“Come on,” she said to the Bear. “We have to free the Prince of Serpukhov, and then we must persuade Oleg of Ryazan that he is fighting for the wrong side.”

Following her, the Bear said reflectively, “I might even enjoy that.

Although it rather depends on your method of persuasion.”

VASYA’S FIRES HAD BURNED down to scarlet embers, but they glowed on every hand, illuminating the Tatar encampment with a hellish light.

Weary men were catching the foam-streaked horses and whispering

among themselves; the air of unease was palpable. The Bear surveyed the remains of turmoil with a critical eye. “Admirable,” he said. “I’ll make a creature of chaos of you yet.”

She feared she was already halfway there, but she was not saying that to him.

The Bear said, “What do you mean to do?”

Vasya told him her plan.

He laughed. “A few shambling corpses would be better. Nothing better for getting people to do what you want.”

“We are not disturbing any more dead souls!” snapped Vasya.

“You may find it tempting, before the end.”

“Not tonight,” said Vasya. “Can you set fires, yourself?”

“Yes, and put them out too. Fear and fire are my tools, sweet maiden.”

“Can you smell my cousin?”

“Russian blood?” he asked. “Do you think me a witch in a fairy tale?”

“Yes or no.”

He lifted his head and snuffed the night. “Yes,” he said, growling a little. “Yes, I suppose I can.”

Vasya turned to have a quick word with Pozhar. Then she followed the Bear into the Tatar camp on foot. As she did, she took a deep breath and forgot that she was anything but a shadow, walking beside another shadow. One with teeth.

Invisibly, they slipped into the chaos of the camp, and the Bear, in his element, seemed to grow. He moved unerringly through the noise, the little knots of still-frightened horses, and where he passed, the horses shied and fires flared. Men turned clammy faces toward the darkness. He grinned at them, blew sparks into their clothes.

“Enough,” said Vasya. “Find my cousin. Or I will bind you with more than just promises.”

“There is more than one Russian here,” said the Bear irritably. “I can’t—” He caught her eye and finished almost meekly, except for a

hint of sudden laughter in his eyes. “But that one smells like the far north.”

She followed him, quicker now. Finally, he halted near the center of the camp. Instinctively she wanted to flatten herself, hiding in the shadow of a round tent, but that would mean she believed the soldiers could see her.

They couldn’t. She held that thought and stayed where she was.

A bound man was kneeling, silhouetted, beside a well-tended fire.

All around, soldiers were soothing their restive horses.

Three men stood near the fire, arguing. With the light behind them, it took her a moment to recognize Mamai and Chelubey and Oleg. She wished she could understand what they were saying.

“They are deciding whether or not to kill him,” said the beast beside her. “It seems your escape has made them wary.”

“You understand Tatar?”

“I understand the speech of men,” said the Bear, just as a dazzle of fresh light poured over the camp, panicking the horses all over again.

Vasya didn’t look up. She knew what she would see: Pozhar soaring overhead, streaming smoke, her fiery wings making arcs of scarlet and blue, gold and white.

I can’t make the earth catch fire like I did in the city, Pozhar had said, when Vasya asked. That was—I was so angry, I was maddened with anger. I can’t do it again.

“You don’t have to,” Vasya returned. “Just dazzle them. It will send a message to my countrymen.” She patted the horse comfortingly, and Pozhar bit her on the shoulder.

Now all around the camp, men looked to the sky. A babble of renewed talk broke out. She heard the snap of bowstrings, saw a few arrows arc up into the night, but Pozhar was keeping out of range. A wondering cry, quickly silenced, rose from one of the Russians: “Zhar Ptitsa!”

“Can you make it so they can see you?” Vasya asked the Bear, not taking her eyes off the general.

“With your blood,” he said.

She gave him her grazed hand; he clung greedily, then she yanked her fingers back again.

“At the right moment then,” she said.

Holding fast to the knowledge that they could not see her, she crept into the light. The three men were still arguing, shouting at each other now, while the bird, shining, impossible, soared overhead.

Vasya walked up behind them, unspooled her golden rope, and wrapped it around Mamai’s throat.

He managed a choked gasp, and then he froze, caught by Kaschei’s magic and her own will.

Everyone in sight froze too. They could see her now. “Good evening,” said Vasya. It was hard to get the breath to speak steadily.

The eyes of two dozen expert bowmen were on her; many of them already had arrows up.

“You can’t kill me before I kill him,” she said to them. “Even if you fill me with arrows.” In one hand, she had the golden rope, but in the other was her knife, pressed to Mamai’s throat. She thought she heard Oleg’s voice, interpreting, but she didn’t look around to see.

Chelubey had drawn his sword; he took one furious step toward her, then stopped at Mamai’s wordless, pained sound.

“I am here for the Prince of Serpukhov,” said Vasya.

Mamai made another inarticulate croak, and then said something that sounded like an order. “Silence!” she snapped, and he stood rigid when she pressed the dagger a little more into his neck.

Oleg was gaping at her like a landed fish. Above them the firebird cried again, wheeling, bright against the clouds. The Tatars’ horses plunged. Out of the corner of her eye, Vasya glimpsed men, as though despite themselves, lifting their faces to the light.

Chelubey was the first to recover his wits. “You won’t leave here alive, girl.”