The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(116)

But her brother was still shaking his head. “This is not a fairy tale, Vasya. I will not risk my immortal soul, returning to life when I have left it.”

She stared at him. His face was quiet, sad, immovable. “Sasha,” she whispered. “Sasha, please. You can live again. You can go back to Sergei, and Dmitrii and Olga. Please.”

“No,” he said. “I—I fought. I yielded my life and I was glad to give it. It is for others to make it matter. My death is Dmitrii’s now—and—and yours. Guard this land. Make it whole.”

She stared at him. She could not believe. Wild thoughts darted through her brain. Perhaps, in the living world, she could force the water between his lips. But then—but then…

It wasn’t her choice. She thought of Olga’s rage when Vasya had decided the same question for her. She remembered Morozko’s words: It is not your choice to make.

Trying to control her voice, she said, “Is this what you want?”

“It is,” said her brother.

“Then—then God be with you,” said Vasya, her voice breaking. “If—if you see Father and—and Mother—tell them I love them. That I have wandered far, but not forgotten. I—I will pray for you.”

“And I for you,” said her brother, and smiled suddenly. “I will see you again, little sister.”

She nodded but could not speak. She knew her face was crumbling. But she embraced her brother; she stepped back.

And then Morozko spoke softly, but his words were not for her. “Come with me,” he said to Sasha. “Do not be afraid.”





36.


    The Army of Three




SHE TUMBLED BACK TO HERSELF, bowed over her brother’s unmarked body, sobbing. She did not know how long she wept, while the battle raged nearby. It was a soft hoofbeat that drew her back, and a cold presence behind her.

She turned her head to see the winter-king. He slid from the back of his horse and looked at her.

She had no words for him. Gentle speech or a soft touch would have shattered her, but he offered neither. Vasya shut her brother’s eyes, whispered a prayer over his head. Then she got to her feet, soul full of restless violence. She could not bring her brother back. But the thing he had wanted—the thing he had worked for—that she could do.

“Only for the dead, Morozko?” she said. She reached out a hand, still smeared with her brother’s blood and her own, from where she’d cut it for the Bear.

He hesitated.

But in his face was an echoing savagery; he looked suddenly like he had on a Midwinter midnight: proud, young, dangerous. There were traces of Sasha’s blood on his hands too.

“And for the living, beloved,” he said, low. “They are my people too.”

He caught her bloody hand in his and all around the wind shrieked; the cry of the first snowstorm. Her soul was all restless fire, and when she looked up at Pozhar, the golden mare was drawn equally taut; she pawed the ground once. They mounted their horses together, and wheeled and galloped back to the battle, on the breast of a newborn storm.

    Flames in her hands; in his grip was the power of bitterest winter.

A shout came from the field, as the Bear, laughing, caught sight of them.

“We must find Dmitrii,” called Vasya, shouting over the noise, as she sent Pozhar hurtling through a knot of Tatar warriors who were galloping down a group of Russian pikemen. The beasts scattered with sudden fright, spoiling their swearing riders’ aim.

A swift wind leaped up and blew wide an arrow that would have struck her, and Morozko said, “There is his standard.”

It was at the apex of a small rise, in the first line of battle; they turned thither, cutting a swath through fighting men as they did. The snow was falling thicker and thicker now. A hail of arrows was targeting Dmitrii’s position. A wedge of horsemen was pushing through, trying to get to that vulnerable banner.

The white mare and Pozhar, light on their feet, cut through the battle faster, but the Tatars were closer and it was a race between them. Ears flat to her head, Pozhar dodged and sprang and galloped, while Vasya shouted at the Tatars’ horses. A few heard her and faltered, but not enough. The ground under the enemy’s feet grew slippery with ice, but the Tatars’ horses were sturdy beasts, used to running on all surfaces, and even that didn’t sway them. Snow blew in their faces, blinding the riders, but still the skillfully timed arrows flew.

“Medved!” Vasya shouted.

The Bear appeared on her other side, still with that edge of shrieking laughter in his voice. “Such joy,” he crowed. He was a beast, bathed in men’s blood and howling with delight, stark contrast to Morozko’s gathered silence on her other side. Together the three of them made a wedge of their own, and bulled through the fighting. Vasya set fires at their feet, swiftly smothered by the wet field, the fast-falling snow. Morozko blinded them, turned their arrows with a pranking wind.

Medved simply terrified all in his path.

    It was a race between them and the Tatars to see who could get to Dmitrii’s position first.

The Tatars won. Arrows flying, they slammed into Dmitrii’s standard like a wave, a few strides before Vasya and her allies. The standard fell, crumpled to mud; all around were shouts of triumph. Still those arrows fell, deadly accurate. The white mare was hanging close to Pozhar’s flank; most of Morozko’s efforts were spent to keep arrows from Vasya and the two horses.