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“No!” She was still trying to pull him back. “No, we must only walk back into Midnight—” But the men were closing in around them; she could not see the Midnight-road. “Vasya,” said Sasha in a voice more terrible for its calm, “I am a monk; they will not kill me. But you…Run. Run!” He drove himself at the men, knocking them aside. She backed away from the melee, willed the campfire into a sudden storm of light. The renewed fire drove the Tatars back just as her brother’s sword met another, sparking.
There was the Midnight-road, just beyond the light. The fire flared again, frightening the men, and she called, “Sasha, this way—”
Or started to say. For the hilt of a sword caught her on the temple, and the world went dark.
* * *
SASHA, SEEING HIS SISTER FALL, dropped his sword and said, in Tatar, to the man who had struck her down, “I am a man of God, and that is my servant. Do not hurt him.”
“Indeed, you are a man of God,” returned the Tatar. He spoke Russian, lightly accented. “You are Aleksandr Peresvet. But this is not your servant.”
The voice was vaguely familiar, but Sasha could not see the Tatar’s face. The man stood over Vasya, on the other side of the fire, and pulled the girl upright. Her eyelids fluttered; a gash across her forehead poured a maze of blood across her face.
“This is your witch of a sister,” said the Tatar. He sounded both pleased and mystified. “How came you both here? Spying for Dmitrii? Why would he spend his cousins, so?”
Shocked silent, Sasha said nothing. He’d recognized the other man. “Come on,” added the Tatar in his own tongue. He heaved Vasya over his shoulder. “Tie the monk’s hands, and follow me. The general will want to know of this.”
* * *
SOMEONE WAS CARRYING HER. Every footfall jarred her head. She vomited. Pain like shards of ice shot through her skull. The man carrying her exclaimed in disgust. “Do that again,” said a half-familiar voice, “and I’ll beat you myself, when the general’s done.”
She tried to look about her, seeking for the Midnight-road. But she couldn’t see it. She must have lost it when she fell unconscious. Now the night was drawing on and she and Sasha were trapped until the next day’s midnight.
Her senses swam. She couldn’t make herself and her brother disappear under the eyes of the entire camp. Maybe she could—but even as she tried to plan, her thoughts fractured.
Something loomed before her, dimly seen, just as she drifted back to awareness. It was a round building, made of felt. A flap was thrust aside and she was borne through the gap. Terror locked her throat and stomach. Where was her brother?
Men inside—she couldn’t tell how many. Two stood in the center, finely dressed, illuminated by a small stove and a hanging lamp. The person carrying her let her fall. Floundering, she managed to drag herself to her knees. She had an impression of wealth: the lamp was of worked silver; there was a smell of fat meat and carpet under her knees. All around was the disorienting buzz of a tongue she didn’t understand. Sasha was thrown down beside her.
One of the finely dressed men was a Tatar. The other was a Russian; it was he who spoke first. “What is this?” he asked.
“This—” echoed that almost-familiar voice from behind her. Vasya tried to twist around and had to freeze, gasping, at the pain in her head. But then the man stepped forward, and she could see his face. She knew him. He had nearly killed her once, in a forest outside Moscow. With the help of a wicked sorcerer, he had nearly deposed Dmitrii Ivanovich.
“It seems,” said Chelubey in Russian, smiling at her, “that Dmitrii Ivanovich has devised a novel means to rid himself of his cousins.”
* * *
THE TALL ONE, the one they were calling temnik—general—had to be Mamai, though Sasha knew him by reputation only. He didn’t recognize the Russian.
“Cousins?” asked the temnik, in his own tongue. Mamai was a man in his middle years, weary, dignified, gray. He’d been loyal to Berdi Beg, one of the innumerable khans, but Berdi held the throne for only two years. Mamai had been plotting to regain his lost position ever since, hampered by the fact that he himself was not descended from the Great Khan. Sasha knew—probably the Tatar’s whole army knew—that Mamai had to defeat Dmitrii decisively, or a rival faction in the warring Horde would rise up and make an end of him.
Men with everything at stake were dangerous.
“This man is the holy Aleksandr Peresvet—surely you have heard of him,” said Chelubey, but his eyes were on Vasya. “And this other one—when I first met him in Moscow, they told me he was highborn: Aleksandr Peresvet’s brother. That was a lie.” Softly, Chelubey continued, “This is not a boy at all but a girl—a little witch-girl. Disguised as a boy, she deceived all Moscow. I wonder very much why Dmitrii has sent them here—a witch and a monk. Spies? Will you tell me, devushka?” The last question was put to Vasya, almost gently. But Sasha heard the menace behind it.
His sister met Chelubey’s eyes, wordless. Her eyes were wide and terrified; her face bloody. “You hurt me,” she whispered, in a trembling, abject tone Sasha had never heard from her in his life.
“I’ll hurt you worse,” said Chelubey placidly. It wasn’t a threat so much as a statement of fact. “Why are you here?”
“We were set upon,” she whispered, voice still quivering. “Our men were killed. We came toward the fire for help.” Her eyes were vast and dark, confused and terrified, her cheek crusted with blood. She bowed her head, and then looked up at Chelubey again. This time two tears cut tracks in the blood on her face.
Sasha thought she was overdoing it, playing the helpless girl, but then she saw Chelubey’s face slide from wariness to contempt. In his mind, he breathed a prayer of gratitude. Drawing Chelubey’s attention back to himself, he said, “Don’t frighten her. We came upon you by accident. We are not spies.”
“Indeed,” said Chelubey silkily, turning. “And is your sister also traveling with you, alone, dressed so immodestly, by accident?”
“I was taking her to a convent,” lied Sasha. “The Grand Prince desired it of me. Our train was set upon by robbers; we were left alone, without succor. They tore her dress; they left us with nothing, save what you see. We wandered hungry for some days, saw your fires and came. We thought to receive help, not indignities.”
“It puzzles me, though,” said Chelubey with acid irony. “Why is the nearest adviser of the Grand Prince of Moscow taking his sister to a house of religion at such a time?”
“I advised Dmitrii Ivanovich against going to war,” said Sasha. “In anger, he ordered me from his side.”
