The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(98)

Perhaps that was a blessing, considering how he’d feel about her allies.

“Will you take him up on Voron?” Vasya asked Polunochnitsa. “And hide him from the Tatars?”

“You want me to nursemaid a monk?” Polunochnitsa asked, disbelieving. Then her expression turned curious. It occurred to Vasya that a chyert might be persuaded to try any unusual thing just to relieve the boredom of eternity.

“Swear you won’t hurt him, or allow him to be hurt, or frighten him,” Vasya said. “Meet us here. We are going to get my cousin.”

At that Sasha croaked, “Am I a nursing babe, Vasya, that she must swear all those oaths? Who is this?”

“Travel by midnight would awaken the sight in even a monk,” put in the Bear. “That is interesting.”

Reluctantly Vasya answered Sasha, “Lady Midnight.”

“The one who hates you?”

“We came to an arrangement.”

Midnight gave Sasha an appraising look. “I swear it, Vasilisa Petrovna. Come, monk, and get on my horse.”

    Vasya wasn’t sure of the wisdom of trusting Midnight with her brother, but she had little choice.

“Come on,” she said to the Bear. “We have to free the Prince of Serpukhov, and then we must persuade Oleg of Ryazan that he is fighting for the wrong side.”

Following her, the Bear said reflectively, “I might even enjoy that. Although it rather depends on your method of persuasion.”



* * *





VASYA’S FIRES HAD BURNED down to scarlet embers, but they glowed on every hand, illuminating the Tatar encampment with a hellish light. Weary men were catching the foam-streaked horses and whispering among themselves; the air of unease was palpable. The Bear surveyed the remains of turmoil with a critical eye. “Admirable,” he said. “I’ll make a creature of chaos of you yet.”

She feared she was already halfway there, but she was not saying that to him.

The Bear said, “What do you mean to do?”

Vasya told him her plan.

He laughed. “A few shambling corpses would be better. Nothing better for getting people to do what you want.”

“We are not disturbing any more dead souls!” snapped Vasya.

“You may find it tempting, before the end.”

“Not tonight,” said Vasya. “Can you set fires, yourself?”

“Yes, and put them out too. Fear and fire are my tools, sweet maiden.”

“Can you smell my cousin?”

“Russian blood?” he asked. “Do you think me a witch in a fairy tale?”

“Yes or no.”

He lifted his head and snuffed the night. “Yes,” he said, growling a little. “Yes, I suppose I can.”

Vasya turned to have a quick word with Pozhar. Then she followed the Bear into the Tatar camp on foot. As she did, she took a deep breath and forgot that she was anything but a shadow, walking beside another shadow. One with teeth.

    Invisibly, they slipped into the chaos of the camp, and the Bear, in his element, seemed to grow. He moved unerringly through the noise, the little knots of still-frightened horses, and where he passed, the horses shied and fires flared. Men turned clammy faces toward the darkness. He grinned at them, blew sparks into their clothes.

“Enough,” said Vasya. “Find my cousin. Or I will bind you with more than just promises.”

“There is more than one Russian here,” said the Bear irritably. “I can’t—” He caught her eye and finished almost meekly, except for a hint of sudden laughter in his eyes. “But that one smells like the far north.”

She followed him, quicker now. Finally, he halted near the center of the camp. Instinctively she wanted to flatten herself, hiding in the shadow of a round tent, but that would mean she believed the soldiers could see her.

They couldn’t. She held that thought and stayed where she was.

A bound man was kneeling, silhouetted, beside a well-tended fire. All around, soldiers were soothing their restive horses.

Three men stood near the fire, arguing. With the light behind them, it took her a moment to recognize Mamai and Chelubey and Oleg. She wished she could understand what they were saying.

“They are deciding whether or not to kill him,” said the beast beside her. “It seems your escape has made them wary.”

“You understand Tatar?”

“I understand the speech of men,” said the Bear, just as a dazzle of fresh light poured over the camp, panicking the horses all over again. Vasya didn’t look up. She knew what she would see: Pozhar soaring overhead, streaming smoke, her fiery wings making arcs of scarlet and blue, gold and white.

I can’t make the earth catch fire like I did in the city, Pozhar had said, when Vasya asked. That was—I was so angry, I was maddened with anger. I can’t do it again.

“You don’t have to,” Vasya returned. “Just dazzle them. It will send a message to my countrymen.” She patted the horse comfortingly, and Pozhar bit her on the shoulder.

    Now all around the camp, men looked to the sky. A babble of renewed talk broke out. She heard the snap of bowstrings, saw a few arrows arc up into the night, but Pozhar was keeping out of range. A wondering cry, quickly silenced, rose from one of the Russians: “Zhar Ptitsa!”