The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(107)

“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.