33.
On the Cusp of Winter
VASYA AWAKENED TO THE TOUCH of early snow on her face.
Sasha had fallen asleep at last, the murmur of his prayers stilled, in the deep hush of night. The air had a crisp bite; the earth was just rimed with frost. The men’s voices all around had sunk to silence. All who could sleep were sleeping, to gather strength against the dawn.
A chill wind raced through the Russian camp, fluttering their banners, and sending snow in eddies over the earth.
Vasya took a deep breath and got to her feet, pausing to lay the cloak over her sleeping brother. She saw the Bear. He was in the form of a man, standing perfectly still, beyond the red coals of their fire. He was watching the scanty flakes drift down from the sky.
“It is early for snow,” said Vasya.
For the first time, there was a hint of fear beneath the exalted malice in the Bear’s face. “It is my brother’s power waxing,” he said. “One more test, sea-maiden. And it might be the hardest.”
Vasya straightened her back.
The winter-king rode out of the dark, as though the cold wind had blown him to her, his mare’s hooves soundless against the muddy, white-glazed earth.
The two armies, even her sleeping brother, might not have existed. There was only herself, the king of chaos, and the king of winter, wrapped in a whirl of new snow. Morozko was not the thin, almost formless creature of high summer, nor was he the magnificent velvet-clad lord of midwinter. He was dressed all in white; the first bitter breath of the new season.
He halted and slid from the back of his horse.
Her throat was dry. “Winter-king,” she said.
He surveyed her, up and down. He did not look at the Bear, but his not-looking had a force all its own. “I knew you meant to fight, Vasilisa Petrovna,” he said, after a moment. “I didn’t know the manner you would choose.”
Only then did his glance find his brother. A spark of old hatred leaped between them. “You were always insufferable, Karachun,” said the Bear. “What did you think would happen, when you left her to fight a war she had no notion how to win?”
“I thought you had learned some wisdom,” said Morozko, turning back to Vasya. “You have seen what he is capable of.”
“You knew what he was capable of, better than I,” said Vasya. “Yet you also freed the Bear because you were desperate. I was desperate too. Just as he swore you an oath then, he has sworn one to me now.”
She raised her hands. The two ropes glowed at her wrists, power quiescent in the oily gold. “Has he?” said Morozko, with a cold glance at them. “And after he swore? What then? Have you been roving about, terrorizing men in his company? Have you gotten a taste for cruelty?”
“Do you not know me?” she said. “I have loved danger since I was a child. But I have never loved cruelty.”
Morozko’s eyes searched her face, searched and searched until she looked away, getting angry. He snapped, “Look at me!”
She snapped back, “What are you looking for?”
“Madness,” he said. “Malice. Do you think all dangers posed by the Bear are obvious? He will work on your mind, until one day you laugh at bloodshed and suffering.”
“I am not laughing yet,” she said, but his eyes went again to the gold on her wrists. Was she supposed to feel ashamed? “I have taken power where I could find it. But I have not turned to evil.”
“Have you not? He is clever. You will fall unknowing.”
“I haven’t had time to fall, knowing or unknowing.” She was really angry now. “I have been running through the dark, trying to save all who have need of me. I have done good and I have done evil, but I am neither. I am only myself. You will not make me ashamed, Morozko.”
“Truly,” said the Bear to her, “I hate to agree with him, but you should probably feel guiltier over it. Berate yourself a bit.”
She ignored him. Nearer she stepped to the winter-king, until she could read his face, even in the dark. And there was feeling there for her to read: anger, hunger, fear, even grief, his indifference torn to shreds.
Her anger left her. She took his hand. He let her have it, his fingers cool and light in hers. She said softly, “I called every power of this land to war, winter-king. It had to be done. We cannot fight amongst ourselves.”
“He killed your father,” said Morozko.
She swallowed. “I know. And now he is bound to help save my people.” She lifted her free hand, touched his cheek. She was close enough now to see him breathe. She framed his face with her fingers, drew his eyes back to her. The snow was falling faster from the sky. “Will you fight with us tomorrow?” she asked.
“I will be there for the dead,” he said. His glance strayed away from her, to the camp at large. She wondered how many would see the next day’s dusk. “You need not be there at all. It is not too late. You’ve done what you can; you’ve kept your word. You and your brother can—”
“It is too late,” she said. “Sasha would never leave Dmitrii now. And I—I too am pledged.”
“Pledged to your pride,” retorted Morozko. “You want the obedience of chyerti and the admiration of princes, so you are taking this mad risk alongside Dmitrii. But you have never seen a battle.”
“No, I haven’t,” she said, her voice gone as cold as his. She had dropped her hands, but she did not step back. “Though yes, I want Dmitrii’s admiration. I want a victory. I even want power, over princes and chyerti. I am allowed to want things, winter-king.”
They were near enough to breathe the other’s breath. “Vasya,” he said, low. “Think beyond this one battle. The world is safer if the Bear is in his clearing, and you must live; you cannot—”
She cut him off. “I already have. And I swore your brother wouldn’t have to go back. We understand each other, he and I. Sometimes it frightens me.”
“I am not surprised,” he said. “Spirit of sea and fire that you are; he is the worst parts of your own nature writ large.” His hands were on her shoulders now. “Vasya, he is a danger to you.”
“Then keep me safe.” She raised her eyes to his. “Pull me back, when he drags me too far down. There is a balance to be struck here too, Morozko, between him and you, between men and chyerti. I was born to be in between—do you think I don’t know it?”
His eyes were sad. “Yes,” he said. “I know.” He looked up at the Bear again, and this time the two brothers were silent, measuring each other. “It is your choice and not mine, Vasilisa Petrovna.”
Vasya heard the Bear exhale and realized that he really had been afraid.
She let her head fall forward an instant to the wool and fur of Morozko’s shoulder, felt his hands slide around her back and hold her there briefly, suspended between day and night, between order and chaos. Take me somewhere quiet, she wanted to say. I cannot bear the noise and the stink of men anymore.
But the time for that was past; she had chosen her course. She lifted her head and stepped back.
Morozko reached into his sleeve and drew out something small and shining.
“I brought this for you,” he said.
It was a green jewel on a cord, rougher than the formal perfection of the sapphire necklace she’d once worn. She did not touch it, but stared, wary. “Why?”
“I went far away,” said Morozko. “That is why I did not come to you, even dreaming, even when you plucked the Bear from his prison. I went south, through the snows of my own kingdom; I took the road to the sea. There, I called Chernomor, the sea-king, out of the water, who has not been seen for many lives of men.”
“Why did you go?”
Morozko hesitated. “I told him what he never knew, that the witch of the wood had borne him children.”
She stared. “Children? To the king of the sea?”
He nodded once. “Twins. And I told him that among
his grandchildren’s children was one I loved. And so, the sea-king gave this to me. For you.” He almost smiled. “There is no magic in it now, and no binding. It is a gift.”
She still didn’t reach for the jewel. “How long have you known?”
“Not as long as you think, although I wondered whence your strength. I wondered if it could be only the witch, a mortal woman with magic who’d passed her talent to her daughters. But then I saw Varvara, and I knew it was more than that. Chernomor has fathered sons, now and again, and often they have their father’s magic, and lives that are longer than the lives of men. So I asked Midnight for the truth, and she told me. You are the sea-king’s great-grandchild.”
“Will I live a long time then?”
“I do not know—who could know? For you are witch and chyert and woman too; a descendant of Russian princes and Pyotr Vladimirovich’s daughter. Chernomor might know; he said he would answer questions, but only if you came to see him.”
It was too much to take in. But she took the jewel. It was warm in her hand; she caught a faint whiff of salt. It felt as though he’d handed her a key to herself, but one she could not examine. There was too much else to do.
“Then I will go to the sea,” she said. “If I survive the dawn.”
He said heavily, “I will be at the battle. But my task is still the dead, Vasya.”
“Mine is the living,” said the Bear, and he smiled. “What a pair we are, my twin.”
34.
Lightbringer
GRIM DAY, AND ALL ABOUT them the army was stirring; beyond, far out on the great field of Kulikovo, the Tatars were awake. The Russians could hear the Tatars’ horses snorting into the chill. But nothing could be seen; the world was obscured in thick mist.
“No battle until the fog burns off,” said Sasha. He had no stomach for food, but he drank a little mead, passed the bottle to Vasya. When he woke, he’d found her already awake, sitting alone before his renewed fire, a line between her brows, pale but composed.
It was cold, the sky gray above the mist, promising more early snow. Then the sun heaved a cold rim over the edge of the earth, and the mist began to thin. He drew a deep breath. “I must go to Dmitrii. He is waiting for a messenger. Whatever happens, I will find you before the fighting begins. In the meantime, go with God, sister. You are to go unseen and run no risks.”
“No,” she said and smiled reassuringly. “My business is with chyerti this day. Not with the swords of men.”
“I love you, Vasochka,” he said, and left her.
* * *
THE MESSENGER HAD RETURNED, and the Tatars had accepted Dmitrii’s challenge. They had also brought the name of Mamai’s champion. Sasha and Dmitrii heard it with the same cold thrill of rage.
“I have dozens of men who would take your place,” said Dmitrii. “But—”
“Not with this champion,” said Sasha. “If he is not to be yours, then he is mine, brother.”
Dmitrii did not disagree. They stood together in his tent, while attendants ran in and out. All about them was the neighing and the ringing of steel and the shouts of the waking army. The Grand Prince offered his cousin bread, and Sasha forced a little of it down.
“Besides,” Sasha added, keeping the anger from his voice. “Another man would take the glory for his own city: for Tver or Vladimir or Suzdal. It must be for Rus’ and for God, brother, for on this field we are one people.”
“One people,” said Dmitrii thoughtfully. “Did your sister return? With her—followers?”
“Yes,” said Sasha, and gave his cousin a dark look. “She is tempered like steel now and so very young, and I blame you for pulling her into this.”
Dmitrii did not look repentant. “She knows the stakes as well as I.”
Sasha said, “She says let men beware of the river. And also to trust that the trees will conceal them, and to fear neither storm nor fire.”
“I can’t decide if that is welcome or ominous,” said Dmitrii.
“Perhaps both,” said Sasha. “Nothing about my sister is simple. Brother, if I—”
Dmitrii shook his head sharply. “Do not say it. But yes—she will be as a sister to me too; she need fear nothing from my hand.”
Sasha bowed his head and said not a word.
“Come then,” said Dmitrii. “I will arm you.”
Mail shirt and cuirass, a shield, a leaf-shaped spear, red at the haft. Good boots, cuisses for his thighs. A pointed helm. It was soon done. Sasha’s fingertips felt cold. “Where is your armor?” he asked Dmitrii. The Grand Prince was dressed as a minor boyar, one of hundreds.
Dmitrii looked cheerful, like a boy caught in mischief. His attendants, the ones Sasha could see, looked simultaneously anxious and exasperated. “I had one of my boyars change places with me,” he said. “Do you think I want to sit on a hill clad in scarlet? No. I will fight properly, and I will not give the Tatar bowmen a better target than I can help.”
“Your cause is defeated if you are slain,” said Sasha.
“My cause is defeated if I am not the leader of this host,” said Dmitrii. “For Rus’ will fracture, if I am not lord. They will be as leaves in defeat, scattering in a strong wind, or they will be overproud in victory, each trying to claim a greater share than the others. No, I will play for the great prize. What else is there?”
“What indeed?” said Sasha. “I have served you as well as God, cousin,” he said. “And been proud to do it. For all I’ve done—or not done—forgive me.”
“Do we talk of forgiveness, brother?” said Dmitrii. “The left hand does not beg forgiveness of the right.” He clapped Sasha on the back. “Go with God.”
Armed, they went out to where the army waited, drawn up on the field of Kulikovo. It was a little before noon by then, and the mist was burning away.
“I must find my sister,” said Sasha. “I did not bid her a proper farewell.”
“There is not time,” said Dmitrii. A man brought his horse, and he swung to the saddle. As the sun broke through the last of the fog, he raised a hand to shade his eyes. “Look, there is their champion now.”
Dmitrii was right. The Tatar champion had appeared and a roar echoed from a hundred thousand throats. Sasha, his heart beating fast, mounted Tuman. The steady mare only pricked her ears at the noise. “Tell her farewell, since I cannot,” he said.
As Sasha rode out onto the great sloshing field before the two hosts, he thought he saw a flash of gold: Pozhar galloping unseen among the host of Rus’. Sasha raised his hand to the glimmer. It was all he could do.
Go with God, little sister.
* * *
VASYA MOUNTED POZHAR as soon as her brother left to go to the Grand Prince. The Bear was snuffing the air, pleased, Vasya thought, at the tension. He turned a teeth-baring grin to her. “What now, mistress?”
Morozko had left her just as dawn touched the sky. There was still something of his presence in the cold mist, the few snowflakes just drifting down in the wind that riffled the pennants of the Russian host. She felt caught again between them: the Bear’s joy in battle and Morozko’s grief at destruction. The Bear’s presence and the winter-king’s absence.
Very well; Morozko’s work was with the dead.
Hers was with the living.
But not, just now, with men.
The first one she saw was like a great black bird with the face of a woman. She soared across the battlefield, rippling banners with her wings, and though men could not see her they looked up, as though they felt her shadow upon themselves and upon the day.
The next was the leshy, stepping softly to the border of his forest; the scrubby forest that ringed the battlefield, the forest that currently concealed Vladimir Andreevich and his cavalry, waiting for the right moment to charge.
Vasya nudged Pozhar and the golden mare, streaming sparks, galloped between the ran
ks of men, the tents, so that Vasya could go have a word with the forest-lord.
“I will keep the men hidden,” said the leshy, when Vasya had clasped his twiggy fingers with her bloody ones, “and bewilder their enemies. For your promises and the Grand Prince’s, Vasilisa Petrovna.”
So it was all across the battlefield. While Sasha armed, and men ate and drew up rank on rank, the chyerti gathered in the thick mist. The vodianoy gurgled in his river; his daughters the rusalki waited on the banks. Some Vasya knew by sight. Many she didn’t. But still they came until the battlefield was teeming, haunted, and she felt the weight of their eyes, and their trust.
The thick mist had begun to burn away. She was already sweating, despite the chill, with nerves and with exertion, riding Pozhar here and there to rally and dispose and encourage her own people in and around Dmitrii’s.
Finally there came a single long blast from a trumpet, and Vasya let her attention return to the world of men. She looked across the great swampy field. Mist still lay in patches between the Tatars and the Russians, but now the Tatars could be seen.
Vasya’s heart sank.
There were so many. What could a little fear do to a mass of men that great? Their line stretched out as far as she could see; the snorting of their horses was like a rumble far away. Clouds massed in the north, heavy with snow, and the occasional flake tumbled down. Dmitrii had his best troops in the van, with Mikhail, the Grand Prince of Tver, on the left flank. Vladimir, the Prince of Serpukhov, was on the right, but concealed in the thick trees.
Somewhere behind Mamai’s line, Oleg and his boyars were waiting, too, waiting for another signal, to fall upon the Tatars from behind.
All around the chyerti waited, flickering like candle-flames in the corner of her eyes.
The Bear, at her side, surveying them, said, “I have lived a long time, but I have never seen such a magic as this, to draw all our people into war as one.” There was a hell-light of anticipation in his eyes.
The Winter of the Witch Page 34