When he had finished, Sergei was frowning. “I am old,” he said. “Perhaps my wits are failing. But—”
“It is all very unlikely,” finished Sasha shortly. “I can get no more out of her. But Pyotr Vladimirovich would never—”
Sergei sat back in his chair. “Call him your father, my son. God will not begrudge it, and nor do I. Pyotr was a good man. I have rarely seen one so grieved to part with his son, yet he gave me no angry word, after the first. And no, he did not strike me as a fool. What do you mean to do with this sister of yours?”
Sasha was sitting at his master’s feet like a boy, with his arms around his knees. The firelight erased some of the marks of war and travel and long lonely prayer. Sasha sighed. “Take her to Moscow. What else? My sister Olga can take her quietly back into the terem, and Vasilii Petrovich may disappear. Perhaps on the journey, Vasya will tell me the truth.”
“Dmitrii will not like it, if he finds out,” Sergei said. “What if your—if Vasya refuses to be hidden away?”
Sasha looked up quickly, a line between his brows. Outside a hush lay on the monastery, save for a monk’s single voice, raised in plainchant. The villagers had all gone, save for the three girl-children, who would depart on the morrow with Dmitrii’s cavalcade.
“She is as like you as brother and sister can be,” continued Sergei. “I saw that from the first. Would you go quiet into the terem? After all the galloping about, the saving girls, the slaying bandits?”
Sasha laughed at the image. “She is a girl,” he said. “It is different.”
Sergei lifted a brow. “We are all children of God,” he said, mildly.
Sasha, frowning, made no answer. Then he said, changing the subject, “What think you of Vasya’s tale—of seeing a bandit-captain that we can now find no trace of?”
“Well, either this captain is dead or he is not,” said Sergei practically. “If he is dead, God grant him peace. If he is not, I think we will discover it.” The monk spoke placidly, but his eyes gleamed in the firelight. In his remote monastery, Sergei contrived to hear a good deal. Before he died, the holy Aleksei himself had wanted Sergei to be his successor as Metropolitan of all Moscow.
“I beg you will send Rodion to Moscow, if you have word of the bandit-captain after we are gone,” said Sasha, reluctantly. “And…”
Sergei grinned. He had only four teeth. “And now are you wondering who is this red-haired lord that young Dmitrii Ivanovich has befriended?”
“As you say, Batyushka,” said Sasha. He sat back against his hands, then recalled his wounded forearm and snatched it up with a grunt of pain. “I had never heard of Kasyan Lutovich. I who have traveled the length and breadth of Rus’. And then suddenly he comes riding out of the woods, bigger than life, with his marvelous clothes, and his marvelous horses.”
“Nor I,” said Sergei, very thoughtfully. “And I ought to have.”
Their eyes met in understanding.
“I will ask questions,” said Sergei. “And I will send Rodion with news. But in the meantime, be wary. Wherever he comes from, that Kasyan is a man who thinks.”
“A man may think and do no evil,” said Sasha.
“He may,” said Sergei only. “In any case, I am weary. God be with you, my son. Take care of your sister, and of your hotheaded cousin.”
Sasha gave Sergei a wry look. “I will try. They are damnably similar in some ways. Perhaps I should renounce the world and stay here, a holy man in the wilderness.”
“Certainly you should. It would be most pleasing to God,” said Sergei tartly. “I would beg you to do so, if ever I thought I could persuade you. Now get out. I am weary.”
Sasha kissed his master’s hand, and they parted.
13.
The Girl Who Kept a Promise
It took two days to cover the distance to the girls’ village. Vasya put all three children together on Solovey. Sometimes she rode with them; more often she walked beside the stallion, or rode one of Dmitrii’s horses. When they were in camp, Vasya told the girls, “Don’t get out of my sight. Stay near me or my brother.” She paused. “Or Solovey.” The stallion had grown fiercer since the battle, like a boy blooded.
As they ate around the fire on the first night, Vasya looked up to see Katya on a log opposite, weeping passionately.
Vasya was taken aback. “What is it?” she asked. “Do you miss your mother? Only a few more days, Katyusha.”
At the greater fire, not far off, the men were elbowing each other, and her brother looked austere, which meant he was annoyed.
“No—I heard the men’s jokes,” said Katya in a small voice. “They said that you mean to share my bed—” she choked, rallied. “That that was the price for saving us, and taking us home. I—I understand, but I am sorry, Gosudar, I am frightened.”
Vasya gaped, realized she was gaping, swallowed her stew, and said, “Mother of God.” The men were laughing.
Katya looked down, knees pressed together.
Vasya went around the fire and sat down beside the other girl, putting her back to the men around the fire. “Come,” she said low. “You have been brave; are you going to give in to nerves now? Didn’t I promise to see you safe?” She paused, and was not sure what imp prompted her to add, “We are not prizes, after all.”
Katya looked up. “We?” she breathed. Her eyes slid down Vasya’s body, shapeless in fur, and came at last to rest questioningly on her face.
Vasya smiled a little, put a finger to her lips, and said, “Come, let us sleep; the children are tired.”
They slept at last, contentedly, all four together, huddled in Vasya’s cloak and bedroll, with the two younger girls squashed and squirming in between the elder.
THE THIRD DAY—THE LAST DAY—the girls rode Solovey all four together, as they had when they first fled the downstroke of the bandit-captain’s sword. Vasya held Anyushka and Lenochka in front of her, while Katya sat behind, arms about Vasya’s waist.
As they neared the village, Katya whispered, “What is your real name?”
Vasya stiffened, so that Solovey threw his head up, and the little girls squeaked.
“Please,” added Katya doggedly, when the horse had settled. “I mean no harm, but I wish to pray for you rightly.”
Vasya sighed. “It really is Vasya,” she said. “Vasilisa Petrovna. But that is a great secret.”
Katya said nothing. The other riders had drawn a little ahead. When they were screened a moment by a stand of trees, Vasya put a hand into her saddlebag, withdrew a handful of silver, and slipped it into the girl’s sleeve.
Katya hissed. “Are you—bribing me to keep your secret? I owe you my life.”
“I—no,” said Vasya, startled. “No. Don’t look at me like that. This is your dowry, and the two little ones’, too. Keep it against need. Buy fine cloth—buy a cow.”
Katya said nothing, for a long moment. It was only when Vasya had turned back around and nudged Solovey to catch up with the others that Katya spoke, low in her ear. “I will keep it—Vasilisa Petrovna,” said Katya. “I will keep your secret, too. And I will love you forever.”
Vasya took the girl’s hand and squeezed it tightly.
They broke from the last trees, and the girls’ village lay spread before them, roofs sparkling in the late-winter sun. Its people had begun to clear away the worst of the ruin. Smoke rose from the undamaged chimneys, and the black look of utter desolation had gone.
One kerchiefed head jerked up at the sound of oncoming hoofbeats. Then another, then another. Screams split the morning, and Katya’s arms tightened. Then someone called, “Nay—hush—look at the horses. Those are no raiders.”
Folk rushed out of their houses, clustering and staring. “Vasya!” called Dmitrii. “Come, ride beside me, boy.”