The Bear and the Nightingale (Winternight Trilogy 1)

His smile widened. The steam wreathed his body until she could not tell mist from flesh. A red light heated the backs of his eyes, the color of hot stones. “A prophecy then, vedma.”

“Why do you call me that?” she whispered.

The bannik drifted up to the bench beside her. His beard was the curling steam. “Because you have your great-grandmother’s eyes. Now hear me. Before the end, you will pluck snowdrops at midwinter, die by your own choosing, and weep for a nightingale.”

Vasya felt cold despite the steam. “Why would I choose to die?”

“It is easy to die,” replied the bannik. “Harder to live. Do not forget me, Vasilisa Petrovna.” And there was only vapor where he had been. Holy Mother, Vasya thought, I’ve had enough of their mad warnings.

The two girls sat and sweated until they were flushed and shining, beat each other with birch-branches, and ladled cold water over their steaming heads. When they were clean, Dunya came with Anna to comb and braid their long hair. “It is a shame you are so like a boy, Vasya,” said Anna, running a comb of scented wood through Irina’s long chestnut curls. “I hope your husband will not be too disappointed.” She looked sideways at her stepdaughter. Vasya flushed and bit her tongue.

“But such hair,” said Dunya tartly. “The finest hair in Rus’, Vasochka.” And indeed it was longer and thicker than Irina’s, deep black with soft red lights.

Vasya managed a smile for her nurse. Irina had been told from babyhood that she was lovely as a princess. Vasya had been an ugly child, often and unfavorably compared with her delicate half sister. Recently, though, long hours on horseback—where her long limbs were useful—had put Vasya in better charity with herself, and in any case, she was not much given to contemplating her own reflection. The only mirror in the house was a bronze oval belonging to her stepmother.

Now though, every woman in the house seemed to be staring at her, assessing as though she were a goat fattening for market. It occurred to Vasya to wonder if there was something in being beautiful.

The two girls were dressed at last. Vasya’s head was wrapped in a maiden’s headdress, the silver wire hanging down to frame her face. Anna would never let Vasya outshine her own daughter, even if Vasya was the one being married, and so Irina’s headdress and sleeves were embroidered in seed pearls, her little sarafan of pale blue trimmed in white. Vasya wore green and deep blue, no pearls, and a bare hint of white embroidery. The plainness was her own fault; she had left much of the sewing to Dunya. But simplicity suited her. Anna’s face soured when she saw her stepdaughter dressed.

The two girls emerged into the dvor. The dooryard was mud to the ankles; rain misted gently down. Irina kept close to her mother. Pyotr waited in the dvor already, stiff in fine fur and embroidered boots. Kolya’s wife had come with her children; Vasya’s small nephew Seryozha ran around shouting. A great stain already marred his linen shirt. Father Konstantin stood by, silent.

“It is a strange time for a wedding,” said Alyosha low to Vasya, coming up beside her. “A dry summer and a small harvest.” His brown hair was clean, his short beard combed with scented oil. His blue-embroidered shirt matched the sash round his waist. “You are very lovely, Vasya.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” his sister rejoined. More seriously, she added, “Yes—and Father feels it.” Indeed, though Pyotr looked jovial, the line between his brows showed clear. “He looks like someone bound to an unpleasant duty. He must be quite desperate to send me away.”

She tried to make a joke of it, but Alyosha looked at her with quick understanding. “He is trying to keep you safe.”

“He loved our mother, and I killed her.”

Alyosha was silent a moment. “As you say. But, truly, Vasochka, he is trying to keep you safe. The horses have coats like duckdown, and the squirrels are still out, eating as though their lives depend on it. It will be a hard winter.”

A rider came through the palisade gate and galloped toward the house. The mud flew in great arcs from beneath his horse’s feet. He came to a skidding halt and sprang from the saddle: a man in his middle years, not tall but broadly built, weathered and brown-bearded. A hint of irrepressible youth lurked about his mouth. He had all his teeth, and his smile was bright as a boy’s. He bowed to Pyotr. “I am not late, I hope, Pyotr Vladimirovich?” he asked, laughing. The two men clasped forearms.

No wonder he outstripped Kolya, Vasya thought. Kyril Artamonovich was riding the most magnificent young horse she had ever seen. Even Buran, a prince among horses, looked rough-hewn next to the sinewy perfection of the roan stallion. She wanted to run her hands over the colt’s legs, feel the quality of his bone and muscle.

“I told Father this was a bad idea,” said Alyosha in her ear.

“What? And why?” said Vasya, preoccupied by the horse.

“To marry you off so soon. Because blushing maidens are supposed to look covetously upon the lords that vie for their hands, not upon the lords’ fine horses.”

Vasya laughed. Kyril was bowing to tiny Irina with exaggerated courtesy. “A rough setting, Pyotr Vladimirovich, to find such a jewel,” he said. “Little snowdrop, you ought to go south and bloom among our flowers.” He smiled, and Irina blushed. Anna looked at her daughter with some complacency.

Kyril turned toward Vasya, the easy smile still on his lips. It died away quite when he saw her. Vasya thought he must be displeased with her appearance; she raised her chin a defiant fraction. All the better. Find another wife if I displease you. But Alyosha understood his darkening eyes very well. Vasya looked you full in the face: she was more like a warrior unblooded than a house-bred girl, and Kyril was staring in fascination. He bowed to her, the smile once more playing about his lips, but it was not the smile he’d given Irina. “Vasilisa Petrovna,” he said. “Your brother said you were beautiful. You are not.” She stiffened, and his smile deepened. “You are magnificent.” His eyes swept her from headdress to slippered feet.

Beside her, Alyosha’s hand clenched into a fist. “Are you mad?” hissed Vasya. “He has the right; we are betrothed.”

Alyosha was eyeing Kyril very coldly. “This is my brother,” said Vasya hurriedly. “Aleksei Petrovich.”

“Well met,” said Kyril, looking amused. He was nearly ten years the elder. His eyes swept Vasya once more, leisurely. Her skin prickled under her clothes. She could hear Alyosha grinding his teeth.

At that moment there came a snort, a shriek, and a splash. They all spun around. Seryozha, Vasya’s nephew, had crept to the off-side of Kyril’s red stallion and tried to clamber into the saddle. Vasya could sympathize—already she wanted to ride the red colt—but the unexpected weight had left the young stallion rearing and wild-eyed. Kyril ran to seize his horse’s bridle. Pyotr heaved his grandson from the mud and clouted him across the ear. At that moment, Kolya came galloping into the dvor, and his arrival put a cap on the confusion. Seryozha’s mother carried the boy away, howling. Far down the road, the first wagon of the rest of the party appeared, vivid against the gray autumn forest. The women hastily went into the house to dish up the noon meal.

“It is only natural that he preferred Irina, Vasya,” said Anna, while they wrestled an immense stew-pot. “A mongrel dog will never equal a purebred. At least your mother is dead—all the easier to forget your unfortunate ancestry. You’re strong as a horse; that counts for something.”