Moscow was gone. They stood in a sparse elm-copse, dry and warm. There was dust instead of mud between Vasya’s bare toes, and the big late-summer stars hung low overhead. A different midnight.

“Mother of God,” Sasha whispered. “These are the woods near Serpukhov.”

“I told you,” said Vasya. “It is a swift road, but—” She broke off.

The black stallion Voron emerged from between two trees. His rider’s morning-star eyes glowed in the darkness.

Sasha’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. Perhaps the country of Midnight had wakened something in his blood, for he could see horse and rider. “That is Lady Midnight,” said Vasya, not taking her eyes off the chyert. “This is her realm.” She inclined her head.

Sasha crossed himself. Polunochnitsa smiled at him, mocking, and slid down from her horse’s back.

“God be with you,” Sasha said, cautiously.

“I certainly hope not,” returned Polunochnitsa. Voron tossed his black head, his ears set unhappily. Turning to Vasya, Midnight said, “In my realm again? And proud of your victory?”

“We did win,” Vasya said, wary.

“No,” said Midnight. “You didn’t. What do you think the real battle is, you arrogant fool? You never understood, did you?”

Vasya said nothing.

Between her teeth, Midnight said, “We hoped—I hoped—that you were different. That you would break their endless round of revenge and imprisonment. But you encouraged their war, those idiot twins.”

“What are you talking about?” Vasya demanded. “We saved Moscow from the dead. I do not know why you are angry. He is wicked, the Bear. Wicked. Now he is bound. Rus’ is safe.”

“Is it?” Midnight asked. “You still don’t understand.” Fury and disgust and—disappointment—snapped in her eyes. “You cannot rule the chyerti, or keep the house by the lake, or save us from fading out of life. You failed. The way to the lake is shut to you; I am shutting it, and risking the old woman’s wrath. She will have no heir. Farewell, Vasilisa Petrovna.”

Then she was gone fast as she’d appeared, a whirl of pale hair, vaulting to Voron’s back. The last Vasya heard of her was the sound of fading hoofbeats. Shaken, Vasya stared at the place where she’d been. Sasha looked merely puzzled. “What did that mean?”

“I do not understand why she is angry,” said Vasya. But she was uneasy. “We have to go on. Follow me close. We must not be separated.”

They walked cautiously, for Vasya feared Midnight’s anger, in this place of her power. Sasha followed her, starting at shadows, bewildered by the changing nights. But still he followed her. He trusted her.

Vasya blamed herself, later.

26.

The Golden Horde

THEY HAD NO WARNING. THEY saw no gleam from far off, heard no noise. They merely stepped suddenly from darkness, into firelight filled with laughter.

For an instant, they both froze.

The revelers froze too. Vasya had a brief impression of weapons: curved swords and short bows unstrung. She could smell horses, see the shine of their eyes, watching from beyond the firelight.