Medved shuddered.

She did not want to see hope in his eyes. She wanted him to be a monster.

But monsters were for children. He was powerful, in his own fashion, and for her brother’s sake, she needed him.

Thinking of that, she opened the skin of her thumb on her dagger. His hand reached out involuntarily, drawn to the virtue in her blood. She drew away before he could touch her.

“If I release you, then you will serve me as Midnight serves my great-grandmother,” said Vasya grimly. “You will fight my battles and connive at my victories; if I summon, you will answer. You will swear never to lie to me, but give true counsel. You will not betray me, but always keep faith. You will also swear never again to turn your plagues onto Rus’: no terror or fire or dead alive. Under those conditions, and those alone, will I free you.”

He laughed. “The effrontery,” he said. “Just because my brother abased himself for your ugly face? Tell me why I should be your dog?”

Vasya smiled. “Because the world is wide and very beautiful, and you are tired of this clearing. I saw how you looked at the stars the night by the lake. Because, as you have noticed, I am like a chaos-spirit myself, and where I go disorder goes too. You enjoy that sort of thing. Because the fight between you and your brother is over, for you are both joining my war. And—perhaps you will like serving me. It would be a battle of wits at least.”

He snorted, “Your wits, witch-girl?”

“They are improving,” said Vasya, and touched his face with the hand she’d cut on her knife-blade.

He jerked back, even as his flesh grew more solid beneath her fingers. His hands flexed under the golden binding.

He stared at her, breathing shallowly. “Oh, now I know why my brother wanted you,” he whispered. “Sea-maiden, witch’s daughter. But one day you will go mad with magic. Just like every witch, every sorcerer that ever lived. And then you will be mine. Perhaps I’ll just…wait.”

“One day,” said Vasya mildly, dropping her hand, “I will die. I will go into the darkness, into the wood between worlds where your brother guides the dead. But I will still be myself. If I am mad, I will not be yours. And dead I will not be his.”

He breathed out half a laugh, but the gray eye was sharp. “Perhaps,” he said. “Still, exchange prison for slavery? Wear the golden rope here, trapped by the priest’s blood? Or wear it elsewhere, a slave to your will? You haven’t offered me nearly enough to get me to help you.”

Pozhar squealed suddenly. Vasya did not look round, but somehow the sound gave her courage. She knew she’d never keep the mare’s loyalty if she took a slave—any slave—with the help of that golden thing.

She took a deep breath. “No, you will not wear the rope. I am not Kaschei the Deathless. I am going to take your oath. Will it bind you, Medved?”