The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(86)

Vasya said nothing.

Between her teeth, Midnight said, “We hoped—I hoped—that you were different. That you would break their endless round of revenge and imprisonment. But you encouraged their war, those idiot twins.”

“What are you talking about?” Vasya demanded. “We saved Moscow from the dead. I do not know why you are angry. He is wicked, the Bear. Wicked. Now he is bound. Rus’ is safe.”

“Is it?” Midnight asked. “You still don’t understand.” Fury and disgust and—disappointment—snapped in her eyes. “You cannot rule the chyerti, or keep the house by the lake, or save us from fading out of life. You failed. The way to the lake is shut to you; I am shutting it, and risking the old woman’s wrath. She will have no heir. Farewell, Vasilisa Petrovna.”

    Then she was gone fast as she’d appeared, a whirl of pale hair, vaulting to Voron’s back. The last Vasya heard of her was the sound of fading hoofbeats. Shaken, Vasya stared at the place where she’d been. Sasha looked merely puzzled. “What did that mean?”

“I do not understand why she is angry,” said Vasya. But she was uneasy. “We have to go on. Follow me close. We must not be separated.”

They walked cautiously, for Vasya feared Midnight’s anger, in this place of her power. Sasha followed her, starting at shadows, bewildered by the changing nights. But still he followed her. He trusted her.

Vasya blamed herself, later.





26.


    The Golden Horde




THEY HAD NO WARNING. THEY saw no gleam from far off, heard no noise. They merely stepped suddenly from darkness, into firelight filled with laughter.

For an instant, they both froze.

The revelers froze too. Vasya had a brief impression of weapons: curved swords and short bows unstrung. She could smell horses, see the shine of their eyes, watching from beyond the firelight.

All around them, men sprang to their feet. They weren’t speaking Russian. It sounded like the words she’d heard once on a dark winter night when she’d rescued girls from—from—

“Get back!” Vasya said to Sasha. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed pale hair, Midnight’s set, triumphant face. She thought she heard a whisper: “Learn or die, Vasilisa Petrovna.”

Swords in a dozen men’s hands. Her brother’s sword reflected the firelight when he drew it. “Tatars!” Sasha snapped. “Vasya, go.”

“No!” She was still trying to pull him back. “No, we must only walk back into Midnight—” But the men were closing in around them; she could not see the Midnight-road. “Vasya,” said Sasha in a voice more terrible for its calm, “I am a monk; they will not kill me. But you…Run. Run!” He drove himself at the men, knocking them aside. She backed away from the melee, willed the campfire into a sudden storm of light. The renewed fire drove the Tatars back just as her brother’s sword met another, sparking.

    There was the Midnight-road, just beyond the light. The fire flared again, frightening the men, and she called, “Sasha, this way—”

Or started to say. For the hilt of a sword caught her on the temple, and the world went dark.



* * *





SASHA, SEEING HIS SISTER FALL, dropped his sword and said, in Tatar, to the man who had struck her down, “I am a man of God, and that is my servant. Do not hurt him.”

“Indeed, you are a man of God,” returned the Tatar. He spoke Russian, lightly accented. “You are Aleksandr Peresvet. But this is not your servant.”

The voice was vaguely familiar, but Sasha could not see the Tatar’s face. The man stood over Vasya, on the other side of the fire, and pulled the girl upright. Her eyelids fluttered; a gash across her forehead poured a maze of blood across her face.

“This is your witch of a sister,” said the Tatar. He sounded both pleased and mystified. “How came you both here? Spying for Dmitrii? Why would he spend his cousins, so?”

Shocked silent, Sasha said nothing. He’d recognized the other man. “Come on,” added the Tatar in his own tongue. He heaved Vasya over his shoulder. “Tie the monk’s hands, and follow me. The general will want to know of this.”



* * *





SOMEONE WAS CARRYING HER. Every footfall jarred her head. She vomited. Pain like shards of ice shot through her skull. The man carrying her exclaimed in disgust. “Do that again,” said a half-familiar voice, “and I’ll beat you myself, when the general’s done.”

She tried to look about her, seeking for the Midnight-road. But she couldn’t see it. She must have lost it when she fell unconscious. Now the night was drawing on and she and Sasha were trapped until the next day’s midnight.

    Her senses swam. She couldn’t make herself and her brother disappear under the eyes of the entire camp. Maybe she could—but even as she tried to plan, her thoughts fractured.

Something loomed before her, dimly seen, just as she drifted back to awareness. It was a round building, made of felt. A flap was thrust aside and she was borne through the gap. Terror locked her throat and stomach. Where was her brother?

Men inside—she couldn’t tell how many. Two stood in the center, finely dressed, illuminated by a small stove and a hanging lamp. The person carrying her let her fall. Floundering, she managed to drag herself to her knees. She had an impression of wealth: the lamp was of worked silver; there was a smell of fat meat and carpet under her knees. All around was the disorienting buzz of a tongue she didn’t understand. Sasha was thrown down beside her.