The Girl in the Tower (Winternight Trilogy 2)

On the mare’s head was fastened a golden bridle, golden-bitted, attached to golden reins. With these Kasyan held her, nose bowed nearly to her breast. The mare looked as though she would take flight were it not for her rider’s grip. Her every movement was perfection, every turn of her head and toss of her silver-gold mane.

The bit had jagged points that thrust from her mouth. Vasya hated the bridle on sight.

The mare balked at the crowd, and her rider kicked her forward. She went, reluctantly, her tail lashing as she came. She tried to rear, but Kasyan brought her down and sent her bounding ahead with a spur to the flank.

The crowd did not cheer at their approach, but stayed motionless, entranced by the light and lovely footfalls.

Solovey’s ears tilted forward. That one will be fast, he said, and pawed the ground.

Vasya straightened on Solovey’s back. Her face stilled and set. This mare was no more an ordinary horse than Solovey. Where had Kasyan gotten her?

Well, she thought, it will be a race after all.

The golden mare halted. Her rider bowed, smiling. “God be with you, Dmitrii Ivanovich—Brother Aleksandr—Vasilii Petrovich.” In Kasyan’s face was joyful mischief. “Here is my lady. Zolotaya, I call her. It suits her, does it not?”

“It does,” said Vasya. “Why have I never seen her before?”

Kasyan’s smile did not waver, but something darkened in his eyes. “She is—precious to me, and I do not ride her often. But I thought it would be worth it to race her against your Solovey.”

Vasya bowed distractedly and did not reply. She had a glimpse of another domovoi, sitting wispily on a house roof; overhead she seemed to feel the rush of wings, and saw the bird-woman gazing at her from a perch atop a tower. A strange feeling began to creep down her spine.

Beside her, Dmitrii said, after a moment’s speechlessness: “Well.” He clapped Vasya on the back. “We will have a race, by God.”

Vasya nodded, the princes grinned and laughed. Just like that, the tension was broken. It was a blazing winter day, the last day of festival, with all Moscow turned out to cheer them. They clattered toward the kremlin-gate, and Kasyan fell in beside her. The crowd roared, crying encouragement to the horses bright and dark.

Down they went, through the kremlin-gate and out into the posad.

The whole city thronged the wall-top, the riverbank, the glittering fields. Daring boys choked the trees on the far side of the river and sent snow like water down onto the watchers below. “The boy!” Vasya heard. “The boy! He’s a feather, nothing at all—that big bay brute will carry him through.”

“Nay!” cried an answering voice. “Nay! Look at that mare, just look at her!”

The mare shook her head and jogged in place. Foam spattered her lips, and her every movement broke Vasya’s heart.

The procession of riders crossed the empty market-square and came down to the river. “Godspeed, Vasya,” said Dmitrii. “Ride fast, cousin.”

So saying, the prince spurred his horse away to a place by the finish. Sasha, with a lingering glance at Vasya, followed.

Solovey and the golden mare went on more sedately toward the start, their riders knee to knee, their horses nearly of a height. The bay stallion slanted an ear and blew peaceably at the golden mare, but she only pinned her ears and tried to snap, fighting the golden bridle.

The wide stretch of frozen river dazzled in the sun. On the far side, at the start and end of the race, the lords and bishops were gathered, furred and velveted, set like jewels in the river-road’s white, watching the two racers approach.

“Would you like to wager, Vasya?” asked Kasyan suddenly. The eagerness in his face echoed the eagerness in hers.

“A wager?” Vasya asked in surprise. She nudged Solovey out of the golden mare’s range. Up close, the fight in the other horse was palpable, like heat-shimmer.

Kasyan was grinning. In his eyes was a clear and unguarded triumph. “A wager,” he said. “I have already seen your gambler’s soul.”

“If I win,” she said impulsively, “give me your horse.”

Both Solovey’s ears slanted in her direction, and the golden mare’s ear twitched.

Kasyan’s lips thinned, but still there was that laughter in his eyes. “A great prize,” he said. “A great prize indeed. You are in the horse-collecting business now, I see, Vasya.” He put a soft intimacy into her name that brought her up short. “Very well,” he continued. “I will wager my horse against your hand in marriage.”

Her shocked gaze flew to his face.

And found him bending over the mare’s neck, snorting with laughter. “Do you think we are all as blind as the Grand Prince?”

She thought, No. Then—Admit it, deny it, has he known all the time? But before she could speak at all, he had urged the mare toward the starting line, his laughter still floating back, diamond-hard, over the still morning air.

The horses thudded down onto the ice, toward the gleaming ranks of people. The course had been marked out, twice around the city and back along the river, to where the Grand Prince waited.

Vasya’s breath steamed out between her lips. He knows. What does he want?

Solovey had gone stiff beneath her, his head up, his back rigid. A wild impulse surged through her: to run away and hide, where evil could never find her. No, she thought. No, better to face him. If he means wickedness, I will do no good by running. But to Solovey, she murmured grimly, “We will win. Whatever happens, we must win. If we win, he will never tell my secret. For he is a man, and he will never admit that a girl beat him.”

The horse’s ears eased back in answer.

As the horses went further out onto that great stretch of river-ice, the shouting, the wagering slowly went silent. In the stillness, the only movement was of smoke, spiraling against the pure sky.

No more time for talk. The start had been scratched in the pebbled snow, and a blue-lipped bishop, cap and cross black against the innocent sky, waited to bless the racers.

The blessing said, Kasyan bared his teeth at Vasya and spun his mare away. Vasya nudged Solovey, who turned in the opposite direction. The two horses made circles and came up walking side by side to the start. She could feel a ferocity gathering in the stallion beneath her, a hunger for speed, and she felt a loosening, an answering savagery in her own breast.

“Solovey,” she whispered, with love, and she knew the horse understood. She had a final impression of white sun and white snow and a sky the precise color of Morozko’s eyes. Then the two horses broke at the same instant. Any words Vasya might have said were whipped away and lost with the wind of their speed and the throat-shattering shriek of the crowd.

THE FIRST PART OF THE RACE took them straight down the river, where they would turn sharply to cut across the thick snow at the city’s foot. Solovey bounded along like a hare, and Vasya whooped as they raced for the first time past the crowd: a howl that defied them, defied her rival, defied the world.

The people’s answering cries floated over the snow and then it was as though the two horses were alone, running along the flat stride for stride.

The mare ran like a star falling, and Vasya realized, with disbelief, that on the open ground, she was faster than Solovey. The mare pulled ahead by a stride, and then another. The foam flew from her lips as her rider lashed her with the heavy rein. Could she keep it up, twice around the city? Vasya sat quiet and forward on Solovey’s back and the horse ran fast but easily. They were coming to the turn; Vasya could see the ice blue and slick. She sat up. Solovey gathered himself and turned up the bank without skidding.