The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(85)

But she also wanted the winter-king. In the smoke and dust and stink of Moscow, he was a breath of pine and cold water and stillness. She could not think for wanting him.

He saw her waver. Their eyes met in the darkness, and he closed the distance between them.

He wasn’t gentle. He was angry, and so was she, baffled and wanting, and their hands were rough on each other’s skin. When she kissed him, he felt like flesh under her hands, drawn sharply into reality by the place and the hour, and by her own passion. The silence stretched out, as their hands said the things they could not, and Vasya almost told him yes then. She almost let him carry her to his white horse, bear her away into the night. She didn’t want to think anymore.

But she must think. Tamara had let her own demon lull her with dreams of love until she’d lost everything that mattered.

She wasn’t Tamara. Vasya yanked away, gasping for breath, and he let her go.

“Go back to winter then,” she heard herself saying, her voice hoarse. “I am taking the road through Midnight to find my brother-in-law, if he is alive. I am going to help Dmitrii Ivanovich win his war.”

Morozko stood still. Slowly the anger and confusion and desire faded from his expression. “Vladimir Andreevich is alive,” he said only. “But I do not know where he is. Vasya—I cannot walk this road beside you.”

    “I will find him,” said Vasya.

“You will find him,” Morozko said, with weary certainty. He bowed, remote, any feeling locked deep in his eyes. “Look for me at the first frost.”

He slipped out of the bathhouse like a wraith. She hurried to follow, angry still, but not wanting him to go like that, with a wound unhealed between them. She’d pitched him against his own nature, a foe that was too great.

He went out into the dooryard, and raised his face to the night. For an instant, the wind was the true deep wind of winter that freezes the breath in your nostrils.

Suddenly he turned back to her, and the feeling was there again in his face, as though he could not help it.

“Be well, and do not forget, Snegurochka,” he said.

“I will not. Morozko—”

He was only half there; the wind seemed to blow through him.

“As I could, I loved you too,” she whispered.

Their eyes met. Then he was gone, gone on the rising wind, blown through the wild air.





25.


    The Road Through Darkness




SASHA AND VASYA LEFT JUST before midnight.

“I am sorry,” Sasha said to Olga before they left. “For what I said, at our last parting.”

Olga almost smiled, but the corners of her mouth turned down. “I was angry too. You’d think I’d be used to farewells, brother.”

“If it goes ill for us in the south,” said Sasha, “you mustn’t stay in Moscow. Take the children to Lesnaya Zemlya.”

“I know,” said the Princess of Serpukhov, and brother and sister exchanged grim glances. Olga had lived through three sieges; Sasha had been fighting Dmitrii’s battles since the two were scarcely out of boyhood.

Watching them, Vasya was reminded, uncomfortably, that though she had seen much, she had never seen war.

“Go with God, both of you,” said Olga.

Vasya and Sasha slipped out of Moscow. Below the gate, the posad slept. The swift, cold wind had driven out the reek of sickness. At least the dead would lie quiet.

Vasya led her brother into the woods, to the same place where Varvara had first sent her through Midnight—how long ago had it been? Two seasons had passed in Rus’ since that night, but Vasya had lost count of the days she’d lived herself.

Somewhere in Moscow, a bell rang. The city walls loomed white beyond the trees. Vasya took her brother’s hand. It was midnight. The darkness took on a wilder texture: a new menace and a deeper beauty. She stepped forward, pulling her brother with her. “Think of our cousin,” she said. One step, two, and then Sasha let out a soft, shocked breath.

    Moscow was gone. They stood in a sparse elm-copse, dry and warm. There was dust instead of mud between Vasya’s bare toes, and the big late-summer stars hung low overhead. A different midnight.

“Mother of God,” Sasha whispered. “These are the woods near Serpukhov.”

“I told you,” said Vasya. “It is a swift road, but—” She broke off.

The black stallion Voron emerged from between two trees. His rider’s morning-star eyes glowed in the darkness.

Sasha’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. Perhaps the country of Midnight had wakened something in his blood, for he could see horse and rider. “That is Lady Midnight,” said Vasya, not taking her eyes off the chyert. “This is her realm.” She inclined her head.

Sasha crossed himself. Polunochnitsa smiled at him, mocking, and slid down from her horse’s back.

“God be with you,” Sasha said, cautiously.

“I certainly hope not,” returned Polunochnitsa. Voron tossed his black head, his ears set unhappily. Turning to Vasya, Midnight said, “In my realm again? And proud of your victory?”

“We did win,” Vasya said, wary.

“No,” said Midnight. “You didn’t. What do you think the real battle is, you arrogant fool? You never understood, did you?”