All around them, men sprang to their feet. They weren’t speaking Russian. It sounded like the words she’d heard once on a dark winter night when she’d rescued girls from—from—

“Get back!” Vasya said to Sasha. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed pale hair, Midnight’s set, triumphant face. She thought she heard a whisper: “Learn or die, Vasilisa Petrovna.”

Swords in a dozen men’s hands. Her brother’s sword reflected the firelight when he drew it. “Tatars!” Sasha snapped. “Vasya, go.”

“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.