“You shattered him,” she said.

“Perhaps. Though I did not make the cracks.”

Perhaps it was a fitting epitaph for Father Konstantin, to be regretted by a chaos-spirit. The Bear was leaning his head against the bole of the tree, as though untroubled, but the single eye was fixed on her. “Devushka, you are not here to lament Konstantin Nikonovich.

Then why?”

“My brother is a prisoner of the Tatar general Mamai. And my brother-in-law with him,” she said.

The Bear snorted. “Kind of you to tell me. I hope they both die screaming.”

She said, “I cannot free them alone. I tried, and I failed.”

The eye took in her disheveled appearance again. “Did you?” His smile was almost whimsical. “What does that have to do with me?”

Vasya’s hands were shaking. “I mean to save them,” she said. “And after must save Rus’ from invasion. I cannot do it alone. I joined the war between you and your twin, when I helped Morozko bind you.

But now I want you to join my war. Medved, will you help me?”

She had shocked him. The gray eye widened. But his voice was still light. “Help you?”

“I will make you a bargain.”

“What makes you think I’ll keep it?”

“Because,” she said, “I don’t think you want to spend eternity under this tree.”

“Very well.” He leaned forward, as far as the gold would allow. The words were scarcely more than a breath against her ear. “What bargain, devushka?”

“I will undo this golden thing,” she said. She traced the line of the binding, throat to wrist to hand. The golden bridle wanted to hold on; it was a tool made to bend one creature to another’s will. It resisted her, but when she slipped a finger beneath and pulled it just a little away from his skin, it gave.

Medved shuddered.

She did not want to see hope in his eyes. She wanted him to be a monster.

But monsters were for children. He was powerful, in his own fashion, and for her brother’s sake, she needed him.

Thinking of that, she opened the skin of her thumb on her dagger.

His hand reached out involuntarily, drawn to the virtue in her blood.

She drew away before he could touch her.

“If I release you, then you will serve me as Midnight serves my great-grandmother,” said Vasya grimly. “You will fight my battles and connive at my victories; if I summon, you will answer. You will swear never to lie to me, but give true counsel. You will not betray me, but always keep faith. You will also swear never again to turn your plagues onto Rus’: no terror or fire or dead alive. Under those conditions, and those alone, will I free you.”

He laughed. “The effrontery,” he said. “Just because my brother abased himself for your ugly face? Tell me why I should be your dog?”

Vasya smiled. “Because the world is wide and very beautiful, and you are tired of this clearing. I saw how you looked at the stars the night by the lake. Because, as you have noticed, I am like a chaos-spirit myself, and where I go disorder goes too. You enjoy that sort of thing. Because the fight between you and your brother is over, for

you are both joining my war. And—perhaps you will like serving me.

It would be a battle of wits at least.”

He snorted, “Your wits, witch-girl?”

“They are improving,” said Vasya, and touched his face with the hand she’d cut on her knife-blade.

He jerked back, even as his flesh grew more solid beneath her fingers. His hands flexed under the golden binding.

He stared at her, breathing shallowly. “Oh, now I know why my brother wanted you,” he whispered. “Sea-maiden, witch’s daughter.

But one day you will go mad with magic. Just like every witch, every sorcerer that ever lived. And then you will be mine. Perhaps I’ll just…

wait.”

“One day,” said Vasya mildly, dropping her hand, “I will die. I will go into the darkness, into the wood between worlds where your brother guides the dead. But I will still be myself. If I am mad, I will not be yours. And dead I will not be his.”

He breathed out half a laugh, but the gray eye was sharp.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Still, exchange prison for slavery? Wear the golden rope here, trapped by the priest’s blood? Or wear it elsewhere, a slave to your will? You haven’t offered me nearly enough to get me to help you.”

Pozhar squealed suddenly. Vasya did not look round, but somehow the sound gave her courage. She knew she’d never keep the mare’s loyalty if she took a slave—any slave—with the help of that golden thing.

She took a deep breath. “No, you will not wear the rope. I am not Kaschei the Deathless. I am going to take your oath. Will it bind you, Medved?”

He stared.

She went on, “I imagine it might, since your own twin took your word. Swear to me, and I will free you. Or would you prefer sitting here to fighting a war?”

Avid hunger in his face, there and gone. “A war,” he breathed.

She fought nerves, made herself speak calmly. “Between Mamai and Dmitrii,” she said. “You should know. You were the one that ensured the silver would be lost.”

He shrugged. “I only cast bread on the water, devushka. And see what comes up to eat it.”

“Well, war is kindled; Dmitrii had no choice. And you, lover of battles, can help us. Will you swear to me, and come into the night?”

She rose and stepped back. “Or perhaps you prefer to stay; perhaps it is beneath your dignity to be a girl’s servant.”

He laughed and laughed, and then he said, “In a thousand lives of men, I have never been anyone’s servant.” He gave her another long look. “And it will enrage my brother.” She bit her lip. “You have my oath—Vasilisa Petrovna.” He put his bound wrist to his mouth and bit his hand suddenly, just where finger met thumb. Blood, clear and sulfur-smelling, welled out. He put out a thick-fingered hand.

“What does your blood do to someone who is not dead?” she asked.

“Karachun told you, did he?” he said. “It gives you life, wild girl.

Haven’t I sworn not to harm you?”

She hesitated, and then clasped his hand, her blood sluggish on his skin, his blood stinging where it touched. She felt a jolt of unpleasant energy, burning away her weariness.