The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(71)

    “Of course I will,” said Olga. Not for her a grand and foolish sacrifice; Vasya knew she was already taking more of a risk than she wanted. They rode a few moments in silence. Then— “I do not know what to do for Marya,” Olga admitted abruptly. “I am doing my best to protect her, but she is too like you. She speaks to things I cannot see; she is growing more elusive every week.”

“You cannot protect her from her own nature,” said Vasya. “She does not belong here.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t,” Olga said. “But in Moscow I can at least protect her from those that mean her ill. What will happen if folk find out her secret?”

Vasya said slowly, “There is a house by a lake, in a wild country. That is where I went, after the fires in Moscow. It is where our grandmother came from, and our great-grandmother. It is in our blood. I am going to go back, when this is over. I am going to build a place that is safe for men and chyerti. If Marya came with me, she would grow up free. She could ride horses, and if she wishes to marry, she may. Or not. Olya, she will wither here. All her life she would mourn something she did not know she’d lost.”

The lines of worry deepened about Olga’s mouth and eyes. But she didn’t answer.

A new silence fell between them. Then Olga spoke again, startling her. “Who was he, Vasya?”

Vasya’s eyes flew up.

“Credit me with a little perception at least,” said Olga, answering her look. “I have seen enough girls wed.”

“He,” said Vasya, finding herself suddenly nervous again, in a different way. “He is—” She stumbled to a halt. “He is not a man,” she admitted. “He—is one of the unseen folk.”

She expected Olga to be shocked. But Olga only frowned. Her eyes searched her sister’s face. “Were you willing?”

    Vasya did not know if Olga would be more horrified if Vasya had been willing or if she had not. But there was only truth. “I was,” she said. “He has saved my life. More than once.”

“Are you wed?”

Vasya said, “No. I do not—I do not know if we can be. What sacrament would bind him?”

Olga looked sad. “Then you are living beyond the sight of God. I fear for your soul.”

“I don’t,” said Vasya. “He”—she stumbled, finished—“he has been a joy to me.” And, drily, “Also a great source of frustration.”

Olga smiled a little. Vasya remembered that years before, her sister had been a girl who had dreamed of love and raven-princes. Olga had laid aside the dream, as women must. Perhaps she did not regret it. For the raven-prince was strange and secret; he would draw you out into a dangerous world.

“Would you like to meet him?” Vasya asked suddenly.

“I?” Olga asked, sounding shocked. Then her lips firmed. “Yes. Even a girl in love with a devil needs someone to negotiate for her.”

Vasya bit her lips, not sure whether to be glad or worried.

They were getting to Dmitrii’s gate now. The general noise of the city had heightened. A crowd clamored outside the gate. Her skin crawled.

Then a single, musical voice rose above the shouting. It silenced the mob. Controlled it.

A voice she knew. Vasya felt the greatest shock of fear she’d ever known. Her breath came short; her skin broke out in a clammy dew of sweat. Only Olga’s merciless hand on her arm recalled her.

“Don’t you dare faint,” said Olga. “You say you can make yourself unseen. Will he be able to see you? He is a holy man. And he wished you dead, once.”

Vasya tried to think around the fear beating like wings in her skull. Konstantin wasn’t a holy man, but—he could see chyerti now. The Bear had given him that power. Could he see her? “I don’t know,” she admitted.

They were rolling to a stop. Vasya thought she would choke if she could not get a breath of fresh air.

    Konstantin’s voice spoke again, cool and measured, just outside. She had to clench her teeth and her fists to keep from making a sound. Her whole body shook.

Now there came the sounds of a crowd that was parting, grudgingly, to let them through. Olga sat still on her woolen cushion, seemingly unruffled. But her eye fell with some concern on Vasya, gray-faced and sweating.

Vasya managed to speak between her clenched teeth. “I’m all right, Olya. Just—remembering.”

“I know,” said Olga, and drew a deep breath. “All right,” she said firmly. “Follow my lead.” There was no time for more. The gate creaked, and then they were in the dooryard of the Grand Prince of Moscow.



* * *





THE EVENING SUN WAS SLANTING, and Olga was blinding in a jeweled headdress, her long hair plaited up with silk, hung with silver ornaments. She got out first. Vasya, holding on to her courage as hard as she could, stepped out in her wake. Olga at once seized her sister’s arm, ostensibly for support. But it was the Princess of Serpukhov in control; she was dragging Vasya toward the steps of the terem, holding her up when she faltered.

“Don’t look back,” Olga muttered. “He will come back through the gate in a moment. But the terem is safe. Wait a little, then I will send you out on an errand; keep out of sight and you’ll be all right.”