The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(96)

“You betrayed me,” said Vasya.

“But you understood at last,” said Polunochnitsa. “It was never your task to pick out the good from the wicked. Your task was to unite us. We are one people.” The rage was gone from her face.

Vasya stalked forward. “You could have told me. They tormented my brother.”

“It is not something you can be told,” said Polunochnitsa. “It is something you must come to understand.”

Her great-grandmother had said the same. Vasya could feel the Bear watching. He breathed out a laugh as she, wordless, unspooled the golden rope, snapped it out, caught Polunochnitsa around the throat. The midnight-demon tried to wrench back, but couldn’t, caught by the power in the gold. She made a single, shocked sound and stood still, wide-eyed.

Vasya said, “I do not like being betrayed, Polunochnitsa. You took no pity on me after the fire; you had no pity on my brother. Perhaps I should leave you tied to a tree.”

The black stallion reared, squealing. Vasya didn’t move, though the great hooves were a handsbreadth from her face. “I will take her with me, Voron, if you kill me.”

The horse subsided, and Vasya had to harden her heart. Midnight was looking at her with genuine fear. “Medved owes me allegiance now, and so do you, Polunochnitsa. You will not betray me again.”

The midnight-demon was staring at her with horror and unwilling fascination. “You are Baba Yaga’s heir in truth now,” she said. “When you have finished with the dealings of men, go back to the lake. At midnight, the witch will be waiting.”

“I am not finished yet,” Vasya said grimly. “I am going to save my brother. You are going to swear an oath to me as well, Lady Midnight, and you are going to help me.”

“I am sworn to your great-grandmother.”

    “And, as you said, I am her heir.”

Their eyes locked, a silent battle of wills. Midnight was the first to lower hers. “I swear then,” she said.

“What do you swear?”

“To serve you and to heed you, and never to betray you again.”

Vasya, with a snap, freed Polunochnitsa of the golden rope. “I swear to sustain you as I can,” she said. “With blood and with memory. We can no longer afford to fight amongst ourselves.”

The Bear said lightly, from behind, “I think I am going to enjoy this.”





30.


    The Enemy of My Enemy




SASHA WAS ONLY VAGUELY AWARE of what happened, after he threw Chelubey from the saddle. He hadn’t been thinking clearly when he did it. Merely that there was a sword, and his sister’s vulnerable throat, and he hated the Tatar as he’d never hated anyone in his life. Hated his impersonal cruelties, his clever mind, his soft questions.

So, when the Tatar drew up alongside them, Sasha saw an opening and didn’t hesitate. But he was wounded, and Chelubey strong. A blow to his jaw shot sparks across his sight, and then Chelubey shouted over Sasha’s head, urging other men on. Sasha dragged himself to his knees, saw his sister, still mounted, wheeling her horse to come back for him.

Vasya, he tried to shout. Run.

Then the world went dark. When he came to, he was still lying on the ground. Chelubey stood over him. “She’s gone,” Sasha heard a voice say. “Disappeared.” He let out a breath of relief, just as Chelubey drew back and kicked him in the ribs. The bone cracked; Sasha doubled up, lacking the breath to scream.

“I think,” said Chelubey, “that after the night’s excitement, the general will have no further objections to you dying while I torture you. Get him on his feet.”

But the men weren’t looking down at Sasha anymore. They were backing up, with expressions of horror.



* * *





THE ROAD BACK THROUGH Midnight was short. Vasya’s blood cried out for her brother; and Pozhar had no objection to galloping through the forest at reckless speed. Voron raced alongside them. The black stallion was far swifter than any mortal horse, but still he labored to match the golden mare’s pace.

Vasya mourned in silence even as she savored the strength of the mare beneath her. The firebird was not, and never would be, her other self, and Pozhar’s grace reminded Vasya of her loss all over again.

The Bear paced the horses in silence. He had let go the shape of a man; he ran as a great shadow-beast, nourished by her blood. As they went, he sniffed at the sky, barely containing a bared-teeth eagerness.

“Hoping for killing?” said Vasya.

“No,” said the Bear. “I care naught for the dead. Mine are the suffering living.”

“Our task is to save my brother,” Vasya said sharply. “Not to make people suffer. Are you so quickly forsworn, Medved?”

The two pieces of golden rope shimmered eerily on her wrists. He shot them a dark look and said, a growl just entering his voice, “I have promised.”

“Ahead,” said Midnight. Vasya squinted into the darkness. Fires broke up the night in front of them; the wind brought them the smell of men and horses.

Vasya sat back and Pozhar slowed, grudgingly. Her nostrils flared, disliking the smell of men. “I left my brother on the north side of the camp, not far from a stream,” said Vasya to Polunochnitsa. “Is he still there?”