Vladimir didn’t move. His eyes were on the Bear. “What black devilry is this?”
Happily, the Bear said, “The worst kind.”
Vladimir made the sign of the cross with a hand that shook.
Someone shouted in Tatar. Vasya whipped round and saw that Medved, enjoying their terror, had made himself visible against the sky. Vladimir Andreevich was on the edge of fleeing back to his enemies.
Furious, Vasya uncoiled a golden rope, and said, “Are we allies or no, Medved? I am getting tired of you.”
“Oh, I do not like that thing,” said the Bear. But his mouth closed; he seemed to shrink. Men were coming nearer.
“Get on the horse,” Vasya said to Vladimir.
There was no saddle or bridle, but the Prince of Serpukhov heaved himself to the gelding’s back, just as Vasya vaulted onto a piebald mare.
“Who are you?” whispered Vladimir, his voice cold with fright.
“I am Olga’s younger sister,” said Vasya. “Go!” She slapped the haunch of Vladimir’s mount, and then they were away, over the grass, dodging between sparse trees, seeking the dark, and leaving the Tatars at last behind them.
The Bear laughed at her as they galloped away. “Now, don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that,” he said.
Answering laughter rose in her: the giddy joy of striking fear in her enemies’ hearts. She tamped it down, but not before her eyes met the gaze of the king of chaos, and she saw her own reckless delight reflected there.
SASHA AND MIDNIGHT WERE just where Vasya had left them, double-mounted on Voron. Pozhar met them there too, in the form of a horse. Her every footfall made sparks; her eye was molten.
Vasya felt a surge of relief at the sight of them.
“Brother Aleksandr,” said Vladimir, still sputtering. “Can it be—”
“Vladimir Andreevich,” said Sasha. “Vasya.” And to her surprise, Sasha slid down Voron’s back just as she got off her Tatar mare. They embraced.
“Sasha,” she said. “How—” His back had been bound, and his hand. He moved stiffly, but not in a haze of pain.
He glanced back at Polunochnitsa. “We rode into the dark,” he said, frowning as though it were hard to remember. “I was barely conscious. There was the sound of water on rock. A house that smelled of honey and garlic. And an old woman there who bound my back. She said—she said she preferred daughters, but that I would do. Would I like to stay? I don’t know what I answered. I slept. I don’t know how long. But every time I woke, it was still midnight.
Then Polunochnitsa came and said I had slept long enough, and she brought me back. I almost—it seems like the old woman called after us, sadly, but I might have dreamed it.”
Vasya raised an eyebrow at Polunochnitsa. “You took him to the lake? How long was he there?”
“Long enough,” said Midnight, unrepentant.
“You didn’t think it would send him mad?” Vasya asked, with an edge.
“No,” said Polunochnitsa. “He was asleep, mostly. And also, he is very like you.” She gave Sasha a proprietary look. “Besides he couldn’t sit upright and reeked of blood, and that irritated me. It was easier to let the witch fix him. She regrets Tamara, you know, as much as she is angry.”
Vasya said, “It was kind then, my friend,” to the midnight-demon.
Polunochnitsa looked simultaneously suspicious and pleased.
“You have met our great-grandmother,” Vasya added to her brother. “She is a madwoman who lives in Midnight. She is cruel and lonely, and sometimes kind.”
“The old woman?” said Sasha. “I—no. Surely not. Our great-grandmother must be dead.”
“She is,” said Vasya. “But that doesn’t matter, in Midnight.”
Sasha looked thoughtful. “I would go back. When this is over.
Cruel or no, she seemed to know a great many things.”
“Perhaps we can go together,” said Vasya.
“Perhaps,” said Sasha. They grinned at each other, like children contemplating adventures, instead of a witch and a monk on the cusp of battle.
Vladimir Andreevich was shooting them both black looks. “Brother Aleksandr,” he broke in stiffly, making the sign of the cross. “This is a strange meeting.”
“God be with you,” said Sasha.
“And what in God’s name—” began the Prince of Serpukhov, before Vasya interjected hastily.
“Sasha will explain,” she said, “while I perform one last errand. If we are fortunate, we will have company on the way north.”
“Better hurry,” said the Bear. He was looking critically over the Tatar camp where they had begun relighting their fires. Pozhar’s ears twitched at the faint noise of their furious shouting. “They’re like a stirred-up beehive.”
“You’re coming with me,” she told him. “I don’t trust you out of my sight.”
