The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(91)

She swallowed a wave of nausea. “He is a man of the Church,” she snapped. “You have no right to hurt him!”

“If he had stayed in his monastery,” said Chelubey, “I wouldn’t. Men of the Church should confine themselves to praying.” He bent nearer. Heads were turning among Oleg’s men. “One of you is going to tell me what I want to know, or I will kill him,” he said. “Tonight.”

Chelubey had brought his horse right up alongside Oleg’s. Vasya did not move, but suddenly the bay mare lashed out with both hind feet, catching Chelubey’s horse in the flank. The horse squealed, shied, threw his rider and backed, eyes wild, two hoof-shaped gashes in his coat.

Oleg’s bay wheeled, rearing, and yanked Vasya to the ground. Vasya was glad of that, even as she tumbled painfully into the dust. No one would realize she’d done it on purpose. Oleg sprang forward, caught his horse’s bridle.

All his men were laughing.

“Witch!” snapped Chelubey, hauling himself out of the dust. To Vasya’s surprise he looked a little afraid, as well as enraged. “You—”

“You cannot blame a girl for my horse’s bad temper,” said Oleg mildly, from behind her. “You brought your mare too close.”

“I am going to take her with me now,” said Chelubey. “She is dangerous.”

“The mare or the girl?” Oleg asked innocently. The men laughed again. Vasya kept her eyes on Chelubey. The Russians were edging up on either side of her, closing ranks against the Tatar. Someone had caught Chelubey’s horse. He was staring at her with a kind of enraged fascination. But then, abruptly, he turned away, saying, “Bring the girl to me at nightfall.” With that he remounted and spurred off along the dusty column.

    Vasya watched him go. Oleg was shaking his head. “I thought Dmitrii Ivanovich a man of sense, at least,” he said. “But to spend his cousins like water, and for what?” Seeing her face still white and afraid, he added, with rough comfort, “Here,” and gave her a hunk of flatbread. But she couldn’t have eaten to save her life; she thrust the food in her sleeve for later.



* * *





THE AFTERNOON DRAGGED ON, and the men of Ryazan began to experience something strange. Their horses were slowing down. It wasn’t lameness, and it wasn’t sickness. But though the men kicked and spurred, their horses would only break into a lumbering gallop, then halt a few paces later, ears flattened.

Oleg and his men found themselves falling behind the fast-moving Tatar column. By nightfall, they were out of sight of the main body. Only the dust, faint against the green-yellow sky, showed the location of the rest of the army.

Vasya felt battered in every limb. Her head was throbbing with the effort of negotiating silently with a whole column’s worth of horses. Fortunately, Oleg’s mare was a sensible creature, held in awe by the others. She was a great help in creating the delay Vasya needed. If Vasya was to be dragged back to Chelubey, she wanted it to be at or near midnight.

They came to a ford, stopped to let the horses drink. Vasya, with a gasp, knelt at the riverbank herself. Gulping water, she was quite unprepared when Oleg took her by the upper arms, pulled her upright, turned her around, hands still wet. “All right,” he said grimly. “Is it you?”

“Is what me?” Vasya asked.

He shook her once, slamming her teeth together on her tongue. She tasted blood. She was reminded that, whatever small kindnesses this prince chose to show her, he would betray Dmitrii Ivanovich to keep his own people safe; he would kill her without a qualm. “I’ve protected you; do I deserve deceit?” Oleg demanded. “Chelubey said you’d ensorcelled a horse in Moscow. I had my doubts, but—” A half-ironic sweep of his hand took in the vanished column. “Here we stand. Are you doing something to the horses?”

    “I haven’t been out of your sight,” she said, and did not trouble to keep the exhaustion and defeat out of her voice. “How could I have done something to the horses?”

He considered her a few moments more, narrow-eyed, and then he said, “You are planning something. What is it?”

“Of course, I am planning,” she said tiredly. “I am trying to think of a way to save my brother’s life. I haven’t thought of anything clever yet.” She let her eyes rise to his. “Do you know a way, Oleg Ivanovich? I will do anything to save him.”

He drew in a half-breath, looking uneasily into her eyes. “Anything?”

She made no reply, but she met his eyes.

He pressed his lips together; his glance went from her eyes to her mouth. Suddenly he let her go, turned away. “I will see what can be done,” he said, voice clipped.

He was an honorable man, she thought, and not a fool; he might threaten but he’d not lie with Dmitrii’s cousin. But that he was angry meant he was tempted. And he was angry; she could see the cords in his neck. But he didn’t shake her again, and he had stopped thinking about the horses, which was what she wanted.

As for the rest—well, she meant to be gone, and her brother with her, before the question was raised again.

Oleg remounted, spurred his mare, yanked her on. There was no more stopping.



* * *





IT WAS FULL NIGHT, well after moonrise, by the time Oleg’s Russians found their place in the host. Their horses were fresh, having enjoyed Vasya’s game greatly, but the men were sweating, sullen, sore.