The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3) - Katherine Arden Page 0,58

heat and the reek of tight-packed people sickened her; blindly she made for the door and stumbled out into the night.

For long moments, she stood in the snow, heaving for breath. The night was pure and cold; eventually she calmed.

She didn’t want to go back in.

But Morozko was there, somehow imprisoned. She must get closer; she must discover the nature of his chain.

Then she thought, perhaps the man was right. What better way to go near the winter-king unremarked than as a servant bearing wine?

She took one last breath of the icy night. The scent of winter seemed to linger about her, like a promise.

She plunged back into the maelstrom inside. She was dressed as a servant; it was not difficult to acquire a wineskin. Carrying it carefully, feeling the strain of the weight in her battered body, Vasya slipped through the masses of people in the hall and came to the central fire-pit.

The winter-king sat nearest the flames.

The breath stilled in Vasya’s throat.

Morozko’s head was bare; the fire gilded the blackness of his hair. His eyes were a depthless and beautiful blue. But when their eyes met, there was still no recognition in his.

His eyes were—young?

Young?

Vasya had last seen him, frail as a snowflake, his gaze impossibly old, in the inferno of burning Moscow. Call the snow, she had begged him. Call the snow. He had, and then faded away with the dawn.

His last words, a reluctant confession. As I could, I loved you. She would never forget how he’d looked then. His expression, the impress of his hands, were seared into her memory.

But not in his memory. The years had disappeared from his gaze. She did not know how great the weight of them had been, until she could see them gone.

His idle glance found Vasya’s, strayed away, lit on the woman beside him. Yelena wore an expression caught between fear and—something else. She was beautiful. The gold on her wrists and throat gleamed dully in the firelight. As Vasya watched, Morozko bent his wild, dark head to murmur into Yelena’s ear, and she leaned nearer to hear him.

What could imprison a frost-demon? Vasya thought, suddenly angry. Love? Lust? Is that why he was here, when all Rus’ was in peril? A woman with golden hair? He was so obviously here because he wished to be.

And yet, Rus’ was in peril because Morozko had yielded up his freedom to save her from the fire. Why did he do that? Why? And how can he have forgotten?

Then she thought, If I wanted to imprison someone until the end of days, would it not be best to use a prison that he has no desire to escape? Here in this place, this midnight, humankind can see him; they fear him and they love him in equal measure. What more can he want? What more has he ever wanted in all the years of his life?

All these thoughts passed swiftly through her brain, and then Vasya collected herself and approached the place where the winter-king sat beside the lord’s sister. She held the wineskin before her like a shield.

The frost-demon bent again to the woman, breathing more words into her ear.

A sudden movement drew Vasya’s eye. Another man was watching the pair from the other side of the fire-pit. His embroidery and his ornaments indicated rank; his eyes were great and dark with pain. The sudden movement had been the involuntary dart of his hand to his sword-hilt. As Vasya watched, he let it go again, finger by finger.

Vasya did not know what to make of it.

Her feet carried her nearer the winter-king and the tawny woman beside him. She supposed that she was meant to drop her eyes, fill the cups, and scurry away. But instead she walked forward without affectation, her eyes on the eyes of the frost-demon.

He glanced up, and then, looking amused, watched her come forward.

At the last second, Vasya lowered her gaze and tipped her skin to fill the cups.

A thin, cold, familiar hand closed on her wrist. Vasya jerked back, splashing mead over them all.

Yelena managed to turn, keeping the wine from her gown. Then she recognized Vasya. “Go back,” she said to Vasya. “It is not your task to serve us, girl.” It seemed to Vasya that she was conveying a warning behind the words: Morozko, proud, young, death in his long hands, was dangerous.

He had not tried to retain her wrist when she jerked away from him. She was sure