The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy 3)

Konstantin felt the air thick in his lungs, as though he were trying to breathe smoke.

“We cannot dally,” said the Bear. “The first blow—the first blow must be struck tonight.”

Konstantin said, “You tricked me before.”

“And I might again,” returned the other. “Are you afraid?”

“No,” said Konstantin. “I believe in nothing and I fear nothing.”

The Bear laughed. “As it should be. Because that is the only way you can play for everything, when you do not fear to lose.”

6.

No Bones, No Flesh

DMITRII AND HIS MEN TORE apart the fire on the river. Sasha worked alongside the others in the most hopeless and terrible desperation. In the end, a field of smoldering logs lay glowing across a stretch of pitted and steaming ice. The cage looked just like the rest of the charred wood; they could barely tell which pieces had formed it. The crowd had fled; it was the coldest and blackest part of the night. They stood in a field of dying fire, caught between the cold earth and the spring stars.

The terrible strength that had animated Sasha’s limbs suddenly vanished. He leaned against his mare’s smoke-smelling shoulder. Nothing. There was nothing left of her. He could not stop shivering.

Dmitrii pushed the loose hair from his brow, made the sign of the cross. Low he said, “God rest her spirit.” He laid a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “It is for no man to undertake justice in my city without my leave. You will have vengeance.”

Sasha said nothing. But the Grand Prince was surprised at the look on his cousin’s face. Grief, of course, anger. But also—puzzlement?

“Brother?” said Dmitrii.

“Look,” Sasha whispered. He kicked one log apart, and then another, pointed to the remains of the cage.

“What?” said Dmitrii warily.

“No bones,” said Sasha, and swallowed. “No flesh.”

“Burned away,” said Dmitrii. “The fire was hot.”

Sasha shook his head once. “It didn’t burn long enough.”

“Come,” said Dmitrii, looking worried now. “Cousin, I know you wish her alive, but she did go in. She could not have come out again.”

“No,” said Sasha, drawing a deep breath. “No, that would be impossible.” But still he glanced again at the red and black hellscape of the river, and then abruptly went to his horse. “I am going to my sister.”

Startled silence. Then Dmitrii understood. “Very well,” he said. “Tell the Princess of Serpukhov that I—that I am sorry for her grief, and yours. She—was a brave girl. God be with you.”

Words, only words. Sasha knew that Dmitrii could not wholly regret Vasya’s death; she had been a problem he didn’t know how to solve. Yet—the fire had contained no bones. And Vasya—you could not always predict Vasya. Sasha wheeled his mare and kicked her to full gallop up the hill of the posad and through the gates of Moscow.

Dmitrii turned, scowling, to snap orders and marshal his guards. He was very weary, and now there had been two fires in Moscow, the second, in its own way, as destructive as the first.

* * *

SASHA FOUND OLGA’S GATES SMASHED, the dooryard trampled. But Dmitrii had sent all of his own men-at-arms that could be spared. They had established some kind of order, kept the outbuildings from looting. The dooryard was quiet.

Sasha passed Dmitrii’s men with a soft word. A few of the grooms had straggled back after the crowd went down to the river. Sasha roused one in the stable and thrust him the reins of his mare, barely pausing.

The snow of the dooryard was daubed and spattered with blood, and there were the marks of boots and blades on the door to the terem. A fearful serving-woman opened at last to his knocking; he had to persuade her to let him in.

Olga was sitting by the hot brick of the stove in her bedchamber, still awake and still dressed. Her face was drawn and gray in the candlelight; exhausted shadows smeared her milky beauty. Marya was weeping hysterically into her mother’s lap, black hair flung about like water. The two were alone. Sasha paused in the doorway. Olga took in his filthy, blistered, soot-streaked appearance and blanched.

“If you have news, it can wait,” she said, with a look at the child.

Sasha hardly knew what to say; his faint, terrible hope seemed foolish in the face of the blood-spattered dvor, in the face of Marya’s wild grief. “Is Masha all right?” he said, crossing the room and kneeling beside his sister.

“No,” said Olga.

Marya lifted her head, wet-eyed, with marks like bruising about the lids. “They killed him!” she sobbed. “They killed him and he would never hurt anyone but the wicked, and he loved porridge and they shouldn’t have killed him!” Her eyes were savage. “I am going to wait for Vasya to get back, and we are going to go and kill all the people that hurt him.” She glared about the room and then her eyes welled once more. The rage drained out of her, fast as it had come. She fell to her knees, hunched up small, weeping into her mother’s lap.

Olga stroked her daughter’s hair. Up close, Sasha could see Olga’s hand tremble.

“There was a mob,” said Sasha, low-voiced. “Vasya—”

Olga put her finger to her lips, with a glance at her sobbing child. But she shut her black eyes the briefest instant. “God be with her,” she said.

Marya lifted her head once more. “Uncle Sasha, did Vasya come back with you? She needs us; she will be sad.”

“Masha,” said Olga gently. “We must pray for Vasya. I fear she has not come back.”

“But she—”

“Masha,” said Olga. “Hush. We do not know all that happened; we must wait to find out. Mornings are wiser than evenings. Come, will you sleep?”

Marya would not. She was on her feet. “She has to come back!” she cried. “Where would she go if she didn’t come back?”

“Perhaps she has gone to God,” said Olga, steadily. She did not lie to her children. “If so, let her soul find rest.”

The child stared between her mother and her uncle, lips parted with horror. And then she turned her head, as though someone else in the room were speaking. Sasha followed her gaze to the corner by the stove. There was no one there. A chill ran down his spine.

“No, she hasn’t!” cried Marya, scrambling free of her mother’s arms. She scrubbed at her wet eyes. “She’s not with God. You’re wrong! She’s—where?” Marya demanded of the empty place near the floor. “Midnight is not a place.”