The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(80)

She said nothing.

“You have seen our end in that man’s prayers,” said the Bear. His chin jerked toward Sergei. “Brother, you and I will stay locked in our endless war, even as we fade into ash and frost, and the world is changed. There is no hope now for the chyerti.”

“We are going to share this world,” Vasya said. “There will be room for all of us: men and devils and bells too.”

The Bear only laughed softly at her. “Shall we go, my twin?”

Morozko, without a word, swept out a hand, caught the gold binding the other’s wrists. An icy wind leaped up and the two faded into the darkness.



* * *





THE WATER WAS SLUICING down Dmitrii’s hair, his bloody sword-arm. He crossed the dooryard with a heavy step, pushing his rain-drenched hair out of his eyes. “I am glad you are not dead,” he said to Vasya. “Cousin.”

She said wryly, “I, too.”

Dmitrii spoke to Vasya and her brother both. “Take the Princess of Serpukhov home,” he said. “And then—come back, both of you. Secretly, for God’s sake. This is not over. What comes next will be worse than a few dead men.”

Without another word, he left them, made his splashing way across the dvor, already calling orders.

“What is coming?” Vasya asked Sasha.

“The Tatars,” said Sasha. “Let’s get Olya home; I want some dry clothes.”





24.


    Turnings




ONCE OLGA WAS SAFE IN the terem of her own palace, Vasya and Sasha changed their filthy dripping clothes and hurried back to the Grand Prince. Vasya threw the fur cloak they’d given her in Midnight about her shoulders; the rain had broken the heat and it was chilly in the wet darkness.

They were let quietly in through the postern and brought up at once, in silence, to Dmitrii’s small antechamber. The wind was roaring through windows flung wide. There were no attendants, only a table ready-laid, with a jar and four cups, and bread and smoked fish and pickled mushrooms. Simple fare, for Sergei’s sake; the old monk was with Dmitrii, waiting for them. He drank honey-wine slowly and he looked very tired.

Dmitrii stood out, vivid and restless, unwearied among the vines and flowers and saints painted on his walls. “Sit, both of you,” he said, when Sasha and Vasya appeared. “I will have to consult with my boyars tomorrow, but first I wish to be decided in my own mind.”

Wine was poured out, and Vasya, who had taken only a few tasteless mouthfuls when they stopped to rest by the river, now made her way steadily through bread and the good oily fish, listening all the while.

“I should have known,” began Dmitrii. “That yellow-haired charlatan, sweeping into Moscow to exorcise the dead things. We thought it was divine power. And all the time he was in league with the devil.”

    Vasya wished Dmitrii wouldn’t speak of it. She kept seeing Konstantin’s face as it had looked in the rain.

“We are well rid of him,” Dmitrii continued.

Sergei said, “You have not summoned us all, weary as we are, to gloat.”

“No,” said Dmitrii, his triumphant mood fading. “I have been getting reports—the Tatars are on the lower Volga, marching north. Mamai is still coming. No word of Vladimir Andreevich. The silver—”

“The silver was lost,” said Vasya, remembering.

Every head in the room swiveled.

“Lost in a flood,” she continued. She set aside her cup and straightened her back. “If the silver was your ransom for Muscovy, Dmitrii Ivanovich, then Muscovy has not been ransomed.”

They were still staring. Vasya looked steadily back. “I swear it is true. Do you wish to know how I know?”

“I do not,” said Dmitrii, crossing himself. “I’d rather know more. Is Vladimir dead? Alive? Captured?”

“That I do not know,” said Vasya. She paused. “But I could find out.”

Dmitrii only frowned at that, thoughtfully, and paced the room: grim, restless, leonine. “If my spies confirm what you say about the silver, then I will send word to the princes of Rus’. We have no choice. We have to muster at Kolomna before the dark of the moon, then march south to fight. Or are we to allow all Rus’ to be overrun?” Dmitrii spoke to them all, but his eyes were on Sasha, who had once pleaded with him not to engage the Tatar in the field.

Now Sasha only said, with a grimness to match Dmitrii’s, “Which of the princes will come to the muster?”

“Rostov, Starodub,” said Dmitrii, ticking off the principalities on his fingers. He was still pacing. “The ones in my vassalage. Nizhny Novgorod, for its prince is my father-in-law. Tver, to honor the treaty. But would I had the Prince of Serpukhov. He is clever in council, and loyal, and I will need his men.” He halted in his pacing, his eyes on Vasya.

“What of Oleg of Ryazan?” Sasha asked.

    “Oleg won’t come,” said Dmitrii. “Ryazan is too close to Sarai, and Oleg is cautious by nature; he won’t risk it, regardless of what his boyars want. He’ll march with Mamai, if anything. But we’ll fight anyway, without Ryazan and without Serpukhov, if we must. Do we have a choice? We tried ransoming Muscovy, but we could not. Shall we submit, or shall we fight?” This time the question was addressed to all three of them.