could even as her stare grew fixed and empty. Vasya didn’t know she’d begun to cry until a tear fell onto their joined hands. She lifted her head to see the death-god standing there, his white horse at his side.
Their eyes met, but his face was without expression. Vasya shut the woman’s eyes, laid her on the earth and stepped back. He did not speak. Her body lay still on the earth, but nonetheless the death-god seemed to gather the woman in his arms, gently, and put her on his horse. Vasya made the sign of the cross.
We can share this world.
He turned his eyes again to Vasya’s face. Was there a flicker of feeling there? Anger? A question? No—only the death-god’s ancient indifference. He swung to the white mare’s back and rode away, silent as he’d come.
Vasya was soaked with the woman’s blood and burning with shame, that she’d been sleeping in the woods thinking herself clever, while others bore the burden of the Tatars’ anger.
“Well,” said the Bear, coming up beside her, “you’ve put an end to my brother’s indifference, that’s certain. Poor fool, is he doomed to regret every dead girl he carries away over his saddlebow?” The Bear looked pleased at the prospect. “I congratulate you. I’ve been trying to make him feel things for years, rage mostly, but he’s as cold as his season.”
Vasya barely heard him.
“It will be delightful to see what happens when the snow comes,” the Bear added.
She only turned her head slowly. “There is no priest,” she said, low. “I could do nothing for her.”
“Why would you?” asked the Bear, impatient. “Her own people will come out of hiding soon enough, and they will pray and weep and do all that’s needful. Besides, she’s dead, she won’t care.”
“If I—if I hadn’t—”
The Bear gave her a look of outright scorn. “Hadn’t what? You are playing for all of Rus’ seen and unseen, not one peasant girl’s life.”
She pressed her lips together. “You might have woken me,” she said. “I could have saved her.”
“Could you?” the Bear asked calmly. “Perhaps. But I enjoyed the screaming. And you told me not to wake you.”
She turned away from him and vomited. When she had done, she rose and got water from the stream. She washed the blood from the dead woman’s body and composed her limbs. Then Vasya went back to the stream and scrubbed herself, by the light of the dying fires, heedless of the chill. She scraped at her skin with handfuls of sand until she was shuddering with cold. Then she cleaned the blood from her clothes, and put them wet on her body.
When she had done, she turned around to find the Bear and Ded Grib both watching her. Neither said a word. Ded Grib looked solemn. The Bear’s face was free for once of mockery; he looked puzzled instead.
Vasya shook the water from her hair and addressed Ded Grib first. “Do you mean to come to the battle, my friend?”
Ded Grib shook his head slowly. “I am only a mushroom,” he whispered. “I do not like the fear and the fire, and I am tired of these fighting-men; they have no care for gro
wing things.”
“I have liked it,” said Vasya, determined not to spare herself. “The fear and the fire of these last nights. It made me feel free, and strong, to make others afraid. Others paid the price for my pleasure. Ded Grib, I will see you at the lake, God willing.”
Ded Grib nodded, and vanished between the trees. The sun was just rising. Vasya took a deep breath. “Let us go to Dmitrii Ivanovich, and make an end.”
“The first sensible thing you’ve said since you woke up,” said the Bear.
32.
Kulikovo
THE RUSSIANS RODE DOWN TO Kulikovo at the close of the third day, and made camp. Even Dmitrii was silent, except to give the necessary orders, settling the men for the night, deploying his forces for the dawn. He’d had reports, of course, of the numbers. But reports were different than seeing something with his own eyes.
Mamai had finished bringing up his main host. They spread out in a single line across the field, as far as the eye could reach.
“The men are afraid,” said Sasha to Dmitrii and Vladimir, as they rode down to the mouth of the Nepryadva, a tributary of the Don, to reconnoiter the ground. “Praying will not make them less so. We may tell them all the day that God is on our side but the men can see the numbers across the field. Dmitrii Ivanovich, they have more than twice our force, and more are coming up.”
“I can see the numbers across the field,” put in Vladimir. “I am not happy myself.”
Dmitrii’s and Vladimir’s attendants were riding out of earshot, but even they looked at the opposing host and whispered, sallow-faced.
“There is nothing to do now,” said Dmitrii. “Besides praying, feeding the men well this night, and getting them into battle tomorrow before they have time to think too much.”
“There is one other thing we could do,” said Sasha.
Both his cousins turned to look at him.
“What?” said Vladimir. He’d been suspicious of Sasha ever since their reunion, wary of his unholy allies and of the existence of Vasya, his sister-in-law with her strange powers.
“Challenge them to single combat,” said Sasha.
A silence fell among the three of them. Single combat was a kind of augury. It wouldn’t halt the battle, but the winner would have God’s favor, and everyone in both armies would know it.
“It would put heart in the men,” said Sasha. “It would make all the difference.”
“If our champion won,” said Vladimir.
“If our champion won,” acknowledged Sasha, but his eyes were on Dmitrii.
Dmitrii did not speak. His eyes were on the mud and water of the open field, and beyond, to where the Tatars waited, their horses numberless as autumn leaves in the westering light. Beyond them, the Don river lay like a bar of silver. For three days, it had rained, heavy and cold. Now the sky had darkened and seemed to promise early snow.
Slowly Dmitrii said, “Do you think they’d agree to such a thing?”
“Yes,” said Sasha. “I do. Are they to seem afraid to send a champion out?”
“If I ask and they agree, then whom should I name to fight for us?” said Dmitrii. But he spoke in the tone of a man who knows the answer.
“Me,” said Sasha.
Dmitrii said, “I have a hundred men who could do it. Why you?”
“I am the best fighter,” said Sasha. He wasn’t boasting, but stating a fact. “I am a monk, a servant of God. I am your best chance.”
Dmitrii said, “I need you at my side, Sasha, not—”
“Cousin,” said Sasha fiercely. “I broke my father’s heart, leaving home as a boy. I have not been true to my vows, for I could never stay quiet at the monastery. But never have I betrayed the soil that bore me; I have kept faith with it and defended it. I will defend it now, before both our hosts.”
Vladimir said, “He is right. It might make all the difference. Frightened men are beaten men, you know it as well as I.” Grudgingly he added, “And he fights well.”
Dmitrii still looked unwilling. But he looked again at the host opposing them, half-obscured now by the dying light. “I will not deny you,” said Dmitrii. “You are the best of us. The men know it.” He paused again. “Tomorrow morning then,” he said heavily. “If the Tatars are willing. I will send a messenger. But you are not to get yourself killed, Sasha.”
“Never,” said Sasha, and smiled. “My sisters would be angry.”
* * *
IT WAS ALMOST FULL DARK when Sasha left the princes for the night. Dmitrii’s messenger had not yet returned, but he needed to sleep, against whatever the day brought.
He had no ger, just a fire of his own, a patch of dry earth, and his horse hobbled near. When he got closer, he saw the golden mare standing next to his own Tuman.
Vasya had built up his fire and seated herself beside it. She looked weary and sad. The fey, mad creature of the night at Kolomna was gone.
“Vasya,” he said. “Where have you been?”
“Harrying an army, in the company of the most ill-natured of devils,” said Vasya. “Learning yet again the limits of what I can do.” Her voice cracked.
“I think,” said Sasha gently, “that you’ve done too much.”
She rubbed her face, still slumped on the log between the horses’ feet. “I don’t know if it was enough. I even tried to creep in and kill the general, but he is well guarded now—learned his lesson after I got Vladimir away. I—I didn’t want to die trying. I set fire to his tent though.”
Sasha said firmly, “It was enough. You gave us a chance when there was none before. It was enough.”
“I tried setting men afire,” she said, with choked confession, the words spilling out. “I tried—while the Bear laughed. But I couldn’t. He said that it is hardest to do magic on creatures that have a mind of their own and I didn’t know enough.”
“Vasya—”
“But I set other things afire. Bowstrings and wagons. I laughed, to see them burn. And—they killed a woman. A woman in labor. Because their supply was spoiled, and they were angry and hungry.”
Sasha said, “God rest her spirit then. But Vasya—stop. We have a chance. Your courage gave it to us, and your blood. It is enough. Do not lament what you cannot change.”
Vasya said nothing, but when her distracted eyes fell on his fire, the flames leaped high, even though there was precious little wood in it to burn, and her fists clenched so that her nails bit into her palms. “Vasya,” said Sasha sharply. “Enough of that. When did you last eat?”
She thought. “I—yesterday morning,” she said. “I could not bear to wait and go back into Midnight, so Pozhar and I came here as the crow flies, staying out of sight of Mamai’s army.”
“Very well,” said Sasha firmly. “I am going to make soup. Yes, here. I have my own supply and I am capable—we do not have serving-women in the Lavra. You are going to eat and then sleep. Everything else can wait.”
It was a measure of her weariness that she didn’t argue.
They didn’t speak much, while the water boiled, and when he dished out her food, she said, almost inaudibly, “Thank you,” and swallowed it down. Three bowls, with flatbread of flour paste on a hot rock, and a little color had come back into her face.
He handed her his cloak. “Go to sleep,” he said.
“What about you?”
“Tonight, I mean to pray.” He thought of telling her then, about what the next day might hold. But he didn’t. She looked so worn, so tired. The last thing she needed was a night of broken sleep, afraid for him. And it was possible the Tatars would refuse the challenge.
“Stay near at least?” she said.
“Of course I’ll stay.”
She nodded once, eyelids already heavy. Sasha, studying her, surprised himself by saying, “You look just like our mother.”
Her eyes opened at t
hat; sudden pleasure drove away the shadows in her face. He said, smiling, “Our mother always put bread in the oven at night. For the domovoi.”
“I did the same,” said Vasya. “When I lived at Lesnaya Zemlya.”
“Father teased her for it. He was always content, in those days. They—they loved each other very much.”
Vasya was sitting up now. “Dunya did not speak much of her. Not when I was old enough to remember. I think—I think Anna Ivanovna forbade it. For our father did not love her, and he had loved our mother.”
“They were a joy to each other,” said Sasha. “Even as a boy, I could see it.”
It was hard to speak of that time. He had ridden away the year after his mother died. Would he have stayed, if she had lived? He didn’t know. Ever since he came to the Lavra, he had tried to forget the boy he had been: Aleksandr Petrovich, with his faith and his strength, his enthusiasms and foolish pride. The boy who had worshipped his mother.
But now he found himself remembering. He found himself talking. To his sister, he spoke of Midwinter feasts, and childhood mishaps, of his first sword, his first horse, his mother’s voice raised laughing in the forest ahead of him. He spoke of her hands, her songs, her offerings.
Then he spoke of the Lavra in winter, the deep calm of the monastery, the bell ringing out over the dreaming forest, the slow round of prayers that marked the cold days, the steady faith of his master, whom men came to see from many days’ travel in all directions. He spoke of the days on horseback, and the nights around his fire; he spoke of Sarai and Moscow and places in between.
He spoke of Russia. Not of Muscovy, or Tver, or Vladimir, the principalities of the sons of Kiev, but of Russia itself, of its skies and its soil, its people and its pride.
She listened in rapt stillness, eyes vast and filled like cups with shadow. “That is what we are fighting for,” said Sasha. “Not for Moscow, or even Dmitrii; not for the sake of any of her squabbling princes. But for the land that bore us; man and devil alike.”
The Winter of the Witch Page 33