The Winter of the Witch Read online

  Not fast; injury and death had weakened the thing, made it clumsy on its half-grown limbs. But the woman put up no resistance. The vampire buried its face in her wrinkled throat.

  She gave a gurgling cry of pain and of love, and clutched the thing to her, gasping in agony and crooning to the thing in the same breath. “I’m here,” she whispered again.

  And then the little dead creature was painting itself with her blood, jerking its head back and forth in a mockery of infancy.

  People were running, screaming.

  Then a voice rang out from the street above, and Father Konstantin came down, walking fast, fierce, dignified, his gold hair silver in the moonlight.

  “People of God,” he said. “I am here; fear no darkness.” His voice was like church-bells at dawn. His long robe snapped and flared behind him. He thrust his way past the husband, who had fallen to his knees, one hand helplessly outstretched.

  Crisp as a man drawing a sword, he made the sign of the cross.

  The child upyr hissed. Its face was black with blood.

  There was a one-eyed shadow behind Konstantin, watching the tawdry, bloody encounter with delight, but no one saw it. Not even Konstantin, who was not looking. Perhaps he had forgotten in that moment that it was not his voice alone that bid the dead rest.

  “Back, devil,” Konstantin said. “Get back to where you came. Do not trouble the living again.”

  The little vampire hissed. The wavering crowd had paused in its flight; the nearest watched with frozen fascination. For a long moment, the upyr and the priest seemed to lock eyes in a terrible battle of wills. The only sound was the gurgling breath of the dying woman.

  An observant person might have noticed that the dead thing was not looking at the priest, but beyond him. Behind Konstantin, the one-eyed shadow jerked its thumb in a peremptory gesture, the way a man dismisses a dog.

  The vampire snarled again, but softly, as the power that had given it life and breath and movement faded. It crumpled onto its mother’s breast. No one could tell if the final sound from the pair was her last breath or his.

  The husband stared at the corpses of his family: empty, shocked and still. But the crowd was not looking at him. “Go back,” hissed the Bear into Konstantin’s ear. “They think you a saint; it is not the time to stand about. So much as sneeze and you ruin the effect.”

  Konstantin Nikonovich, surrounded by faces slack with awe, knew that perfectly well. He made the sign of the cross over them all again: a benediction. Then he swept back up the narrow street, striding through the darkness, hoping he wouldn’t trip on a frozen rut in the road. People drew back before him, weeping.

  Konstantin’s blood was singing with the memory of power. Years of praying, of earnest searching, had left him an outcast of God, but this demon could make him great among men. He knew it. If part of him whispered, he will have your soul, Konstantin did not heed. What good had his soul ever done him? But he muttered, as though despite himself, “That woman died for your show.”

  The devil shrugged. The scarred side of his face was lost in darkness; he looked ordinary, except for his soundless bare feet. Now and again he glanced up at the stars. “Not exactly dead; the dead do not lie quiet when I’m about.” Konstantin shuddered. “She will walk the streets at night, calling for her son. But that is all to the good. More fuel for their fear.” He looked at the priest sidelong. “Regrets? Too late for scruples, man of God.”

  Konstantin said nothing.

  The devil murmured, “There is nothing but power in this world. People are divided into those who have it and those who have it not. Which will you be, Konstantin Nikonovich?”

  “At least I am a man,” Konstantin snapped, shrill. “You are only a monster.”

  Medved’s teeth were white as a beast’s; they gleamed briefly when he smiled. “There are no monsters.”

  Konstantin snorted.

  “There are not,” said the Bear. “There are no monsters in the world, and no saints. Only infinite shades woven into the same tapestry, light and dark. One man’s monster is another man’s beloved. The wise know that.”

  They were nearly at the monastery-gate. “Are you my monster then, devil?” Konstantin asked.

  The shadow at the corner of Medved’s mouth deepened. “I am,” he said. “And your beloved too. You are not one to distinguish.” The devil caught Konstantin’s golden head between his hands, drew him down and kissed him, full on the mouth.

  Then he disappeared into the darkness, laughing.

  8.

  Between the City and Evil

  BROTHER ALEKSANDR LEFT HIS SISTER’S palace in the gray-blue hour before the sun rises. All around him, Moscow was stirring, sullenly. The city’s rage and wildness had shifted to a deeper unease. Dmitrii had every man he could spare in the streets—soldiers at the kremlin-gate, at the gate of his own palace, guarding the boyars’ houses—but their presence only seemed to feed the sense of dread.

  A few people recognized Sasha, despite the hour, despite his hood. Once they would have asked him for his blessing; now they gave him black looks, and drew their children aside.

  The witch’s brother.

  Sasha strode on, lips set thin. Perhaps a better monk would have fixed his gaze on heavenly things, forgiven and forgotten, not mourned his sister’s torment, or his own lost reputation. But—if he had been a better monk he would have stayed in the Lavra.

  The sun had made a copper rim on the horizon and water was running beneath the softening snow when Sasha passed the Grand Prince’s gate, and found Dmitrii in low-voiced conversation with three of his boyars. “God be with you,” said Sasha to them all. The boyars made the sign of the cross, identical troubled expressions half-hidden in their beards. Sasha could hardly blame them.

  “The great families do not like it,” said Dmitrii when the boyars had bowed and left, and his attendants gone out of earshot. “Any of it. That a traitor came so close to killing me, that I lost control of the city last night. And—” Dmitrii paused. His hand toyed with his sword-hilt. “There are rumors that a demon was seen in Moscow.”

  Sasha thought of Varvara’s warning. Perhaps Dmitrii expected him to scoff, but instead he asked, warily, “What nature of—demon?”

  Dmitrii shot him a glance. “I know not. But that is why those three came to me so early and so uneasy; they heard the rumors too and fear that the city must be under some curse. They say that people talk of nothing now but devils, and of spoiling. They say that the only reason the city did not fall to evil last night was because a priest named Father Konstantin banished the demon. They are saying he is a saint, that he is the only one standing between this city and evil.”

  “Lies,” said Sasha. “It was that same Father Konstantin yesterday who drove the city to riot and put my sister in the fire.”

  Dmitrii’s eyes narrowed.

  “His mob smashed the gates of my sister’s palace,” Sasha went on. “And he—” Sasha broke off. He stole my niece from her bed and gave her to the traitor, was what he wanted to say, but…No, Olga had said. Don’t you dare say aloud that my daughter left the terem that night. Get justice for Vasya if you can, but what do you think folk will say of Marya?

  “Have you proof of this?” asked Dmitrii.

  Once Sasha would have replied, Is my word not enough? Dmitrii would have answered, Yes it is, brother, and that would have been the end of argument. But a lie had come between them and so instead Sasha said, “There are witnesses that will place Father Konstantin among the mob at the palace of Serpukhov, and at the burning.”

  Dmitrii didn’t answer directly. He said, “After I heard the rumors this morning, I sent men to the Monastery of the Archangel, with orders to escort the priest here. But he wasn’t at the monastery. He was in the Cathedral of the Assumption, with half the city attending him, praying and weeping. He chants like an angel, they say
, and Moscow is full of tales of his beauty and his piety and how he freed the city from devils. All these rumors alone would make him dangerous, even if he is not the villain you make him out to be.”

  “Since he is dangerous, why have you not arrested him?”

  “Weren’t you listening?” demanded Dmitrii. “I can’t have a holy man dragged out of a cathedral before half of Moscow. No, he will come today by quiet invitation, and I will decide what to do.”

  “He set the mob to break Serpukhov’s gates,” said Sasha. “There is only one thing to do with him.”

  “Justice will be done, cousin,” returned Dmitrii. In his eyes was a warning. “However, it is for me to administer it, not you.”

  Sasha said nothing. The dooryard was full of the sound of hammers, of men calling, of horses. Beyond was the murmur of the waking city. “I have ordered divine service sung,” Dmitrii added. Now he sounded tired. “I have set all the bishops to praying. I do not know what else we can do. Curse it, I am not a holy man, to answer questions of curses and devils. The people are unsettled enough without wicked rumors. There is the city to rebuild and Tatar bandits to find.”

  * * *

  ALL MOSCOW, IT SEEMED to Konstantin, followed him from the cathedral to the Grand Prince’s palace. Their voices pulled at him; their stink surrounded him. “I will return,” he told the people, before passing the gates. They waited outside, icons in their hands, praying aloud, better than a hundred guards.

  Nonetheless, Konstantin’s sweat was cold as he crossed the dooryard. Dmitrii had guards of his own, heavily armed and watchful. The devil had not left Konstantin’s side since that morning; now he walked beside him, insouciant, invisible to all but the priest and looking about him with interest. The Bear was, Konstantin realized with a sinking feeling, enjoying himself.

  All about the dooryard stood the wisps of small demons, hearth-creatures. Konstantin’s skin crawled, seeing them. “What do they want?”

  The Bear smirked at the assembled devils. “They are afraid. The bells are blotting them out, year by year, but the destruction of their hearths will kill them quickly. They know what I am going to do.” The Bear bowed to them, ironic. “They are doomed,” he added cheerfully, as though to make sure they could hear, and strode on.

  “Good riddance,” Konstantin muttered, and followed. The stares of the hearth-chyerti seemed to bore into his back.

  There were two men waiting for him in the audience-chamber: Brother Aleksandr and Dmitrii Ivanovich, with Dmitrii’s attendants standing woodenly behind him. The place still smelled of smoke. One wall was scarred with sword-cuts, the paint hacked away.

  Dmitrii sat in his carved chair. Brother Aleksandr stood, watchful, beside him.

  “That one will kill you if he can,” remarked the Bear, with a jerk of his chin at Sasha. Sasha’s eyes narrowed; was it Konstantin’s imagination or did the monk’s gaze flicker from him to the devil beside him? He knew an instant of panic.

  “Be easy,” added the Bear, eyes still on Sasha. “He has the same blood as the witch-girl. He senses what he cannot see, but that is all.” He paused. “Try not to get yourself killed, man of God.”

  “Konstantin Nikonovich,” said Dmitrii coldly. Konstantin swallowed. “A girl, my kinswoman, was killed by fire yesterday, without trial. They are saying you set the mob of Moscow to do this. What have you to say?”

  “I did not,” said Konstantin, making his voice calm. “I tried to restrain the people from worse violence, from breaking into the terem of Serpukhov and killing the women there. That much I did, but I could not save the girl.” He did not have to feign the sorrow in his voice, just let it float up from the tangle of other emotions. “I prayed for her soul. I could not stay the people’s wrath. By her own confession she set the fire that slew so many.”

  He struck the perfect note of regretful admission. The Bear snorted beside him. Konstantin narrowly missed whipping round to glare.

  Sasha, beside his cousin on the dais, stood perfectly still.

  The Bear said suddenly, “The monk knows how the fire began. Press him; he will not lie to the Grand Prince.”

  “That is a lie,” Dmitrii was saying to Konstantin. “The Tatars set the fire.”

  “Ask Brother Aleksandr,” returned Konstantin, letting his voice fill the room. “Ask the holy monk there, if the girl set the fire or no. In the name of God, I charge him to speak truly.”

  Dmitrii rounded on Sasha. The monk’s eyes were starry with rage, but Konstantin saw with astonishment that it was true. He wouldn’t lie. “An accident,” Sasha bit off. He and Dmitrii looked at each other as if they were the only two people in the room. “Dmitrii Ivanovich—”

  Dmitrii’s face shuttered; he turned without a word back to Konstantin. The priest felt swift pleasure; he saw the Bear grin. They exchanged a look of perfect understanding, and Konstantin thought, Perhaps I was always cursed, that I can know this monster’s mind.

  “She saved the city too,” murmured the Bear. “Although her brother can’t say so without accusing his own sister of witchcraft. Mad girl; she was nearly as bad as a chaos-spirit.” He sounded almost approving.

  Konstantin pressed his lips together.

  Dmitrii said, recovering smoothly, “I hear also that you fought a demon last night and banished it.”

  “Demon or poor lost soul, I do not know,” said Konstantin. “But it had come in anger to torment the living. I prayed”—he had better control of his voice now—“and God saw fit to intercede. That is all.”

  “Is it?” said Brother Aleksandr in a low measured voice. “And what if we do not believe you?”

  “I could bring a dozen witnesses from the city to prove it,” returned Konstantin, with more confidence. The monk’s hands were tied now.

  Dmitrii leaned forward. “So it is true?” he said. “There was a demon in Moscow?”

  Konstantin crossed himself. Head bowed, he said, “It is true. A dead thing. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “Why do you think there was a dead thing in Moscow, Batyushka?”

  Konstantin noted the use of the honorific. He breathed again. “It was God’s punishment for the harboring of witches. But the witch is dead now, and perhaps God will relent.”

  “Not likely,” said the Bear, but only Konstantin could hear him.

  * * *

  CURSE THE SILVER-TONGUED PRIEST, Sasha thought. And curse Vasya too, wherever she is. For he could defend her good intentions and her good heart, but he could not in conscience say that his sister was blameless. He couldn’t in truth say she was not a witch. He could not speak aloud of Marya’s kidnapping.

  So now he must stand before this murderer, listening to his half-truths, and he had no good answers and unbelievably Dmitrii was listening to the priest. Sasha was white with rage.

  “Will the dead thing come again?” Dmitrii asked.

  “Who knows but God?” Konstantin replied. His glance shifted a fraction to the left, though there was nothing there. The hairs on the back of Sasha’s neck prickled.

  “In that case—” Dmitrii began, but he got no further. A clamor on the stairs got their attention, and then the doors to the audience-chamber opened.

  They all turned. Dmitrii’s steward came stumbling into the room, followed by a man in fine clothes, travel-stained.

  Dmitrii stood. All the attendants bowed. The newcomer was taller than the Grand Prince, with the same gray eyes. Everyone recognized him on sight. He was the greatest man in Muscovy, after the Grand Prince, the only one who was prince in his own right, of his own lands, without vassalage. Vladimir Andreevich, Prince of Serpukhov.

  “Well met, cousin,” said Dmitrii, with delight; they had been boys together.

  “Scorch marks on the city,” returned Vladimir. “I am glad she is still standing.” But his eyes were grave; he was worn thin with winter travel. “Wh
at happened?”

  “There was a fire, as you saw,” said Dmitrii. “And a riot. I will tell you everything. But why have you come in this haste?”

  “The temnik Mamai has provisioned his army.”

  A silence fell in the room; Vladimir hadn’t tried to soften the blow. “I had word in Serpukhov,” he continued. “Mamai has a rival farther south who is growing more powerful by the day. To stave off the threat he must have Muscovy’s allegiance and our silver. He is coming north himself to get it. There is no doubt. He will be in Moscow by autumn, if you don’t pay him, Dmitrii Ivanovich. You will have to muster your silver or muster an army, and there is no more time to delay.”

  On Dmitrii’s face was a strange mix of anger and eagerness. “Tell me everything you know,” he said. “Come, let us drink and—” Sasha saw, with fury, that his cousin was relieved, for the moment, to set aside all questions of devils and the dead, and of culpability in the riot and the burning. Matters of war and politics were more pressing and less fraught.

  Through a cold sinking tangle of anger and dismay, Sasha could have sworn that there was someone in the room laughing.

  * * *

  “SEND THE PRIEST AWAY UNPUNISHED?” Sasha demanded later. He could barely speak. There had been scarce a moment to catch his cousin alone, after Vladimir Andreevich came. Sasha finally caught Dmitrii in the dooryard, just as he was about to mount his horse to go look over the burned parts of Moscow. “Do you think Vladimir Andreevich will accept that? Vasya was his sister-in-law.”

  “I have had the chief men of the riot arrested,” said Dmitrii. He took the reins from a groom, a hand on his horse’s withers. “They will be put to death for damaging the Prince of Serpukhov’s property, for laying hands on his kin. But I am not going to touch that priest—no, listen to me. Charlatan the priest may be, but a very good one. Didn’t you see the crowd outside?”