Muffled explanations sounded from somewhere around Vasya’s breastbone. “You were gone. And Solovey was gone and the man in the oven said the Eater would send dead people into our houses if he could. So I talked to the chyerti and I gave them bread and I cut my hand and gave them blood like you said, and Mother kept us all home from church—”
“Yes,” Vasya said with pride, cutting into the flow of words. “You did so well, my brave girl.”
Marya straightened abruptly. “I am going to get Mother and Varvara.”
“That is a good idea,” said Vasya, mindful of the waning day. She didn’t like the idea of skulking in the bathhouse while Marya played messenger. But she dared not allow the servants to see her, and she was not enough in control of herself to rely on half-understood magic. Terror was still waiting to snatch her by the throat.
“The chyerti said you’d come back,” Marya said happily. “They said you’d come and we’d go to a place by the lake where it’s not hot and there are horses.”
“I hope so,” said Vasya fervently. “Now hurry, Masha.”
Marya ran off. When she had gone, Vasya took a few deep breaths, fighting to compose herself. She turned her head to the bannik. “I have wept for a nightingale,” she said. “But Marya—”
“Is your heir and your mirror,” returned the bannik. “She will have a horse and they will love each other as the left hand loves the right.
She will ride far and fast when she is grown.” He paused. “If you and she survive.”
“It is a good future,” said Vasya, and then bit her lip, remembering.
“The Bear scorns the house-chyerti, as tools of men,” said the bannik. “We will help you as we can. His votary is afraid of us.”
“His votary?”
“The priest with golden hair,” said the bannik. “The Bear took the priest as his own, and gave him the second sight that frightens him so, now. They are bound together.”
“Oh,” said Vasya. Much was suddenly obvious to her. “I am going to kill that priest.” It wasn’t even a vow. It was a statement of fact.
“Will it weaken the Bear?”
“Yes,” said the bannik. “But it might not be so easy. The Bear will protect him.”
Just then, Marya came running back into the dim bathhouse.
“They’re coming,” she said, and frowned. “I think they will be glad to see you.”
Olga and Varvara appeared in her wake. Olga looked not so much glad as shaken. “It seems you are destined to astonish me with sudden meetings, Vasya,” she said. Her voice was crisp, but she took Vasya’s hands and held them tightly.
“Sasha said you knew I survived.”
“Marya knew,” said Olga. “And Varvara. They told us. I had doubts but—” She broke off, searching her sister’s face. “How did you escape?”
“It doesn’t matter,” broke in Varvara. “You put us all in danger once, girl. Now you are doing it again. Did anyone see you?”
“No,” said Vasya. “They didn’t see me jumping off my own pyre either, and they will not see me now.”
Olga paled. “Vasya,” she began, “I am sorry—”
“It doesn’t matter. The Bear means to dethrone Dmitrii Ivanovich,” said Vasya. “To send this whole land into chaos. We must stop him.” She swallowed hard, but managed to say steadily, “I must get into Dmitrii Ivanovich’s palace.”
22.
The Princess and the Warrior
SASHA’S DIVERSION WORKED BETTER THAN he could have hoped.
Tuman, riled by the shouting and trained for war, reared, lashed out, reared again. More guards came, and more, until the three monks were at the center of a noisy throng.
“He is back.”
“The witch’s brother.”
“Aleksandr Peresvet.”
“Who is that with him?”
There was no chance of anyone seeing Vasya, Sasha thought grimly. They were all looking at him. More and more people were gathering. The guards looked now as though they didn’t know whether to turn inward to him, or outward, so as not to put their backs to the angry crowd. A lettuce came hurtling, rotten, from somewhere out of the crowd, burst at the feet of Sergei’s horse. The horses jolted into motion, beginning to climb the hill of the kremlin.
More vegetables flew; then a stone. Sergei still sat unruffled on his horse, raised a hand and blessed the crowd. Sasha moved his horse up by his master, protecting Sergei with his body and Tuman’s. “This is madness,” he muttered. “Rodion—both of you—go to the Archangel. This might get worse. Father—please. I will send word.”
“Very well,” said Sergei. “But be careful.” Sasha was glad when Rodion and his big horse plowed a way through the crowd, and were gone. The guards were hustling him up toward Dmitrii’s palace now; it was becoming a race to see if he would get there before the crowd grew too thick.
But they did get there, and Sasha was glad to hear the gate shut behind him, to dismount in the dust of the dooryard. The Grand Prince was outside, watching a man put a three-year-old colt through his paces. He did not look well, that was Sasha’s first thought. He looked heavy and haggard, soft in the jaw, and in his face was a strange dull anger.
The golden-haired priest was standing right behind Dmitrii and he looked lovelier than he ever had. His lips and hands were as delicate as a woman’s, his eyes impossibly blue. He was dressed as a bishop, his head raised listening to the clamor of the uneasy city. There was no triumph in his face, only a sureness of power that Sasha found infinitely worse.
Dmitrii caught sight of Sasha and stiffened. There was no welcome in his face, only a new, strange tension.
Sasha crossed the dooryard, keeping a wary eye on the priest.
