The Bear and the Nightingale

Chapter 23: The House That Was Not There

Some hours later, Vasya opened her eyes to find herself lying in the loveliest bed anyone had ever dreamed of. The coverlets were white wool, heavy and soft as snow. Pale blues and yellows drifted through the weave, like a sunny day in January. The bed-frame and posts were carved to look like the trunks of living trees, and over it hung a great canopy of branches.

Vasya struggled to get her bearings. The last thing she remembered: flowers, she had been looking for flowers. Why? It was December. But she had to get flowers.

Gasping, Vasya heaved herself upright, floundering in the drifts of blanket.

She saw the room and fell back, shuddering.

The room—well, if the bed was magnificent, the room was simply strange. At first Vasya thought she was lying in a grove of great trees. High above hung a vault of pale sky. But the next moment, she seemed to be indoors, in a wooden house whose ceiling was painted a thin sky-blue. But she had no idea which was real, and trying to decide made her dizzy.

At last Vasya buried her face in a blanket and decided she would go back to sleep. Surely she’d wake up at home, with Dunya by her side asking if she’d had a nightmare. No, that was wrong—Dunya was dead. Dunya was wandering the woods wrapped in the cloth they’d buried her in.

Vasya’s brain whirled. But she couldn’t remember…and then she did. The men, the priest, the convent. The snow, the frost-demon, his fingers on her throat, the cold, a white horse. He had meant to kill her. He’d saved her life.

She struggled again to sit up, but only managed to kneel among the blankets. She squinted desperately, but failed to make the room stay still. Finally she shut her eyes, and discovered the edge of the bed by tumbling over it. Her shoulder struck the floor. She thought she felt a brush of wetness, as though she had fallen into a snowdrift. No—now the ground was smooth and warm, like well-planed wood near a hearth. She thought she heard a fire crackling. She stood up, unsteadily. Someone had taken off her boots and stockings. She had frozen her feet; she saw her toes white and bloodless.

She could not look at anything in the house. It was a room; it was a fir-grove under the open sky, and she could not decide which was which. She shut her eyes tight, stumbling on her injured feet.

“What do you see?” said a clear, strange voice.

Vasya turned toward the voice, not daring to open her eyes. “A house,” she croaked. “A fir-grove. Both together.”

“Very well,” said the voice. “Open your eyes.”

Flinching, Vasya did so. The cold man—the frost-demon—stood in the center of the room, and at least she could look at him. His dark, unruly hair hung to his shoulders. The sardonic face might have belonged to a youth of twenty or a warrior of fifty. Unlike every other man Vasya had ever seen, he was clean-shaven—perhaps that was what gave his face the odd note of youthfulness. Certainly his eyes were old. When she looked into them, she thought, I did not know anything could be that old and live. The thought made her afraid.

But stronger than fear was her resolve.

“Please,” she said. “I must go home.”

His pale stare swept her up and down. “They cast you out,” he said. “They will send you to a convent. And yet you will go home?”

She bit down hard on her lip. “The domovoi will disappear if I am not there. Perhaps my father has returned by now and I can make him understand.”

The frost-demon studied her a moment. “Perhaps,” he said at length. “But you are wounded. You are weary. Your presence will do the domovoi little good.”

“I must try. My family is in danger. How long was I asleep?”

He shook his head. A faint dry humor curled his mouth. “Here there is only today. No yesterday and no tomorrow. You may stay a year and be home just after you left. It does not matter how long you slept.”

Vasya was silent, absorbing this. At last she said, in a lower voice, “Where am I?”

The night in the snow had blurred in her memory, but she thought she remembered indifference in his face, a hint of malice and a hint of sorrow. Now he looked only amused. “My house,” he said. “As far as I have one.”

That is not helpful. Vasya bit back the words before they could escape, but they must have shown on her face.

“I fear,” he added gravely, though there was a glint in his eye, “that you are gifted—or cursed—with what your folk might call the second sight. My house is a fir-grove, and this fir-grove is my house, and you see both at once.”

“And what do I do about that?” Vasya hissed between clenched teeth, quite unable to strive for politeness—in another moment she would be sick on the floor at his feet.

“Look at me,” he said. His voice compelled her; it seemed to echo in her skull. “Look only at me.” She raised her eyes to his. “You are in my house. Believe it is so.”

Hesitantly, Vasya repeated this to herself. The walls seemed to solidify as she looked. She was in a rough, roomy dwelling, with worn carvings on its crosstrees, and a ceiling the color of the noon sky. A large oven at one end of the room radiated heat. The walls were hung with woven pictures: wolves in the snow, a hibernating bear, a dark-haired warrior driving a sledge.

She tore her eyes away. “Why did you bring me here?”

“My horse insisted.”

“You mock me.”

“Do I? You had been wandering in the forest too long; your feet and hands are frozen. Perhaps you should be honored; I don’t often have guests.”

“I am honored, then,” said Vasya. She could not think of anything else to say.

He studied her a moment more. “Are you hungry?”

Vasya heard the hesitation in his voice. “Did your horse suggest that as well?” she asked, before she could stop herself.

The man laughed, and she thought he looked a little surprised. “Yes, of course. She has had any number of foals. I yield to her judgment.”

Suddenly he tilted his head. The blue eyes burned. “My servants will tend to you,” he added abruptly. “I must be gone awhile.” There was nothing human in his face, and for a moment, Vasya could not see the man at all, and instead saw only a wind lashing the limbs of ancient trees, howling in triumph as it rose. She blinked away the vision.

“Farewell,” said the frost-demon, and was gone.

Vasya, taken aback by his departure, glanced cautiously about. The tapestries drew her. Vividly alive, the wolves and man and horses looked ready to leap to the floor in a swirl of cold air. She walked the room, examining them as she went. Eventually she fetched up in front of the oven and stretched out her frozen fingers.

The scrape of a hoof sent her whirling round. The white mare came toward her, bare of any harness. Her long mane foamed like a spring cascade. She seemed to have emerged from a door in the opposite wall, but it was closed. Vasya stared. The mare tossed her head. Vasya remembered her manners and bowed. “I thank you, lady. You saved my life.”

The mare twitched an ear. It was little enough.

“Not to me,” said Vasya, with a hint of asperity.

I did not mean that, said the mare. I meant that you are a creature as we are, formed raw from the powers of the world. You would have saved yourself. You are not formed for convents, nor yet to live as the Bear’s creature.

“Would I have?” said Vasya, remembering the running, the terror, the footsteps in the dark. “I wasn’t doing too well at it. But what do you mean, the powers of the world? We were all made by God.”

I suppose this God taught you our speech?

“Of course not,” said Vasya. “That was the vazila. I made him offerings.”

The mare scraped a hoof against the floor. I remember more and see more than you, she said. And will for a considerable time. We do not speak to many, and the spirit of horses does not reveal himself to anyone. There is magic in your bones. You must reckon with it.

“Am I damned, then?” Vasya whispered, frightened.

I do not understand “damned.” You are. And because you are, you can walk where you will, into peace, oblivion, or pits of fire, but you will always choose.

There was a pause. Vasya’s face hurt, and her sight had begun to fracture. The snowy countryside tugged at the edges of her vision.

There is mead on the table, the mare said, seeing the girl’s drooping shoulders. You should drink, then rest again. There will be food when you awaken.

Vasya had not eaten since suppertime, before she’d ventured into the forest. Her stomach took a moment, forcefully, to remind her. A wooden table stood on the other side of the oven, dark with age, rich with carving. The silver flagon upon it was garlanded with silver flowers. The cup was of hammered silver studded with fire-red gems. For a moment the girl forgot her hunger. She lifted the cup and tilted it in the light. It was beautiful. She looked a question at the mare.

He likes objects, she said, though I do not understand why. And he is a great giver of gifts.

The flagon indeed contained mead: thin and strong and somehow piercing, like winter sunshine. Drinking it, Vasya felt suddenly sleepy. Heavy-eyed, it was all she could do to put down the silver cup. She bowed in silence to the white mare and stumbled back to the great bed.

ALL THAT DAY, a storm tore across the frozen lands of northern Rus’. The country folk ran inside and barred their doors. Even the oven-fires in Dmitrii’s wooden palace in Moscow danced and guttered. The old and the sick knew their time had come and slipped away on the crying wind. The living crossed themselves when they felt the shadow pass. But at nightfall the air quieted, and the sky filled with the promise of snow. Those who had resisted the summons smiled, for they knew that they would live.

A man with dark hair emerged from between two trees and raised his face to a cloud-torn sky. His eyes glowed an unearthly blue as he scanned the mounting shadows. His robe was of fur and midnight brocade, though he had come to the twilit borderlands where winter yielded to the promise of spring. The ground was thick with snowdrops.

A song pierced the newborn night, thin and soft and sweet. Even as he turned toward it, Morozko tasted the darker side of the magic he had set in motion, for the music reminded him of sorrow: of slow hours heavy with regret. This sorrow he had not felt—had not been able to feel—for a thousand years.

He walked on regardless, until he came to the tree where a nightingale sang in the dark.

“Little one, will you come back with me?” he said.

The tiny creature hopped to a lower branch and cocked its dull-brown head.

“To live, as your brothers and sisters have lived,” said Morozko. “I have a companion for you.”

The bird trilled, but softly.

“You will not come into your strength otherwise, and this one is generous and high-hearted. The old woman cannot gainsay it.”

The bird cheeped and raised its brown wings.

“Yes, there is death in it, but not before joy, or glory. Will you stay here instead, and sing away eternity?”

The bird hesitated, then leaped from its branch with a cry. Morozko watched it go. “Follow, then,” he said softly, as the wind rose again around him.

VASYA WAS STILL ASLEEP when the frost-demon returned. The mare was dozing near the oven.

“What think you?” he asked the horse, low-voiced.

The mare was about to reply, but a neigh and a clatter cut her off. A bay stallion with a star between his eyes burst into the room. He snorted and stamped, shaking snow off his black-dappled quarters.

The mare laid her ears back. I think, she said, that my son has come where he should not.

The stallion, though graceful as a stag, had yet a trace of long-legged colt about him. He eyed his mother warily. I heard there was a champion here, he said.

The mare switched her tail. Who told you that?

“I did,” said Morozko. “I brought him back with me.”

The mare stared at her rider with pricked ears and trembling nostrils. You brought him for her?

“I need that girl,” said Morozko, giving the mare a hard look. “As well you know. If she is foolish enough to roam the Bear’s forest at night, then she will need a companion.”

He might have said more, but he was interrupted by a clatter. Vasya had awakened and tumbled out of bed, unused to bedding that was also a snowdrift.

The big horse, his dark bay coat glowing black in the firelight, minced over, ears pricked. Vasya, still only half-awake and rubbing a very sore shoulder, looked up to find herself nose to nose with a huge young stallion. She held still.

“Hello,” she said.

The horse was pleased.

Hello, he answered. You will ride me.

Vasya clambered to her feet, much less thickheaded than at her last waking. But her cheek throbbed, and she had to marshal her tired eyes in order to see only the stallion, not the shadows like feathers that fluttered around him. Once her vision settled, she eyed his back, two hands above her head, with some skepticism.

“I would be honored to ride you,” she answered politely, though Morozko heard the dry note in the girl’s voice and bit his lip. “But perhaps I may defer it a moment; I should like some more clothes.” She glanced around the room, but her cloak, boots, or mittens were nowhere to be seen. She wore nothing but her crumpled underdress, with Dunya’s pendant lying cold against her breastbone. Her braid had raveled while she slept, and the thick red-black curtain of her hair tumbled loose to her waist. She brushed it from her face and, with a touch of bravado, made her way to the fire.

The white mare stood beside the oven with the frost-demon at her head. Vasya was struck by the similarity in their expressions: the man’s eyes hooded and the mare’s ears pricked. The bay stallion huffed warm breath into her hair. He was following so close that his nose bumped her shoulder. Without thinking, Vasya laid a hand on his neck. The horse’s ears made a pleased little swivel, and she smiled.

There was plenty of space in front of the fire, despite the incongruous presence of two tall and well-built horses. Vasya frowned. The room had not seemed as large as that when she woke last.

The table was laid with two silver cups and a slender ewer. The scent of warm honey floated through the room. A loaf of black bread, smelling of rye and anise, lay beside a platter of fresh herbs. On one side stood a bowl of pears and on the other a bowl of apples. Beyond them all lay a basket of white flowers with modestly drooping heads. Podsnezhniki. Snowdrops.

Vasya stopped and stared.

“It is what you came for, is it not?” Morozko said.

“I didn’t think I’d actually find any!”

“You are fortunate, then, to have done so.”

Vasya looked at the flowers and said nothing.

“Come and eat,” Morozko said. “We will talk later.” Vasya opened her mouth to argue, but her empty stomach roared. She bit back curiosity and sat down. He sat on a stool across from her, leaning against the mare’s shoulder. She surveyed the food, and his lips twitched at her expression. “It’s not poison.”

“I suppose not,” said Vasya, dubious.

He twisted off a lump of bread and handed it to Solovey. The stallion seized it with enthusiasm. “Come,” said Morozko, “or your horse will eat it all.”

Cautiously, Vasya picked up an apple and bit down. Icy sweetness dazzled her tongue. She reached for the bread. Before she knew it, her bowl was empty, half the loaf was gone, and she sat replete, feeding bits of bread and fruit to the two horses. Morozko touched no food. After she had eaten, he poured the mead. Vasya drank from her silver-chased cup, savoring the taste of cold sunshine and winter flowers.

His cup was twin to hers, except that the stones along the rim were blue. Vasya did not speak while she drank. But at last she set her cup on the table and raised her eyes to his.

“What happens now?” she asked him.

“That depends on you, Vasilisa Petrovna.”

“I must go home,” she said. “My family is in danger.”

“You are wounded,” replied Morozko. “Worse than you know. You will stay until you are healed. Your family will be none the worse for it.” More gently, he added, “You will go home at dawn of the night you left. I can promise it.”

Vasya said nothing; it was a measure of her weariness that she did not argue. She looked again at the snowdrops. “Why did you bring me these?”

“Your choices were to bring your stepmother those flowers or to go to a convent.” Vasya nodded. “Well, then, there you have them. You may do as you will.”

Vasya reached out a hesitant forefinger to stroke one silky-damp petal. “Where did they come from?”

“The edge of my lands.”

“And where is that?”

“At the thaw.”

“But that is not a place.”

“Is it not? It is many things. Just as you and I are many things, and my house is many things, and even that horse with his nose in your lap is many things. Your flowers are here. Be content.”

The green eyes flared up to his again, mutinous instead of tentative. “I do not like half answers.”

“Stop asking half questions, then,” he said, and smiled with sudden charm. She flushed. The stallion thrust his great head closer. She winced when the horse lipped her injured fingers.

“Ah,” Morozko said. “I forgot. Does it hurt?”

“Only a little.” But she would not meet his eyes.

He made his way around the table and knelt so their faces were on a level. “May I?”

She swallowed. He took her chin in one hand and turned her face to the firelight. There were black marks on her cheek where he had touched her in the forest. The tips of her fingers and toes were white. He examined her hands, drew a fingertip along her frozen foot. “Don’t move,” he said.

“Why would—” But then he laid his palm flat against her jaw. His fingers were suddenly hot, impossibly hot, so that she expected to smell her own flesh scorching. She tried to pull away, but his other hand came up behind her head, digging into her hair, holding her. Her breath trembled and rasped in her throat. His hand slid down to her throat, and if anything the burning grew. She was too shocked to scream. Just when she thought she could not endure it another instant, he let go. She slumped against the bay stallion. The horse blew comfortingly into her hair.

“Forgive me,” Morozko said. The air around him was cold, despite the heat in his hands. Vasya realized she was shivering. She touched her damaged skin. It was smooth and warm, unmarked.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore.” She forced her voice to calm.

“No,” he said. “Some things I can heal. But I cannot heal gently.”

She looked down at her toes, at her ruined fingertips. “Better than being crippled.”

“As you say.”

But when he touched her feet, she could not keep the tears from her eyes.

“Will you give me your hands?” he said. She hesitated. Her fingertips were frostbitten, and one hand was crudely wrapped in a length of linen to shield the ragged hole in the palm from the night the upyr had come for Konstantin. The memory of pain thundered at her. He did not wait for her to speak. It took all her strength, but she swallowed back her cry while the flesh of her fingertips grew warm and pink.

Last, he took up her left hand and began to unwind the linen.

“It was you who hurt me,” said Vasya, trying to distract herself. “The night the upyr came.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“So that you would see me,” he said. “So that you would remember.”

“I had seen you before. I had not forgotten.”

His head was bent over his work. But she saw the curve of his mouth, wry and a little bitter. “But you doubted. You would not have believed your own senses after I had gone. I am little more than a shadow now, in the houses of men. Once I was a guest.”

“Who is the one-eyed man?”

“My brother,” he said shortly. “My enemy. But that is a long tale and not for tonight.” He laid the linen bandage aside. Vasya fought the urge to curl her hand into a fist. “This will be harder to heal than frostbite.”

“I kept reopening it,” Vasya said. “It seemed to help ward the house.”

“It would,” said Morozko. “There is virtue in your blood.” He touched the wounded place. Vasya flinched. “But only a little, for you are young. Vasya, I can heal this, but you will carry the mark.”

“Do it, then,” she said, failing to keep the tremor out of her voice.

“Very well.” He reached to the floor and scooped up a handful of snow. Vasya was for a moment disoriented; she saw the fir-grove, the snow on the ground, blue with dusk, red with firelight. But then the house re-formed around her and Morozko pressed the snow into the wound on her palm. Her whole body went rigid, and then the pain came, worse than before. She bit back a scream and managed to keep still. The pain rose past bearing, so that she sobbed once before she could stop herself.

Abruptly it died away. He let go her hand, and she almost fell off her stool. The bay stallion saved her; she fell against his warm bulk and caught herself by seizing his mane. The stallion put his head around to lip at her trembling hand.

Vasya pushed him aside and looked. The wound was gone. There was only a cold, pale mark, perfectly round, in the middle of her palm. When she turned it in the firelight, it seemed to catch the light, as though a sliver of ice was buried under the skin. No, she was imagining things.

“Thank you.” She pressed both hands into her lap to hide their trembling.

Morozko stood and drew away, looking down at her. “You’ll heal,” he said. “Rest. You are my guest. As for your questions—there will be answers. In time.”

Vasya nodded, staring still at her hand. When she looked up again, he had disappeared.

Chapter 24: I Have Seen Your Heart’s Desire

“Find her!” Konstantin snapped. “Bring her back!”

But the men would not go into the forest. They followed Vasya to the brink and balked, muttering of wolves and demons. Of the bitter cold.

“God will judge her now, Batyushka,” said Timofei’s father, and Oleg nodded in agreement. Konstantin hesitated, caught. The darkness beneath the trees seemed absolute.

“As you say, my children,” he said heavily. “God will judge her. God be with you.” He made the sign of the cross.

The men tramped away through the village muttering with their heads together. Konstantin went to his cold, bare cell. His dinner porridge lay heavy in his stomach. He lit a candle before the Mother of God, and a hundred shadows sprang furiously to life along the walls.

“Wicked servant,” snarled the voice. “Why is the witch-girl free in the forest? When I told you she must be contained? That she must go to a convent? I am displeased, my servant. I am most displeased.”

Konstantin fell to his knees, cowering. “We tried our best,” he pleaded. “She is a demon.”

“That demon is with my brother, and if he has the wit to see her strength…”

The candle guttered. The priest, huddled on the floor, went very still. “Your brother?” Konstantin whispered. “But you…” Then the candle went out, and there was only the breathing darkness. “Who are you?”

A long, slow silence, and then the voice laughed. Konstantin wasn’t sure he heard it; he might only have seen it, in the quiver of the shadows on the wall.

“The bringer of storms,” murmured the voice with a certain satisfaction. “For once you so summoned me. But long ago men called me the Bear—Medved.”

“You are a devil!” whispered Konstantin, clenching his hands.

All the shadows laughed. “As you like. But what difference is there between me and the one you call God? I too revel in deeds done in my name. I can give you glory, if you will do my bidding.”

“You,” whispered Konstantin. “But I thought…” He had thought himself exalted, set apart. But he was only a poor dupe, and he had done a demon’s bidding. Vasya…His throat closed. Somewhere in his soul, there was a proud girl riding a horse in the summer daylight. Laughing with her brother on her stool by the oven. “She will die.” He pressed his fists to his eyes. “I did it in your service.” Even as he spoke, he was thinking, they must never know.

“She ought to have gone to a convent. Or come to me,” said the voice matter-of-factly, with just a faint seething undercurrent of anger. “But now she is with my brother. With Death, but not dead.”

“With Death?” whispered Konstantin. “Not dead?” He wanted her to be dead. He wanted her alive. He wished he were dead himself. He would go mad if the voice kept speaking.

The silence stretched out, and when he could not stand it anymore, the voice came again. “What do you want above all, Konstantin Nikonovich?”

“Nothing,” Konstantin said. “I want nothing. Go away.”

“You are like a maid with the vapors,” said the voice sourly. And then it softened. “No matter; I know what you want.” And then, laughing, “would you have your soul cleansed, man of God? Would you have the innocent girl back? Well, know that I can take her from the hands of Death himself.”

“Better she die and leave this world,” croaked Konstantin.

“She will live in torment before she dies. I can save her, I alone.”

“Prove it, then,” said Konstantin. “Bring her back.”

The shadow snorted. “So hasty, man of God.”

“What do you want?” Konstantin choked on the words.

The shadow’s voice ripened. “Oh, Konstantin Nikonovich, it is such a fine thing, when the children of men ask me what I want.”

“Then what is it?” snapped Konstantin. How can I be righteous with that voice in my ears? If he brings her back, I will be clean again.

“A little thing,” said the voice. “Only a little thing. Life must pay for life. You want the little witch returned; I must have a witch for myself. Bring me one, and I give you yours. And then I will leave you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bring a witch to the forest, to the border, to the oak-tree at dawn. You will know the place when you see it.”

“And what will happen,” said Konstantin—little more than a breath—“to this—witch that I bring you?”

“Well, she will not die,” said the voice, and laughed. “What good is a death to me? Death is my brother, whom I hate.”

“But there are no witches save Vasya.”

“Witches must see, man of God. Is it only the little maiden who sees?”

Konstantin was silent. In his mind’s eye, he saw a plump, shapeless figure kneeling at the foot of the icon-screen, seizing his hand in her moist one. Her voice sounded in his ears. Batyushka, I see demons. Everywhere. All the time.

“Think on it, Konstantin Nikonovich,” said the voice. “But I must have her before sunrise.”

“And how will I find you?” The words were softer than snowfall; a mortal man would not have heard them. But the shadow heard.

“Go into the woods,” hissed the shadow. “Look for snowdrops. Then you will know. Give me a witch and take yours; give me a witch and be free.”

Chapter 25: The Bird That Loved a Maiden

Vasya awoke to the touch of sunlight on her face. She opened her eyes on a ceiling of thin blue—no, on a vault of open sky. Her senses blurred, and she could not remember—then she did. I am in the house in the fir-grove. A whiskery chin bumped hers. She opened her eyes, and found, once again, that she was nose to nose with the bay stallion.

You sleep too much, said the horse.

“I thought you were a dream,” said Vasya in some wonder. She had forgotten how big the dream-horse was, and the fiery look in his dark eyes. She pushed his nose away and sat up.

I am not, usually, replied the horse.

The previous night came back to Vasya in a rush. Snowdrops at midwinter, bread and apples, mead heavy on her tongue. Long white fingers on her face. Pain. She yanked her hand free of the blanket. There was a pale mark in the center of her palm. “That was not a dream, either,” she murmured.

The horse was looking at her in some concern. Better to believe that everything is real, he said, as if to a lunatic. And I will tell you if you are dreaming.

Vasya laughed. “Done,” she said. “I am awake now.” She slid out of bed—less painfully than before. Her head was clearing. The house was still as a noonday forest, save the crackle and pop of a good fire. A little pot nestled steaming on the hearth. Suddenly ravenous, Vasya made her way to the fire and found luxury: porridge and milk and honey. She ate while the stallion hovered.

“What is your name?” she said to the horse, when she had done.

The stallion was busy finishing her bowl. He slanted an ear at her before replying. I am called Solovey.

Vasya smiled. “Nightingale. A little name for a great horse. How did you get it?”

I was foaled at twilight, he said gravely. Or perhaps I was hatched; I cannot remember. It was long ago. Sometimes I run, and sometimes I remember to fly. And thus am I named.

Vasya stared. “But you are not a bird.”

You do not know what you are; can you know what I am? retorted the horse. I am called Nightingale, and does it matter why?

Vasya had no answer. Solovey had finished her porridge and put his head up to look at her. He was the loveliest horse she had ever seen. Mysh, Buran, Ogon, they were all like sparrows to his falcon. “Last night,” Vasya said hesitantly, “last night, you said you would let me ride.”

The stallion neighed. His hooves clattered on the floor. My dam said I should be patient, he said. But I am not, usually. Come and ride. I have never been ridden before.

Vasya was suddenly dubious, but she replaited her tangled hair and put on her jacket and cloak, mittens and boots, which she found lying near the fire. She followed the horse into the blinding day. The snow lay thick underfoot. Vasya eyed the stallion’s tall bare back. She tried her limbs, and found them weak as water. The horse stood proudly and expectantly, a horse out of a fairy tale.

“I think,” said Vasya, “that I am going to need a stump.”

The pricked ears flattened. A stump?

“A stump,” said Vasya firmly. She made her way to a convenient one, where a tree had cracked and fallen away. The horse poked along behind. He seemed to be reconsidering his choice of rider. But he stood alongside the stump, looking pained, and from there Vasya vaulted gently to his back.

All of his muscles went rigid, and he threw his head up. Vasya, who had ridden young horses before, was expecting something of the sort, and she sat still.

At last the great stallion blew out a breath. Very well, he said. At least you are small. But when he walked off, it was with a mincing, sideways gait. Every few seconds he turned his head to see the girl on his back.

THEY RODE ALL THAT DAY.

“No,” Vasya said for the tenth time. Her night in the snowy forest had left her weaker than she had realized, and it was making a hard task harder. “You must put your head down and use your back. Right now, riding you is like riding a log. A large, slippery log.”

The stallion put his head round to glare. I know how to walk.

“But not how to carry a person,” Vasya retorted. “It is different.”

You feel strange, the horse complained.

“I can only imagine,” said Vasya. “You need not carry me if you do not wish to.”

The horse said nothing, shaking his black mane. Then—I will carry you. My dam says it grows easier in time. He sounded skeptical. Well, enough of this. Let us see what we can do. And he bolted. Vasya, taken by surprise, threw her weight forward and wrapped her legs around his belly. The stallion careened between the trees. Vasya found herself whooping aloud. He was graceful as a hunting-cat and made about as much noise. At speed, they were one. The horse ran like water and all the white world was theirs.

“We must go back,” said Vasya at length, flushed and panting and laughing. Solovey slowed to a trot, his head up, his nostrils showing red. He bucked with sheer high spirits, and Vasya, clinging, hoped he would not have her off. “I am tired.”

The horse pointed an ear at her in a dissatisfied way. He was hardly winded. But he heaved a sigh and turned. In a surprisingly short time, the fir-grove lay before them. Vasya slid to the ground. Her feet struck the earth with a great jolt of pain, and she sank, gasping, to the snow. Her healed toes were numb, and some hours’ ride had not improved her weakness. “But where is the house?” she said, gritting her teeth and heaving herself to her feet. All she saw was fir-trees. Day’s end mantled the wood in starry violet.

It cannot be found by searching, said Solovey. You must look away just a little. Vasya did, and there, in a quick flash at the edge of her vision, was the hut among the trees. The horse walked beside her, and she was a little ashamed that she needed the support of his warm shoulder. He nudged her through the door.

Morozko had not come back. But there was food on the blazing hearth, laid by invisible hands, and something hot and spicy to drink. She dried Solovey with cloths, brushed his bay coat, and combed the long mane. He had never been groomed before, either.

Foolishness, said the horse, when she began. You are tired. It makes not the slightest difference whether I am brushed or not. But he looked vastly pleased with himself regardless, when she took extra care over his tail. He nuzzled her cheek when she had done, and he spent the whole meal inspecting her hair and face and dinner, as if suspecting she’d kept something back.

“Where do you come from?” Vasya asked, when she could hold no more and was feeding the insatiable horse bits of bread. “Where were you foaled?” Solovey did not reply. He stretched his neck out and crunched an apple in his yellow teeth. “Who is your sire?” Vasya persisted. Still Solovey said nothing. He stole the remainder of her bread and ambled away, chewing. Vasya sighed and gave up.

VASYA AND SOLOVEY WENT out riding together every day for three days. Each day, the horse bore her more easily, and, slowly, Vasya’s strength returned.

When they returned to the house on the third night, Morozko and the white mare were waiting for them. Vasya limped across the threshold, pleased that she could manage it on her own two feet, and stopped short, seeing them.

The mare stood by the fire, licking idly at a chunk of salt. Morozko sat on the other side of the blaze. Vasya slipped off her cloak and approached the oven. Solovey went to his accustomed place and stood expectantly. For a horse that had never been groomed, he adapted very fast.

“Good evening, Vasilisa Petrovna,” said Morozko.

“Good evening,” said Vasya. To her surprise, the frost-demon was holding a knife, whittling a block of fine-grained wood. Something like a wooden flower was taking shape under his deft fingers. He laid his knife aside, and the blue eyes touched her here and there. She wondered what he saw.

“Have my servants been kind to you?” said Morozko.

“Yes,” said Vasya. “Very. I thank you for your hospitality.”

“You are welcome.”

He was silent while she groomed Solovey, though she felt him watching. She rubbed the horse down and combed the snarls from his mane. When she had washed her face and the table was laid, she tore into the food like a young wolf. The table groaned with good things: strange fruits and spiky nuts, cheese and bread and curds. When at last Vasya sat up and slowed down, she caught Morozko’s sardonic look. “I was hungry,” she said apologetically. “We do not eat so well at home.”

“I can well believe it,” came the reply. “You looked like a wraith at midwinter.”

“Did I?” said Vasya, disgruntled.

“More or less.”

Vasya was silent. The fire fell in on its core and the light in the room went from gold to red. “Where do you go when you are not here?” she asked.

“Where I like,” he said. “It is winter in the world of men.”

“Do you sleep?”

He shook his head. “Not as you would think of it, no.”

Vasya glanced involuntarily at the great bed, with its black frame and blankets heaped like a snowdrift. She bit back the question, but Morozko caught her thought. He raised a delicate eyebrow.

Vasya blushed scarlet and took a great draught to hide her burning face. When she looked back at him, he was laughing.

“You need not make that prim face at me, Vasilisa Petrovna,” he said. “That bed was made for you by my servants.”

“And you—” Vasya began. She blushed harder. “You never…”

He had taken up his carving again. He flicked another chip off the wooden flower. “Often, when the world was young,” he said mildly. “They would leave me maidens in the snow.” Vasya shuddered. “Sometimes they died,” he said. “Sometimes they were stubborn, or brave, and—they did not.”

“What happened to them?” said Vasya.

“They went home with a king’s ransom,” said Morozko, drily. “Have you not heard the tales?”

Vasya, still blushing, opened her mouth and closed it again. Several dozen things she might say rushed through her brain.

“Why?” she managed. “Why did you save my life?”

“It amused me,” said Morozko, though he did not look up from his carving. The flower was crudely finished; he laid aside his knife, picked up a bit of glass—or ice—and began to smooth it.

Vasya’s hand stole up to her face where the frostbite had been. “Did it?”

He said nothing, but his eyes met hers beyond the fire. She swallowed.

“Why did you save my life and then try to kill me?”

“The brave live,” replied Morozko. “The cowards die in the snow. I did not know which you were.” He put down the flower and reached out a hand. His long fingers brushed the place where the wound had been, on her cheek and jaw. When his thumb found her mouth, the breath shivered in her throat. “Blood is one thing. The sight is another. But courage—that is rarest of all, Vasilisa Petrovna.”

The blood flung itself out to Vasya’s skin until she could feel every stirring in the air.

“You ask too many questions,” said Morozko abruptly, and his hand dropped.

Vasya stared at him, huge-eyed in the firelight. “It was cruel,” she said.

“You will walk a long road,” said Morozko. “If you have not the courage to meet it, better—far better—for you to die quiet in the snow. Perhaps I meant you a kindness.”

“Not quiet,” said Vasya. “And not kind. You hurt me.”

He shook his head. He had taken up the carving again. “That is because you fought,” he said. “It does not have to hurt.”

She turned away, leaning against Solovey. There was a long silence.

Then he said, very low, “Forgive me, Vasya. Do not be afraid.”

She met his eyes squarely. “I am not.”

ON THE FIFTH DAY, Vasya said to Solovey, “Tonight I am going to plait your mane.”

The stallion did not exactly freeze, but she felt all his muscles go rigid. It does not need plaiting, he said, tossing the mane in question. The heavy black curtain waved like a woman’s hair, and fell well past his neck. It was impractical and ridiculously beautiful.

“But you’ll like it,” Vasya coaxed. “Won’t you like not having it in your eyes?”

No, said Solovey, very definitely.

The girl tried again. “You will look the prince of all horses. Your neck is so fine, it should not be hidden.”

Solovey tossed his head at this question of looks. But he was a little vain; all stallions are. She felt him waver. She sighed and drooped on his back. “Please.”

Oh, very well, said the horse.

That night, as soon as the horse was clean and combed, Vasya appropriated a stool and began to plait his mane. With a qualm for the stallion’s outraged sensibilities, she abandoned plans for looping braids, curls, or fretworks. Instead she gathered his long mane into one great feathery plait along his crest, so that his neck seemed to arch more mightily than ever. She was delighted. Surreptitiously, she tried to take a few of the snowdrops that still stood, unwithered, on the table and braid them in. The stallion pinned his ears. What are you doing?

“Adding flowers,” said Vasya, guiltily.

Solovey stamped. No flowers.

Vasya, after a struggle with herself, laid them aside with a sigh.

Tying off the last trailing end, she paused and stepped back. The braid emphasized the proud arch of the dark neck and the graceful bones of his head. Encouraged, Vasya hauled her stool around to start on the tail.

The horse heaved a forlorn sigh. My tail, too?

“You will look the lord of horses when I’m finished,” Vasya promised.

Solovey peered about in a futile attempt to see what she was doing. If you say so. He seemed to be reconsidering the advantages of grooming. Vasya ignored him, humming to herself, and began to weave the shorter hairs over his tailbone.

Suddenly a cold breeze stirred the tapestries, and the fire leaped in the oven. Solovey pricked his ears. Vasya turned just as the door opened. Morozko passed the threshold, and the white mare nudged her way in after him. The warmth of the house struck steam from her coat. Solovey flicked his tail out of Vasya’s grip, nodded in a dignified manner, and ignored his mother. She pointed her ears at his braided mane.

“Good evening, Vasilisa Petrovna,” said Morozko.

“Good evening,” said Vasya.

Morozko stripped off his blue outer robe. It slid off his fingertips and disappeared in a puff of powder. He took off his boots, which slid apart and left a damp patch on the floor. Barefoot, he went to the oven. The white mare followed. He picked up a twist of straw and began to rub her down. In the space of a blink, the twist of straw became a brush of boar’s hair. The mare stood with her ears flopping, loose-lipped with enjoyment.

Vasya went nearer, fascinated. “Did you change the straw? Was that magic?”

“As you see.” He went on with his grooming.

“Can you tell me how you do it?” She came up beside him and peered eagerly at the brush in his hand.

“You are too attached to things as they are,” said Morozko, combing the mare’s withers. He glanced down idly. “You must allow things to be what best suits your purpose. And then they will.”

Vasya, puzzled, made no reply. Solovey snorted, not about to be left out. Vasya picked up her own straw and started on the horse’s neck. No matter how hard she stared at it, though, it remained straw.

“You can’t change it to a brush,” said Morozko, seeing her. “Because that would be to believe it is now straw. Just allow it, now, to be a brush.”

Disgruntled, Vasya glowered into Solovey’s flank. “I don’t understand.”

“Nothing changes, Vasya. Things are, or they are not. Magic is forgetting that something ever was other than as you willed it.”

“I still do not understand.”

“That does not mean you cannot learn.”

“I think you are making a game of me.”

“As you like,” said Morozko. But he smiled when he said it.

That night, when the food had gone and the fire burned red, Vasya said, “You once promised me a tale.”

Morozko drank deep of his cup before replying. “Which tale, Vasilisa Petrovna? I know many.”

“You know which. The tale of your brother and your enemy.”

“I did promise you that tale,” said Morozko, reluctantly.

“Twice I have seen the twisted oak-tree,” said Vasya. “Four times since childhood have I seen the one-eyed man, and I have seen the dead walking. Did you think I’d ask for any other tale?”

“Drink, then, Vasilisa Petrovna.” Morozko’s soft voice slid through her veins with the wine. “And listen.” He poured out the mead, and she drank. He looked older and stranger and very far away.

“I am Death,” said Morozko slowly. “Now, as in the beginning. Long ago, I was born of the minds of men. But I was not born alone. When first I looked upon the stars, my brother stood beside me. My twin. And when first I saw the stars, so did he.”

The quiet, crystalline words dropped into Vasya’s mind and she saw the heavens making wheels of fire, in shapes she did not know, and a snowy plain that kissed a bitter horizon, blue on black. “I had the face of a man,” said Morozko. “But my brother had the face of a bear, for to men a bear is very fearsome. That is my brother’s part; he makes men afraid. He eats their fear, gorges himself, and sleeps until he hungers again. Disorder he loves above all; war and plague and fire in the night. But in the long-ago I bound him. I am Death, and guardian of the order of things. All passes before me; that is how it is.”

“If you bound him, then how—?”

“I bound my brother,” said Morozko, not raising his voice. “I am his warden, his guardian, his jailer. Sometimes he wakes and sometimes he sleeps. He is a bear, after all. But now he is awake, and stronger than he has ever been. So strong that he is breaking free. He cannot leave the forest. Not yet. But already he has left the shadow of the oak-tree, which he has not done for a hundred lives of men. Your people grew afraid; they abandoned the chyerti and now your house is unprotected. Already he satisfies his hunger with you. He kills your people in the night. He makes the dead walk.”

Vasya was silent a moment, absorbing this. “How may he be defeated?”

“By trickery sometimes,” Morozko said. “Long ago I defeated him with strength, but I had others to help me then. Now I am alone, and I have faded.” There was a small silence. “But he is not free yet. To break free entirely he needs lives—several lives—and the fear of the tormented dead. The lives of those who can see him are the strongest of all. If he had taken you in the woods the night we met, then he would have been free, though all the powers of the world were ranged against him.”

“How may he be bound anew?” said Vasya with a touch of impatience.

Morozko half-smiled. “I have one last trick.” Was it her imagination, or did his eyes linger on her face? Her talisman hung heavy on her throat. “I will bind him at midwinter, when I am strongest.”

“I can help you.”

“Can you?” Morozko said, with faint amusement. “A girl-child, half-blooded and untrained? You know nothing of lore, or battle, or magic. How exactly can you help me, Vasilisa Petrovna?”

“I kept the domovoi alive,” Vasya protested. “I kept the upyry from my hearth.”

“Well done,” said Morozko. “One newborn upyr slain in daylight, one pallid little domovoi clinging to life, and a girl who fled like a fool into the snow.”

Vasya swallowed. “I have a talisman,” she said. “My nurse gave it to me. From my father. It helped on the nights the upyry came. It might help again.” She lifted the sapphire from beneath her tunic. It was cold and heavy in her hand. When she turned it in the firelight, the silver-blue jewel blazed up with a six-pointed star.

Was it her imagination, or was his face a shade paler? His lips tightened and his eyes were deep and colorless as water. “A little talisman,” said Morozko. “An old, frail magic, to shield a girl-child. A paltry thing to set before the Bear.” But his glance lingered on it.

Vasya did not see. She let the necklace go. She leaned forward. “All my life,” she said, “I have been told ‘go’ and ‘come.’ I am told how I will live, and I am told how I must die. I must be a man’s servant and a mare for his pleasure, or I must hide myself behind walls and surrender my flesh to a cold, silent god. I would walk into the jaws of hell itself, if it were a path of my own choosing. I would rather die tomorrow in the forest than live a hundred years of the life appointed me. Please. Please let me help you.”

For an instant, Morozko seemed to hesitate.

“Didn’t you hear me?” he said at last. “If the Bear has your life, well, then he will be free, and there is nothing I can do. Better you stay far away from him. You are only a maiden. Go home where you are safe. That will help me; that is best. Wear your jewel. Do not go to a convent.” She did not see the harshness about his mouth. “There will be a man to marry you. I will make sure of it. I will give you your dowry: a prince’s ransom, as the tale prescribes. Will you like that? Gold on your wrists and throat, the finest dowry in all Rus’?”

Vasya suddenly stood, sending her stool crashing to the floor. She could not summon words; she ran out into the night, barefoot and bareheaded. Solovey glared at Morozko and followed.

The house was left in silence, except for the crackling of the fire.

That was ill done, said the mare.

“Was I wrong?” said Morozko. “She is better off at home. Her brother will protect her. The Bear will be bound. There will be a man to marry her, and she will live in safety. She must carry the jewel. She must live long and remember. I will not have her risk her life. You know what is at stake.”

Then you deny what she is. She will wither.

“She is young. She will suit herself to it.”

The mare said nothing.

VASYA DID NOT KNOW how long she rode. Solovey had followed her into the snow, and blindly she clambered onto his back. She’d have ridden forever, but at length the horse returned her to the fir-grove. The house among the firs wavered in her sight.

Solovey shook his mane. Get off, he said. There is fire there. You are cold, you are weary, you are frightened.

“I am not frightened!” snapped Vasya, but she slid from the horse’s back. She flinched when her feet struck the snow. Hobbling, she brushed between the firs and stumbled over the familiar threshold. The fire leaped high in the oven. Vasya stripped off her wet outer things, not noticing the silent servants that took them away. Somehow she made her way to the fire. She sank into her chair. Morozko and the white mare had gone.

At last, she drank a cup of mead and dozed off with her chilled toes near the oven.

The fire burned down, but the girl slept on. In the darkest part of the night, she dreamed.

She was in Konstantin’s cell. The air reeked with earth and blood, and a monster crouched over the priest’s thrashing body. When it raised its face, Vasya saw its lips and chin all covered in gore. She raised a hand to banish it, and it shrieked and sprang through the window and disappeared. Vasya knelt beside the bed, scrabbling at the torn blankets.

But the face between her hands was not that of Father Konstantin. Alyosha’s dead gray eyes stared up at her.

Vasya heard a snarl and turned. The upyr had returned, and it was Dunya—Dunya dead, staggering, halfway through the window, her mouth a gaping hole, the bone showing in her finger-ends. Dunya who had been her mother. And then the shadows on the priest’s wall became one shadow, a one-eyed shadow that laughed at her. “Weep,” it said. “You are frightened. It is delicious.”

All the icons in the corner came alive and screeched their approbation. The shadow opened its mouth to laugh, too, and then it was not a shadow at all, but a bear—a great bear with famine between its teeth. It roared out flame—and then the wall was burning; her house was burning. Somewhere she heard Irina screaming.

A grinning face showed between the flames, mottled blue, with a great dark hole where an eye should have been. “Come,” it said. “You will be with them, and you will live forever.” Her dead brother and sister stood beside this apparition and seemed to beckon from behind the flames.

Something hard struck Vasya across the face, but she did not heed.

She reached out a hand. “Alyosha,” she said. “Lyoshka!”

But a quick pain came, sharper than before. Vasya was yanked out of the dream, strangling on a sound between a sob and a scream. Solovey was butting her anxiously with his nose; he had bitten her upper arm. She seized his warm mane. Her hands were like two lumps of ice; her teeth chattered. She buried her face in his coat. Her head was full of screaming, and that laughing voice. Come, or you will never see them again. Then she heard another voice, felt a rush of frigid air.

“Get back, you great ox.” There was a squeal of indignation from Solovey, and then there were cold hands on Vasya’s face. When she tried to look, all she could see was her father’s house burning, and a one-eyed man that beckoned.

Forget him, said the one-eyed man. Come here.

Morozko struck her across the face. “Vasya,” he said. “Vasilisa Petrovna, look at me.”

It was like dragging herself across a great distance, but his eyes came into focus at last. She could not see the house in the woods. All she saw were fir-trees, snow, horses, and the night sky. The air curled frigid about her. Vasya tried to quiet her panicked breaths.

Morozko hissed out something she did not understand. Then, “Here,” he said. “Drink.”

There was mead at her lips; she smelled the honey. She swallowed, choked, and drank. When she raised her head, the cup was empty and her breathing had slowed. She could see the walls of the house again, though they wavered at the edges. Solovey was thrusting his great head down to hers, lipping at her hair and face. She laughed weakly. “I’m all right,” she began, but her laughter became tears, and she was seized with a storm of weeping. She covered her face.

Morozko watched her, narrow-eyed. She could still feel the imprint of his hands, and one cheek throbbed where he had struck her.

At length her tears slowed. “I had a nightmare,” she said. She would not look at him. She hunched on her chair, cold and embarrassed, sticky with tears.

“Do not look so,” Morozko said. “It was more than a nightmare; it was my own mistake.” Seeing her shiver, he made a sound of impatience. “Come here to me, Vasya.”

When she hesitated, he added shortly, “I will not hurt you, child, and it will quiet you. Come here.”

Bewildered, she uncurled and stood, fighting back fresh tears. He put a cloak round her. She did not know where he had gotten it from—perhaps conjured from midair. He picked her up and sank onto the warm oven-bench with her in his arms. He was gentle. His breath was the winter wind, but his flesh was warm, and his heart beat under her hand. She wanted to pull away, to glare at him with all her pride, but she was cold and frightened. Her pulse throbbed in her ears. Clumsily she settled her head in the curve of his shoulder. He ran his fingers through her loosened hair. Slowly, her trembling eased. “I’m all right now,” she said, after a time, a little unsteady. “What did you mean, your own mistake?”

She felt rather than heard him laugh. “Medved is a master of nightmares. Anger and fear are as meat and drink to him, and so he captures the minds of men. Forgive me, Vasya.”

Vasya said nothing.

After a moment, he said, “Tell me your dream.”

Vasya told him. She was shaking again when she had done, and he held her and was silent.

“You were right,” said Vasya at length. “What do I know of ancient magic, or ancient rivalries, or anything else? But I must go home. I can protect my family, at least for a time. Father and Alyosha will understand when I have explained.”

The image of her dead brother tore at her.

“Very well,” said Morozko. She was not looking at him, and so she did not see his face grim.

“May I take Solovey with me?” said Vasya hesitantly. “If he wishes to come?”

Solovey heard and shook his mane. He put his head down to look at Vasya out of one eye. Where you go, I go, said the stallion.

“Thank you,” Vasya whispered, and stroked his nose.

“Tomorrow you will go,” Morozko broke in. “Sleep the rest of the night.”

“Why?” said Vasya, pulling away to look at him. “If the Bear is waiting in my dreams, I certainly will not sleep.”

Morozko smiled crookedly. “But I will be here this time. Even in your dreams, Medved would not have dared my house, if I had not been away.”

“How did you know I was dreaming?” asked Vasya. “How did you come back in time?”

Morozko raised an eyebrow. “I knew. And I came back in time because there is nothing beneath these stars that runs faster than the white mare.”

Vasya opened her mouth on another question, but exhaustion hit her like a wave. She yanked back from the brink of sleep, suddenly frightened. “No,” she whispered. “Don’t—I could not bear it again.”

“He will not come back,” returned Morozko. His voice was steady against her ear. She felt the years in him, and the strength. “All will be well.”

“Don’t go,” she whispered.

Something crossed his face that she could not read. “I will not,” he said. And then it did not matter. Sleep was a great dark wave, and it washed over her and through her. Her eyelids fluttered closed.

“Sleep is cousin to death, Vasya,” he murmured over her head. “And both are mine.”

HE WAS STILL THERE when she woke, as he had promised. She crawled from her bed and went to the fire. He sat very still, staring into the flames. It was as though he hadn’t moved at all. If Vasya looked hard, she could see the forest around him, and he a great white silence, formless, in the middle. But then she sank onto her own stool, and he looked round and some of the remoteness left his face.

“Where did you go yesterday?” she asked him. “Where were you, when the Bear knew you were far away?”

“Here and there,” replied Morozko. “I brought gifts for you.”

A heap of bundles lay beside the fire. Vasya glanced at them. He lifted an eyebrow in invitation, and she was child enough to go immediately to the first bundle and pull it open, heart beating quickly. It contained a green dress trimmed in scarlet, and a sable-lined cloak. There were boots made of felt and fur, embroidered with crimson berries. There were headdresses for her hair, and jewels for her fingers: many jewels. Vasya hefted them in her hand. There was gold and silver, in saddlebags of heavy leather. There was cloth of silver and a rich soft cloth that she did not know.

Vasya looked them all over. I am the girl in the story, she thought. This is the prince’s ransom. Now he will take me back to my father’s house, covered with gifts.

She remembered his hands in the night, a few moments of gentleness.

No, that was nothing. That is not how the story goes. I am only the girl in the fairy tale, and he the wicked frost-demon. The maiden leaves the forest, marries a handsome man, and forgets all about magic.

Why did she feel this pain? She laid the cloth aside.

“Is this my dowry?” Her voice was soft. She did not know what showed on her face.

“You must have one,” said Morozko.

“Not from you,” whispered Vasya. She saw him taken aback. “I will bring your snowdrops to my stepmother. Solovey will come to Lesnaya Zemlya with me if he wishes. But I will have nothing else from you, Morozko.”

“You will have nothing of me, Vasya?” said Morozko, and for once she heard a human voice.

Vasya stumbled backward, tripping on the prince’s ransom scattered at her feet. “Nothing!” She knew he knew she was crying and she tried to speak reasonably. “Bind your brother and save us. I am going home.”

Her cloak hung by the fire. She put on her boots and caught up the basket of snowdrops. Part of her wanted him to object, but he did not.

“You will cross the barrier of your village at dawn, then,” said Morozko. He was on his feet. He paused. “Believe in me, Vasya. Do not forget me.”

But she was already over the threshold and away.

Chapter 26: At the Thaw

She is only one poor mad fool, thought Konstantin Nikonovich. He said he will not kill her. I must get him to leave me. No one can know of this.

Gray dawn and a red sun rising. Where is the border he spoke of? In the forest. Snowdrops. The old oak before dawn.

Konstantin crept to Anna’s chamber and touched her shoulder. Her daughter slept beside her, but Irina did not stir. He put a hand to Anna’s mouth to muffle her shriek. “Come with me now,” he said. “God has called us.” He caught her with his eyes. She lay still, her mouth gaping. He kissed her on the forehead. “Come,” he said.

She stared up at him with wide eyes suddenly brimming with tears.

“Yes,” she said.

She followed him like a dog. He had been prepared to whisper, to speak foolishness, but all it took was one glance and she followed him. It was dark, but the eastern sky had lightened. It was very cold. He put her cloak round her and led her from the house. It was months since Anna had gone out-of-doors, even in daylight, but now she followed him with only a slight quickening of her ragged breaths as they crossed the barrier of the village.

They came to an old oak just a little way into the forest. Konstantin had never seen it before. All around them was winter, the shroud of bitter snow, the earth like iron, the river like blue marble. But beneath the oak the snow had melted, and—Konstantin stepped closer—the ground was thick with snowdrops. Anna clutched at his arm. “Father,” she whispered. “Oh, Father, what are those there? It is still winter, too soon for snowdrops.”

“The thaw,” said Konstantin, weary, sick, and certain. “Come, Anna.” She wound her hand in his. Her touch was like a child’s. In the dawn light, he could see the black gaps between her teeth.

Konstantin drew her nearer the tree, with its carpet of untimely snowdrops. Nearer and nearer.

And suddenly they were in a clearing that neither of them had ever seen. The oak stood alone in the center, while the white flowers clustered about its hoary knees. The sky was white. The ground was slush, turning to muck.

“Well done,” said the voice. It seemed to come from the air, from the water. Anna let out a sobbing scream. Konstantin saw a shadow on the snow, grown monstrously vast, flung out long and distorted, the blackest shadow that he had ever seen. But Anna looked not at the shadow, but at the air beyond. She pointed one trembling finger and screamed. She screamed and screamed.

Konstantin looked where Anna looked, but he saw nothing.

The shadow seemed to stretch out and quiver, like a dog at its master’s stroking. Anna’s screams split the blank air. The light was flat and dim.

“Well done, my servant,” said the shadow. “She is all I could desire. She can see me, and she is afraid. Scream, vedma, scream.”

Konstantin felt empty, strangely calm. He put Anna away from him, though she clawed and scrabbled. Her nails dug into his wool-clad arm.

“Now,” said Konstantin. “Keep your promise. Leave me. Send the girl back.”

The shadow went still, like the boar that hears the hunter’s distant footfall. “Go home, man of God,” it said. “Go back and wait. The girl will come to you. I swear it.”

Anna’s terrified screams grew even louder. She flung herself to the ground and kissed the priest’s feet, wrapped her arms around him. “Batyushka,” she begged. “Batyushka! No—please. Do not leave me, I beg. I beg! That is a devil. That is the devil!”

Konstantin was filled with a weary disgust. “Very well,” he said to the shadow.

He pushed Anna aside. “I advise you to pray.” She sobbed harder still.

“I am going,” said Konstantin to the shadow. “I will wait. Do not forsake your word.”

Chapter 27: The Winter Bear

Vasya came back to Lesnaya Zemlya at first light of a clear winter dawn. Solovey carried her to the part of the palisade nearest the house. When she stood on his back she could reach the top of the spiked wall.

I will wait for you, Vasya, said the stallion. If you need me, you have only to call.

Vasya laid a hand on his neck. Then she vaulted the palisade and dropped into the snow.

She found Alyosha alone in the winter kitchen, armed and pacing, cloaked and booted. He saw her and stopped dead. Brother and sister stared at each other.

Then Alyosha took two strides, seized her and pulled her to him. “God, Vasya, you frightened me,” he said into her hair. “I thought you were dead. Damn Anna Ivanovna and upyry both—I was going to go and look for you. What happened? You—you don’t even look cold.” He pushed her away a little. “You look different.”

Vasya thought of the house in the woods, of the good food and rest and warmth. She thought of her endless rides through the snow, and she thought of Morozko, the way he watched her over the fire in the evening. “Perhaps I am different.” She flung down the flowers.

Alyosha gaped. “Where?” he stammered. “How?”

Vasya smiled crookedly. “A gift,” she said.

Alyosha reached out and touched a fragile stem. “It won’t work, Vasya,” he said, recovering. “Anna will not keep her promise. The village is already fearful. If word of these gets out…”

“We’ll not tell them,” said Vasya firmly. “It is enough I kept my half of the bargain. At midwinter, the dead will lie quiet again. Father will come home, and you and I will make him see sense. In the meantime, there is the house to guard.”

She turned toward the oven.

At that moment, Irina came stumbling into the room. She gave a cry. “Vasochka! You are back. I was so afraid.” She flung her arms around Vasya, and Vasya stroked her sister’s hair. Irina pulled away. “But where is Mother?” she said. “She was not in bed, though usually she sleeps so long. I thought she would be in the kitchen.”

A cold finger touched Vasya on the back of her neck, though she was not sure why. “Perhaps in the church, little bird,” she said. “I will go and see. In the meantime, here are some flowers for you.”

Irina seized the blossoms, pressed them to her lips. “So soon. Is it spring already, Vasochka?”

“No,” replied Vasya. “They are a promise only. Keep them hidden. I must go find your mother.”

There was no one in the church but Father Konstantin. Vasya walked soft in the stillness. The icons seemed to peer at her. “You,” said Konstantin wearily. “He kept his promise.” He did not look away from the icons.

Vasya stepped around him so that she stood between him and the icon-screen. A low fire burned in his sunken eyes. “I gave everything for you, Vasilisa Petrovna.”

“Not everything,” said Vasya. “Since clearly your pride is intact, as well as your illusions. Where is my stepmother, Batyushka?”

“No, I gave everything,” said Konstantin. His voice rose; he seemed to speak despite himself. “I thought the voice was God, but it was not. And I was left with my sin—that I wanted you. I listened to the devil to get you away from me. Now I will never be clean again.”

“Batyushka,” said Vasya. “What is this devil?”

“The voice in the dark,” said Konstantin. “The bringer of storms. The shadow on the snow. But he told me…” Konstantin covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook.

Vasya knelt and peeled the priest’s hands from his face. “Batyushka, where is Anna Ivanovna?”

“In the woods,” said Konstantin. He was staring into her face as though fascinated, much as Alyosha had. Vasya wondered what change the house in the woods had wrought in her. “With the shadow. The price of my sins.”

“Batyushka,” said Vasya, very carefully. “In these woods, did you see a great oak-tree, black and twisted?”

“Of course you would know the place,” said Konstantin. “It is the haunt of demons.”

Then he started. All the color had fled from Vasya’s face. “What, girl?” he said with something of his old imperious manner. “You cannot mourn that mad old woman. She would have seen you dead.”

But Vasya was gone already, up and running for the house. The door slammed shut behind her.

She had remembered her stepmother staring, bulging-eyed, at the domovoi.

He desires above all the lives of those who can see him.

The Bear had his witch, and it was dawn.

She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled shrilly. Already smoke trickled from chimneys. Her whistle split the morning like the arrows of raiders, and people spilled out of their houses. Vasya! she heard. Vasilisa Petrovna! But then they all fell silent, for Solovey had leaped the palisade. He galloped up to Vasya, and he did not break stride when she vaulted to his back. She heard cries of astonishment.

The horse skidded to a halt in the dvor. From the stable came the neighing of horses. Alyosha came running out of the house, naked sword in hand. Irina, behind him, hovered flinching in the doorway. They stopped and stared at Solovey.

“Lyoshka, come with me,” said Vasya. “Now! There is no time.”

Alyosha looked at his sister and the bay stallion. He looked at Irina and he looked at the people.

“Will you carry him as well?” said Vasya to Solovey.

Yes, said Solovey. If you ask it of me. But where are we going, Vasya?

“To the oak-tree. To the Bear’s clearing,” said Vasya. “As fast as you can run.” Alyosha, without a word, sprang up behind her.

Solovey put his head up, a stallion scenting battle. But he said, You cannot do it alone. Morozko is far away. He has said he must wait until midwinter.

“Cannot?” said Vasya. “I will do it. Hurry.”

ANNA IVANOVNA HAD NO more voice. The cords and muscles were all wrenched and broken. Still she tried to scream, though only a ruined rasp escaped her lips. The one-eyed man sat beside her where she lay on the earth and smiled. “Oh, my beauty,” he said. “Scream again. It is beautiful. Your soul ripens as you scream.”

He bent nearer. One instant she saw a man with twisted blue scars on his face. Next instant, arcing over her, she saw a grinning, one-eyed bear whose head and shoulders seemed to shatter the sky. Then he was nothing at all: a storm, a wind, a summer wildfire. A shadow. She cringed away, retching. She tried to stumble to her feet. But the creature grinned down at her and the strength went from her limbs. She lay there, breathing the stinking air.

“You are glorious,” said the creature, bending nearer, slavering. He ran hard hands over her flesh. Crouched at his feet was another shape, white-wrapped, small. The face had shrunk to almost nothing, just close-set eyes and narrow temples and a mouth that gaped huge and ravenous. It crouched on the ground, head between its knees. Every now and then it looked at Anna, a light of hunger gleaming in the dark eyes.

“Dunya,” said Anna, sobbing. For it was she, dressed as they’d buried her. “Dunya, please.”

But Dunya said nothing. She opened her cavernous mouth.

“Die,” said Medved with rapt tenderness, letting Anna go and stepping back. “Die and live forever.”

The upyr lunged. Anna resisted only with feeble, scratching fingers.

But then from the other side of the clearing came the ringing cry of a stallion.

AS SOLOVEY GALLOPED, VASYA told Alyosha that a monster had their stepmother, and if it killed her, it would be free to burn up the countryside with terror.

“Vasya,” said Alyosha, taking a moment to digest this. “Where were you?”

“I was the guest of the winter-king,” said Vasya.

“Well, you should have brought back a prince’s ransom,” Alyosha said at once, and Vasya laughed.

Day was breaking. A strange smell, hot and rank, crept between the tree-trunks. Solovey raced along steadily, ears forward. He was a horse for a god’s child to ride, but Vasya’s hands were empty, and she did not know how to fight.

You must not be afraid, said Solovey, and she stroked the sleek neck.

Ahead loomed the great oak-tree. Behind her, Vasya felt Alyosha tense. The two riders passed the tree and found themselves in a clearing, a place that Vasya did not know. The sky was white, the air warm, so that she sweated under her clothes.

Solovey reared, bugling. Alyosha clutched Vasya around the middle. A white thing lay prone on the muddy earth, while another shape lay heaving beneath it. A great pool of blood stood out around them.

Above them, waiting, grinning, was the Bear. But he was no longer a small man with scars on his skin. Now Vasya saw a bear in truth, but larger than any bear she had ever seen. His fur was patchy and lichen-colored; his black lips glistened around a vast, snarling mouth.

A little grin appeared on those black lips when he saw them, and the tongue showed red between. “Two of them!” he said. “All the better. I thought my brother had you already, girl, but I suppose he was too great a fool to keep you.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Vasya saw the white mare step into the clearing.

“Ah, no, here he is,” said the Bear. But his voice had hardened. “Hello, brother. Come to see me off?”

Morozko spared Vasya a quick, burning glance, and she felt an answering fire rising in her: power and freedom together. The great bay stallion was beneath her, the wild eyes of the frost-demon there, and between them the monster. She flung her head back and laughed, and as she did, she felt the jewel at her throat burn.

“Well,” said Morozko to her, wryly, in a voice like the wind, “I did try to keep you safe.”

A wind was rising. It was a small wind, light and quick and keen. A little of the white cloud blew away overhead, and Vasya could glimpse a pure dawn sky. She heard Morozko speaking, softly and clearly, but she did not understand the words. His eyes fixed on something Vasya could not see. The wind rose higher, keening.

“Do you think to frighten me, Karachun?” said Medved.

“I can buy time, Vasya,” said the wind in Vasya’s ear. “But I do not know how much. I would have been stronger at midwinter.”

“There was not time. He has my stepmother,” replied Vasya. “I had forgotten. She, too, can see.”

Suddenly she realized that there were other faces in the wood, at the brink of the clearing. There was a naked woman with long wet hair, and there was a creature like an old man, with skin like the skin of a tree. There was the vodianoy, the river-king, with his great fish-eyes. The polevik was there, and the bolotnik. There were others—dozens. Creatures like ravens and creatures like rocks and mushrooms and heaps of snow. Many crept forward to where the white mare stood beside Vasya and Solovey, and clustered about their feet. Behind her, Alyosha gave a whistle of astonishment. “I can see them, Vasya.”

But the Bear was speaking, too, in a voice like men screaming. And some of the chyerti went to him. The bolotnik, the wicked swamp creature. And—Vasya felt her heart stop—the rusalka, wildness, emptiness, and lust in her strange, lovely face.

The chyerti took sides, and Vasya saw all their faces intent. Winter-king. Medved. We will answer. Vasya felt them all quivering on the cusp of battle; her blood boiled. She heard their many voices. And the white mare stepped forward, too, with Morozko on her back. Solovey reared and pawed the earth.

“Go, Vasya,” said the wind with Morozko’s voice. “Your stepmother must live. Tell your brother his sword will not bite the flesh of the dead. And—do not die.”

The girl shifted her weight and Solovey took them forward at a flying gallop. The Bear roared and instantly the clearing fell into chaos. The rusalka sprang upon the vodianoy, her father, and tore into his warty shoulder. Vasya saw the leshy wounded, streaming something like sap from a gash in his trunk. Solovey galloped on. They came upon the great pool of blood and skidded to a halt.

The upyr looked up and hissed. Anna lay gray-faced beneath her, caked with mud, not moving. Dunya was covered in gore and filth, her face streaked with tears.

Anna breathed out one slow, gurgling sigh. Her throat was laid open. Behind them came a roar of triumph from the Bear. Dunya was crouched like a cat about to spring. Vasya locked eyes with her and slid off Solovey’s back.

No, Vasya, said the stallion. Get back up.

“Lyoshka,” said Vasya, not taking her eyes from Dunya. “Go fight with the others. Solovey will protect me.”

Alyosha slid from Solovey’s back. “As if I’d leave you,” he said. Some of the Bear’s creatures circled them. Alyosha cried a war cry and swung his sword. Solovey lowered his head, like a bull about to charge.

“Dunya,” Vasya said. “Dunyashka.” Dimly she heard her brother grunt as the edge of the battle found them. From somewhere, there came a howl like a wolf’s, a cry like a woman’s. But she and Dunya stood in a little core of silence. Solovey pawed the earth, ears flat to his skull. That creature does not know you, he said.

“She does. I know she does.” The look of terror on the upyr’s face warred now with avid hunger. “I will just tell her she need not be afraid. Dunya—Dunya, please. I know you are cold here, and you are frightened. But can’t you remember me?”

Dunya panted, all the light of hell in her eyes.

Vasya drew her belt-knife and dragged it deeply across the veins of her wrist. The skin resisted before it gave, and then the blood raged out. Solovey shied back instinctively. “Vasya!” cried Alyosha, but she did not heed. Vasya took a long step forward. Her blood tumbled down, scarlet in the snow, on the mud and on the snowdrops. Behind her Solovey reared.

“Here, Dunyashka,” said Vasya. “Here. You are hungry. You fed me often enough. Remember?” She held out her bleeding arm.

And then she had no more time to think. The creature seized her hand like a greedy child, fastened its mouth to her wrist, and drank.

Vasya stood still, trying desperately to stay on her feet.

The creature whimpered as it drank. More and more it whimpered, and then suddenly it flung her hand away and stumbled backward. Vasya staggered, light-headed, black flowers blooming at the edges of her vision. But Solovey was behind her, holding her up, nosing her anxiously.

Her wrist had been worried as though it were a bone. Gritting her teeth, Vasya tore a strip from her shirt and bound it tight. She heard the whistling of Alyosha’s sword. The press of fighting swept up her brother and drew him away.

The upyr was looking at her with abject terror. Her nose and chin and cheeks were speckled and smeared with blood. The wood seemed to hold its breath. “Marina,” said the vampire, and it was Dunya’s voice.

There came a bellow of fury.

The hell-light faded from the vampire’s eyes. The blood cracked and flaked on her face. “My own Marina, at last. It has been so long.”

“Dunya,” said Vasya. “I am glad to see you.”

“Marina, Marushka, where am I? I am cold. I have been so frightened.”

“It is all right,” said Vasya, fighting tears. “It will be all right.” She wrapped her arms around the death-smelling thing. “You need not be frightened now.” From beyond there came another roar. Dunya jerked in Vasya’s arms. “Hush,” said Vasya, as to a child. “Don’t look.” She tasted salt on her lips.

Suddenly Morozko was beside her. He was breathing fast, and he had a wild look to match Solovey’s. “You are a mad fool, Vasilisa Petrovna,” he said. He caught up a handful of snow and pressed it to her bleeding arm. It froze solid, clotting the blood. When she brushed away the excess, she found the wound sheathed in a thin layer of ice.

“What has happened?” said Vasya.

“The chyerti stand,” replied Morozko grimly. “But it will not last. Your stepmother is dead, and so the Bear is loose. He will break out now soon—soon.”

The fighting had come back into the clearing. The wood-spirits were as children beside the Bear’s bulk. He had grown; his shoulders seemed to split the sky. He seized the polevik in vast jaws and flung it away. The rusalka stood at his side, shrieking a wordless cry. The Bear threw back his great shaggy head. “Free!” he roared, snarling, laughing. He seized the leshy, and Vasya heard wood splintering.

“You must help them, then,” snapped Vasya. “Why are you here?”

Morozko narrowed his eyes and said nothing. Vasya wondered, for a ridiculous instant, if he had come back to keep her from killing herself. The white mare laid her nose against Dunya’s withered cheek. “I know you,” the old lady whispered to the horse. “You are so beautiful.” Then Dunya saw Morozko and a faint fear crept back into her eyes. “I know you, too,” she said.

“You will not see me again, Avdotya Mikhailovna, I very much hope,” said Morozko. But his voice was gentle.

“Take her,” said Vasya quickly. “Let her die in truth now, so that she will not be afraid. Look, already she is forgetting.”

It was true. The clarity had begun to fade from Dunya’s face. “And you, Vasya?” Morozko said. “If I take her, I must leave this place.”

Vasya thought of facing the Bear without him and she wavered. “How long will you be gone?”

“An instant. An hour. One cannot tell.”

Behind them the Bear called out. Dunya shook at the summons. “I must go to him,” she whispered. “I must—Marushka, please.”

Vasya gathered her resolve. “I have an idea,” she said.

“It would be better—”

“No,” snapped Vasya. “Take her away now. Please. She was my mother.” She seized the frost-demon’s arm with both hands. “The white mare said you were a giver of gifts. Do this for me now, Morozko. I beg you.”

There was a long silence. Morozko looked at the battle beyond them. He looked back at her. For a flickering instant, his glance strayed into the trees. Vasya looked where he did and saw nothing. But suddenly the frost-demon smiled.

“Very well,” Morozko said. Unexpectedly he reached out and drew her close and kissed her, quick and fierce. She looked up at him wide-eyed. “You must hold on, then,” he said. “As long as you may. Be brave.”

He stepped back. “Come, Avdotya Mikhailovna, and take the road with me.”

Suddenly he and Dunya were astride the white horse, and only a crumpled, bloody, empty thing lay in the snow at Vasya’s feet.

“Farewell,” whispered Vasya, fighting the urge to call him back. Then they were gone, the white horse and her two riders.

Vasya took a deep breath. The Bear had thrown off the last of his attackers. Now he wore the scarred face of a man, but a tall, strong man, with cruel hands. He laughed. “Well done,” he said. “I am always trying to get rid of him myself. He is a cold thing, devushka. I am the fire; I will warm you. Come here, little vedma, and live forever.”

He beckoned. His eyes seemed to drag at her. His power flooded the clearing and the wounded chyerti shrank before him.

Vasya breathed in a frightened breath. But Solovey was at her side. She felt his sinewy neck under her hand and then, blindly, she clambered onto his back. “Better a thousand deaths,” she said to the Bear.

The scarred lip lifted and she saw the gleam of his long teeth. “Come, then,” he said coldly. “Slave or loyal servant, the choice is yours. But you are mine either way.” He was growing as he spoke, and suddenly the man was a bear again, with jaws to swallow the world. He grinned at her. “Oh, you are afraid. They are always afraid at the end. But the fear of the brave—that is best.”

Vasya thought her heart would beat its way out of her breast. But aloud she said, in a small, strangled voice, “I see the folk of the wood. But what of the domovoi, and the bannik, and the vazila? Come to me now, children of my people’s hearths, for my need is very great.” She ripped the skin of ice off the wound in her arm, so that her blood tumbled forth. The blue jewel was glowing beneath her clothes.

There was an instant of stillness in the clearing, broken by the chime of Alyosha’s sword and the grunts of the chyerti who still fought. Her brother was surrounded by three of the Bear’s people. Vasya saw his face intent, the gleam of blood on his arm and cheek.

“Come to me now,” said Vasya, desperately. “As I ever loved you, and you loved me; remember the blood I shed, and the bread I gave.”

Still there was silence. The Bear scraped the earth with his great forefeet. “And now you will despair,” he said. “Despair is even better than fear.” He put his tongue out like a snake, as though to taste the air.

Foolish girl, thought Vasya. How could the household-spirits come? They are bound to our hearths. She tasted blood, bitter and salty in her mouth.

“We can at least save my brother,” Vasya said to Solovey, and the horse bugled defiance. One of the Bear’s great paws flashed out, taking them by surprise, and the horse barely dodged. He backed, ears flat to his head, and the great paw drew back to strike again.

Suddenly all the domoviye, all the bathhouse-guardians and dooryard spirits from all the dwellings in Lesnaya Zemlya, were thronging at their feet. Solovey had to pick up his hooves to keep from stepping on them, and then the vazila sprang onto Solovey’s withers. The little domovoi from her own house brandished a live coal in one sooty hand.

For the first time, the Bear looked uncertain. “Impossible,” he muttered. “Impossible. They do not leave their houses.”

The household-spirits roared out strange challenges and Solovey pawed the muddy earth.

But then Vasya’s heart sprang into her throat and seemed to hang there, hammering. The rusalka had borne Alyosha to earth. Vasya saw his sword go flying; she saw him freeze, entranced, looking up at the naked woman. She saw her fingers go round his throat.

The Bear laughed. “Stay where you are, all of you. Or this one dies.”

“Remember,” Vasya called to the rusalka, desperately, across the clearing. “I threw flowers for you, and now I shed my blood. Remember!”

The rusalka froze, perfectly still except for the water running down her hair. Her hands around Alyosha’s throat slackened.

Alyosha struck out, renewing the struggle, but the Bear was too near.

“Come on!” cried Vasya to Solovey, to all of her ragged army. “Go—he is my brother!”

But at that moment, a great bellow of rage came from the other end of the clearing.

Vasya glanced aside and saw her father standing there, his sword in his hand.

THE BEAR WAS TWICE and thrice the size of an ordinary bear. It had only one eye; half its face was a mass of scars. The good eye gleamed, the color of thin shadow on snow. It wasn’t sleepy, like an ordinary bear, but alight with hunger and giddy malice.

Before the Bear was Vasya, unmistakable, tiny before the beast, riding a dark horse. But Alyosha, his son, lay almost beneath the beast’s feet, and the great mouth reached down…

Pyotr bellowed, a cry of love and rage. The beast whipped his head around. “So many visitors,” he said. “Silence for a thousand lives of men, and then the world descends upon me. Well, I will not object. One at a time, though. First the boy.”

But at that moment, a naked woman, green-skinned, water glittering on her long hair, shrieked and sprang onto the Bear’s back, clutching him with her hands and teeth. Next instant, Pyotr’s daughter cried aloud and the great horse charged, striking out at the beast with its forefeet. With them came all manner of strange creatures, tall and thin, tiny and bearded, male and female. They threw themselves together upon the Bear, shrieking in their high, strange voices. The beast fell back beneath them.

Vasya half-tumbled from the horse’s back, seized Alyosha, and dragged him away. Pyotr heard her sobbing. “Lyoshka,” she cried. “Lyoshka.”

The stallion struck out with his forefeet again and backed up, protecting the boy and girl on the ground. Alyosha blinked dazedly about them. “Get up, Lyoshka,” pleaded Vasya. “Please, please.”

The Bear shook himself and most of the strange creatures were flung off. He lashed out with one paw, and the great stallion barely evaded the blow. The naked woman fell to the snow, water flying from her hair. Vasya threw herself over her half-conscious brother. Monstrous teeth reached for her unprotected back.

Pyotr could not remember running. But suddenly he found himself standing, gasping, between his children and the beast. He was steady except for his pounding heart, and he held his broadsword two-handed. Vasya stared at him as at an apparition. He saw her lips move. Father.

The Bear skidded to a halt. “Get you gone,” he snarled. He stretched out a clawed foot. Pyotr turned it with his sword and did not stir.

“My life is nothing,” said Pyotr. “I am not afraid.”

The Bear opened his mouth and roared. Vasya flinched. Still Pyotr did not move. “Stand aside,” said the Bear. “I will have the old witch’s children.”

Pyotr stepped deliberately forward. “I know no witches. These are my children.”

The Bear’s teeth snapped an inch from his face, and still he did not move.

“Get out,” said Pyotr. “You are nothing; you are only a story. Leave my lands in peace.”

The Bear snorted. “These woods are mine now.” But the eye rolled warily.

“What is your price?” said Pyotr. “I, too, have heard the old tales, and there is always a price.”

“As you like. Give me your daughter, and you will have peace.”

Pyotr glanced at Vasya. Their eyes met, and he saw her swallow hard. “That is my Marina’s lastborn,” he said. “That is my daughter. A man does not offer up another’s life. Still less the life of his own child.”

An instant of perfect silence.

“I offer you mine,” said Pyotr. He dropped his sword.

“No!” Vasya screamed. “Father, no! No!”

The Bear squinted its good eye and hesitated.

Suddenly Pyotr flung himself, empty-handed, at the lichen-colored chest. The Bear acted on instinct; he batted the man aside. There was a horrible crack. Pyotr flew like a straw doll and landed facedown in the snow.

THE BEAR HOWLED AND LEAPED after him. But Vasya was on her feet, all her fear forgotten. She screamed aloud in wordless fury and the Bear whipped round again.

Vasya heaved herself onto Solovey’s back. They charged the Bear. The girl was weeping; she had forgotten she held no weapon. The jewel at her breast burned cold, beating like another heart.

The Bear grinned broadly, tongue lolling doglike between its great teeth.

“Oh, yes,” it said, “Come here, little vedma, come here, little witch. You aren’t strong enough for me yet, and never will be. Come to me and join your poor father.”

But even as he spoke he was dwindling. The Bear became a man, a little, cringing man that peered up at them through a watering gray eye.

A white figure appeared beside Solovey, and a white hand touched the stallion’s straining neck. The horse put his head up and slowed. “No!” shouted Vasya. “No, Solovey, don’t stop.”

But the one-eyed man cringed down into the snow, and she felt Morozko’s hand on hers. “Enough, Vasya,” he said. “See? He is bound. It is over.”

She stared at the little man, blinking, dazed. “How?”

“Such is the strength of men,” said Morozko. He sounded strangely satisfied. “We who live forever can know no courage, nor do we love enough to give our lives. But your father could. His sacrifice bound the Bear. Pyotr Vladimirovich will die as he would have wished. It is over.”

“No,” said Vasya, pulling her hand away. “No…”

She pitched herself off Solovey. Medved cringed away, grumbling, but already she had forgotten him. She ran to her father’s head. Alyosha had gotten there before her. He pulled aside his father’s torn cloak. The blow had crushed Pyotr’s ribs on one side, and blood bubbled up between his lips. Vasya pressed her hands to the wounded place. Warmth flared into her hands. Her tears fell onto her father’s eyes. A hint of color tinged Pyotr’s graying skin, and his eyes opened. They fell on Vasya and brightened.

“Marina,” he croaked. “Marina.”

The breath sighed out of him and he did not take another.

“No,” Vasya whispered. “No.” She dug her fingertips into her father’s slack flesh. His chest heaved suddenly, like a bellows, but his eyes were fixed and staring. Vasya tasted blood where she’d bitten into her lip, and she fought the death as though it were her own, as though…

A cold long-fingered hand caught both of hers, leaching the warmth away. Vasya tried to wrench her hands free, but she could not. Morozko’s voice wafted icy air across her cheek. “Leave it, Vasya. He chose this; you cannot undo it.”

“Yes, I can,” she hissed back, breath catching in her throat. “It should have been me. Let me go!” Then the hand was gone, and she spun round. Morozko had already drawn away. She looked up into his face, pale and indifferent, cruel and just a little kind.

“Too late,” he said, and all around, the wind took up the words: Too late, too late.

And then the frost-demon had swung onto the white mare’s back, up behind another figure, that Vasya could only see out of the corner of her eye. “No,” she said, running after them. “Wait—Father.” But the white mare had already cantered off between the trees and disappeared into the darkness.

THE STILLNESS WAS SUDDEN and absolute. The one-eyed man slunk off into the undergrowth, and the chyerti disappeared into the winter forest. The rusalka laid a dripping hand on Vasya’s shoulder in passing. “Thank you, Vasilisa Petrovna,” she said.

Vasya made no answer.

Solovey nuzzled her gently.

Vasya did not heed. She was staring at nothing, holding her father’s hand while it slowly turned cold.

“Look,” whispered Alyosha, hoarse and wet-eyed. “The snowdrops are dying.”

It was true. The warm, sickly, death-smelling wind had chilled, sharpened, and the flowers wilted down onto the hard earth. It was not yet midwinter, and their hour was months away. There was no clearing, no muddy space beneath a gray sky. There was only a huge old oak-tree, its branches twisted together. The village lay beyond, now clearly visible, a stone’s throw away. Day had broken and it was bitterly cold.

“Bound,” said Vasya. “The monster is bound. Father did it.” She reached out a stiff hand to pluck a drooping snowdrop.

“How came Father here?” said Alyosha in soft wonder. “He had—such a look about him. As if he knew what to do, and how, and why. He is with Mother now, by God’s grace.” Alyosha made the sign of the cross over his father’s body, rose, went to Anna, and repeated the gesture.

But Vasya did not move, nor did she answer.

She put the flower in her father’s hand. Then she laid her head against his chest and began, softly, to cry.

Chapter 28: At the End and at the Beginning

They kept a night’s vigil for Pyotr Vladimirovich and his wife. The two were buried together, with Pyotr between his first wife and his second. Though they mourned, the people did not despair. The miasma of death and defeat had gone from their fields and houses. Even the bedraggled remnants of half a burnt village, led past their gate by an exhausted Kolya, could not frighten them. The air bit gently, and the sun shone down, studding the snow with diamonds.

Vasya stood with her family, hooded and cloaked against the chill, and bore the people’s whispers. Vasilisa Petrovna disappeared. She returned on a winged horse. She should have been dead. Witch. Vasya remembered the touch of rope on her wrists, the cold look in Oleg’s eyes—a man she had known since childhood—and she made a decision.

When everyone else had gone, Vasya stood alone at her father’s grave in the dusk. She felt old and grim and tired.

“Can you hear me, Morozko?” she said.

“Yes,” he said, and then he was beside her.

She saw a subtle wariness in his face, and she laughed a laugh that was half a sob. “Afraid I will ask for my father back?”

“When I walked freely among men, the living would scream at me,” Morozko replied evenly. “They would seize my hand, the mane of my horse. The mothers begged me to take them, when I took up their children.”

“Well, I have had enough of the dead coming back.” Vasya fought for a tone of icy detachment. But her voice wavered.

“I suppose you have,” he replied. But the wariness had gone from his face. “I will remember his courage, Vasya,” he said. “And yours.”

Her mouth twisted. “Always? When I am like my father, clay in the cold earth? Well, that is something, to be remembered.”

He said nothing. They looked at each other.

“What would you have of me, Vasilisa Petrovna?”

“Why did my father die?” she asked in a rush. “We need him. If anyone had to die, it should have been me.”

“It was his choice, Vasya,” replied Morozko. “It was his privilege. He would not have had it otherwise. He died for you.”

Vasya shook her head and paced a restless circle. “How did Father even know? He came to the clearing. He knew. How could he find us?”

Morozko hesitated. Then he said slowly, “He came home before the others and found you and your brother gone. He went into the woods to search. That clearing is enchanted. Until the tree dies, it will do all in its power to keep the Bear contained. It knew what was needed, better even than I. It drew your father to you, once he entered the forest.”

Vasya was silent a long moment. She looked at him narrow-eyed, and he met her gaze. At last she nodded.

Then, “There is something I must do,” Vasya said abruptly. “I need your help.”

IT HAD ALL GONE WRONG, thought Konstantin. Pyotr Vladimirovich was dead, killed by a wild beast on the threshold of his own village. Anna Ivanovna, they said, had run out into the woods in a fit of madness. Well, of course she did, he told himself. She was a madwoman and a fool; we all knew it. But he could still see her frantic, bloodless face. It hung before his waking eyes.

Konstantin read the service for Pyotr Vladimirovich scarce knowing what he said, and he ate at the funeral feast hardly knowing what he did.

But in the twilight, there came a knock at the door of his cell.

When the door opened, his breath hissed out and he stumbled back. Vasya stood in the gap, the candlelight strong on her face. She was grown so beautiful, pale and remote, graceful and troubled. Mine, she is mine. God has sent her back to me. This is his forgiveness.

“Vasya,” he said, and reached out to her.

But she was not alone. When she slipped through the door, a dark-cloaked figure unfolded from the shadows at her shoulder and glided in beside her. Konstantin could see nothing of the face, save that it was pale. The hands were very long and thin.

“Who is that, Vasya?” he said.

“I came back,” Vasya returned. “But not alone, as you see.”

Konstantin could not see the man’s eyes, so sunk were they in his skull. The hands were of a skeletal thinness. The priest licked his lips. “Who is that, girl?”

Vasya smiled. “Death,” she said. “He saved me in the forest. Or perhaps he did not, and I am a ghost. I feel a ghost tonight.”

“You are mad,” said Konstantin. “Stranger, who are you?”

The stranger said nothing.

“Alive or dead, I have come to tell you to leave this place,” said Vasya. “Go back to Moscow, to Vladimir, to Tsargrad, or to hell, but you must be gone before the snowdrops bloom.”

“My task—”

“Your task is done,” said Vasya. She stepped forward. The dark man beside her seemed to grow; his head was a skull, and blue fires burned in the sockets of his sunken eyes. “You will go, Konstantin Nikonovich. Or you will die. And your death will not be easy.”

“I will not.” But he was pressed against the wall of his chamber. His teeth rattled together.

“You will,” said Vasya. She advanced until she was near enough to touch. He could see the curve of her cheek, the implacable look in her eyes. “Or we will see to it that you are mad as my stepmother was, before the end.”

“Demons,” said Konstantin, panting. A cold sweat broke over his brow.

“Yes,” said Vasya, and she smiled, the devil’s own child. The dark figure beside her smiled, too, a slow skull’s grin.

And then they were gone, silently as they had come.

Konstantin fell to his knees before the shadows on his wall. He stretched out supplicating hands. “Come back,” begged the priest. He paused, listening. His hands shook. “Come back. You raised me up, but she scorned me. Come back.”

He thought the shadows might have shifted just a little. But he heard only silence.

“HE WILL DO IT, I think,” Vasya said.

“Very likely,” said Morozko. He was laughing. “I have never done that at another’s behest.”

“And I suppose you frighten people all the time on your own account,” said Vasya.

“I?” said Morozko. “I am only a story, Vasya.”

And it was Vasya’s turn to laugh. Then her laugh caught in her throat. “Thank you,” she said.

Morozko inclined his head. And then the night seemed to reach out and catch him up, fold him inside itself, so that there was only the dark where he had been.

THE HOUSEHOLD HAD GONE to bed, and only Irina and Alyosha sat alone in the kitchen. Vasya glided in like a shadow. Irina had been crying; Alyosha held her. Wordless, Vasya sank onto the oven-bench beside them and wrapped her arms around them both.

They were all silent awhile.

“I cannot stay here,” said Vasya, very low.

Alyosha looked at her, dull with sorrow and battle-weariness. “Are you still thinking of the convent?” he said. “Well, you needn’t think of it again. Anna Ivanovna is dead, and so is Father. I will have my own land, my own inheritance. I will look after you.”

“You must establish yourself as a lord among men,” Vasya said. “Men will look less kindly upon you when it is known that you harbor your mad sister. You know that many will blame me for all this. I am the witch-woman. Has the priest not said so?”

“Never mind that,” said Alyosha. “There is nowhere for you to go.”

“Is there not?” said Vasya. A slow fire kindled in her face, easing the lines of grief. “Solovey will take me to the ends of the earth if I ask it. I am going into the world, Alyosha. I will be no one’s bride, neither of man nor of God. I am going to Kiev and Sarai and Tsargrad, and I will look upon the sun on the sea.”

Alyosha stared at his sister. “You are mad, Vasya.”

She laughed, but the tears blurred her sight. “Entirely,” she said. “But I will have my freedom, Alyosha. Do you doubt me? I brought snowdrops to my stepmother, when I ought to have died in the forest. Father is gone; there is no one to hinder. Tell me truly, what is there for me here but walls and cages? I will be free, and I will not count the cost.”

Irina clung to her sister. “Don’t go, Vasya, don’t go. I will be good, I promise.”

“Look at me, Irinka,” said Vasya. “You are good. You are the best little girl I know. Much better than I am. But, little sister, you don’t think I am a witch. Others do.”

“That is true,” said Alyosha. He had also seen the villagers’ black stares, heard their whispers during the funeral.

Vasya said nothing.

“Unnatural thing,” said her brother, but he was sad more than angry. “Can you not be content? Men will forget about all this in time, and what you call cages is the lot of women.”

“It is not mine,” said Vasya. “I love you, Lyoshka. I love you both. But I cannot.”

Irina began to cry and clung closer.

“Don’t cry, Irinka,” added Alyosha. He was looking at his sister narrowly. “She will come back. Won’t you, Vasya?”

She nodded once. “One day. I swear it.”

“You will not be cold and hungry on the road, Vasya?”

Vasya thought of the house in the woods, of the treasures heaped there, waiting. Not a dowry now, but gems to barter, a cloak against the frost, boots…all she needed for journeying. “No,” she said. “I do not think so.”

Alyosha nodded reluctantly. Implacable purpose shone like wildfire in his sister’s face.

“Do not forget us, Vasya. Here.” He reached up and drew off a wooden object, hanging on a leather thong about his neck. He handed it to her. It was a little carven bird, with worn outspread wings.

“Father made it for mother,” said Alyosha. “Wear it, little sister, and remember.”

Vasya kissed them both. Her hand closed tight around the wooden thing. “I swear it,” she said again.

“Go,” said Alyosha. “Before I tie you to the oven and make you stay.” But his eyes too were wet.

Vasya slipped outside. Just as she touched the threshold, there came her brother’s voice again, “Go with God, little sister.”

Even when the kitchen door swung shut behind her, it was not enough to muffle the sound of Irina’s weeping.

SOLOVEY WAS WAITING FOR her just outside the palisade. “Come,” Vasya said. “Will you bear me to the ends of the earth, if the road will take us so far?” She was crying as she spoke, but the horse nuzzled away her tears.

His nostrils flared to catch the evening wind. Anywhere, Vasya. The world is wide, and the road will take us anywhere.

She swung onto the stallion’s back and he was away, swift and silent as a night-flying bird.

Soon enough, Vasya saw a fir-grove, and firelight glancing between the trees, spilling gold into the snow.

The door opened. “Come in, Vasya,” Morozko said. “It is cold.”