The Bear and the Nightingale (Winternight Trilogy 1)

“You have bad manners,” Vasya told him. “But I suppose Kyril Artamonovich drags you around by the mouth.”

The colt put his ears forward. You do not look like a horse.

Vasya grinned. “Thank God. Do you not wish to go hunting?”

The horse considered. I like running. But the pig smells foul, and the man will strike me if I am afraid. I’d rather graze in a field. Vasya laid a comforting hand on the horse’s neck. Kyril was going to ruin the beautiful colt—little more than a foal—if he kept on. The colt bumped her chest with his nose. Water and greenish slime dribbled onto her dress.

“Now I’m more of a scarecrow than usual,” Vasya remarked, to no one in particular. “Anna Ivanovna will be delighted.”

“The pig won’t hurt you if you’re quick,” she added to Ogon. “And you are the quickest thing in the world, my beauty. You need not fear.”

The colt said nothing, but put his head in her arms. Vasya rubbed his silky ears and sighed. She would have liked nothing better than a wild ride through autumn forest, preferably on the long-legged Ogon, who looked as though he could outrun a hare in an open field. Instead, she was to go to the kitchen, knead bread, and listen to the gossip of a bevy of visiting women. All this while Irina showed off her many perfections and Vasya tried not to burn anything.

“Ordinarily I would curse a maid for a fool that got so near my horse,” said a voice from behind her. Ogon threw his head up, nearly breaking Vasya’s nose. “But you have a hand with beasts, Vasilisa Petrovna.” Kyril Artamonovich came toward them, smiling. He caught the colt by his rope halter.

“Hush, mad thing,” he said. The colt rolled his eyes but stood, shivering.

“You are abroad early, my lord,” said Vasya, recovering.

“As are you, Vasilisa Petrovna.” Their breath made clouds; the stable was chilly.

“There is much to do,” said Vasya. “The women will ride to meet you after the kill, if the day is fine. And tonight we are feasting.”

He grinned. “No need to excuse yourself, devushka. I think it a fine thing in a girl to rise early, and to interest herself in a man’s stock.” He had a dimple on one side of his mouth. “I’ll not tell your father that I found you here.”

Vasya regained her composure. “Tell him if you will,” she said.

He smiled. “I like your spirit.”

She shrugged.

“Your sister is prettier than you,” he added musingly. “She will be an easy wife in a few years’ time: a little flower. Not a girl to trouble a man’s nights. But you—” Kyril reached out, pulled her to him, and ran a hand down her back, in an assessing sort of way. “Too many bones,” he said, “but I like a strong girl. And you will not die in childbed.” He handled her confidently, with the expectation of being obeyed. “Will you like making me sons?” He kissed her before she knew, while she was still bewildered by the strength in his hands. His kiss was like his touch: firm, with a sort of proficient enjoyment. Vasya shoved at him, to little effect. He tilted her face up, digging his fingers into the soft place behind her jaw. Her head swam. He smelled of musk and mead and horses. His hand was very large, splayed against her back. His other hand slid over her shoulder and breast and hip.

Whatever he found seemed to please him. When he let her go, his chest heaved, and his nostrils flared like a stallion’s. Vasya stood still, swallowing her nausea. She looked up into his face. I am a mare to him, she thought suddenly and clearly. And if a mare will not yield to harness, well, he will break her.

Kyril’s smile slipped a fraction. She could not know how much he had seen of her pride and scorn. His eyes strayed again to her mouth, the shape of her body, and she knew he saw her fear as well. The brief unease left his face. He reached for her again, but Vasya was quicker. She struck his hand aside, ran from the stable, and did not look back. When she reached the kitchen, she was so pale that Dunya made her sit by the fire and drink hot wine until a little color came back into her face.

ALL THAT DAY, A COLD mist rose from the earth, winding itself about the trees. The hunt made a kill near midday. Vasya, wielding a bread paddle with grim competence, heard, faintly, the shriek of the dying animal. It matched her mood.

The women left the house at gray noontide, with men to lead the laden packhorses. Konstantin rode out with them, his face pale and exalted in the autumn light. Men and women watched him with reverence and furtive admiration. Vasya, avoiding the priest, stayed with Irina near the back of the cavalcade, shortening her mare’s long stride to match Irina’s pony.

The mist crept over the earth. The women complained of chill and drew their cloaks about them.

Suddenly Mysh reared. Even Irina’s placid beast shied, so that the child gave a stifled scream and clutched her reins. Vasya hastily brought the mare down and caught the pony’s bridle. She followed Mysh’s ears with her eyes. A white-skinned creature stood between two tall birch trunks. He was man-shaped and light-eyed. His hair was the tangled undergrowth of the forest. He cast no shadow. “It’s all right,” Vasya said to Mysh. “That does not eat horses. Only foolish travelers.”

The mare swiveled her ears but, hesitantly, began to walk again.

“Leshy, lesovik,” murmured Vasya as they rode past. She bowed from the waist. He was the wood-guard—the leshy—and he seldom came so close to men.

“I would speak with you, Vasilisa Petrovna.” The wood-guard’s voice was the whisper of branches at dawn.

“Presently,” she said, mastering her surprise.

Beside her, Irina squeaked, “Who are you talking to, Vasya?”

“No one,” said Vasya. “Myself.”

Irina was quiet. Vasya sighed inwardly—Irina would tell her mother.

They found the hunters a little way into the forest, taking their ease under a great tree. They had already hung the pig, a sow, by her hocks from a massive limb. Her slit throat drained blood into a bucket. The wood rang with laughter and boasting.

Seryozha, who considered himself quite grown, had only with difficulty been persuaded to ride with the women. Now he leaped from his pony and darted over to stare, round-eyed, at the hanging pig. Vasya slid from Mysh’s back and gave the reins into a servant’s hand.

“A fine beast we have taken, is it not, Vasilisa Petrovna?” The voice came from her elbow. She whirled round. The blood had caked in the lines of Kyril’s palms, but his boyish smile was undimmed.

“The meat will be welcome,” said Vasya.

“I will save the liver for you.” His glance was speculative. “You could use fattening.”

“You are generous,” said Vasya. She bowed her head and slipped away, like a maiden too modest for speech. The women were extracting a cold meal from laden bundles. Carefully, Vasya worked herself closer and closer to a little grove of birch, then slipped among the trees and disappeared.

She did not see Kyril smile to himself and follow.

LESHIYE WERE DANGEROUS. WHEN they wished, they could lead travelers in circles until they collapsed. Sometimes the travelers were wise enough to put their clothes on backward for protection—but not often; they mostly died.

Vasya found him at the center of a little copse of birch. The leshy looked down at her with glittering eyes.