The bolotnik’s eyes had just breached the water; she could make out his scaly limbs churning below the surface. He looked almost surprised. “Alive still?” he whispered. His voice was the sucking sound of the swamp, his breath the smell of decay.
“Please,” said Vasya. With her fingers, she split one of the clotted cuts on her arm, and let her blood fall on the water.
The bolotnik’s tongue flicked, tasting, and his eyes glowed suddenly bright. “Well, you are a courteous maiden,” he said, licking his chops. “Look then.”
She followed the turn of his marsh-light eyes. A reddish flicker showed between the black trees. Not daylight. Perhaps fire? A rush of
fear sent her to her feet, cloak heavy with mud.
But it was not fire. It was a living creature.
A tall mare, limned with light, stood hock-deep in the marsh.
Sparks like fireflies tumbled from her mane and tail, molten white against the silver-gold of her coat. Head up, she watched Vasya, motionless except for her tail, which lashed her sides with arcs of light.
Vasya took an involuntary, stumbling step toward the mare, caught between wonder and rage. “I remember you,” she said to the horse. “In Moscow, I set you free.”
The mare said nothing, only flicked her great, golden ears.
“You could have just flown away,” Vasya said. Her voice cracked; her throat was raw. “But instead you dripped sparks over a city of wood and they—and they—” She could not say the words.
The golden mare pawed defiantly, splashing, and spoke, I would have killed them all, if I could, she returned. Killed all the men in the world. They dared trick me, bind me. Scars of saddle and spur marked the mare’s golden perfection, and her face was striped with white where the golden bridle had been. I would have killed the whole city.
Vasya said nothing. Grief was a frozen ball in her mouth; she could only stare with mute hatred at the mare.
The mare spun and galloped away.
“Follow her, fool,” hissed the swamp-demon. “Or if you prefer, stay here, and I will eat you.”
Vasya hated the mare. But she did not want to die. She began to make her way through the trees, stumbling on bloody feet. On and on she went, following the dot of golden light, until she was quite sure that she could not walk a step more.
But then she did not have to.
The trees ended; she found herself in a sloping meadow leading down to a vast, frozen lake. It was earliest spring. Stars cast a faint silver sheen on the long grass of an open field. All around she could discern the shapes of great trees, black against the silver sky. Snow
lay on this field only in hollows and patches. Faintly she could hear the sound of water under the lake’s ice.
There were more horses grazing in the meadow. Three—six—a dozen. The night faded them all to gray except for the golden mare.
Standing among them, she glittered like a fallen star, head up in challenge.
Vasya halted, full of agonized wonder. Part of her was half-convinced that her own horse must be here, among his kin, that in a moment he would gallop toward her, flinging snow from under his feet, and she wouldn’t be alone anymore. “Solovey,” she whispered.
“Solovey.”
A dark head rose, then a paler one. All of a sudden, the horses were wheeling, fleeing. On four legs they fled from the sound of her voice, straight down toward the lake, but just before their hooves struck water, their hooves became wings. As birds they took to the air, and soared over the starlit water.
Vasya watched them go, tears of pure wonder in her eyes. They winged across the lake, no two alike. Owl and eagle and duck and smaller birds: purely, miraculously, strange. Last of all to leave the earth was the golden mare. Her wings swept wide, trailing smoke, and her plumed tail was every color of flame: gold and blue-violet and white. She flew after her kin, calling. In moments, they were all swallowed by the darkness.
Vasya stared at the place the horses had been. It was as though she’d dreamed them. Her vision swam with weariness. Her feet and her face were numb, and she had gone beyond shivering, cocooned icily in shock. Solovey, she wondered dimly. Why didn’t you fly away too?
Just at the edge of the lake stood a single vast oak-tree. Its branches stood out like blackened bones against the moon-white ice.
To her right, nestled among the trees, was a squat, dark shape.
It was a house.
Or rather, a ruin. The house’s roof, sloped steeply to keep off the snow, had fallen in; no firelight showed behind window or door.
There was only silence, the faint creaking of trees, the crack of thinning lake-ice. And yet this place, this clearing by the water, did not feel empty. It felt watchful.
The house had been built on a sturdy platform between two trees.
The trees gave it a look of standing alertly on strong legs; the windows like black eyes, staring down. For an instant, the house didn’t seem dead at all. It seemed to be watching her.
Then the illusion of menace faded. It was only a ruin. The steps were rotten, crumbling. There would be dead leaves within, and mice and unrelieved dark.
But there might be a working stove, even a handful of grain from the house’s last occupant. At the very least, she could get out of the wind.
Only half-aware of what she was doing, Vasya crossed the meadow, stumbling on rocks, skidding on snow. Gritting her teeth, she crawled up the steps. The only sounds were the groaning of branches and her own hoarse breathing.
At the top of the stairs stood two posts, carved with figures starlit and fantastic: bears, suns, moons, small strange faces that might have been chyerti. Over the door was a lintel carved in the shape of two rearing horses.
The door hung askew on its hinges in a litter of slick, rotten leaves.
Vasya paused to listen.
Silence. Of course, silence. Perhaps there were beasts denning here, but she was beyond caring. The half-fallen door gave with a squeal from rusted hinges. Vasya stumbled inside.
