The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(87)

One of the finely dressed men was a Tatar. The other was a Russian; it was he who spoke first. “What is this?” he asked.

“This—” echoed that almost-familiar voice from behind her. Vasya tried to twist around and had to freeze, gasping, at the pain in her head. But then the man stepped forward, and she could see his face. She knew him. He had nearly killed her once, in a forest outside Moscow. With the help of a wicked sorcerer, he had nearly deposed Dmitrii Ivanovich.

“It seems,” said Chelubey in Russian, smiling at her, “that Dmitrii Ivanovich has devised a novel means to rid himself of his cousins.”



* * *





THE TALL ONE, the one they were calling temnik—general—had to be Mamai, though Sasha knew him by reputation only. He didn’t recognize the Russian.

“Cousins?” asked the temnik, in his own tongue. Mamai was a man in his middle years, weary, dignified, gray. He’d been loyal to Berdi Beg, one of the innumerable khans, but Berdi held the throne for only two years. Mamai had been plotting to regain his lost position ever since, hampered by the fact that he himself was not descended from the Great Khan. Sasha knew—probably the Tatar’s whole army knew—that Mamai had to defeat Dmitrii decisively, or a rival faction in the warring Horde would rise up and make an end of him.

    Men with everything at stake were dangerous.

“This man is the holy Aleksandr Peresvet—surely you have heard of him,” said Chelubey, but his eyes were on Vasya. “And this other one—when I first met him in Moscow, they told me he was highborn: Aleksandr Peresvet’s brother. That was a lie.” Softly, Chelubey continued, “This is not a boy at all but a girl—a little witch-girl. Disguised as a boy, she deceived all Moscow. I wonder very much why Dmitrii has sent them here—a witch and a monk. Spies? Will you tell me, devushka?” The last question was put to Vasya, almost gently. But Sasha heard the menace behind it.

His sister met Chelubey’s eyes, wordless. Her eyes were wide and terrified; her face bloody. “You hurt me,” she whispered, in a trembling, abject tone Sasha had never heard from her in his life.

“I’ll hurt you worse,” said Chelubey placidly. It wasn’t a threat so much as a statement of fact. “Why are you here?”

“We were set upon,” she whispered, voice still quivering. “Our men were killed. We came toward the fire for help.” Her eyes were vast and dark, confused and terrified, her cheek crusted with blood. She bowed her head, and then looked up at Chelubey again. This time two tears cut tracks in the blood on her face.

Sasha thought she was overdoing it, playing the helpless girl, but then she saw Chelubey’s face slide from wariness to contempt. In his mind, he breathed a prayer of gratitude. Drawing Chelubey’s attention back to himself, he said, “Don’t frighten her. We came upon you by accident. We are not spies.”

“Indeed,” said Chelubey silkily, turning. “And is your sister also traveling with you, alone, dressed so immodestly, by accident?”

“I was taking her to a convent,” lied Sasha. “The Grand Prince desired it of me. Our train was set upon by robbers; we were left alone, without succor. They tore her dress; they left us with nothing, save what you see. We wandered hungry for some days, saw your fires and came. We thought to receive help, not indignities.”

    “It puzzles me, though,” said Chelubey with acid irony. “Why is the nearest adviser of the Grand Prince of Moscow taking his sister to a house of religion at such a time?”

“I advised Dmitrii Ivanovich against going to war,” said Sasha. “In anger, he ordered me from his side.”

“Well,” broke in Mamai briskly, “if that is so, then you will have no difficulty informing us of your cousin’s intentions and dispositions, so you can get back to praying.”

“I know nothing of Dmitrii’s dispositions,” said Sasha. “I told you—”

Chelubey backhanded him across the face, hard enough to send him to the floor. Vasya cried out and threw herself at Chelubey’s feet, getting in his way before he could kick Sasha in the stomach. “Please,” she cried. “Please, don’t hurt him.”

Chelubey shook her off, but stared frowning down as she knelt before him, hands clasped. Vasya would never be taken for a beautiful woman, but her bold bones and vast eyes caught the gaze somehow, and held it. Sasha, his lips bleeding, was disturbed to see the men’s attention once more on her, in a way it hadn’t been before. And she was encouraging them, damn her, to keep them from him.

“Forgive me,” said Chelubey calmly, “if I don’t believe your brother.”

“He has only spoken the truth,” she whispered, her voice small.

Mamai turned abruptly to the Russian. “What say you, Oleg Ivanovich? Are they lying?”

The Russian’s bearded face was quite inscrutable, but Sasha recognized the name. The Grand Prince of Ryazan, who had sided with the Tatar.

Oleg pressed his lips together. “I cannot say if they’re lying. But the monk’s tale seems more likely than not. Why would Dmitrii Ivanovich send two of his own cousins to spy, and one a girl dressed as a man?” His glance at Vasya was wholly disapproving.

“She is a witch; she has strange powers,” insisted Chelubey. “She made our campfire burn unnaturally; she bewitched my horse in Moscow.”