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Sasha, though he stood steadily, had gone gray with his wound. He drew breath to speak, but Kasyan spoke first. “Vasilii is only a reedy boy, Dmitrii Ivanovich,” he said, still gripping his captive. “Perhaps he would miss his stroke, and the men have had enough to do today without hearing a man scream and die, gutted.”
Vasya swallowed hard, and the look on her face seemed to convince the prince, for he thrust the blade through the man’s throat, petulantly. He stood an instant with heaving shoulders, recovered his good humor, wiped off the splatter, and said, “All well and good. But we will feed you properly in Moscow, Vasilii Petrovich, and you will be spearing boars at a stroke before long.”
THE BANDITS’ CAMP WAS A SMALL, crude thing. Huts to keep out the cold, and pens for the beasts, but little more. No wall or ditch or palisade; the bandits had not feared attack.
There was no sound and no movement. No smoke from cook-fires, and the whole effect was of chill stillness, grim and sad.
Kasyan spat. “They are gone, I think, Dmitrii Ivanovich. Those that survived.”
“Search everywhere,” said Dmitrii.
In and out of each hut Dmitrii’s men went, searching through the grime and darkness and reek of those men’s lives. Vasya’s hatred began to flake away, leaving only a faint sickness behind.
“Nothing,” said Dmitrii, when the last place was searched. “They are dead or fled.”
“It was well fought, Gosudar,” said Kasyan. He took off his hat and ran a hand through his matted hair. “I do not think they will trouble us again.” Unexpectedly he turned to Vasya. “Why so troubled, Vasilii Petrovich?”
“We never found their leader,” Vasya said. She cast her gaze once more about the squalid encampment. “The man who commanded them in the forest, when I stole the children back.”
Kasyan looked taken aback. “What sort of man is this leader?”
Vasya described him. “I looked for him in the battle, and among the dead,” she concluded. “I could not easily forget his face. But where is he?”
“Fled,” said Kasyan promptly. “Lost in the forest, and hungry already, if he is not dead. Do not worry, boy. We will set fire to this place. Even if this captain lives, he will not easily find more men to go adventuring in the wild. It is over.”
Vasya nodded slowly, not quite agreeing, and then she said, “What of their captives? Where have they taken them?”
Dmitrii was giving orders that fires be built and meat be shared out for the comfort of them all. “What of them?” the Grand Prince asked. “We have killed the bandits; there will be no more burnt villages.”
“But all those stolen children!”
“What of them? Be reasonable,” said Dmitrii. “If the girls are not here, then they are dead, or far away. I cannot go galloping through the thickets with weary horses to look for peasants.”
Vasya had her mouth open on an angry retort, when Kasyan’s hand fell heavily on her shoulder. She bit her tongue and whirled on him.
Dmitrii had already walked away, calling more orders.
“Do not touch me,” Vasya snapped.
“I meant no harm, Vasilii Petrovich,” Kasyan said. Evening shadows blackened his fiery hair. “It is best not to antagonize princes. There are better means to get your way. In this case, though, he is right.”
“No, he isn’t,” she said. “A good lord cares for his people.”
The men were gathering up whatever would burn. The smell of wood-smoke began drifting out into the forest.
Kasyan snorted. His amused look made her feel, resentfully, like the country girl Vasilisa Petrovna, and not at all like Dmitrii’s young hero Vasilii. “But which people, that is the question, boy. I suppose your father was the lord of some country estate.”
She said nothing.
“Dmitrii Ivanovich is responsible for a thousand times as many souls,” Kasyan continued. “He must not waste his men’s strength on futility. Those girls are gone. Do not think of heroics tonight. You are dead on your feet; you look like a mad child’s ghost.” He glanced at Solovey: a looming presence at her shoulder. “Your horse is not in much better case.”
“I do well enough,” said Vasya coldly, drawing herself straight, though she could not keep from glancing worriedly at Solovey. “Better than those stolen children.”
Kasyan shrugged and glanced out into the darkness. “They might count life among slavers a mercy,” he said. “At least those girls are worth coin to a slaver, which is more than they are to their families. Do you think anyone wants a half-grown girl, another frail mouth to feed, in February? No. They lie atop the oven until they starve. Some might die going south to the slave-markets, but at least the slaver will give them the mercy-stroke when they can no longer walk. And the strong—the strong will live. If one is pretty or clever, she might be bought by a prince and live richly in some sun-drenched hall. Better than a dirt floor in Rus’, Vasilii Petrovich. We are not all born lords’ sons.”
The voice of the Grand Prince broke the silence that fell between them.
“Rest while you can,” Dmitrii told his men. “We will ride at moonrise.”
DMITRII’S PEOPLE FIRED THE BANDIT-CAMP and returned to the Lavra in the silvered dark. Despite the hour, many of the villagers gathered in the shadow of the monastery gate. They shouted savage approbation at the returning riders. “God bless you, Gosudar!” they cried. “Aleksandr Peresvet! Vasilii Petrovich!”
Vasya heard her name called with the others, even in her haze of exhaustion, and she found the strength to at least ride in straight-backed.
“Leave the horses,” said Rodion to them all. “They will be well looked after.” The young monk did not look at Vasya. “The bathhouse is hot,” he added, a little uneasily.
Dmitrii and Kasyan slid at once from their horses, jostling each other, victorious and carefree. Their men followed suit.
Vasya busied herself at once with Solovey, so no one would wonder why she didn’t go and bathe with the others.
Father Sergei was nowhere to be found. As Vasya curried her horse, she saw Sasha set off to find him.
THE LAVRA HAD TWO BATHHOUSES. They had heated one for the living. In the other, the Muscovite dead from that day’s battle were already washed and wrapped, by Sergei’s steady hand, and that was where Sasha found his hegumen.
“Father bless,” said Sasha, coming into the darkness of the bathhouse: that orderly world of water and warmth, where folk in Rus’ were born, and where they lay after dying.
“May the Lord bless you,” said Sergei, and then embraced him. For a moment, Sasha was a boy again, and he pressed his face against the frail strength of the old monk’s shoulder.
“We succeeded,” said Sasha, collecting himself. “By the grace of God.”
“You succeeded,” echoed Sergei, looking down at the dead men’s faces. He made a slow sign of the cross. “Thanks to this brother of yours.”
The rheumy old eyes met those of his disciple.
“Yes,” Sasha said, answering the silent question. “She is my sister, Vasilisa. But she bore herself bravely today.”
Sergei snorted. “Naturally. Only boys and fools think men are first in courage. We do not bear children. But this is a dangerous course you are taking, you and she both.”
