The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(102)

“Perhaps,” said a calm voice from the flap of the tent. “But if that were the case, would He have sent you the princes of Serpukhov and of Ryazan too?”

Heads swiveled; a few put hands on the hilts of their swords. A light kindled in the Grand Prince’s eyes.

Vladimir Andreevich walked into the tent. Behind him came Oleg of Ryazan. And behind them both Brother Aleksandr, who added, “God is with us, princes of Rus’, but there is no time to waste.”



* * *





THE GRAND PRINCE OF MOSCOW did not hear the whole tale until late that night, when all the planning was done. He and Sasha rode quietly out of camp, beyond the light and smoke and noise, until they came to a hidden hollow, with a low fire burning.

    As he rode, Sasha noted uneasily that the moon had not yet set.

Vasya had made solitary camp and was waiting for them. Her feet were still bare, her face smudged, but she rose with dignity and bowed to the Grand Prince. “God be with you,” she said. Behind her, in deeper darkness, stood Pozhar, glowing.

“Mother of God,” said Dmitrii and crossed himself. “Is that a horse?”

Sasha had to swallow a laugh as his sister put out a hand to the mare, who promptly laid back her ears and snapped.

“A beast out of legend,” Vasya returned. The mare snorted disdainfully and moved off to graze. Vasya smiled.

“A fortnight ago,” said Dmitrii, searching her face in the moonlight, “you left at midnight to save one cousin. You came back with an army.”

“Are you thanking me for it?” she asked. “It was achieved partially by sheer accident, the rest through blundering.”

Vasya might make light of it, Sasha thought, but it had been a bitter fortnight. Through the Midnight darkness, they had ridden fast to Serpukhov, reducing Vladimir to prayers and muttering. Then had come the frantic mustering of Vladimir’s men, the long marches in the rain, to reach Kolomna in time, for Vasya could not, she said, take so many men through Midnight.

“You would be surprised at how many victories come so,” said Dmitrii.

Vasya was calm under his scrutiny. She and Dmitrii seemed to understand each other.

“You carry yourself differently,” said the Grand Prince. Half-joking, he asked, “Have you come into a realm of your own, in your travels?”

“I suppose,” she said. “A stewardship at least. Of a people as old as this land and of a strange country, far away. But how did you know?”

“A wise prince recognizes power.”

She said nothing.

“You brought armies to my mustering,” Dmitrii said. “If you indeed have command of a realm, then will you bring your own people to this fight—Knyazhna?”

The word—princess—stirred Sasha strangely.

    “Greedy for more men, Dmitrii Ivanovich?” Vasya asked. A little color had come into her face.

“Yes,” he said. “I need every beast, every man, every creature, if we are to win.”

Sasha had never seen the likeness between Dmitrii Ivanovich and his sister. But he saw it now. Passion, cleverness, restless ambition. She said, “I have paid my debt to Moscow. Are you asking me to gather my own people now, and bring them to your battle? Your priests might call them devils.”

“Yes, I am asking,” said Dmitrii after the faintest pause. “What do you want of me in exchange?”

She was silent. Dmitrii waited. Sasha watched the light on the grass where the golden mare grazed and wondered at the look on his sister’s face.

Slowly, Vasya said, “I want a promise. But not just from you. From Father Sergei as well.”

Puzzled but not unwilling, Dmitrii said, “Then we will go to him in the morning.”

Vasya shook her head. “I am sorry—I would spare his years—but it must be here. And quickly.”

“Why here?” Dmitrii asked sharply. “And why now?”

“Because,” said Vasya, “it is midnight, there is no time to waste, and I am not the only one who must hear what he says.”



* * *





SASHA WENT, GALLOPING ON his gray Tuman, and not long after he led Father Sergei into the clearing. The moon hung strange and still in the sky. Vasya, waiting for her brother, wondered if Sasha knew that she had caught the four of them in Midnight until she chose to ride on—or go to sleep. But there was no sleep for her yet, that night. While they waited for Sasha, she and Dmitrii sat around her sinking fire, passing a skin back and forth, talking low-voiced.

“Where do you get your fine horses?” Dmitrii asked her. “First the bay and now this one.” He was eyeing Pozhar covetously. The golden mare laid back her ears and sidled away.

    Vasya said drily, “She understands you, Gosudar. I didn’t get her from anywhere; she chose to bear me. If you want to win the allegiance of a horse like her, you would have to go questing through darkness, across three times nine realms; I suggest you concern yourself with your own beleaguered country first.”

Dmitrii looked undeterred. He had his mouth open on more questions. Vasya rose hastily when the monks appeared, and crossed herself. “Father bless,” she said.

“May the Lord bless you,” said the old monk.

Vasya took a deep breath and told them what she wanted.