The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(22)

Dmitrii sat in his carved chair. Brother Aleksandr stood, watchful, beside him.

“That one will kill you if he can,” remarked the Bear, with a jerk of his chin at Sasha. Sasha’s eyes narrowed; was it Konstantin’s imagination or did the monk’s gaze flicker from him to the devil beside him? He knew an instant of panic.

“Be easy,” added the Bear, eyes still on Sasha. “He has the same blood as the witch-girl. He senses what he cannot see, but that is all.” He paused. “Try not to get yourself killed, man of God.”

“Konstantin Nikonovich,” said Dmitrii coldly. Konstantin swallowed. “A girl, my kinswoman, was killed by fire yesterday, without trial. They are saying you set the mob of Moscow to do this. What have you to say?”

“I did not,” said Konstantin, making his voice calm. “I tried to restrain the people from worse violence, from breaking into the terem of Serpukhov and killing the women there. That much I did, but I could not save the girl.” He did not have to feign the sorrow in his voice, just let it float up from the tangle of other emotions. “I prayed for her soul. I could not stay the people’s wrath. By her own confession she set the fire that slew so many.”

He struck the perfect note of regretful admission. The Bear snorted beside him. Konstantin narrowly missed whipping round to glare.

Sasha, beside his cousin on the dais, stood perfectly still.

The Bear said suddenly, “The monk knows how the fire began. Press him; he will not lie to the Grand Prince.”

“That is a lie,” Dmitrii was saying to Konstantin. “The Tatars set the fire.”

“Ask Brother Aleksandr,” returned Konstantin, letting his voice fill the room. “Ask the holy monk there, if the girl set the fire or no. In the name of God, I charge him to speak truly.”

    Dmitrii rounded on Sasha. The monk’s eyes were starry with rage, but Konstantin saw with astonishment that it was true. He wouldn’t lie. “An accident,” Sasha bit off. He and Dmitrii looked at each other as if they were the only two people in the room. “Dmitrii Ivanovich—”

Dmitrii’s face shuttered; he turned without a word back to Konstantin. The priest felt swift pleasure; he saw the Bear grin. They exchanged a look of perfect understanding, and Konstantin thought, Perhaps I was always cursed, that I can know this monster’s mind.

“She saved the city too,” murmured the Bear. “Although her brother can’t say so without accusing his own sister of witchcraft. Mad girl; she was nearly as bad as a chaos-spirit.” He sounded almost approving.

Konstantin pressed his lips together.

Dmitrii said, recovering smoothly, “I hear also that you fought a demon last night and banished it.”

“Demon or poor lost soul, I do not know,” said Konstantin. “But it had come in anger to torment the living. I prayed”—he had better control of his voice now—“and God saw fit to intercede. That is all.”

“Is it?” said Brother Aleksandr in a low measured voice. “And what if we do not believe you?”

“I could bring a dozen witnesses from the city to prove it,” returned Konstantin, with more confidence. The monk’s hands were tied now.

Dmitrii leaned forward. “So it is true?” he said. “There was a demon in Moscow?”

Konstantin crossed himself. Head bowed, he said, “It is true. A dead thing. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Why do you think there was a dead thing in Moscow, Batyushka?”

Konstantin noted the use of the honorific. He breathed again. “It was God’s punishment for the harboring of witches. But the witch is dead now, and perhaps God will relent.”

“Not likely,” said the Bear, but only Konstantin could hear him.



* * *





CURSE THE SILVER-TONGUED PRIEST, Sasha thought. And curse Vasya too, wherever she is. For he could defend her good intentions and her good heart, but he could not in conscience say that his sister was blameless. He couldn’t in truth say she was not a witch. He could not speak aloud of Marya’s kidnapping.

    So now he must stand before this murderer, listening to his half-truths, and he had no good answers and unbelievably Dmitrii was listening to the priest. Sasha was white with rage.

“Will the dead thing come again?” Dmitrii asked.

“Who knows but God?” Konstantin replied. His glance shifted a fraction to the left, though there was nothing there. The hairs on the back of Sasha’s neck prickled.

“In that case—” Dmitrii began, but he got no further. A clamor on the stairs got their attention, and then the doors to the audience-chamber opened.

They all turned. Dmitrii’s steward came stumbling into the room, followed by a man in fine clothes, travel-stained.

Dmitrii stood. All the attendants bowed. The newcomer was taller than the Grand Prince, with the same gray eyes. Everyone recognized him on sight. He was the greatest man in Muscovy, after the Grand Prince, the only one who was prince in his own right, of his own lands, without vassalage. Vladimir Andreevich, Prince of Serpukhov.

“Well met, cousin,” said Dmitrii, with delight; they had been boys together.

“Scorch marks on the city,” returned Vladimir. “I am glad she is still standing.” But his eyes were grave; he was worn thin with winter travel. “What happened?”