Sasha lingered with his sister. “Where are you going?”
She didn’t look up; she was throwing wet leaves over the fire. It went out with a hiss, plunging the clearing into gray starlight. “I am going to go find Oleg and take him back to his men,” said Vasya, straightening up. “See that word doesn’t get out that he was here; I am sure there are at least a few spies in Dmitrii’s camp. Although—”
She smiled suddenly. “Who would believe it? He was with Mamai today and will be with him tomorrow.” She went to the golden mare.
Patiently, Sasha followed and said, “After that—then what do you mean to do?”
She had a hand on the mare’s neck. Looking over her shoulder, she countered with another question. “Where does Dmitrii mean to engage the Tatars?”
“They are bringing up their forces at a place called Snipes’ Field,”
said Sasha. “Kulikovo. A few days’ march; Dmitrii must engage them before they finish gathering up their reinforcements. Three days, he says.”
“If you stay with the army,” Vasya said, “I will have no trouble finding it. I’ll come back to you in three days.”
“But where are you going?” her brother asked again.
“To harry the enemy.” She wasn’t looking at him when she said it.
She was staring beyond him already, frowning into the dark. Pozhar, ears going back and forth, did not for once try to bite her.
Sasha caught her arm and spun her around. The mare shied irritably, blowing. His sister was scraped hollow with weariness, a fey glow in her expression. “Vasya.” He made his tone cold, an antidote to the reckless laughter lurking in her eyes. “What do you think will become of you, living in darkness with devils, and doing black magic?”
“I?” she shot back. “I am becoming myself, brother. I am a witch, and I am going to save us. Didn’t you hear Dmitrii?”
Sasha shot a glance beyond the golden mare, to where the one-eyed man watched, only faintly visible in the starlight and midnight darkness. His grip tightened on her arm. “You are my sister,” said Sasha. “You are Marya’s aunt. Your father was Pyotr Vladimirovich, of Lesnaya Zemlya. If you spend too long alone in the dark, you will forget that you are more than the witch of the wood, you will forget to come back into the light. Vasya, you are more than this night-creature, this—”
“This what, brother?”
“This thing, ” Sasha went on ruthlessly, with a jerk of his chin toward the watching devil. “He wants you to forget yourself. He would be glad if you went mad, went wild, were lost forever in dark woods, like our great-grandmother. Do you know the risk you are running, traveling alone with that creature?”
“She doesn’t,” put in the Bear, listening.
Vasya ignored him. “I am learning,” she said. “But even if I were not—is there a choice?”
“Yes,” Sasha said. “Come back to Kolomna with me and I will look after you.”
“Brother, I can’t; did you not hear my promise to Dmitrii?”
“Damn Dmitrii; he thinks only of his crown.”
“Sasha, do not be afraid for me.”
“I am though,” he said. “For your life and for your soul.”
“They are both in my keeping, and not yours,” she said gently. But a little of the wildness had gone from her expression. She took a deep breath. “I will not forget what you said. I am your sister, and I love you. Even wandering in darkness.”
“Vasya,” he said, his voice heavy with reluctance. “Better even the winter-king than that beast.”
“You both have an exaggerated idea of my brother’s good qualities,” said the Bear, just as Vasya snapped, “The winter-king is not here!” In a calmer voice, she went on, “For it is not winter. I must use the tools I have.”
The mare shook her mane and stamped, obviously eager to be gone.
“We are going,” said Vasya to her, as though the mare had actually spoken. Her voice was a little ragged. She pulled away. “Farewell, Sasha.” She swung to the mare’s back and looked down at her brother’s troubled face. “I won’t forget what you told me.”
Sasha merely nodded.
“In three days,” said Vasya.
Then the mare bounded forward, bucking, and his sister was at once lost in the night. The devil looked back, winked at Sasha, and followed.
VASYA LEFT OLEG WHERE she’d met him, at the edge of the scrubby steppe where his men were encamped, a day’s march from Kulikovo.
Pozhar cow-kicked the Grand Prince of Ryazan as he slid down her golden flank and said very definitely, That is the last time I carry one of his kind ever again. He is heavy.
Oleg said, at the same moment, “I will leave riding the horses of legend to you, witch-girl. It is like trying to ride a thunderstorm.”
Vasya could only laugh. She said, “If I were you, I’d delay your march to join Mamai. They are going to have a bad few days. I will see you at the battle.”
“God willing,” said Oleg Ivanovich, and bowed.
Vasya inclined her head, turned Pozhar, and then they were back on the Midnight-road.
MOTHER OF GOD, I am tired of darkness, Vasya thought. Pozhar’s sure feet made nothing of the night, the changing landscape, but there was no comfort in the surge of the mare’s running, her jutting withers and swift strides. Vasya rubbed her face, and tried to focus her mind. Her brother’s warning had shaken her. He was right. All the anchor-stones of her life had gone: home and family and sometimes it seemed her very self, lost in the fire. Even Morozko had gone, not to return until the snow fell. Now her companion in the darkness was a creature whose nature was madness given flesh. But sometimes he sounded ordinary, even sensible, and every time that happened she had to remind herself to keep up her defenses.
