The Girl in the Tower (The Winternight Trilogy, #2)(45)

His grip crushed her hand in turn, right on the edge of pain. Then he untangled her fingers, one by one. But he did not let go. For an instant his eyes found hers and burned them, so full were they of light.

Again the wind stirred the ancient trees. “You are right. Never again,” he said simply, and again it sounded like a promise. “Farewell.”

No, she thought. Not like that—

But he was gone.





12.


Vasilii the Brave




The bells rang for outrenya and Vasya jerked awake, dazed with dreams. The heavy coverlets seemed to smother her. Like a creature in a trap, Vasya was on her feet before she knew, and the morning chill jolted her back to awareness.

When she emerged from Sasha’s hut, she was hatted and hooded and longing for a bath. All around was a swirl of activity. Men and women ran back and forth, shouting, quarreling—packing, she realized. The danger had ended; the peasants were going home. Chickens were being boxed, cows goaded, children slapped, fires smothered.

Well, of course they were going home. All was well. The bandits had been tracked to their lair. They had been slain—hadn’t they? Vasya shook off thought of the missing captain.

She was trying to choose whether she needed her breakfast or a place to relieve herself worse, when Katya came running up, very pale, her kerchief askew.

“Easy,” Vasya said, catching her just before the girl sent them both into the snow. “It is too early in the morning for running about, Katyusha. Have you seen a giant?”

Katya was blotched red with passion, her nose running freely. “Forgive me; I came to find you,” she gasped. “Please—Gospodin—Vasilii Petrovich.”

“What is it?” Vasya returned in quick alarm. “What has happened?”

Katya shook her head, throat working. “A man—Igor—Igor Mikhailovich—asked me to marry him.”

Vasya looked Katya up and down. The girl looked more bewildered than frightened.

“Has he?” Vasya asked cautiously, “Who is Igor Mikhailovich?”

“He is a blacksmith—he has a forge,” Katya stammered. “He and his mother—they have been kind to me and to the little girls—and today he said that he loves me and—oh!” She covered her face with her hands.

“Well,” Vasya returned. “Do you want to marry him?”

Whatever Katya had been expecting from the boyar’s son Vasilii Petrovich, it apparently wasn’t a mild, sensible question. The girl gaped like a landed fish. Then she said in a small voice, “I like him. Or I did. But this morning he asked—and I didn’t know what to say…” She seemed on the verge of tears.

Vasya scowled. Katya saw, swallowed the tears back, and finished, creaking, “I—I would betroth myself to him. I think. Later. In the spring. But I want to go home to my mother, and have her consent, and finish my wedding-things in the proper way. I promised Anyushka and Lenochka that I would take them home. But I cannot take them home alone, so I don’t know what to do—”

Vasya found to her chagrin that she could no more bear Katya’s tears than she could her own small sister’s. What would Vasilii Petrovich do? “I will speak to this boy for you, as is right,” said Vasya gently. “And then I will see you home.” She thought a moment. “I and my brother, the holy monk.” Vasya hoped devoutly that Sasha’s chaste presence would be enough for Katya’s mother.

Katya paused again. “You will? Just— You will?”

“My word on it,” Vasya said, with finality. “Now I want my breakfast.”



VASYA DISCOVERED A SECLUDED latrine that she used with the speed of outright terror, and afterward made her way to the refectory. She strode in with more confidence than she felt. The long, low room was full of seemly hush, and Dmitrii and Kasyan were eating bread dipped in something that steamed. Vasya smelled it and swallowed.

“Vasya!” Dmitrii roared affectionately when he saw her. “Come, sit, eat. We must hear service, give thanks to God for our victory, and then—Moscow!”

“Have you heard the talk of the peasants this morning?” Kasyan asked her as she accepted a bowl. “They are calling you Vasilii the Brave now, and saying that you delivered them all from devils.”

Vasya almost choked on her soup.

Dmitrii, laughing, pounded her between the shoulder-blades. “You earned it!” he cried. “Raiding the bandit-camp, fighting on that stallion—although you must learn to wield a spear, Vasya—you will soon be as great a legend as your brother.”

“God be with you,” said Sasha, overhearing. He walked in with both his hands thrust through his sleeves: a very monk. He had gone early to prayer with his brothers. Now he said austerely, “I hope not. Vasilii the Brave. That is a heavy name for one so young.” But his gray eyes gleamed. It occurred to Vasya that he might be enjoying, despite himself, the risks of their deception. She certainly was, she realized with some surprise. The danger in every word she spoke, among these great people, was like wine in her veins, like water in a hot country. Perhaps, she thought, that was why Sasha left home. Not for God, not to wound Father, but because he wanted surprises around each road’s turning, and he would never get that at Lesnaya Zemlya. She eyed her brother in wonder.