The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(110)

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.”