The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3) - Katherine Arden Page 0,107

sign of yours?”

Ignoring her splitting headache, Vasya cupped her hands and filled them with the memory of fire.

Swearing, Oleg scrambled up and back from the fire in her fingers.

She was still kneeling on the floor; she looked up at him through the flames. “Oleg Ivanovich, Mamai is going to lose this war.”

“A ragtag army of Rus’ is going to lose to the Golden Horde?” But Oleg’s voice was thin and breathless; his eyes were on the flames. He reached out to touch, then jerked back at the heat. The fire didn’t hurt her, though she could see the hairs on her arms crisping. “A fine trick,” he said. “Has Dmitrii made alliance with devils? It won’t defeat an army. Do you know how many horses Mamai has? How many arrows, how many men? If every man in Rus’ fought on Dmitrii’s side, he’d still be outnumbered two to one.”

But Oleg did not take his eyes off Vasya’s hands.

Vasya was straining every nerve, through pain, through headache, to keep her face unruffled, to keep steady the memory of fire. Oleg had sided with the enemy to protect his people. A practical man. One she could perhaps reason with. “Tricks with fire?” she said. “Is that what you think? No. Fire and water and darkness all together; the old powers of this land are going to battle alongside the new.” She hoped it was true. “Your general is going to lose. I am the sign of it, and the proof.”

“That Dmitrii Ivanovich has sold his soul for black sorcery?” Oleg made the sign of the cross.

“Is it black sorcery to defend the soil that bore us?” She shut her hands abruptly, extinguishing the flames. “Why did you take me from Chelubey, Oleg Ivanovich?”

“Misplaced kindness,” said Oleg. “Also, I do not like Chelubey.” He reached out a flinching hand to touch her palms, which were quite cool.

“Dmitrii’s side has powers you cannot see,” she said. “We have powers you cannot see. Better to fight for your own, Oleg Ivanovich, than defend a conqueror. Will you help me?”

She could have sworn he hesitated. Then a bitter smile spread over his face. “You are very persuasive. Now I could almost believe that Dmitrii sent you. He is cleverer than I gave him credit for. But it has been a long time since I believed in fairy tales, devushka. I will do this much. I will tell Mamai that you are only a foolish convent-bound girl, that you should be given into my household instead of sold as a slave. You may do your fire-tricks for me, in Ryazan, after the war is over. Don’t let anyone see you doing them. The Tatars have a horror of witches.”

The agony in her head was rising again. Darkness came up at the edges of her vision. She caught his wrist. Tricks, gambles, deceptions deserted her. “Please,” she said.

Through the mists of gathering unconsciousness she heard his whispered reply. “I will make you this bargain: if you, alone, can find and save your brother and the Prince of Serpukhov—and do it in such a way as to make my men and my boyars question their allegiance—then perhaps that will be sign enough and I will heed you. Until then, I am for the Tatar.”

* * *

SHE WASN’T SURE IF she slept that night, or if the pain in her head had merely sent her back into unconsciousness. Her dreams were shot through with faces, all watching her, waiting. Morozko troubled, the Bear intent, Midnight angry. Her great-grandmother, the madwoman lost in Midnight. You passed three fires, but you did not understand the final riddle.

And then she dreamed of her brother, tortured, until Chelubey, laughing, killed him.

She came gasping awake, in the darkness before dawn, to find herself lying in warmth and softness. Someone had even wiped the crusted blood from her face. She lay still. Her headache had subsided to a dull murmur. She turned her head and saw Oleg, lying awake beside her, on his stomach, watching her. “How does one learn to cup fire in one’s hands?” he asked, as though continuing a conversation from the night before.

The pale light of early dawn was seeping in around them. They were sharing a pile of furs. She shot upright.

He failed to move. “Outraged virtue? After you appear in a Tatar camp at midnight dressed as a boy?”

She was out from under the furs like a cat, and perhaps the look on her face convinced him for he