The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(109)

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 that; 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.”





33.


    On the Cusp of Winter