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.
Pulling her hand away, she said, “If you are forsworn, then back to this tree you will go, tied hand and foot and throat with this golden thing. And I will put out your other eye and you may live in darkness.”
“You were such a sweet child, when I first met you by this very tree,” remarked the Bear. “What happened?” His voice was mocking, but she could feel the tension in him, when she began to undo the golden clasps.
“What happened? Love, betrayal, and time,” said Vasya. “What happens to anyone who grows to understand you, Medved? Living happens.” Her hands slid along the oily gold, working at the buckles.
She wondered briefly how Kaschei had made it. Somewhere,
perhaps, there was an answer, somewhere there were secrets of magic beyond the setting of fires, the seeing of chyerti.
One day, perhaps, she would learn them, in far countries, beneath wilder skies.
Then the gold slithered away, all in a rush. The Bear was very still, flexing his unbound hands with a disbelief he couldn’t quite conceal.
She got to her feet. The gold was in two pieces: what had been the reins and the headstall of the bridle. She wrapped them around her wrists: a terrible prince’s ransom, shining.
The Bear rose, and stood beside her. His back was straight; his eye glittered. “Come then, mistress,” he said, half-mocking. “Where shall we go?”
“To my brother,” said Vasya grimly. “While it is still midnight, and he is still alive. But first—”
