The Girl in the Tower (The Winternight Trilogy, #2)(50)

“The prince!”

The call was picked up and carried about the narrow ways of Moscow. “The Grand Prince of Moscow! God bless you, Dmitrii Ivanovich!” And even, “Bless us! The warrior-monk! The warrior of the light! Brother Aleksandr! Aleksandr Peresvet!”

Out and out the cry rippled, borne away and back, torn up and re-formed, whirling like leaves in a tempest. People ran through the streets, and a crowd gathered about the gates of the kremlin. Dmitrii rode in travel-stained dignity. Sasha reached down for the people’s hands and made the sign of the cross over them. Tears sparked in an old lady’s eyes; a maiden raised trembling fingers.

Beneath the shouts, Vasya caught snatches of ordinary conversation. “Look at the bay stallion there. Have you ever seen his like?”

“No bridle.”

“And that—that is a mere boy on his back. A feather, to ride such a horse.”

“Who is he?”

“Who indeed?”

“Vasilii the Brave,” Kasyan put in, half-laughing.

The people took it up. “Vasilii the Brave!”

Vasya narrowed her eyes at Kasyan. He shrugged, hiding a smile in his beard. She was grateful for the sharp breeze, which gave her an excuse to pull hood and cap closer about her face.

“You are a hero, I find, Sasha,” she said, when her brother came riding up beside her.

“I am a monk,” he replied. His eyes were bright. Tuman stepped easily beneath him, neck arched.

“Do all monks get such names? Aleksandr Lightbringer?”

He looked uncomfortable. “I would stop them if I could. It is unchristian.”

“How did you get this name?”

“Superstition,” he said, tersely.

Vasya opened her mouth to pry the tale out, but just then a troop of muffled children came capering almost under Solovey’s hooves. The stallion skidded to a halt and half-reared, trying not to maim anyone.

“Be careful!” she told them. “It’s all right,” she added to the horse, soothingly. “We’ll be through in a minute. Listen to me, listen, listen—”

The horse calmed, barely. At least he put all four feet on the ground. I do not like it here, he told her.

“You will,” she said. “Soon. Olga’s husband will have good oats in his stable, and I will bring you honeycakes.”

Solovey twitched his ears, unconvinced. I cannot smell the sky.

Vasya had no answer to that. They had just passed the huts, the smithies, the warehouses and shops that made up the outer rings of Moscow, and now they had come to the heart of the city: the cathedral of the Ascension, the monastery of the Archangel, and the palaces of princes.

Vasya stared up, and her eyes shone in the towers’ reflected light. All the bells in Moscow had burst into pealing. The sound rattled her teeth. Solovey stamped and shivered.

She put a calming hand on the stallion’s neck, but she had no words for him, no words for her delighted astonishment, as she learned all at once the beauty and the scale of things made by men.

“The prince is come! The prince!” the cries rose louder and louder. “Aleksandr Peresvet!”

All was movement and bright color. Here stood scaffolding hung with cloth; there, great ovens smoking amid piles of slushy snow; and everywhere new smells: spice and sweetness, and the tang of forge-fires. Ten men were building a snow-slide, heaving blocks and dropping them, to hilarity. Tall horses and painted sledges and warmly bundled people gave way before the prince’s cavalcade. The riders passed the wooden gates of noble houses; behind them lay sprawling palaces: towers and walkways, haphazardly painted, and dark with old rain.

The riders halted at the largest of these gates, and it was flung open. They rode into a vast dooryard. The crush grew thicker still: servants and grooms and shouting hangers-on. Some boyars, too: broad men with colored kaftans, and broad smiles that did not always reach their eyes. Dmitrii was calling greetings.

The crowd pressed closer, and closer still.

Solovey rolled a wild eye and struck out with his forefeet.

“Solovey!” cried Vasya to the horse. “Easy now. Easy. You are going to kill someone.”

“Get back!” That was Kasyan, hard-handed on his gelding. “Get back, or are you all fools? That one is a stallion, and young; do you think he won’t take your heads off?”

Vasya looked her gratitude, still grappling with Solovey. Sasha appeared on her other side, pushing people away with Tuman’s brute strength.

Cursing, the crowd gave them space. Vasya found herself at the center of a ring of curious eyes, but at least Solovey began to settle.

“Thank you,” she said to both men.

“I only spoke for the grooms, Vasya,” Kasyan said lightly. “Unless you’d like to see your horse split more skulls?”

“I’d rather not,” she said. But the instant warmth was gone.

He must have seen her face change. “No,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—”

She had already dismounted, dropping down into a little pool of wary faces. Solovey had settled, but his ears still darted forward and back.

Vasya scratched the soft place beneath his jaw and murmured, “I must stay—I want to see my sister, but you—I could let you go. Take you back into the forest. You needn’t—”

I will stay here if you do, interrupted Solovey, though he was trembling, lashing his flanks with his tail.