The Girl in the Tower (Winternight Trilogy 2)

Dmitrii’s guards, who had stayed more for Andrei’s good beer than to watch Sasha’s bolted door, groped blearily for their swords. Some of the monks had torches; all of them looked outraged. Vasya was at the center of a growing crowd.

“She must have climbed the wall,” one of the guards was stammering defensively. He made the sign of the cross. “She appeared out of nowhere, the unnatural bitch.”

The wall had been built more to preserve the sanctity of the monks’ devotions than to keep out the determined. But it was reasonably high. Gathering himself, Sasha stepped into the ring of torchlight.

Cries of startled anger met him, and one of the guards tried to put his sword to Sasha’s throat. Sasha, barely looking, disarmed the man with a twist and an open palm. Then he was holding a sword in his bare fist, and all the monks fell back. The men-at-arms groped for their own blades, but Sasha barely saw them. There was blood on his sister’s hands.

“Why have you come?” he demanded. “What has happened? Is it Olya?”

“She lost her child,” replied Vasya steadily.

Sasha seized his sister’s arm. “Is she alive?”

Vasya made a small, involuntary sound. Sasha remembered that Kasyan had also gripped her there, when he stripped her before the people. He let her go slowly. “Tell me,” he said, forcing calm.

“Yes,” said Vasya fiercely. “Yes, she is alive, and she will live.”

Sasha let out a breath. Great arcs of pain shadowed his sister’s eyes.

Andrei pushed his way through the crowd. “Be silent, all of you,” said the hegumen. “Girl—”

“You must listen to me now, Batyushka,” Vasya interrupted.

“We will not!” replied Andrei in anger, but Sasha said, “Listen to what, Vasya?”

“It is tonight,” she said. “Tonight, when the feasting is at its pitch, and all Moscow is drunk, Kasyan means to kill the Grand Prince, send Moscow into chaos, and emerge triumphant as Grand Prince himself. Dmitrii has no son; Vladimir is in Serpukhov. You must believe me.” She turned suddenly to Rodion, who stood behind the monks. “Brother Rodion,” she said in that clear voice. “You have come quick to Moscow. What brought you in haste? Do you believe me, Brother?”

“Yes,” Rodion said. “I have come from Bashnya Kostei. Perhaps a week ago I would have laughed at you—but now? It is perhaps as you say.”

“She is lying,” said Andrei. “Girls often lie.”

“No,” said Rodion slowly. “No, I do not think she is.”

Sasha asked, “You left Olya to come to me? Surely our sister needs you now.”

“She threw me out,” said Vasya. Her eyes did not leave her brother’s, though her voice caught on the words. “We must warn Dmitrii Ivanovich.”

“I cannot let you go, Brother Aleksandr,” broke in Andrei, desperately. “It is as much as my place and my own life are worth.”

“He certainly cannot,” put in one of the guards, thickly.

The monks looked at each other.

Sasha and Rodion, old campaigners both, looked from the hegumen to each other, to the drunken ring of men. Vasya waited, head tilted, as though she could hear things they could not.

“We will escape,” said Sasha gently and low to Andrei. “I am a dangerous man. Bar the gates, Father. Set a watch.”

Andrei looked long and hard into the younger man’s face. “I never faulted your judgment, before today,” he murmured back. Lower still, he added. “God be with you, my sons.” A pause. Then, grudgingly, “And you, my daughter.”

Vasya smiled at him then. Andrei shut his mouth with a snap. His eyes met Sasha’s. “Take them,” he said aloud. “Put Brother Aleksandr—”

But Sasha already had his sword up; three strokes disarmed the drunken guards and they bulled through the rest. Rodion used the haft of his ax to clear a path, and Vasya stayed sensibly between them. Then they were clear of the ring of people and running down the cloister to the postern-gate that would take them out into Moscow.

THE PAIN FROM VASYA’S blow had blinded Konstantin; for a moment he stood doubled over in the reeking bathhouse, with red lights flashing before his eyes. He heard the door open and slam. Then silence, save for the sounds of weeping in the inner room.

Feeling sick, he opened his eyes.

Vasya was gone. A wispy creature sat studying him with grave curiosity.

Konstantin jerked upright so fast his vision darkened once more.

“You have been touched by the one-eyed god,” the bannik informed the priest. “The eater. So you see us. I haven’t met one of your sort in a long time.” The bannik sat back on his fat, naked, foggy haunch. “Would you like to hear a prophecy?”

Icy sweat broke out over all Konstantin’s body. He stumbled upright. “Back, devil. Get away from me!”

The bannik did not stir. “You will be great among men,” he informed the priest, maliciously. “And you will get only horror of it.”

Konstantin’s sweaty hand lay heavy on the latch. “Great among men?”

The bannik snorted and hurled a ladleful of scalding water. “Get out, poor hungry creature. Get out and leave the dead in peace.” He hurled more water.

Konstantin screamed and half-fell, dripping and burned, out of the bathhouse. Vasya—where was Vasya? She could lift this curse. She could tell him—

But Vasya was gone. He stumbled around the dooryard awhile, searching, but there was no sign of her. Not even footprints. Of course she was gone. Was she not a witch, in league with demons?

Kasyan Lutovich had promised him vengeance, if only he would perform one little task. “Hate the little witches?” Kasyan had said. “Well, your Vasya is not the only witch in Moscow. Do this thing for me. Afterward, I will help you—”

Promises, empty promises. What matter what Kasyan Lutovich said? Men of God did not take vengeance. But…

This is not vengeance, Konstantin thought. Battle against evil, as was good in the sight of God. Besides, if all that Kasyan said was true—then Konstantin might indeed become a bishop. Only first—

Konstantin Nikonovich, with bitterness in his soul, went off toward the tower of the terem. It was almost empty, its fires guttering. Olga’s women were all with the princess, in the bathhouse at his back.

But not quite empty. A black-eyed girl-child slept in the terem, with ghosts in her innocent eyes. Her guard on that tumultuous night was a fond old nurse who would never question his authority as a priest.

SASHA AND RODION AND VASYA paused an instant to breathe in the shadow of the monastery wall. The monastery behind them muttered like a spring-flood; it was only a matter of time before Dmitrii’s guards burst forth in angry pursuit. “Hurry,” Vasya said.

The revel was dying away now, as the drunks staggered home. The next day was the Day of Forgiveness. The three ran up the hill unremarked, keeping to the shadows. Sasha carried his stolen sword, and Rodion had an ax.

The Grand Prince’s palace stood blocky and impregnable at the crown of the hill. Torches lit the wooden gate, and two shivering guards flanked it, ice in their beards. It certainly did not look like a palace in imminent danger.