Dmitrii only frowned at that, thoughtfully, and paced the room: grim, restless, leonine. “If my spies confirm what you say about the silver, then I will send word to the princes of Rus’. We have no choice. We have to muster at Kolomna before the dark of the moon, then march south to fight. Or are we to allow all Rus’ to be overrun?” Dmitrii spoke to them all, but his eyes were on Sasha, who had once pleaded with him not to engage the Tatar in the field.

Now Sasha only said, with a grimness to match Dmitrii’s, “Which of the princes will come to the muster?”

“Rostov, Starodub,” said Dmitrii, ticking off the principalities on his fingers. He was still pacing. “The ones in my vassalage. Nizhny Novgorod, for its prince is my father-in-law. Tver, to honor the treaty. But would I had the Prince of Serpukhov. He is clever in council, and loyal, and I will need his men.” He halted in his pacing, his eyes on Vasya.

“What of Oleg of Ryazan?” Sasha asked.

“Oleg won’t come,” said Dmitrii. “Ryazan is too close to Sarai, and Oleg is cautious by nature; he won’t risk it, regardless of what his boyars want. He’ll march with Mamai, if anything. But we’ll fight anyway, without Ryazan and without Serpukhov, if we must. Do we have a choice? We tried ransoming Muscovy, but we could not. Shall we submit, or shall we fight?” This time the question was addressed to all three of them.

No one said anything.

“I will send to the princes tomorrow,” said Dmitrii. “Father”—here he turned to Sergei—“will you come with us, and bless the army?”

“I will, my son,” said Sergei. He sounded weary. “But you know even a victory will cost you.”

“I’d avoid war if I could,” said the Grand Prince. “But I can’t and so—” His face shone. “We will fight at last, after a summer of fear and cringing. God willing, it will be our time to throw off the yoke.”

And God help them all, Vasya thought. When Dmitrii spoke so, they believed him. She knew, without asking, that the princes would come to his mustering. God help us all.

The Grand Prince turned abruptly to Vasya. “I have your brother’s sword,” he said. “And I have the holy father’s blessing. But what will I have from you, Vasilisa Petrovna? I was sorry to think you dead. But then I heard you set fire to my city.”

She got to her feet to face him. “I am guilty before you, Gosudar,” said Vasya. “Yet twice I helped defeat this city’s enemies. The fire was my fault, but the snowstorm that followed—I summoned that, too. As for punishment? I was punished.” She turned her head so the mark on her cheek showed stark in the firelight. Subtly, her hand closed on the carved nightingale in her sleeve, but that was not a sorrow she meant to parade before these men. “What do you want of me?”