The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(103)

Sergei was silent for a long time afterward, and Sasha and the prince watched him, frowning.

“They are wicked,” said Sergei at last. “They are the unclean forces of the earth.”

“Men are also wicked,” Vasya returned passionately. “And good, and everything in between. Chyerti are, just as men are, just as the earth herself is. Chyerti are sometimes wise and sometimes foolish, sometimes good and sometimes cruel. God rules the next world, but what of this one? Men may seek salvation in heaven and also make offerings to their hearth-spirits, to keep their house safe from evil. Did not God make chyerti, as He made everything else in heaven and earth?”

She spread her hands. “This is the price of my aid: Swear to me you will not condemn witches to burn. Swear to me you will not condemn those who leave offerings in their oven-mouths. Let our people have both their faiths.”

She faced Dmitrii. “So long as you or your descendants sit on the throne of Muscovy. And”—to Sergei—“your monks are establishing monasteries, building churches and hanging bells. Tell them also to let the people have their two faiths. For your promises, I will go into the night now, and I will bring the rest of Rus’ to your aid.”

No one spoke for a long time.

Vasya stood silent, straight and severe, and she waited. Sergei had his head bowed, his lips moving in silent prayer.

Dmitrii said, “If we do not agree?”

“Then,” said Vasya, “I will leave tonight. I will spend my days trying to protect what I can for as long as I can. You both will do the same, and we will both be the weaker.”

    “If we agree, and we win this fight, what happens then?” asked Dmitrii. “If I have need of you again, will you come?”

“If you will do as I ask now,” said Vasya, “then as long as your reign lasts, when you call, I will come.”

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—”