The Girl in the Tower (Winternight Trilogy #2)(69)

They made their way down into the great square, and Chelubey’s riders began at once to clear an open space. The merchants swore, but eventually it was done, and the stocky Tatar horses stood still, swishing their tails, fetlock-deep in the snow, holding back the throng.

Chelubey informed one and all of the conditions of the wager, in his execrable Russian. Instantly, and in defiance of any number of prelates present, the betting among the onlookers began to fly thick and fast, and children clambered onto market stalls to watch. Vasya stood with the terrified mare in the middle of the new-made circle.

Kasyan stood just at the inner edge of the crowd. He looked half disgusted, half intrigued, his glance inward, as though he were thinking furiously. The throng grew larger and louder, but all Vasya’s attention was on the mare.

“Come now, lady,” she said in the horse’s speech. “I mean you no harm.”

The mare, stiff through her body, made no answer.

Vasya considered, breathed, and then, ignoring the risk, and with every eye in the square on her, stepped forward and pulled the halter from the horse’s head.

A muted sound of astonishment moved through the crowd.

The mare stood still an instant, as startled as her watchers, and in that moment, Vasya hissed between her teeth. “Go then! Flee!”

The mare needed no encouragement; she bolted toward the first of the steppe-horses, spun, ran for the other, and ran again. If she tried to halt, Vasya drove her on. For of course, to be ridden, the horse must first obey, and the only order the mare would obey at the moment was an order to run away.

Begone. This order had another meaning. When a foal disobeyed, Vasya’s beloved Mysh, the herd-mare at Lesnaya Zemlya, would drive the young one, for a time, out of the herd. She had even done it to Vasya once, to the girl’s chagrin. It was the direst punishment a young horse could sustain, for the herd is life.

With this filly, Vasya acted as a mare would act—a wise old mare. Now the filly was wondering—Vasya could see it in her ears—if this two-legged creature understood her, and if, just possibly, she was no longer alone.

The crowd all around was completely silent.

Suddenly Vasya stood still, and in the same moment the mare halted.

The crowd gave a sigh. The mare’s eyes were fixed on Vasya. Who are you? I don’t want to be alone, the mare told her. I am afraid. I don’t want to be alone.

Then come, said Vasya with the turn of her body. Come to me, and you will never be alone again.

The mare licked her lips, ears pricked. Then, to soft cries of wonder, the mare took one step forward, and then another, and then a third and a fourth, until she could lay her nose against the girl’s shoulder.

Vasya smiled.

She did not heed the shouts from all sides; she scratched the mare’s withers and flanks, as horses will for each other.

You smell like a horse, said the mare nosing her over uncertainly.

“Unfortunately,” said Vasya.

Casually, the girl began to walk. The mare followed her, her nose still at Vasya’s shoulder. Now here. Now there. Turn back.

Stop.

The mare stopped when Vasya did.

Ordinarily Vasya would have left it there, let the horse go and be quiet and remember not being afraid. But there was a wager. How much more time did she have?

The people watched in muttering hush; she glimpsed Kasyan’s eyes inscrutable. “I am going to get on your back,” Vasya said to the horse. “Just for a moment.”

The mare was dubious. Vasya waited.

Then the mare licked her lips and lowered her head, unhappy, the trust there, but fragile.

Vasya leaned her body onto the mare’s withers, letting her take the weight. The mare shivered, but she didn’t move.

With an inward prayer, Vasya jumped as lightly as she could, swung a leg over, and was on the mare’s back.

The mare half-reared, and then stilled, trembling, both ears pitched pleadingly back to Vasya. The wrong move—even a wrong breath—and the mare would be in full flight, all the girl’s work undone.

Vasya did nothing at all. She rubbed the mare’s neck. She murmured to her. When she felt the horse relax a little—a very little—she touched her with a light heel that said walk.

The mare did, still rigid, ears still pitched back. She went a few steps and halted, stiff-legged as a foal.

Enough. Vasya slid to the ground.

She was met with absolute silence.

And then a wall of noise. “Vasilii Petrovich!” they shouted. “Vasilii the Brave!”

Vasya, overcome, a little dizzy, bowed to the crowd. She saw Chelubey’s face, irritated now, but still with that curve of unwilling amusement.

“I will take her now,” Vasya told him. “A horse must consent, after all, to be ridden.”

Chelubey said nothing for a moment. Then he surprised her by laughing. “I did not know I was to be outdone by a little magic boy and his tricks,” he said. “I salute you, magician.” He swept her a bow from horseback.

Vasya did not return the bow. “To small minds,” she told him, spine very straight, “any skill must look like sorcery.”

All around, the people took up the laughter. The Tatar’s smile did not waver, though the half-suppressed laughter in his face vanished. “Come and fight me then, boy,” he returned, low. “I will have my recompense.”