The Girl in the Tower (Winternight Trilogy #2)(100)

There was a pitched battle in the dooryard, and a roaring like a riot above. She couldn’t see her brother—but Vasya could hardly tell friend from foe in the wicked light.

Long cracks had appeared in the main gate; it would not hold much longer. Slaves ran with buckets and wet blankets to put out the flames; half the guardsmen were helping them now. Fire was just as great a danger as arrows, in a city made all of wood.

Then that half-familiar shriek came again. The light from the burning barn threw the whole yard into flickering relief, and she saw Konstantin Nikonovich creeping along the inner wall.

What is he doing here? Vasya wondered. At first she felt nothing but surprise.

Then she saw with horror that the priest clutched a child by one wrist. The girl had no cloak, no kerchief, no boots. She was shivering miserably.

“Aunt Vasya!” she shrilled, in a voice Vasya knew. “Aunt Vasya!” Her voice sailed clear through the sweltering air. “Let me go!”

“Masha!” Vasya cried in disbelief. A child? A prince’s daughter? Here?

Then she saw Kasyan Lutovich. He was running down into the dooryard, mouth open with mingled rage and triumph. He leaped bareback onto one of the escaped horses, wheeled, and came galloping along the wall, heedless of arrows.

For a breath, Vasya did not understand.

In that moment, with a perfectly timed movement, Kasyan overtook Konstantin, snatched the girl, and flung her facedown on the horse’s sweating shoulder.

“Masha!” Vasya shouted. Solovey had already spun to chase them down. Great arcs of slush flew from his galloping feet. Vasya crouched on his neck, forgetting the arrows. But horse and rider had the whole width of the dooryard to cross, and Kasyan gained the terem-steps unmolested. He slid down the horse’s shoulder, with Marya held, kicking, under one arm. His glance rose and met Vasya’s. “Now,” Kasyan called to her, teeth bared, eyes glittering with the rising flames, “you may regret your pride.”

He hurried up with Marya into the darkness. “You promised!” Konstantin cried after him, arriving, stumbling, at the foot of the stairs and hesitating before the dark tunnel of the staircase. “You said—”

A ripple of wild laughter answered him, then silence. Konstantin stood gaping up into the dark.

Solovey and Vasya reached the other side of the yard. Konstantin spun to face them. Solovey reared, his hooves a breath from the priest’s head, and Konstantin toppled backward. Vasya leaned forward, her glance as cold as her voice. Behind them came the battering on the gate; above them, the ringing of swords. “What have you done? What does he want with my niece?”

“He promised me vengeance,” Konstantin whispered. He was shivering all over. “He said I had but to—”

“In the name of God!” cried Vasya. She slid down Solovey’s shoulder. “Vengeance for what? I once saved your life. While you were still a man, unbroken, I saved your life. Have you forgotten? What does he want with her?”

For a flicker, she saw the painter, the priest, somewhere beneath the layers of bitterness. “He said that if I were to have you, then he must have her,” Konstantin whispered. “He said I could—” His voice grew shriller. “I didn’t want to! But you left me! You left me alone, seeing devils. What was I to do? Come now. You are here now, and I ask only—”

“You have been tricked, again,” interrupted Vasya coldly. “Get out of my sight. You baptized my sister’s child; for her sake I will not kill you.”

“Vasya,” said Konstantin. He made to reach out; Solovey snapped yellow teeth and his hand dropped. “I did it for you. Because of you. I—I hate you. You—are beautiful.” He said this like a curse. “If you had only listened—”

“You have only been the tool of wickeder things,” she returned. “But I have had enough of it. Next time I see you, Konstantin Nikonovich, I am going to kill you.”

He drew himself up. Perhaps he meant to speak again. But she had no more time. She hissed a word to Solovey; the stallion reared, swift as a snake. Konstantin stumbled back, mouth open, dodging the stallion’s hooves, and then he fled. Vasya heard him weep as he ran.

But she did not watch him go. The dark stairs above seemed to breathe horrors, though the rest of the dooryard was alight from the burning stable. She gathered herself to hurry upward alone. “Solovey,” she said, looking behind her, a foot on the first step. “You must—”

But then she paused, for the sound of battle above and behind her had changed. Vasya turned to look again at the dooryard. The flames in the stable leaped higher than trees now, burning a strange, dull scarlet.

Dark things with slavering mouths began creeping out of the reddened shadows.

Vasya’s blood turned cold. Dmitrii’s men in the dooryard stumbled. Here and there a sword fell from a nerveless hand. A man above screamed.

“Solovey,” Vasya whispered. “What—?”

Then, with a final, rending crack, the gate gave. Chelubey came galloping into the red light calling orders, competent, fearless. He had archers to his left and right, and they filled the dooryard with arrows.

Dmitrii’s men, already wavering, broke. Now Vasya had an impression of loss and horror and chaos; horses fleeing blind, arrows flying over the wall-top, and all around pallid, grinning things that came stumbling out of the bloody dark, hands reaching, smiles pasted on faces sloppy with rot. Behind them came warriors, steadily advancing, with quick horses and bright swords.