Morozko seemed to gather himself, and then he smiled. It was the smile of the winter-king, old and fair and unknowable. Any hint of deeper feeling vanished from his face. “Well, mad thing?” he asked. “What do you mean to ask me? Or are you afraid?”
“I am not afraid,” said Vasya, bristling.
That was true, and it was also a lie. The sapphire was warm beneath her clothes; it was glowing, too, though she could not see it. “I am not afraid,” she repeated.
His breath slipped cool past her cheek. Goaded, she dared to do dreaming what she would not awake. She twisted her hand in his cloak and pulled him nearer.
She had surprised him again. The breath hitched in his throat. His hand caught hers, but he did not untangle her fingers.
“Why are you here?” she asked him.
For a moment she thought he would not answer, then he said, as though reluctant, “I heard you cry.”
“I—you—you cannot come to me thus and go away again,” she said. “Save my life? Leave me stumbling alone with three children in the dark? Save my life again? What do you want? Do not—kiss me and leave—I don’t—” She could not find the words for what she meant, but her fingers spoke for her, digging into the sparkling fur of his robe. “You are immortal, and perhaps I seem small to you,” she said at last fiercely. “But my life is not your game.”
His grip crushed her hand in turn, right on the edge of pain. Then he untangled her fingers, one by one. But he did not let go. For an instant his eyes found hers and burned them, so full were they of light.
Again the wind stirred the ancient trees. “You are right. Never again,” he said simply, and again it sounded like a promise. “Farewell.”
No, she thought. Not like that—
But he was gone.
12.
Vasilii the Brave
The bells rang for outrenya and Vasya jerked awake, dazed with dreams. The heavy coverlets seemed to smother her. Like a creature in a trap, Vasya was on her feet before she knew, and the morning chill jolted her back to awareness.
When she emerged from Sasha’s hut, she was hatted and hooded and longing for a bath. All around was a swirl of activity. Men and women ran back and forth, shouting, quarreling—packing, she realized. The danger had ended; the peasants were going home. Chickens were being boxed, cows goaded, children slapped, fires smothered.
Well, of course they were going home. All was well. The bandits had been tracked to their lair. They had been slain—hadn’t they? Vasya shook off thought of the missing captain.
She was trying to choose whether she needed her breakfast or a place to relieve herself worse, when Katya came running up, very pale, her kerchief askew.
“Easy,” Vasya said, catching her just before the girl sent them both into the snow. “It is too early in the morning for running about, Katyusha. Have you seen a giant?”
Katya was blotched red with passion, her nose running freely. “Forgive me; I came to find you,” she gasped. “Please—Gospodin—Vasilii Petrovich.”
“What is it?” Vasya returned in quick alarm. “What has happened?”
Katya shook her head, throat working. “A man—Igor—Igor Mikhailovich—asked me to marry him.”
Vasya looked Katya up and down. The girl looked more bewildered than frightened.
“Has he?” Vasya asked cautiously, “Who is Igor Mikhailovich?”
“He is a blacksmith—he has a forge,” Katya stammered. “He and his mother—they have been kind to me and to the little girls—and today he said that he loves me and—oh!” She covered her face with her hands.
“Well,” Vasya returned. “Do you want to marry him?”
Whatever Katya had been expecting from the boyar’s son Vasilii Petrovich, it apparently wasn’t a mild, sensible question. The girl gaped like a landed fish. Then she said in a small voice, “I like him. Or I did. But this morning he asked—and I didn’t know what to say…” She seemed on the verge of tears.
Vasya scowled. Katya saw, swallowed the tears back, and finished, creaking, “I—I would betroth myself to him. I think. Later. In the spring. But I want to go home to my mother, and have her consent, and finish my wedding-things in the proper way. I promised Anyushka and Lenochka that I would take them home. But I cannot take them home alone, so I don’t know what to do—”
Vasya found to her chagrin that she could no more bear Katya’s tears than she could her own small sister’s. What would Vasilii Petrovich do? “I will speak to this boy for you, as is right,” said Vasya gently. “And then I will see you home.” She thought a moment. “I and my brother, the holy monk.” Vasya hoped devoutly that Sasha’s chaste presence would be enough for Katya’s mother.
Katya paused again. “You will? Just— You will?”
“My word on it,” Vasya said, with finality. “Now I want my breakfast.”
VASYA DISCOVERED A SECLUDED latrine that she used with the speed of outright terror, and afterward made her way to the refectory. She strode in with more confidence than she felt. The long, low room was full of seemly hush, and Dmitrii and Kasyan were eating bread dipped in something that steamed. Vasya smelled it and swallowed.
“Vasya!” Dmitrii roared affectionately when he saw her. “Come, sit, eat. We must hear service, give thanks to God for our victory, and then—Moscow!”
“Have you heard the talk of the peasants this morning?” Kasyan asked her as she accepted a bowl. “They are calling you Vasilii the Brave now, and saying that you delivered them all from devils.”
Vasya almost choked on her soup.
Dmitrii, laughing, pounded her between the shoulder-blades. “You earned it!” he cried. “Raiding the bandit-camp, fighting on that stallion—although you must learn to wield a spear, Vasya—you will soon be as great a legend as your brother.”
“God be with you,” said Sasha, overhearing. He walked in with both his hands thrust through his sleeves: a very monk. He had gone early to prayer with his brothers. Now he said austerely, “I hope not. Vasilii the Brave. That is a heavy name for one so young.” But his gray eyes gleamed. It occurred to Vasya that he might be enjoying, despite himself, the risks of their deception. She certainly was, she realized with some surprise. The danger in every word she spoke, among these great people, was like wine in her veins, like water in a hot country. Perhaps, she thought, that was why Sasha left home. Not for God, not to wound Father, but because he wanted surprises around each road’s turning, and he would never get that at Lesnaya Zemlya. She eyed her brother in wonder.
Then she took another swallow of soup and said, “I must return the three peasant girls to their village before I go to Moscow. I promised.”
Dmitrii snorted and quaffed his beer. “Why? There will be folk going out today; the girls can go with them. You needn’t trouble yourself.”
Vasya said nothing.
Dmitrii grinned suddenly, reading her face. “No? You look just like your brother when he has made up his mind and is being polite. Is it that you want the elder girl—what is her name? Don’t look prudish, Sasha; how old were you when you started tumbling peasant girls? Well, I owe you a debt, Vasya. Letting you play the hero to a pretty child is little enough. It is not too far out of our way. Eat. We ride tomorrow.”
THE NIGHT BEFORE THEY left the Lavra, Brother Aleksandr knocked on his master’s door. “Come in,” said Sergei.
Sasha entered to find the old hegumen sitting beside a stove, looking into the flames. An untouched cup sat beside him, and a heel of bread, a little gnawed by rats.
“Father bless,” said Sasha, stepping on a rat-tail just poking out beneath the cot. He heaved the beast up, broke its neck, and dropped it outside in the snow.
“May the Lord bless you,” said Sergei, smiling.
Sasha crossed the room and knelt at the hegumen’s feet.
“My father is dead,” he said, without ceremony.
Sergei sighed. “God grant him peace,” he said, and made the sign of the cross. “I wondered what had happened, to send your sister out into the wild.”
Sasha said nothing.
“Tell me, my son,” said Sergei.
Sasha slowly repeated the story Vasya had told him, staring all the while into the fire.