“Trick me, witch?” Konstantin’s voice had lost none of its beauty, but the control was gone; it boomed and cracked. “You yielded to the fire too; but it was all a trick. Am I to be taken in again? You and your devils. Bind her hands,” he added to the guard. “Bind her hands and feet. I will keep her in a chapel where devils cannot get in uninvited, and she cannot trick me again.”
The guards stirred uneasily, but none of them made a decisive movement forward.
“Now!” screamed Konstantin, stamping his foot. “Lest her devils come for us all!” His glance went with horror from Morozko at Vasya’s shoulder, to the Bear at his own side, to the house-chyerti gathered in the yard, watching—
Not watching the drama in the dooryard. Watching the gate.
Despite the rain, Vasya caught a whiff of rot. A little curl of triumph was playing about the Bear’s lips. There was no time. She must get Olya away…
A new voice fell into the tense silence. “Holy Father, what is this?”
Dmitrii Ivanovich strode into the dooryard. Attendants scurried, disregarded, at his back; his long yellow hair was dark with water, curling up under his cap. The guards parted to let the Grand Prince through. He halted in the center of the ring, looked directly at Vasya.
In his face was wonder. But not, Vasya noted, surprise. She met Dmitrii’s eyes with sudden hope.
“See?” snapped Konstantin, not slacking his grip on Olga. He had regained some control of his voice; the word snapped out like a fist.
“There is the witch that set fire to Moscow. She was, we thought, justly punished. But through black magic, here she stands.” This time the guards growled agreement. A dozen blades were pointed at Vasya’s breast.
“Hold them a few moments longer,” said the Bear to Konstantin.
“And we will have victory.”
A spasm of rage crossed Konstantin’s face.
“Vasya, tell Dmitrii you must pull back,” said Morozko. “There is no time.”
“Dmitrii Ivanovich, we must get into the palace,” said Vasya.
“Now.”
“A witch indeed,” said Dmitrii coldly to Vasya. “Back to the fire you will go, I will stake my reign on it. We do not suffer witches to live.
Holy Father,” he said to Konstantin. “Please. Both these women will
face the harshest justice. But it must be justice before all the people, not in the mud of the dooryard.”
Konstantin hesitated.
The Bear snarled suddenly. “Lies; he is lying. He knows. The monk told him.”
The gate shook. Screams sounded from the city. Thunder flashed in the streaming heavens. “Back!” snapped Morozko suddenly. This time the men heard him. Heads turned uneasily, wondering who had spoken. There was horror in his face. “Back now behind walls or you’ll all be dead by moonrise.”
There was a smell riding the wind that lifted every hair on her body. More screams came from the city. In a flash of lightning, the dvorovoi could be seen now with both hands against the shaking gate. “Batyushka, I beg you, ” she said to Konstantin, and threw herself in supplication in the mud at his feet.
The priest’s eyes followed her down, just for a moment, but it was enough. Dmitrii leaped for Olga, dragged her away from the priest just as the gate flew open. Konstantin’s knife caught in Olga’s veil, tore it away from her chin on one side, but Olga was unwounded, and Vasya was on her feet once more and scrambling back.
The dead came into the dooryard of the Grand Prince of Moscow.
THE PLAGUE HAD NOT been as bad as it could have been, that summer.
Not as bad as ten years before; it only sputtered among the poor of Moscow like tinder that refused to catch completely.
But the dead had died in fear and those were the ones the Bear could use. Now the result of the summer’s work came through the gate. Some wore their grave-clothes, some were naked, their bodies marked with the blackened swellings that had killed them. Worst of all, in their eyes was still that fear. They were still afraid, seeking in the darkness for anything familiar.
One of Dmitrii’s guards cried out, staring, “Holy Father, save us!”
Konstantin made not a sound; he was standing frozen, the knife still in his hand. Vasya wanted to kill him, as she’d never wanted to kill anyone in her life. She wanted to bury that knife in his heart.
But there was no time. Her family meant more than her own sorrow.
Faced with Konstantin’s silence, the guards were backing up, their nerve wavering. Dmitrii was still supporting Olga; unexpectedly he spoke to Vasya, his voice clear and calm. “Can those things be slain like men, Vasya?”
Vasya spoke Morozko’s answer, as he said it into her ear. “No. Fire will slow them, and injury, but that is all.”
Dmitrii shot the sky an irritated glance. It was still pouring rain.
“Not fire. Injury then,” he said and raised his voice to call concise orders.
Dmitrii had not Konstantin’s control, the liquid beauty of tone, but his voice was loud and brisk, even cheerful, encouraging his men.
Suddenly they were no longer a knot of frightened men, backing away from something horrible. Suddenly they were warriors, massed to face a foe.
Just in time. Their blades steadied just as the dead things ran for them, openmouthed. More and more dead things were coming through the gate. A dozen—more.
“Morozko!” Vasya snapped. “Can you—?”
