She said wryly, “I, too.”

Dmitrii spoke to Vasya and her brother both. “Take the Princess of Serpukhov home,” he said. “And then—come back, both of you. Secretly, for God’s sake. This is not over. What comes next will be worse than a few dead men.”

Without another word, he left them, made his splashing way across the dvor, already calling orders.

“What is coming?” Vasya asked Sasha.

“The Tatars,” said Sasha. “Let’s get Olya home; I want some dry clothes.”

24.

Turnings

ONCE OLGA WAS SAFE IN the terem of her own palace, Vasya and Sasha changed their filthy dripping clothes and hurried back to the Grand Prince. Vasya threw the fur cloak they’d given her in Midnight about her shoulders; the rain had broken the heat and it was chilly in the wet darkness.

They were let quietly in through the postern and brought up at once, in silence, to Dmitrii’s small antechamber. The wind was roaring through windows flung wide. There were no attendants, only a table ready-laid, with a jar and four cups, and bread and smoked fish and pickled mushrooms. Simple fare, for Sergei’s sake; the old monk was with Dmitrii, waiting for them. He drank honey-wine slowly and he looked very tired.

Dmitrii stood out, vivid and restless, unwearied among the vines and flowers and saints painted on his walls. “Sit, both of you,” he said, when Sasha and Vasya appeared. “I will have to consult with my boyars tomorrow, but first I wish to be decided in my own mind.”

Wine was poured out, and Vasya, who had taken only a few tasteless mouthfuls when they stopped to rest by the river, now made her way steadily through bread and the good oily fish, listening all the while.

“I should have known,” began Dmitrii. “That yellow-haired charlatan, sweeping into Moscow to exorcise the dead things. We thought it was divine power. And all the time he was in league with the devil.”

Vasya wished Dmitrii wouldn’t speak of it. She kept seeing Konstantin’s face as it had looked in the rain.

“We are well rid of him,” Dmitrii continued.

Sergei said, “You have not summoned us all, weary as we are, to gloat.”

“No,” said Dmitrii, his triumphant mood fading. “I have been getting reports—the Tatars are on the lower Volga, marching north. Mamai is still coming. No word of Vladimir Andreevich. The silver—”

“The silver was lost,” said Vasya, remembering.

Every head in the room swiveled.

“Lost in a flood,” she continued. She set aside her cup and straightened her back. “If the silver was your ransom for Muscovy, Dmitrii Ivanovich, then Muscovy has not been ransomed.”

They were still staring. Vasya looked steadily back. “I swear it is true. Do you wish to know how I know?”

“I do not,” said Dmitrii, crossing himself. “I’d rather know more. Is Vladimir dead? Alive? Captured?”

“That I do not know,” said Vasya. She paused. “But I could find out.”