The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3) - Katherine Arden Page 0,135

looked cheerful, like a boy caught in mischief. His attendants, the ones Sasha could see, looked simultaneously anxious and exasperated. “I had one of my boyars change places with me,” he said. “Do you think I want to sit on a hill clad in scarlet? No. I will fight properly, and I will not give the Tatar bowmen a better target than I can help.”

“Your cause is defeated if you are slain,” said Sasha.

“My cause is defeated if I am not the leader of this host,” said Dmitrii. “For Rus’ will fracture, if I am not lord. They will be as leaves in defeat, scattering in a strong wind, or they will be overproud in victory, each trying to claim a greater share than the others. No, I will play for the great prize. What else is there?”

“What indeed?” said Sasha. “I have served you as well as God, cousin,” he said. “And been proud to do it. For all I’ve done—or not done—forgive me.”

“Do we talk of forgiveness, brother?” said Dmitrii. “The left hand does not beg forgiveness of the right.” He clapped Sasha on the back. “Go with God.”

Armed, they went out to where the army waited, drawn up on the field of Kulikovo. It was a little before noon by then, and the mist was burning away.

“I must find my sister,” said Sasha. “I did not bid her a proper farewell.”

“There is not time,” said Dmitrii. A man brought his horse, and he swung to the saddle. As the sun broke through the last of the fog, he raised a hand to shade his eyes. “Look, there is their champion now.”

Dmitrii was right. The Tatar champion had appeared and a roar echoed from a hundred thousand throats. Sasha, his heart beating fast, mounted Tuman. The steady mare only pricked her ears at the noise. “Tell her farewell, since I cannot,” he said.

As Sasha rode out onto the great sloshing field before the two hosts, he thought he saw a flash of gold: Pozhar galloping unseen among the host of Rus’. Sasha raised his hand to the glimmer. It was all he could do.

Go with God, little sister.

* * *

VASYA MOUNTED POZHAR as soon as her brother left to go to the Grand Prince. The Bear was snuffing the air, pleased, Vasya thought, at the tension. He turned a teeth-baring grin to her. “What now, mistress?”

Morozko had left her just as dawn touched the sky. There was still something of his presence in the cold mist, the few snowflakes just drifting down in the wind that riffled the pennants of the Russian host. She felt caught again between them: the Bear’s joy in battle and Morozko’s grief at destruction. The Bear’s presence and the winter-king’s absence.

Very well; Morozko’s work was with the dead.

Hers was with the living.

But not, just now, with men.

The first one she saw was like a great black bird with the face of a woman. She soared across the battlefield, rippling banners with her wings, and though men could not see her they looked up, as though they felt her shadow upon themselves and upon the day.

The next was the leshy, stepping softly to the border of his forest; the scrubby forest that ringed the battlefield, the forest that currently concealed Vladimir Andreevich and his cavalry, waiting for the right moment to charge.

Vasya nudged Pozhar and the golden mare, streaming sparks, galloped between the ranks of men, the tents, so that Vasya could go have a word with the forest-lord.

“I will keep the men hidden,” said the leshy, when Vasya had clasped his twiggy fingers with her bloody ones, “and bewilder their enemies. For your promises and the Grand Prince’s, Vasilisa Petrovna.”

So it was all across the battlefield. While Sasha armed, and men ate and drew up rank on rank, the chyerti gathered in the thick mist. The vodianoy gurgled in his river; his daughters the rusalki waited on the banks. Some Vasya knew by sight. Many she didn’t. But still they came until the battlefield was teeming, haunted, and she felt the weight of their eyes, and their trust.

The thick mist had begun to burn away. She was already sweating, despite the chill, with nerves and with exertion, riding Pozhar here and there to rally and dispose and encourage her own people in and around Dmitrii’s.

Finally there came a single long blast from a trumpet, and Vasya let her attention return to the world of men. She looked across the great swampy