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.