The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(81)

No one said anything.

“I will send to the princes tomorrow,” said Dmitrii. “Father”—here he turned to Sergei—“will you come with us, and bless the army?”

“I will, my son,” said Sergei. He sounded weary. “But you know even a victory will cost you.”

“I’d avoid war if I could,” said the Grand Prince. “But I can’t and so—” His face shone. “We will fight at last, after a summer of fear and cringing. God willing, it will be our time to throw off the yoke.”

And God help them all, Vasya thought. When Dmitrii spoke so, they believed him. She knew, without asking, that the princes would come to his mustering. God help us all.

The Grand Prince turned abruptly to Vasya. “I have your brother’s sword,” he said. “And I have the holy father’s blessing. But what will I have from you, Vasilisa Petrovna? I was sorry to think you dead. But then I heard you set fire to my city.”

She got to her feet to face him. “I am guilty before you, Gosudar,” said Vasya. “Yet twice I helped defeat this city’s enemies. The fire was my fault, but the snowstorm that followed—I summoned that, too. As for punishment? I was punished.” She turned her head so the mark on her cheek showed stark in the firelight. Subtly, her hand closed on the carved nightingale in her sleeve, but that was not a sorrow she meant to parade before these men. “What do you want of me?”

“Twice you were nearly burned alive,” said Dmitrii. “Yet you came back, to save this city from evil. Perhaps you should be rewarded. What do you want, Vasilisa Petrovna?”

She knew her answer, and didn’t mince words. “There is a way to know if Vladimir Andreevich is alive or dead. If he is alive, then I am going to find him. You muster in two weeks?”

    “Yes,” said Dmitrii warily. “But—”

She cut him off. “I will be there,” she said. “And if Vladimir Andreevich is alive, he will be there too, with his men.”

“Impossible,” said Dmitrii.

Vasya said, “If I succeed, then I will consider my debt paid, to you and to this city. And now? I would ask you for your trust. Not for a boy named Vasilii Petrovich, who never existed, but for myself.”

“Why should I trust you, Vasilisa Petrovna?” asked Dmitrii, but his gaze was intent. “You are a witch.”

“She defended the Church from evil,” said Sergei, and made the sign of the cross. “Strange are the works of God.”

Vasya crossed herself in turn. “Witch I may be, Dmitrii Ivanovich, but the powers of Rus’ must be allies now—prince and Church must join with the unseen world. Otherwise there is no hope of victory.”

First I needed men to help me defeat a devil, she thought. Now I will need devils to help me defeat men.

But who could do it other than she? You can be a bridge between men and chyerti, Morozko had said. She thought she understood that, now.

For a moment, there was no sound but the triumphant wind, pouring in through the windows. Then Dmitrii simply said, “I will trust you.” He laid a light hand on her head, a prince’s blessing on a warrior. She went very still under the touch. “What do you need?”

Vasya thought. She was still glowing with the words, I will trust you. “Clothes such as a tradesman’s son might wear,” she said.

“Cousin,” Sasha broke in. “If she goes, then I must go with her. She’s made enough journeys without her kin.”

Dmitrii looked surprised. “I need you here. You speak Tatar; you know the country between here and Sarai.”

Sasha said nothing.

Understanding came suddenly into Dmitrii’s face. Perhaps he had remembered the night of the fire, Sasha’s sister forced out into the dark alone. “I will not stop you, Sasha,” he said reluctantly. “But you must be at the mustering, whether she succeeds or no.”

“Sasha—” Vasya began, just as he went to her and said, low, “I wept for you. Even when Varvara told me you were alive, I wept. I despised myself, that I had let my sister face such horror alone, and I despised myself more when you appeared again at my campfire so changed. I am not letting you go alone.”

    Vasya put a hand on her brother’s arm. “Then, if you come with me tonight—” Her grip tightened; their eyes met. “I warn you, the road leads through darkness.”

Sasha said, “Then we will go through darkness, sister.”



* * *





WHEN THEY GOT BACK to Olga’s palace, Varvara was waiting for them at the bathhouse. Sasha bathed hastily and sought his bed. Midnight would come soon: the hour of their departure. But Vasya lingered. “I never said thank you,” she told Varvara. “For that night on the river. You saved my life.”

“I would not have,” said Varvara. “I didn’t know what I could do for you but mourn. But Polunochnitsa spoke to me. I had not heard her voice for so long. She told me what was wanted, and so I went down to the burning.”

“Varvara,” said Vasya. “In the country of Midnight—I met your mother.”

Varvara’s lips tightened. “I suppose she thought you were Tamara over again. Only a daughter she could control, one who was not in love with a sorcerer.”