He sighed a little. “Kasyan was the prince of a far country, gifted with sight, who wished to shape the world to his will. But there were some things even he could not control. He loved a woman, and when she died—he begged me for her life.” Morozko paused, and in the instant of chill silence, Vasya knew what had happened to Kasyan next. She felt unwilling pity.
“That was long ago,” Morozko went on. “I do not know what happened then, for he found a way to set his life apart from his flesh, to keep my hand from him. Forgot—somehow—that he could die, and so did not. Tamara lived with her mother, alone. It is said that Kasyan came to her house one day to buy a horse. Kasyan and Tamara fell in love and fled together. Then they disappeared. Until Tamara appeared alone in Moscow.”
“Where did Tamara come from?” Vasya asked urgently. “Who is she?”
He meant to answer. She could see it in his face. She often wondered, afterward, how her path might have been different, if he had. But at that moment, the monastery bell rang.
The sound seemed to strike Morozko like fists, as though they would break him into snowflakes and send him whirling away. He shook; he did not answer.
“What is happening?” Vasya asked.
The talisman is destroyed, he might have told her. And frost-demons are not meant to love. But he did not say that. “Dawn,” Morozko managed. “I cannot exist anymore under the sun, in Moscow, not after midwinter, when the bells are ringing. Vasya, Tamara—”
The bell rang again, his voice died away.
“No. You cannot fade; you are immortal.” Vasya reached for him, caught his shoulders between her hands. On swift impulse, she reached up and kissed him. “Live,” she said. “You said you loved me. Live.”
She had surprised him. He stared into her eyes, old as winter, young as new-fallen snow, and then suddenly he bent his head and kissed her back. Color came into his face and color washed his eyes until they were the blue of the noonday sky. “I cannot live,” he murmured into her ear. “One cannot be alive and be immortal. But when the wind blows, and storm hangs heavy upon the world, when men die, I will be there. It is enough.”
“That is not enough,” she said.
He said nothing. He was not a man: only a creature of cold rain and black trees and blue frost, growing fainter and fainter in her arms. But he bent his head and kissed her once more, as though the sweetness of it struck a spark of something long since gone dim. But even as he did, he faded.
She tried to call him back. But day was breaking, and a finger of light crept through the clouds to illuminate the char and reek of the half-burnt city.
Then Vasya stood alone.
27.
The Day of Forgiveness
Sasha felt, disbelieving, the wind rise, saw the flames retreat and retreat again. Saw the snow blow up from nowhere and begin to fall. All around Dmitrii’s dooryard, voices were raised in thanksgiving.
Marya sat on Solovey’s withers, both small fists tight in the horse’s mane. Solovey snorted and shook his head.
Marya twisted to look up at her uncle. The sky was a deep and living gold, as the light of the great fire was smothered by the snow.
“Did Vasya make the storm?” Marya asked Sasha, softly.
Sasha opened his mouth to reply, realized that he did not know, and fell silent. “Come, Masha,” he said only. “I will take you home.”
They rode back to Olga’s palace through the deserted streets, with the muck of people’s flight slowly covered by fast-falling snow. Marya put out her tongue to taste the whirling snowflakes, and laughed in wonder. They could barely see their hands in front of their faces. Sasha, navigating the streets from memory, was glad to turn in to Olga’s gate, into the meager shelter of the half-deserted dooryard. The gate sagged open and many of the slaves had fled.
The dooryard was deserted, but Sasha heard the faint sound of chanting from the chapel. Well they might give thanks for deliverance. Sasha was about to dismount in the dooryard, but Solovey raised his head and pawed the slush.
The gate hung askew, its guards fled before the fire. A slender figure, alone, swaying, walked through it.
Solovey gave his deep, ringing neigh and jolted into motion. “Aunt Vasya!” Marya cried. “Aunt Vasya!”
Next moment, the great horse was nuzzling carefully over Vasya’s fire-smelling hair. Marya slid down Solovey’s shoulder and tumbled splashing into her aunt’s arms.
Vasya caught Marya, though her face went dead white when she did so, and lowered the child to the ground. “You’re all right,” Vasya whispered to her, holding her tight. Masha was weeping passionately. “You’re all right.”
Sasha slid from the stallion’s back and looked his sister over. The end of Vasya’s plait was singed, her face burned, her eyelashes gone. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she held herself stiffly. “What happened, Vasya?”
“Winter is over,” she said. “And we are all alive.”
She smiled at her brother, and began, in her turn, to cry.
VASYA WOULD NOT GO into the palace, would not leave Solovey. “Olga bade me go, and rightly,” she said. “She will not wish to see me again.”
And so Sasha reluctantly left his sister in the dooryard while he took Marya to find her mother. Olga had not fled the fire. Nor was she abed. She was in the chapel, praying with Varvara and her remaining women. They made a shivering, kneeling flock near the iconostasis.
But the second Marya’s foot stirred the threshold, Olga raised her head. She was pale as death. Varvara caught her, helped her rise, staggering. “Masha!” Olga whispered.
“Mother!” shrieked Marya then, and flew across the intervening space. Olga caught her daughter and embraced her, though her lips went white with pain and Varvara held her up, so that she not crumple to the floor.
“You should be abed, Olya,” said Sasha. Varvara, though she said nothing, looked as if she heartily agreed.
“I came to pray,” Olga returned, gray with exhaustion. “I could do nothing else…What happened?” She ran a feverish hand over her daughter’s hair, holding her close. “Half my slaves fled the fire; the other half I sent looking for her. I was sure she was dead. I had them take Daniil safe away, but I couldn’t—” Olga was not crying; her composure held, but it was a near thing. She stroked her hand again and again over her daughter’s head. “We came back from the bathhouse,” she finished, pale, breathing in short gasps, “and Marya was gone. The nurse had fled, and most of the guards. The city was on fire.”
“Vasya found her,” said Sasha. “Vasya saved her. It is not the child’s fault; she was stolen from her bed. God saved the city, for the wind turned and it began to snow.”
“Where is Vasya?” Olga whispered.
“Outside,” said Sasha wearily, “with her horse. She will not come in. She believes herself unwelcome.”
“Take me to her,” Olga said.
“Olya, you are not fit. Go to bed; I will bring—”
“Take me to her, I said!”
VASYA STOOD IN THE DOORYARD, leaning exhausted against Solovey. She did not know what to do; she did not know where to go. It was like thinking in deep water. Her dress was torn, burned, bloody. Her hair had come straggling out of its plait and hung about her face and throat and body, singed and frizzled at the end.
Solovey lifted his ears first, and then Vasya looked up and saw her brother and sister and niece coming toward her.
She went very still.
Olga was leaning heavily on Sasha’s arm, holding Marya by her other hand. Varvara followed them, frowning. Above Moscow, day was breaking. The clouds of winter had dissipated, and a light, fresh wind drove back the remainder of the smoke. Olga looked younger in the soft morning light. She raised her face to the breeze and a hint of color touched her cheekbones.
“It smells of spring,” she murmured.
Vasya gathered her courage and went to meet them. Solovey walked with her, his nose at her shoulder.
Vasya halted a long pace from her sister and bowed her head.
Silence. Vasya looked up. Solovey had stretched out his nose, delicately, toward her sister.