“Oh ho,” said the Bear, in a new voice. “Moscow put the fire in your soul, did it? Truly, you are half chaos-spirit; you would like being my ally. Won’t you reconsider?”

“Are you never silent?” Vasya demanded. Her body was streaming cold sweat. Another upyr burst into flames and reality began to waver. Now she understood. Magic makes men mad. They forget what is real because too much is possible.

But there were still four more; she had no choice. The dead things were advancing once more.

The Bear’s eye locked on hers, as though he could see the seed of insanity there. “Yes,” he breathed. “Lose your mind, wild girl. And you’ll be mine.”

She drew a deep breath and—

“Enough,” said a new voice.

The sound seemed to shake Vasya out of a dark dream. An old woman, big-handed and broad-shouldered, strode between the trees, took in the lurid scene, and said irritably, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, “Medved, you shouldn’t have tried it at midnight.”

At the same moment, a wave from the lake nearly swamped Vasya, and the bagiennik appeared, floating in the shallows, teeth bared.

“Eater, you didn’t say anything about hurting the horses.”

The old woman might have been tall once, but she was crabbed with age, her clothes rough, her hands long-nailed, her legs bowed.

There was a basket on her back.

Vasya, standing with her feet in the lake, reality gone pliant as mist, could see the Bear startled, wary. “You are dead,” he said to the old woman.

The old woman chortled. “At midnight? On my own lands? You should know better.”

Vasya, as though in a dream, thought she caught the gleam of the midnight-demon’s hair, her starry eyes, half-hidden in the trees, watching.

The Bear said, placating, “I should have known better. But why interfere? What care you for your traitorous family?”

“I care at least for the mare, you great hungry thing,” retorted the old woman. She stamped her foot. “Go back to terrorizing Muscovy.”

One of the upyry was creeping up behind the old woman. She didn’t look, didn’t even twitch, but the dead thing burst into white fire, and collapsed with a shriek.

“I suppose,” said the Bear, “I’d have to wait a long time for you to go mad.” There was respect in his voice. Vasya listened in astonishment.

“I have been mad for years,” said the old woman. When she laughed, every hair on Vasya’s body rose. “But at midnight, this is still my realm.”

“The girl won’t stay with you,” said the Bear, with a jerk of his chin at Vasya. “She won’t stay, however you try to persuade her. She’ll leave you just like the others. When she does, I’ll be waiting.” To Vasya, he added, “Your choice still stands. You are going to be my ally one way or the other. The chyerti will not have it otherwise.”

“Go away,” snapped the woman.

And, unbelievably, the Bear bowed to them both, and slunk away through the dark. His servants, shambling, the hell-light gone from their eyes, followed him.

13.

Baba Yaga

THE SOUNDS OF THE NIGHT resumed. Vasya’s feet were numb in the water. The golden mare’s head hung low. The old woman pursed her lips, inspecting girl and horse.

“Babushka,” said Vasya cautiously. “Thank you for our lives.”

“If you want to stand in the lake until you grow fins, that is your affair,” the old woman replied. “Otherwise come to the fire.”

She stumped away, added sticks to the blaze. Vasya waded out of the lake. But the mare did not move. “You are bleeding,” Vasya said to her, trying to get a look at the gash on her foreleg.

The mare’s ears were still pinned to her head. Finally, she said, I ran, while the others flew, to lead the upyry away. But they were too fast, and then my leg was torn and I could not fly.

“I can help you,” Vasya volunteered.

The mare made no answer. But suddenly Vasya understood her stillness, the golden head sunk low. “Do you fear being bound again?

Because you are wounded? Do not be afraid. I killed the sorcerer.

Tamara is dead too.” She could feel the old woman at her back, listening. “I have no rope here, let alone a golden bridle. I will not touch you without your leave; come to the fire.”

Vasya suited action to word, making her own way to the fire. The mare stood still, the set of her ears uncertain. The old woman was standing on the other side of the flames, waiting for Vasya. Her hair was white. But her face was a distorted mirror of the girl’s own.

Vasya stared, with shock, hunger, recognition.

The forest still seemed thick with eyes, watching. There was an instant of perfect silence. Then the woman said, “What is your name?”

“Vasilisa Petrovna,” said Vasya.

“What was your mother’s name?”

“Marina Ivanovna,” said Vasya. “Her mother was called Tamara, the girl who put a bridle on the firebird.”

The woman’s eyes roved over Vasya’s torn and bruised face, her cropped hair, her clothes, and perhaps more than anything the expression in the girl’s eyes. “I’m surprised you didn’t frighten the Bear off,” said the old woman, drily. “With your face so frightful. Or perhaps he liked it. Hard to know, with that one.” Her hands were trembling.

Vasya said nothing.

“Tamara and her sister were my daughters. Long ago, it would seem to you.”

Vasya knew that. “How are you alive?” she whispered.

“I’m not,” said the old woman. “I died before you were born. But this is Midnight.”

The golden mare broke their silence with splashing as she stepped out of the lake. As one, they turned to the horse. The firelight gleamed cruelly on the scars of whip and spur. “A pitiful pair you make,” said the old woman.

Vasya said, “Babushka, we are both in need of help.”

“Pozhar first,” said the old woman. “She is bleeding still.”

“Is that her name?”

A shrug. “What name would compass a creature like her? It is only what I call her.”