The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(18)

    “If you have news, it can wait,” she said, with a look at the child.

Sasha hardly knew what to say; his faint, terrible hope seemed foolish in the face of the blood-spattered dvor, in the face of Marya’s wild grief. “Is Masha all right?” he said, crossing the room and kneeling beside his sister.

“No,” said Olga.

Marya lifted her head, wet-eyed, with marks like bruising about the lids. “They killed him!” she sobbed. “They killed him and he would never hurt anyone but the wicked, and he loved porridge and they shouldn’t have killed him!” Her eyes were savage. “I am going to wait for Vasya to get back, and we are going to go and kill all the people that hurt him.” She glared about the room and then her eyes welled once more. The rage drained out of her, fast as it had come. She fell to her knees, hunched up small, weeping into her mother’s lap.

Olga stroked her daughter’s hair. Up close, Sasha could see Olga’s hand tremble.

“There was a mob,” said Sasha, low-voiced. “Vasya—”

Olga put her finger to her lips, with a glance at her sobbing child. But she shut her black eyes the briefest instant. “God be with her,” she said.

Marya lifted her head once more. “Uncle Sasha, did Vasya come back with you? She needs us; she will be sad.”

“Masha,” said Olga gently. “We must pray for Vasya. I fear she has not come back.”

“But she—”

“Masha,” said Olga. “Hush. We do not know all that happened; we must wait to find out. Mornings are wiser than evenings. Come, will you sleep?”

Marya would not. She was on her feet. “She has to come back!” she cried. “Where would she go if she didn’t come back?”

“Perhaps she has gone to God,” said Olga, steadily. She did not lie to her children. “If so, let her soul find rest.”

The child stared between her mother and her uncle, lips parted with horror. And then she turned her head, as though someone else in the room were speaking. Sasha followed her gaze to the corner by the stove. There was no one there. A chill ran down his spine.

    “No, she hasn’t!” cried Marya, scrambling free of her mother’s arms. She scrubbed at her wet eyes. “She’s not with God. You’re wrong! She’s—where?” Marya demanded of the empty place near the floor. “Midnight is not a place.”

Sasha and Olga looked at each other. “Masha—” Olga began.

There was an abrupt movement in the doorway. They all jumped; Sasha spun, one dirty hand on the hilt of his sword.

“It is I,” said Varvara. Her fair plait straggled; there was soot and blood on her clothes.

Olga stared. “Where have you been?”

Without ceremony, Varvara said, “Vasya is alive. Or was when I left her. They were going to burn her. But she broke the bars of the cage and leaped down unseen. I got her out of the city.”

Sasha had hoped. But he hadn’t really thought how…“Unseen?” Then he thought of more important things. “Where? Was she wounded? Where is she? I must—”

“Yes, she is wounded; she was beaten by a mob,” said Varvara acidly. “She was also near mad with magic; it came on her suddenly, in desperation. But she is alive and her wounds aren’t mortal. She escaped.”

“Where is she now?” asked Olga sharply.

“She took the road through Midnight,” said Varvara. There was the strangest combination of wonder and resentment in her face. “Perhaps she will even reach the lake. I did all I could.”

“I must go to her,” said Sasha. “Where is this road through Midnight?”

“Nowhere,” said Varvara. “And everywhere. But only at midnight. It is no longer midnight now. In any case, you have not the sight: the power to take the Midnight-road alone. She has gone beyond your reach.”

Olga looked, frowning between Marya and Varvara.

Incredulously, Sasha said, “You expect me to take your word for it? To abandon my sister?”

    “There is no question of abandonment; her fate is out of your hands.” Varvara sank onto a stool as though she weren’t a servant at all. Something had changed, subtly, in her bearing. Her eyes were intent and troubled. “The Eater is loose,” she said. “The creature that men call Medved. The Bear.”

Even after Vasya had told them the truth, in the hours after Moscow had caught fire and been saved by snow, Sasha had hardly believed his sister’s tale of devils. He was about to demand again that Varvara tell him properly where Vasya was, when Olga broke in: “What does that mean, that the Bear is loose? Who is the Bear? Loose to do what?”

“I do not know,” said Varvara. “The Bear is among the greatest of chyerti, a master of the unclean forces of the earth.” She spoke slowly, as though remembering a lesson long forgotten. “His chief skill is knowing the minds of men and women, and bending them to his will. Above all he loves destruction and chaos, and will seek to sow it as he can.” She shook her head, and suddenly she was the body-servant Varvara again, clever and practical. “It must wait until morning; we are all mortally weary. Come, the wild girl is alive and beyond reach of friend or foe. Will you all sleep?”

There was a silence. Then, grimly, Sasha said, “No—if I can’t go to her, then at least I am going to pray. For my sister, for this mad city.”