“Madness,” he said. “Malice. Do you think all dangers posed by the Bear are obvious? He will work on your mind, until one day you laugh at bloodshed and suffering.”
“I am not laughing yet,” she said, but his eyes went again to the gold on her wrists. Was she supposed to feel ashamed? “I have taken power where I could find it. But I have not turned to evil.”
“Have you not? He is clever. You will fall unknowing.”
“I haven’t had time to fall , knowing or unknowing.” She was really angry now. “I have been running through the dark, trying to save all who have need of me. I have done good and I have done evil, but I am neither. I am only myself. You will not make me ashamed, Morozko.”
“Truly,” said the Bear to her, “I hate to agree with him, but you should probably feel guiltier over it. Berate yourself a bit.”
She ignored him. Nearer she stepped to the winter-king, until she could read his face, even in the dark. And there was feeling there for her to read: anger, hunger, fear, even grief, his indifference torn to shreds.
Her anger left her. She took his hand. He let her have it, his fingers cool and light in hers. She said softly, “I called every power of this land to war, winter-king. It had to be done. We cannot fight amongst ourselves.”
“He killed your father,” said Morozko.
She swallowed. “I know. And now he is bound to help save my people.” She lifted her free hand, touched his cheek. She was close enough now to see him breathe. She framed his face with her fingers, drew his eyes back to her. The snow was falling faster from the sky.
“Will you fight with us tomorrow?” she asked.
“I will be there for the dead,” he said. His glance strayed away from her, to the camp at large. She wondered how many would see the next day’s dusk. “You need not be there at all. It is not too late.
You’ve done what you can; you’ve kept your word. You and your brother can—”
“It is too late,” she said. “Sasha would never leave Dmitrii now.
And I—I too am pledged.”
“Pledged to your pride,” retorted Morozko. “You want the obedience of chyerti and the admiration of princes, so you are taking
this mad risk alongside Dmitrii. But you have never seen a battle.”
“No, I haven’t,” she said, her voice gone as cold as his. She had dropped her hands, but she did not step back. “Though yes, I want Dmitrii’s admiration. I want a victory. I even want power, over princes and chyerti. I am allowed to want things, winter-king.”
They were near enough to breathe the other’s breath. “Vasya,” he said, low. “Think beyond this one battle. The world is safer if the Bear is in his clearing, and you must live; you cannot—”
She cut him off. “I already have. And I swore your brother wouldn’t have to go back. We understand each other, he and I.
Sometimes it frightens me.”
“I am not surprised,” he said. “Spirit of sea and fire that you are; he is the worst parts of your own nature writ large.” His hands were on her shoulders now. “Vasya, he is a danger to you.”
“Then keep me safe.” She raised her eyes to his. “Pull me back, when he drags me too far down. There is a balance to be struck here too, Morozko, between him and you, between men and chyerti. I was born to be in between—do you think I don’t know it?”
His eyes were sad. “Yes,” he said. “I know.” He looked up at the Bear again, and this time the two brothers were silent, measuring each other. “It is your choice and not mine, Vasilisa Petrovna.”
Vasya heard the Bear exhale and realized that he really had been afraid.
She let her head fall forward an instant to the wool and fur of Morozko’s shoulder, felt his hands slide around her back and hold her there briefly, suspended between day and night, between order and chaos. Take me somewhere quiet, she wanted to say. I cannot bear the noise and the stink of men anymore.
But the time for that was past; she had chosen her course. She lifted her head and stepped back.
Morozko reached into his sleeve and drew out something small and shining.
“I brought this for you,” he said.
It was a green jewel on a cord, rougher than the formal perfection of the sapphire necklace she’d once worn. She did not touch it, but stared, wary. “Why?”
“I went far away,” said Morozko. “That is why I did not come to you, even dreaming, even when you plucked the Bear from his prison. I went south, through the snows of my own kingdom; I took the road to the sea. There, I called Chernomor, the sea-king, out of the water, who has not been seen for many lives of men.”
“Why did you go?”
Morozko hesitated. “I told him what he never knew, that the witch of the wood had borne him children.”
She stared. “Children? To the king of the sea?”
He nodded once. “Twins. And I told him that among his grandchildren’s children was one I loved. And so, the sea-king gave this to me. For you.” He almost smiled. “There is no magic in it now, and no binding. It is a gift.”
She still didn’t reach for the jewel. “How long have you known?”
“Not as long as you think, although I wondered whence your strength. I wondered if it could be only the witch, a mortal woman with magic who’d passed her talent to her daughters. But then I saw Varvara, and I knew it was more than that. Chernomor has fathered sons, now and again, and often they have their father’s magic, and lives that are longer than the lives of men. So I asked Midnight for the truth, and she told me. You are the sea-king’s great-grandchild.”
“Will I live a long time then?”
“I do not know—who could know? For you are witch and chyert and woman too; a descendant of Russian princes and Pyotr Vladimirovich’s daughter. Chernomor might know; he said he would answer questions, but only if you came to see him.”
It was too much to take in. But she took the jewel. It was warm in her hand; she caught a faint whiff of salt. It felt as though he’d handed her a key to herself, but one she could not examine. There was too much else to do.
“Then I will go to the sea,” she said. “If I survive the dawn.”
