The Girl in the Tower (The Winternight Trilogy #2)(90)

“Vasya—”

“The Grand Prince must be warned,” Vasya finished.

“Impossible,” Olga said. “None of my household can go near the Grand Prince tonight. We are all colored by your disgrace. It is all nonsense anyway—why would a lord pay men to burn his own villages? In any case, could Kasyan Lutovich expect to hold the patent for Moscow?”

“I don’t know,” said Vasya. “But Dmitrii Ivanovich has no son—only a pregnant wife. Who would rule, if he died tonight?”

“It is not your place or your business,” Olga said sharply. “He is not going to die.”

Vasya did not seem to have heard. She was pacing the room; she looked more like Vasilii Petrovich than her own self. “Why not?” she murmured. “Dmitrii is angry with Sasha—for Kasyan took up the lie—the weapon I put into his hand. Your husband, Prince Vladimir, is not here. So the two men the Grand Prince most trusts are set at remove. Kasyan has his own people in the city, and Chelubey has more.” Vasya stilled her pacing with a visible effort, stood light and restless in the center of the room. “Depose the Grand Prince,” she whispered. “Why does he need to marry me?” Her eyes went to her sister.

But Olga had stopped listening. Blood was beating like wings in her ears, and a great sinking pain began to eat her from the inside. “Vasya,” she whispered, a hand on her belly.

Vasya saw Olga’s face, and her own face changed. “The baby?” she asked. “Now?”

Olga managed a nod. “Send for Varvara,” she whispered. She swayed, and her sister caught her.





22.


Mother




The bathhouse, where Olga was brought to labor, was hot and dark, humid as a summer night, and it smelled of fresh wood, and smoke, and sap and hot water and rot. If Olga’s women noted Vasya’s presence they did not question it. They had no breath for questioning, and no time. Vasya had strong and capable hands; she had seen childbirth before, and in the ferocious, steaming half-light, the women asked no more.

Vasya stripped down to her shift like the others, anger and uncertainty forgotten in the messy urgency of childbirth. Her sister was already naked; she squatted on a birthing-stool, black hair streaming. Vasya knelt, took her sister’s hands, and did not flinch when Olga crushed her fingers.

“You look like our mother, you know,” Olga whispered. “Vasochka. Did I ever tell you?” Her face changed as the pain came again.

Vasya held her hands. “No,” she said. “You never told me.”

Olga’s lips were pale. Shadows made her eyes bigger, and shrank the difference between them. Olga was naked, Vasya nearly so. It was as if they were small girls again, before the world came between them.

The pain came and went and Olga breathed and sweated and bit down on her screams. Vasya talked to her sister steadily, forgetting their troubles in the world outside. There was only the sweat and the labor, the pain endured and endured again. The bathhouse grew hotter; steam wreathed their sweating bodies; the women labored in the near-darkness, and still the child was not born.

“Vasya,” said Olga, leaning against her sister and panting. “Vasya, if I die—”

“You won’t,” snapped Vasya.

Olga smiled. Her eyes wandered. “I will try not,” she said. “But—you must give my love to Masha. Tell her I am sorry. She will be angry; she will not understand.” Olga broke off, as the agony came again; she still did not scream, but a sound climbed in the back of her throat, and Vasya thought her hands would break in her sister’s grip.

The room smelled of sweat and birth-water now, and black blood showed between Olga’s thighs. The women were only vague, sweating shapes in the vapor. The smell of blood stuck, chokingly, in Vasya’s throat.

“It hurts,” Olga whispered. She sat panting, limp and heavy.

“Be brave,” said the midwife. “All will turn out well.” Her voice was kind, but Vasya saw the dark look she exchanged with the woman beside her.

Vasya’s sapphire flared suddenly with cold, even in the heat of the bathhouse. Olga looked over her sister’s shoulder and her eyes widened. Vasya turned to follow her sister’s gaze. A shadow in the corner looked back at them.

Vasya let go of Olga’s hands. “No,” she said.

“I would have spared you this,” the shadow returned. She knew that voice, knew the pale, indifferent stare. She had seen it when her father died, when…

“No,” said Vasya again. “No—no, go away.”

He said nothing.

“Please,” whispered Vasya. “Please. Go away.”

They used to beg, when I walked among men, Morozko had told her once. If they saw me, they would beg. Evil came of that; better I step softly, better only the dead and the dying can see me.

Well, she was cursed with sight; he could not hide from her. Now it was her turn to beg. Behind her, the women muttered, but his eyes were the only things she could see.

She crossed the room without thinking and put a hand in the center of his chest. “Please go.” For an instant, she might have been touching a shadow, but then his flesh was real, though cold. He drew away as though her hand hurt him.

“Vasya,” he said. Was that feeling, in his indifferent face? She reached for him again, pleading. When her hands found his, he stilled, looking troubled and less like a nightmare.